#keller

He warned you about making promises—but you, stubborn and grinning, had to test it for yourself.

“I’m yours,” you say.

“Forever.”

You smirk at him, waiting for something— a spark, a pull, a shift in the air.

Nothing happens.

You almost laugh. Almost tease him for being dramatic.

What you don’t know is that he’s been taking things from you long before you ever said it out loud.

A strand of hair left behind on his pillow. A glass you didn’t finish, lips still warm on the rim. The faint salt of your skin where your hands pressed into his back, fingers digging in, claiming without meaning to.

Gifts, in the fae sense of the word.

Alex watches you carefully when nothing happens, relief flickering across his face too slow to hide. His hand tightens at your waist, not possessive—protective.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” he murmurs, softer now.

You roll your eyes. “Relax. I didn’t feel anything.”

He doesn’t correct you.

Later—days later—you start to notice it.

You smell him on your clothes long after you’ve washed them. His food tastes richer, warmer, like it’s missing something when he’s not there. The flowers he brings you don’t wilt—not on the counter, not by the window, not even when you forget to change the water.

You joke about it at first. Magic boyfriend perks.

But then you realize you’ve stopped buying flowers yourself. Stopped craving food he hasn’t touched. Stopped sleeping well unless his scent is in the room.

And when you mention it, half-laughing, he just watches you with that careful look again—like he’s counting something you can’t see.

Your body starts reacting before your brain catches up.

Your thighs tense when you hear his voice on the phone. Your skin prickles when he’s close, heat pooling low and slow, like your body’s already preparing itself. You hate how easy it is—how ready you are.

You catch yourself leaving things at his place. Intimate things. Things you shouldn’t forget. You don’t remember deciding to—your body just does it for you.

He doesn’t rush it.

That’s what makes it worse.

You start noticing how often his hand settles at the small of your back, thumb drawing slow, absent circles like he’s grounding himself—or you. How he watches you eat now, eyes soft, approving, like he’s pleased you’re finally taking what he gives.

“Good,” he murmurs once, when you finish your plate. Not loud. Not teasing. Just… pleased.

The word lingers longer than it should.

You find yourself seeking it out after that. The tone. The warmth in his voice when you do something right. Wearing the sweater he likes. Leaving your hair down. Letting him guide you through a doorway with a touch so light it barely counts.

Every time, he rewards you with quiet praise.

“Clever girl.” “There you are.”

Each one settles somewhere low and deep, heat curling in your stomach before you can stop it. You tell yourself it’s nothing. Just words. Just affection.

But his words don't sit idle.

You start leaning into him without thinking, body angling toward his warmth like it knows where it belongs. You catch his scent on your wrists and don’t wash it off right away. When he notices—because of course he does—his mouth curves, pleased.

He never tells you what to do.

He just notices when you do it.

When you leave your things at his place, he thanks you softly. When you choose him over safety, over anyone else, his touch grows reverent. Like you’ve offered him something sacred.

“Such a good choice,” he whispers once, lips brushing your temple. You shiver, knees weak, and he feels it—his hand tightening just enough to steady you.

He praises you for that too.

You realize, slowly, that he’s been teaching you. Not commands—habits. Responses. How good it feels to give in a little more each time. How right it feels when he approves.

By the time you understand what’s happening, your body already does.

You glow under his attention now, warmth blooming whenever he looks at you like that—fond, hungry, proud. When he murmurs your name, it sounds like ownership softened into devotion.

“You’re doing beautifully,” he says one night, fingers tracing idle patterns against your skin. “Just like this.”

You nod without thinking.

Later, alone, you try to remember when it stopped being a choice. When his praise stopped feeling optional and started feeling necessary.

You can’t pinpoint it.

Only that when he smiles at you—slow, knowing, satisfied—your body responds like it’s been waiting for permission all along.

And he gives it. Softly. Patiently. Every time you deserve it.