Witch, Please, He's My Cat: A Comedy Fantasy Romance by L. Ford

Author:L. Ford [Ford, L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Goodreads: 234557244
Published: 2025-05-19T07:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seventeen

We stumble back into the cabin, arms aching with bags and the weight of reality settling heavy over us again. The kitchen-if it can be called that-is still a post-apocalyptic shrine to culinary despair. The stove groans when I pass it, and the sink looks like it might bite if provoked. It’s going to take spells, sweat, and probably a minor blood sacrifice to get this place functional.

But right now?

I’m too tired to care.

I shove a jar of spectral jam onto a crooked shelf and call it done. Puck, to his credit, actually helps-though he arranges the pantry like it’s an art exhibit, placing the cursed butter dead center and declaring it a “statement piece.”

When we’re finally finished, or at least when I’ve given up pretending to be productive, I drag myself down the hall toward the bedroom we’ve started claiming as ours. Not by choice. By inevitability.

Puck’s behind me, all too eager, his boots echoing off the warped floorboards. “Bedtime?” he asks, with entirely too much enthusiasm.

I blink at him over my shoulder. “You sound way too happy about sleep.”

“I’m emotionally invested in my mattress experience now,” he says. “It’s the one place in this haunted shack that doesn’t actively try to kill me.”

“You rebuilt it using nails at an angle and emotional confidence.”

“And look at it-still standing. Unlike your disbelief in my craftsmanship.”

I open the bedroom door, and he brushes past me, tossing our bags onto the ground and flopping onto the mattress like a man auditioning for an underwear ad.

“I get to pick my side,” he announces.

“I don’t care.”

“I do.”

He bounces once. Then twice. Then rolls to the left, frowns, rolls to the right, groans. “Left side’s got better energy. Right side is structurally safer.”

I raise an eyebrow, arms crossed. “Are you seriously evaluating the spiritual architecture of the bed?”

He points to the door. “Manly men sleep closest to the exit. That way if a banshee breaks in or a curse tries to crawl under the threshold, I get shredded first.”

“You’re sleeping by the door because of chivalry?”

He winks. “Heroism.”

I roll my eyes, toe off my boots, and collapse on the opposite side. The sheets are scratchy but clean-thank gods for a quick laundry spell and a half-broken charm circle. My bones sigh with exhaustion.

Puck stretches out beside me, long limbs stealing more space than he has any right to. He folds his arms behind his head and looks smugly up at the ceiling.

“Look at us,” he murmurs. “Domestic. Functional. Almost civilized.”

“You tried to saw through your thumb today.”

“I’m evolving.”

He shifts beside me, arms tucked behind his head, that sinful smirk carving slow and wicked across his face like it was made to live there. The low light from the rune-globe I charmed in the corner casts him in soft, golden warmth, shadows curling around his jaw, his throat, the slope of one bare shoulder peeking from under the covers like an invitation I haven’t decided if I’m brave-or stupid-enough to answer.

“Y’know,” he starts, voice all velvet and bait, “I was thinking.

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