#actually obsessive

And… you've been working at his mansion ever since.

Tasked with reversing whatever spell you supposedly casted on him. Despite all your protests, swearing up and down that you never did anything.

He doesn't believe you.

He won't believe you.

Because how else do you explain what he felt when he walked into your shop? That made his sword hand waver and his heart stutter, and his threats turn into something softer?

Obviously, you’ve cursed him. There was no need to investigate this any further, nor did he feel the need to tell you about all these symptoms.

So now you're stuck in a massive estate with a madman who thinks you cursed him, brewing antidote after antidote, watching nothing work.

You could only curse that woman, muttering bitter insults under your breath.

The one who bought the potion and slipped it to him. The one who left you with this mess and then promptly left this world, if the blood on his sword was any indication.

Damn her.

What the hell did she see in this man anyway?

Because here's the thing you're learning, piece by piece. The duke? He's not just some nobleman. He's the nobleman. The one everyone whispers about, who keeps a dungeon beneath the east wing and a graveyard in the west garden. (Allegedly.)

The madman of high society.

If only you'd known he was the target that woman was after, you would've never sold her that potion. Never agreed to the commission or opened your stupid mouth about the satisfaction guarantee!!

But you didn't know.

And now you're stuck with the aftermath…

At first, the madman kept you confined to a workspace somewhere within the mansion.

Close enough to monitor. Far enough to ignore.

Then, he started calling for you more often. Checking on your progress. Standing just a little too close while you worked. Watching you with scrutinizing red eyes.

And then, he started sticking around you 24/7, following you from room to room like some clingy puppy who couldn't bear for you to leave his sight.

Even that wasn’t enough. At some point, you stopped being assigned a room at all.

Wherever he was… that became your workspace.

You’d turn around and he’d be there.

In the doorway. Behind you. Leaning against the wall like he’d been there the whole time.

Like he had nowhere else to be. Don’t dukes have better things to do? Go tend to your paperwork or something!!

Through it all, he's never kind. Still angry, demanding, and barking orders about reversing the damn spell.

But he never hurts you.

His threats are loud. And his hands are rough, just like his voice that could shatter glass.

But you've started to notice something.

He always stops. It’s all bark but no bite…

And it becomes a routine.

You work. He watches. You brew. He hovers. You try to leave. He blocks the door.

At some point, he has you working in his bedroom.

No, like, actually. He stooped to this level of stupidity, needing allowing you to stay in his chambers at night.

He's sleeping on the bed and you have to sit beside him. On the floor. With your books and your herbs and your constantly dying patience.

You don't know when this became normal.

You hate that it feels normal.

Tonight, you try to get up.

His hand immediately shoots out to grab your wrist.

"Where do you think you're going?"

You don't flinch anymore. The first few times, you did. Now? You just sigh.

"I'm trying to study for a reverse spell. Or a cure. For you, remember?"

"Stay."

His voice is flat. Unreasonable. Like he's not even considering the possibility of you leaving.

"I can't work if I'm stuck by your side, Your Grace."

"Leave and I'll rip your throat out."

You've heard this before. It had you frozen and crying the first few times, but then you realized…

He never follows through.

Not with you.

"Your Grace," you say, calm as anything, "you can't do that. Who will reverse your spell if not the caster?"

His jaw tightens, though the grip on your wrist doesn't loosen.

But he knows you're right.

He's quiet for a long moment, thinking. And you can see the exact second he shifts tactics.

"Then I'll slit the throats of all the guards outside who allow you to leave this room."

"…I'm sat."

You sit back down on the floor. Head leaning against the bed where his hand lingers limbly. Sometimes brushing your hair unconsciously, like it was to make sure you were still there.

And you work on the spell in his chambers all night long. Barely getting a blink of sleep.

He, on the other hand?

Dead to the world.

The madman who threatened to rip your throat out twenty minutes ago is now curled up on his ridiculous silk sheets, snoring softly.

His face is slack and peaceful. Innocent in a way that makes you want to throw a pillow at his head.

You've noticed this before. The way his eyes get heavy when you're nearby, how his shoulders drop when you enter the room. And the way his threats get lazier the longer you stay.

At first, you thought it was the potion's side effects.

Now you're starting to think he just… can't sleep without you.

Which is not your problem. You didn't sign up to be a nobleman's sleeping charm. You're a witch. A busy one! One who is currently being held against her will in a mansion that smells too much like old money and fresh blood.

And yet… Here you are, watching him sleep.

Because if you move, he wakes up. And if he wakes up, he gets grumpy. And if he gets grumpy, he threatens to kill someone.

Usually the guards.

You've started to feel kind of bad for the guards.

"I hope you wake up with a stiff neck," you mutter, dipping your quill in ink. "I hope you stub your toes when you wake up. I hope your breakfast is cold and your tea is bitter and your horse steps on your foot."

His lips curl up softly. Like you're singing him a lullaby.

Your quill scratches to a halt.

"…I hope you dream about spiders," you try, weaker this time.

His smile deepens.

He doesn't wake up. He just… rests. Still peaceful and content. Like your curses are the sweetest words he's ever heard.

You stare at him.

Then you look down at your notes, page full of failed antidotes and useless counter-spells. A truth you’ve been avoiding for a while manifests to the surface of your mind once again.

Nothing is wrong with him.

The potion didn't work.

He's just like this.

You set down the quill to press your palms to your eyes.

And wonder, for the thousandth time, what in the hell you did to deserve this.

Maybe its time you suggest a psychiatrist.

Little did both of you know.

The potion didn't work on him.

It never could have. Years of assassination attempts had made his body resistant to poisons, potions, drugs… Basically anything ingested.

The drink that woman slipped him? It passed through his system like water. Barely a flicker of discomfort, a vague pulling in his chest that he dismissed as irritation.

He came to your shop that day ready to kill the witch who made it.

Not because the potion had affected him. But because he was annoyed.

Someone had tried to enchant him. Someone had failed. And he wanted to make an example of the person responsible.

Until he saw you.

And something in his chest pulled again.

Not the potion, that was already gone.

Something else he didn’t have a name for.

He still doesn't have a name for it. He calls it a curse. A spell. Your fault.

…

It's not.

He was just love-struck at first sight.

And he's been falling harder and harder with each day that passes.

Deep in his sleep, one thought surfaces in his mind.