This blasted fog had been a blessing in some ways, but a curse in most. "Fog chasers" had reported to the Arms in droves, as the small inn was the only accommodation the small village truly had to offer, and so business was booming from the lodging side of things. Unfortunately, the thick haze had also been keeping the regulars at bay, with many—particularly the local muggles—feeling uneasy about its persistence. For himself, Atticus was only uneasy about how oppressive the walls of the Arms felt without sunlight streaming in its windows, and after a few days of this, decided to get a bit of air, leaving the building shortly after lunch.

What he did not anticipate was the...staleness of the air, and Atticus realized quickly that he had underestimated the thickness of the fog. He had gone only a few dozen paces before becoming hopelessly turned around, and the muggle put his hands out in front of him in an effort to ensure he didn't collide with any walls as he attempted to make his way home.

Those same hands collided with rounded flesh as he groped his way through the fog, and it took him far too long to realize what he had grabbed.

Open to an adult female!