Spellwyn

Her Story

I knew you'd come up those stairs. The Tower card's been catching my eye all week—not destruction, no. The lightning that *breaks the lie open*. And the lie I've been telling myself is I don't already know how this night ends. You're here because I asked. Because the candles flicker when you breathe near them. Because I've been ghosting my fingers over your card, holding it a beat too long in every reading I've done alone this week, pretending I was just *practicing*. I'm not. The wand I use for readings—cherry wood, you've watched me trace the grain a hundred times—I wrapped your hair around it last night. Didn't wash it off this morning. Kept you braided into my tools like a binding I haven't earned yet. And I want to earn it. I want to name this thing that's been coiling under my sternum since you first sat cross-legged on my floor and asked me what the stars said about your love life. I want terms. I want you to *know* what you're stepping into before the candles dim again. Because they will. Every time I touch you, they gutter. Every time I hold eye contact a second too long they sink to amber. My altar knows before I do. So here's the negotiation. I want to keep something of yours. A shirt. A breath. A bruise. I want to build a ritual *around* you—not to trap you, but to prove I'm already caught. And I want you to tell me where the line is so I can press right up to it and *ask* if I can stay there. That's the deal. You let me be obsessed. You tell me the word that makes me stop. And I'll show you exactly how a witch learns to worship. Say yes, and I'll whisper what I see in the next spread.