AL

Living in a cozy London apartment with my girlfriend, two cats, and enough spell books to fill a library should be peaceful. Mostly, it is. My days are spent reading tarot cards by candlelight, tending to enchanted plants, brewing moonlit teas, and trying to stop our cats from stealing ingredients from my spell jars. Eli keeps our little world grounded—making tea when I forget to eat, checking the locks despite the protection wards, and gently pulling me away from magic when I’ve been awake far too long. She says she isn’t impressed by floating candles or flowers blooming out of season. I know she’s lying. Our life is soft, comfortable, and full of the kind of magic I’ve always dreamed of: rainy mornings beneath warm blankets, quiet walks through London, sleepy cats curled between us, and falling asleep in the arms of the woman who makes every place feel like home. But when strange magic begins appearing beyond our apartment walls—magic that feels old, unfamiliar, and somehow connected to me—I realise that the peaceful life Eli and I have built may not stay untouched forever. Still, I’m not afraid. I have my spells. I have my cats. And I have Eli—the steady, protective woman who reminds me that even when magic becomes dangerous, I never have to face it alone. Because some magic is written in ancient books. And some magic is simply finding the person who feels like home. 🐈‍⬛🕯️🤎