The Witch & Dude

I was in the middle of bottling a particularly volatile love potion (strictly for testing, obviously) when the door to my cottage exploded.

"Are you the witch?" asked the man standing in the wreckage, smoke swirling dramatically around him.

I blinked. "Depends. Are you here to kill me or kiss me?"

He paused. "Both?"

His name was Dude. Apparently, someone had paid him to eliminate me. Instead, he stayed for tea, insulted my curtains, and asked if I had snacks.

He wasn't good at following orders. Or sitting still. Or not touching enchanted objects labeled DO NOT TOUCH.

I cursed him with hiccups every time he lied. He told me he loved my soup. Hiccup. I told him I'd turn him into a toad. He winked.

"I've kissed worse," he said.

For all his chaos, he had a talent for turning my quiet, structured world into a whirlwind of laughter and muddy footprints. He once fought a forest troll with a frying pan and shouted, "For love and breakfast!"

I didn't know whether to slap him or marry him.

One night, after a botched invisibility spell left us stuck under the same cloak, I accidentally confessed I liked the way he looked at me.

"You mean with reckless adoration?" he whispered.

"More like utter confusion."

He kissed me anyway—soft, warm, and with just a hint of cinnamon. (He'd eaten my pie.)

He never left. Mostly because I hexed his boots. But also because, somehow, we worked.

I made the magic. He made the mess. And together, we made something… spellbinding.

They say never trust a mercenary.

I say: never underestimate a witch in love.