I have, or rather... had, seven sisters. Evangeline, Calliope, Ociana, Harper, Nautika, Nahlia, and Elenore. I often believed that in large families, the eldest children raise the youngest. Every bruise, every scrape, every tiny injury I ever obtained was treated at the hands of Evangeline and Calliope, not by the calloused hands of my mother. The gentleness that had once graced her fingers existed no more for the likes of her younger children. Was it the difficult times she had endured that withered her once gracious and loving soul and heart? Unlike my absurdly removed mother my sisters enjoyed having younger brothers to raise, as we symbolized some kind of protection for them once we grew older. Perhaps security isn't the right word... Somewhere in the depths of who Troy and I would become lay a wraith-like desire to prove ourselves which was offered to be cultivated at the hands of the sisters who needed us to be more than mere trouble and other mouths to feed. I knew from a very early age that Evangeline and Calliope gave more of themselves than anyone should have to in order to provide for the rest of us when there was no work to be found on desolate streets in a damaged country. The thought of them had often caused me to work harder, and the second I was able? I could provide for them. That became easier and easier as time went on and I obtained real jobs or real means of money in the United States, but the truth of the family remained; I could thank those women for the man I became. Even if that meant having to thank them for countless tubs of ice cream I never liked, movies I would have rather slept through, but most importantly? My sisters had taught me what it was to be a man with respect and morals that I wouldn't have learned otherwise.

Though... I'm pretty sure that some of my sisters are simply glad I'm off their continent. Let's be honest. Could you blame them?

Clearly, women were open books to me on most occasions. That attribute had nearly failed me when I had decided I wanted another chance with the young witch who had brazenly let it be known she was willing if I was. From oysters to stolen touches and side long glances, every interaction I had endured with the woman had left a twinkle in my eyes and a soft smile on my face that I didn't remember I could express. Seated at the table together on the building terrace that had looked like France, I had nearly wanted to exclaim that it was entirely too easy to make a passport and skip out of the country! The world lay dormant at her doorstep and I was all too eager to carry her over the threshold. All too eager... It had been difficult to keep from returning her advances in the back of her shop, and it was difficult when her sterling eyes had lit up at the sight of the diamond. I had mended the diamond in question into a small pendant hung on an equally delicate chain that would suit her, giving the small piece of jewelry back to the witch one on of our jaunts after the evening in France. It had been nearly impossible to still myself from the gossamer touch of her lips to my cheek as we left the terrace, a feeling of an almost boyish charm crackling my aura. Once in the elevator, my arm gently around Serafina's back, I found myself amidst a serious civil war, each side dueling with how terribly and vividly I wanted to wrap her around myself and get lost. While the chatter might have been chipper and pleasant on the way to her home, I had politely escorted her to the door as a gentleman should and with every veritable ounce of gentleness I might possess, I had stepped closer to her and allowed one of my slender hands to tuck hair gently behind her ear and find its niche just below her chin to tilt her lips up to mine. The kiss was incredibly soft, and incredibly short ... but there was nothing I had ever tasted that was as saccharine and honeyed as her lips on mine.

Naturally, I would have wanted to vividly describe just how grimy I actually wanted to get... But remember that sisters thing? My eternal love for terrible romance movies combined with their helping hands has often gestured me away from incredulous physical displays such as that. And besides... The wait, the chase, and the game were my favored parts. Once that's over with I'm more than comfortable taking off my shoes and putting my feet on your coffee table. I assumed she'd prefer the pleasantries...

I had frequented Serafina's townhome more than a handful of times in order to pick her up for something or help her with something around the house. The interior had become somewhat familiar, and alleviated the weight I often distributed on my own shoulders, allowing me to carelessly bask in the warmth of the young witch's smile and her impish nature. Perhaps in an effort to prove my domestic suitability, I had demanded that I were allowed to make her dinner in her own home. What an innovative thought that no one had ever had before! I had arrived armed with only the meat I needed to cook with and a handful of other supplied stacked in a paper bag, come to find out her kitchen was far less stocked than I had assumed. Don't all women come battery programmed to know how to food shop? Amused but dismayed, I hurricaned around her kitchen by opening every cabinet quickly and then finding myself standing in the middle of the room with my arms crossed and a look of horror on my face.

"... Do you even eat?!" I started, clearly feigning distress but a bright, playful twinkle meeting my eyes. I had slipped into her house fairly quietly, but it was far harder to remain the cool and often poised but temperamental man that I was before the initial front was broken through. And now? The guard dogs had been somehow tamed with the young witch's soft simper and her company. Maybe she threw them a raw hide or something...

"Like seriously... How do you sustain yourself?" I asked incredulously, tinkering around for a cutting board amidst my inquisition. Once the cutting board was lying in front of me, I moved the chicken onto it. I could feel the existence of the knives near her stove, so I gently reached out with the fingertips of my magic to draw them over my shoulders and into my outstretched hand; the butcher's knife held up right and matched only by a playfully menacing smile. "I had intended on simply cooking for you, but come over here and learn how to lose a finger, yeah?" I taunted, letting her slide in front of me and slip her fingers over a knife that I was going to control with magic either way. The vanilla musk of the cigar I had smoked on my way over here mixed with the sort of subtle pine smell of my skin laced with her sweet smell and I had to try with a might I didn't know I had to keep from burying my face in her neck and ignoring that I was trying to make her dinner. The knife was cutting the chicken by itself, so my attention wasn't entirely necessary and instead I could let my other hand find her hip and pull her a little closer to me with my only restraint being my jaw tightening in a reminder that I had wanted to be a gentleman and polite and respectful and...

I took a step away from her in order to fester with some bottles in a cabinet beside the stove, groaning at my discoveries. "You have apple cider vinegar and olive oil; if you want to get sick, I can use those!" I offered, delightfully preparing to pour the vinegar into a pan to attempt to cook something with it. "Had I known that your concocting abilities were limited to potions I would have demanded you come to my house for dinner. Do you think you can keep chopping and I can duck out to the food store quickly or should I not trust you with... magical... sharp objects?"