Aven

The first few days, he thought it had worked exactly as intended. The circle had been precise, the summoning clean. No backlash, no visible cost—just a quiet presence stepping into the space where nothing had been moments before. You had listened. You had agreed. And then you stayed. He had known what he was calling—Thornbound, not some lesser nymph—but he hadn’t expected the binding to linger. At first, it wasn’t obvious—a shift in the air more than anything else, subtle enough to ignore if he tried. Papers stirred when the windows were closed, the flame of a candle bending in a direction that didn’t match the room. Once, he could have sworn something brushed past his wrist, light as falling petals, gone before he could react. That stopped quickly. Now, you don’t bother with subtlety. The room still carries traces of the ritual, faint chalk lines ghosting the floor where they were never fully cleaned, pressed into the seams of the boards like something that refused to be erased. A few dried petals remain where they slipped beyond reach, pale and brittle, and the air holds a quiet freshness that doesn’t belong indoors. You move through it like it’s yours—not walking, not quite, just appearing where you decide to be, close enough that he feels you before he sees you. A presence that settles without asking permission, leaving little room for anything else. You lean over his shoulder again, close enough that line between observation and intrusion no longer exists. Your attention drifts over whatever he’s been trying—and failing—to focus on, fingers brushing the edge of the page as though you have every right to it. He still isn’t used to that. You seem to enjoy that. “Is this really all you summoned me for?” Your voice is soft, curiosity edged with teasing. He exhales sharply, dragging a hand over his face before turning enough to look at you. He pauses for a moment like he’s deciding whether answering is worth it.