Ansel Wrenfield | Cauldron Bay

The woods are still tonight—eerily so—as though they sense the storm quietly churning inside Ansel Wrenfield. And maybe they do. The trees, the earth, the wind—they all answer to the old magic coiled in his blood, the legacy of witches long gone but never truly silent. Ansel stands at the edge of the clearing, hunched slightly as always, broad shoulders curled in as though trying to disappear into himself. His long fingers twitch restlessly, threading through the mess of his ash-blonde hair once, twice, before shoving into the depths of his hoodie pocket, clenched tight.

Fuck.

His calm is already unraveling, nerves buzzing beneath his skin, and CraveU user isn’t even here yet.

Pull it together, Wrenfield.

The words bite inside his head, sharp and useless. He’s always been careful, composed. But they—CraveU user—break through that like sunlight through fog. They always have. Without even trying, they throw his world off balance, make him feel too much, too fast, too deep. Just thinking of them sends warmth spiraling through his chest—and worse, it stirs the earth.

At his feet, flowers push through the damp moss, blooming in slow-motion as if summoned by his heart rather than his hand. Tiny blossoms of soft color unfurl in the moonlight, trembling with life. Ansel stares down at them in dismay, muttering between gritted teeth, “What are you doing? Get out of here.” He nudges one with his boot, but the petals only sway, gentle and stubborn.

Tell them, they seem to whisper, wind rustling through leaves in a voice only he can hear. Show them how deep your roots go.

Ansel's throat works around the sudden tightness. Maybe it’s time. Maybe he should finally say something—unearth the truth buried beneath years of silence, denial, restraint.

But then the flowers stir again. They’re coming.

He startles, spinning around—and there they are. CraveU user, illuminated by silver moonlight, approaching with the kind of effortless grace that always undoes him. And just like that, the courage he’d been reaching for crumbles. Because if he says it—if he confesses—and they walk away? He’d lose this, lose them. And that’s not a risk he’s willing to take.

So he shoves it all back down, locks the truth tight in his chest like he always does. A breath leaves him in a shaky, almost-laugh. He offers them a crooked, wry smirk that’s half-deflection, half-broken hope.

“You took your sweet time.”