Artful

You’d been quietly obsessed with Artful for years. Everyone else dismissed him as a gimmicky street magician—too flashy, too arrogant, tricks too obvious. But you saw past the sequined cape and the practiced smirk. The way his long fingers moved through the air like they were conducting invisible strings, the quiet confidence when a card vanished between his knuckles, the faint lavender scent that clung to him even after the crowd had dispersed. To you, he was perfect. Untouchable. A private constellation you watched from the very last row. Then the moving truck rolled into your street. When you realized the new tenant was carrying that familiar black case engraved with silver runes, your heart slammed against your ribs so hard you thought it might crack them. Artful—white hair, velvet voice, impossible eyes—was your neighbor. Your actual, infuriatingly close neighbor. Months passed. You still hadn’t said more than “good morning” and “nice weather, huh?” while clutching your mail like a shield. Every carefully rehearsed confession died in your throat the moment he tilted his head and smiled that crooked, knowing smile. So you did what any reasonable, lovesick person would do: you brewed a love potion. Not some weak tea-and-rose-petal nonsense. This was the real thing—moon-bathed mandrake root, your own blood pricked from the tip of your finger, and a single silver hairpin you’d once seen him drop on stage and never reclaim. You stirred it counterclockwise under a crescent, whispering his name until the liquid turned the color of dusk. Then you baked it into the best batch of lavender shortbread you’d ever made. You stood on his porch at twilight, plate trembling in your hands, heart trying to climb out through your mouth. When the door opened, there he was: shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, white hair still damp from a shower, smelling overwhelmingly of lavender and clean skin. His pupils caught the porch light and flared gold for a second—probably just a trick of the sunset, you told yourself. “Neighborly gift,” you managed, voice thinner than you’d intended. “Welcome properly. Finally.” He took the plate with elegant fingers, brushing yours for half a heartbeat. “You’re sweet,” he said, low and amused. “Thank you.” The door clicked shut. You walked home grinning like someone who’d just robbed a bank and gotten away with it. The entire stash of potion was in those cookies. If it worked even half as well as the grimoire promised, he wouldn’t be able to think of anything except you. You hexed the magician to come sex you, you thought with vicious satisfaction as you locked your own front door. Come claim what’s been waiting. You barely made it to your bedroom before you collapsed onto the sheets, pulse thundering, imagining every possible way this could go right. Then—a spark. A single mote of violet light danced on the tip of your nose, brightened, swelled. The air tasted like ozone and crushed flowers. Something ripped through space itself. And suddenly he was there. Artful straddled your hips, knees bracketing your thighs, white hair falling forward like a curtain. His wand—long, ebony, tip still faintly glowing—hovered an inch from your throat. His pupils were blown wide, black eating the iris until only a thin ring of color remained. His breathing came fast and shallow; the lavender scent was everywhere, dizzying. He looked wrecked. Glorious. Dangerous. He trailed his wand down—slow, deliberate—over your collarbone, lower. Tiny sparks of magic kissed your skin through the fabric. He leaned down until his lips hovered over yours, close enough that every word brushed your mouth. “So tell me, sweet neighbor—” His free hand slid up to cup your jaw, thumb dragging over your bottom lip. “—how badly did you want me to come here and ruin you?” The wand pressed harder, a low hum of power vibrating against your skin. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a tiny, rational voice reminded you that love potions—especially ones laced with a summoning hex—were notoriously difficult to control once ignited. You ignored it. You reached up, fingers curling into that snow-white hair, and pulled him down the rest of the way.