Elliot, a naive, clumsy, yet lovable idiot

The back door rattled open with its usual screech—like a cat getting its tail stepped on. Elliot winced, knowing exactly which floorboard would creak next (the third one, left side) as he shuffled into the dim storeroom. His sneakers stuck slightly to the floorboards, remnants of yesterday’s spilled honey-and-sulfur incident.

"Morning, Ruth!" he called, too brightly, already knocking over a jar of dried newt eyes with his elbow. They scattered like marbles across the counter. Elliot froze, then slowly met Madame Ruth’s unblinking stare from across the room. Her gold tooth glinted in the lamplight. "Uh," he said, already scooping them up with cupped hands. "I’ll… fix that?"

Madame Ruth exhaled through her nose—a sound like a tea kettle deciding not to whistle—and tossed him a dustpan. "You’re lucky I like you, kid."

Elliot caught it with both hands, nearly fumbling, then grinned. He had the kind of smile that made people forgive him instantly: crooked, dimpled, and radiating earnestness like a malfunctioning radiator. "You say that every time I break something."

"Because you break something every time," Ruth muttered, but her lips twitched. She watched him sweep up the newt eyes—some rolling under shelves, one defiantly lodging itself in the gap between floorboards—with the resigned fondness of someone who'd long since given up on pristine inventory.

Elliot hummed as he worked, oblivious to the way three of the eyes had stuck to his sleeve. The storeroom smelled of rosemary and something faintly metallic, mingling with the scent of his strawberry shampoo. He’d accidentally used his sister’s that morning, too frazzled from trying to pick out the *perfect* Valentine’s gift for Lacey. Which was why he’d come in early—Ruth’s shop had weird hours, but the weirdest things always showed up right before holidays.

"Shift doesn’t start for twenty minutes," Ruth remarked, watching him unsuccessfully attempt to peel a newt eye off his wrist.

Elliot blinked. "Oh. Right." He paused, dustpan hovering mid-scoop. "But I figured you'd need help with the Valentine’s Day rush?"

Ruth snorted. "The only rush around here is you rushing to destroy my merchandise." But she tossed him an apron anyway—the faded black one with embroidered stars along the hem that he always wore. It smelled faintly of lavender and something sharper, like regret. Or maybe yesterday's failed batch of essential ools. Elliot was kind of in the dark when it came to the products his boss sold. She wasn't exactly big on labels.

He tied the apron strings with clumsy fingers, managing to knot one side twice as long as the other. Ruth sighed and batted his hands away, retying it with brisk efficiency. Her nails were painted a chipped burgundy today, Elliot noticed. They always matched whatever “potion” she'd been brewing—a habit he'd picked up on after three months of employment. Burgundy meant something new. Something probably messy.

"So," Elliot blurted, bouncing on his heels, "hypothetically. If someone wanted to get their crush—hypothetically!—the absolute best Valentine's gift ever. What would that hypothetically be?"

Madame Ruth didn't even look up from labeling a row of ominously bubbling jars. "Hypothetically," she drawled, "someone should stop tracking newt eyes onto my clean floor."

Elliot glanced down at his sneakers—three more eyes clung stubbornly to the treads. He groaned and scraped them off with the edge of the dustpan. "Okay, but—what if I didn't break anything today?" His voice pitched upward with hopeful desperation. "At all. Not one jar, not one spill. Could I maybe... get a discount? On something special?"

Madame Ruth paused mid-label, her pen hovering over a jar of what looked suspiciously like ground-up teeth. She turned slowly, eyes narrowing. Elliot braced for a sarcastic remark—but then her mouth curled into the kind of smile that made the hairs on his neck prickle. "Tell you what," she said, tapping the pen against her chin. "You make it till closing without so much as knocking over a paperclip, and I'll give you something rare. A gift." She gestured vaguely toward the front of the shop. "Perfume. Straight from the Amazon. One-of-a-kind. Your hypothetical crush would lose her hypothetical mind."

Elliot's breath hitched. The Amazon? Lacey loved exotic things—she'd spent half of biology class ranting about rainforest conservation. His hands twitched at his sides, already imagining her delighted gasp when he presented it. "Deal," he blurted, then immediately tripped over his own shoelace. Ruth arched an eyebrow as he caught himself on a shelf, miraculously not disturbing a single bottle. "See? Improving already," he said with a wobbly grin.

Madame Ruth studied him for a long moment—the way his too-long bangs flopped into his eyes, the ink smudge on his collar from last night's failed attempt at writing love poetry, the hopeful crease between his brows. He looked so much like her Javier at that age—all elbows and optimism, forever stumbling into trouble. Her grandson had outgrown it eventually, found a nice girl, moved to Toledo. But this one? This one needed a nudge. Or perhaps a shove.

She turned abruptly and strode toward the front counter, her layered skirts whispering against the floorboards. Behind her, Elliot yelped as he tripped over his own feet again—but caught himself this time, arms windmilling wildly before steadying. Progress. Ruth hid a smile as she reached beneath the counter, fingers brushing past the usual vials of forgetfulness and fortune until she found what she wanted: Number Ten, still warm from its final enchantment.

The boy was a disaster, true. But he was *her* disaster—clumsy, kind-hearted, and so painfully earnest it made her gold tooth ache. The way he'd blushed scarlet last week when Lacey Harper leaned over his chemistry notes, pretending to check his work while her perfume (cheap vanilla, store-brand) wafted into his space... Ruth had seen that look before. On Javier, twenty years ago, staring at Maria Lopez like she'd hung the moon in her locker. Some boys never learned subtlety.

She turned the vial between her fingers before pouring it into a perfume bottle. She capped it. The liquid inside pulsed faintly, reacting to her thoughts—or perhaps anticipating its future. Number Ten wasn't cruel. It wouldn't twist Lacey into some simpering puppet. But it would... *adjust* things. Soften edges. Align interests. Make her notice how Elliot's laugh crinkled his eyes just so, or how he always remembered her favorite seat in the cafeteria. A nudge. A favor, really.

"Here," Ruth said abruptly, thrusting the bottle at Elliot. He blinked at it—the glass was warm, the liquid swirling with a hypnotic lavender sheen. "For free."

Elliot's mouth fell open. "But I haven't—"

"Don't argue," Ruth said, shooing him toward the door with the same brisk efficiency she used to untangle knotted apron strings. "You'll jinx it." She gestured to the untouched shelves around them—a minor miracle after twenty minutes of Elliot's presence. "Go. Before you knock over my taxidermied jackalope."

Elliot clutched the vial carefully, afraid his sweaty palms might make it slip. The liquid inside caught the light as he turned it, throwing prismatic flecks across his wrist. "But my shift—"

"Consider it a holiday bonus." Ruth waved a hand dismissively, already turning back to her ledger. The pages rustled like dried leaves, filled with notes in languages Elliot couldn't decipher. "Go. Before I change my mind."

Elliot didn't need to be told twice. He clutched the bottle to his chest like a winning lottery ticket, nearly knocking over a display of “enchanted” candlesticks in his haste. The bell above the door jingled wildly as he burst onto the sidewalk, the cold February air doing nothing to dampen the giddy warmth spreading through his ribs. He did an actual little skip—just once—before remembering he was wearing his sister's neon pink backpack.

Inside the shop, Madame Ruth pinched the bridge of her nose. The shelf behind the counter—the one Elliot had been leaning against moments ago—gave a soft, ominous creak. Then it collapsed in a spectacular cascade of glass and dried herbs, sending up a mushroom cloud of crushed valerian root and what might’ve been powdered bat wing. Ruth exhaled through her gold-capped teeth, watching a single rogue bottle of "Memory Enhancer" roll to a stop at her feet, completely unharmed.

"You little chaos gremlin," she muttered, though her lips twitched upward as she surveyed the wreckage. The air smelled like broken promises and spilled chamomile. She flicked a stray sprig of something purple off her shoulder. It was almost impressive—Elliot had managed to destroy three weeks' worth of alphabetized inventory without even touching it. Pure gravitational misfortune.