Lucien kicked the cottage door open as though it said something nasty to him and stalked inside, Em's cats dangling from his arms, her rucksack slung over one shoulder like a burden he deeply regretted carrying.
The fire was still alive, crackling merrily. The stew on the hearth sent up the smell of herbs and meat, rich and savory. Em was still full from the Mossy Mugs meal, but her stomach had the nerve to growl anyway.
"Sit," Lucien said, jabbing a finger toward the hearth.
She obeyed. Mostly because she tripped over her own blanket and face-planted into the rug beside the fire.
Lucien exhaled slowly, like the weight of her existence required divine patience.
"Did I get lured by food?" she muttered, rubbing her eyes. Her limbs were heavy, her thoughts soft. It was warm. Blessedly warm. Goldie stretched beside her, purring. Beans leapt onto the windowsill, curled up, and closed his eyes.
From her cozy heap on the floor, Em noticed the make-shift bed. Neatly made of pillows, set at the foot of his own bed, covered in that same dark green blanket he tossed at her last night.
She pointed. "Is that for the cats?"
"No," Lucien said flatly. "It's for the sake of my sanity, what little of it survived letting dust and disorder through my front door."
She giggled, not because of what he said, but because of how he looked while saying it. Like a constipated noble forced to attend a peasant festival.
Then she frowned. Dust? Her? "Oh, that's for me."
Her fingers tangled in each other. It was a nervous habit, one she never fully kicked. She needed her parchment, her quill. She needed to scribble this moment before it faded: He offered me a new bed. Smaller. But it's clean. Soft-looking.
"I'm honestly fine here on the floor," she added quickly. "Really."
"I'm not going to stab you in your sleep."
"I know," she said, tugging the blanket tighter around her shoulders. "But I'm… dirty, Lucien. You don't want alley germs crawling all over your nice blanket."
He stared at her then. Not judging. Not annoyed. Just… quiet. Like he was trying to read a language he hadn't spoken in centuries.
Then he blinked and nodded toward the bathroom. "Then clean yourself first. And no more thank-you notes on the shampoo bottle."
Her cheeks burned. "Oh. You saw the note."
"And the part where you crossed out my name. Seven times." He ladled stew into three bowls without looking at her.
Em practically skipped to the bathroom.
Warm water again. Gods, actual warm water. Her smile stretched ear to ear. She wouldn't have to waste coppers at the public bathhouses—those always smelled like boiled eggs and moldy toes.
She stripped off her dress, grabbed his fancy soap and the shampoo bottle she'd defaced with doodles, and lowered herself into the tub. A sigh escaped her lips as the heat wrapped around her like a blessing. She scrubbed herself raw, washed her hair twice, and stayed until the water started to cool. She took her sweet, sweet time because who knew when the stars would align again? When life would be generous enough to hand her something nice without demanding blood, sweat, or tears in return? She was going to stretch this moment until it squeaked.
When she emerged, hair wrapped in a towel and limbs squeaky clean, she found Lucien at the table… glaring at Goldie.
Goldie, smug little traitor, was curled in his lap, blinking slowly as though they were having a silent romantic dinner.
"What does the enemy want now?" Lucien muttered as Em closed the door behind her.
"She says she loves you," she replied, toweling her hair. "Look at those blinks. That's devotion."
"Tell her I'm not interested," Lucien grumbled, already scratching under Goldie's chin like a liar.
She sat across from him and pulled her bowl close, humming at the warmth. "Aren't you going to eat?"
"I'm full just watching you inhale my stew like a starved goblin."
She grinned mid-bite. "You're funny. I'll add that to my report."
"Make sure to note," he said dryly, "that I also don't appreciate idiots paying people to tail me."
Em froze, spoon halfway to her mouth. "Right. That."
They didn't talk much after that. Just the soft clink of spoons and the occasional purring from under the table where Beans licked his bowl clean.
Later that night, curled on the makeshift cot with a belly full of stew and fingers that had finally stopped twitching, Em nearly wept.
The cot was soft. The blanket was heavy. Her muscles sank into the pillows like they'd been waiting years to be held by something that didn't reek of stale pee and rotten cabbage.
Beans joined her, purring at her hip.
Goldie, of course, was still with Lucien. Watching him dry the bowls like a hawk who'd found her new favorite perch.
As her eyes fluttered shut, Em realized: this might've been the most comfortable she'd felt in years.
Or maybe… since forever.
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Emila woke up before the sun.
It was an instinct more than anything, an alarm stitched into her bones. Back in the alleys, if you weren't up early, someone might take advantage of your sleep. Men with heavy boots. Drunk. Angry. Curious. Cruel. She'd been kicked. Spat on. Someone once tried to—
Not now.
So she always woke before the rest of the world. Always alert. Always ready to run.
Her breath came shallow, then steadied. Her hand instinctively reached for something—her satchel? A rock? An old boot to throw? A dead rodent? But all she found was the soft plush of a blanket.
There was no stone under her spine. No wind biting her toes. No damp cloth clinging to her face.
Warmth.
It was from the thick blanket tucked around her body, the way the pillows cradled her like it had been made for her tiny frame.
She blinked, disoriented for a second. Then she remembered.
The cottage. The stew. The green blanket.
Lucien.
Her eyes darted toward the bed.
There he was. Facedown, dead to the world, hugging a pillow. His red hair was a tousled mess, half of it draped over his shoulder similar to a very dramatic curtain. A faint snore escaped his mouth, soft and muffled against the linen.
Goldie, traitor that she was, climbed onto Lucien's back and perched there like a queen claiming her throne. She purred, loudly.
Em sat up carefully, blanket still wrapped around her shoulders, crawled over, gently lifting Goldie off the sleeping fae.
"Let him sleep," she whispered. "No need to guard him. He's built like a very sarcastic tree."
Goldie blinked slowly, unimpressed, then padded toward the rug, flopping beside Beans, who was already on his throne—the windowsill—cleaning his paw.
Em looked back at Lucien.
He looked… soft, like this. Suspiciously soft. Still. Almost normal, if you ignored the very not normal scar peeking through his hair and vanishing into the pillow like a bad secret. And that faint mechanical glint where his eye should be, now safely shut like it was also catching up on sleep.
"Maybe he wrestled a feral beast," she whispered to herself, eyes narrowing. "Or maybe he just pissed someone off. Honestly, both are possible."
She crept toward the bathroom on her toes, careful not to wake him up. And there, right beside the towel she left dripping all over the place last night, hung a fresh one. Dark green. Like the blanket. Neatly folded.
Em stared at it. Just stared. One long, dramatic pause. Then warmth bloomed in her chest. Sneaky, embarrassing warmth that had no business showing up uninvited like this. She shoved it back down to wherever it came from.
She took a quick bath, scrubbing off the sweat and sleep and thoughts of past alleys. The water was warm again, another enchantment, maybe, or just ridiculous fae plumbing. Either way, she wasn't questioning it.
Back in the main room, she moved quietly again. Found her bag. Tore off a clean square of parchment and scribbled a note in her usual cramped script: For the stew. The towel. The bed. The everything. She made sure she spelled everything correctly. Though she's still suspicious if she spelled the word "everything" right. It's a long word. Too many letters and it started swirling again the longer she stared.
She tucked one silver coin beneath the folded note, right in the center of the table where he'd find it.
She folded the blanket afterwards, arranged the pillows neatly, grabbed her things and gestured for the cats to follow. Goldie obeyed with a stretch and a long yawn. Beans took his time but eventually hopped off his perch with a little huff.
Under the ficus tree, she scrawled a quick update on her report scrolls, then circled the edge of Lucien's overgrown yard, foraging mushrooms, herbs, and, of course, apples. She snagged four. Two for trading, two for her satchel.
"Thanks," she whispered to the tree, wiping an apple on her sleeve before biting into it. "May the squirrels and birds don't poop on your branches."
She and the cats took the long way down the river, her steps springy. The morning air wrestled with her damp hair, twisting it into a lopsided mess that might pass for a braid if you squint hard enough. Then came a scent. Lucien's shampoo. Em grinned. If she could bottle that scent, she'd wear it every day. Crushed mint and sweet dreams? The bees wouldn't just love her, they'd propose.
Before noon, she was back to Gladeport, slipping through the crowds and vendor stalls, waiting to hear back from the guild about yesterday's report while trading what she could for food and ink and things her cats would inevitably destroy.
She didn't know when she'd head back to the cottage.
Or if she should.
But something in her already missed the scent of breeze and apples.
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Lucien woke with the sun, reluctantly, blearily, dragged out of sleep by the warmth on his back and the absence of a certain human's constant muttering.
The cottage was quiet. Too quiet. Thank the gods.
He sat up, raking a hand through his hair and blinking around. Goldie wasn't sprawled on the left side of his bed like yesterday. Beans was nowhere in sight.
The blanket was neatly tucked above the pillows. Not a wrinkle in sight. The space she'd occupied last night, still faintly warm, still smelling of...apples and mint and oranges. He stood, sniffed the air. His nose twitched. The scent still lingered faintly in the air, warm and minty, like his bathroom had been claimed by a woodland nymph. He stalked to the washroom to confirm it. Sure enough, the towel she'd used was damp, her presence echoing in the little details. No hair in the tub, thank the Mother, but she'd been there.
He padded next to the kitchen.
The tea wasn't brewed. The pantry was untouched. Bread unbroken. Everything exactly how he left it.
Lucien glanced at the table.
There was a scrap of parchment. Folded once. A single silver coin beside it. Her penmanship looked tiny, cramped, like she was apologizing for taking up space even on paper.
For the stew. The towel. The bed. The everything.
No name. Just like last time.
"Ridiculous," he muttered. "I didn't do any of this for payment."
Still, he didn't throw it away. He walked over to the shelf, opened a small wooden box and dropped the note and coin inside, along with her first note with a ridiculous doodle of his face.
He stepped outside, mug warm between his palms. The morning breeze ruffled his hair. A bird chirped somewhere overhead.
He noticed some disturbance in the garden.
The roses had been trampled lightly. A few overturned stones. Missing mushrooms, herbs cut off clean. Her. Again.
He stood there a moment, sipping slowly, then without really thinking, he flexed his fingers. A faint shimmer of magic pulsed through his skin and into the soil.
A new cluster of mushrooms burst forth, pale and plump. A few sprigs of thyme, rosemary and wild mint curled into shape beside them.
Just a little extra. For her foraging bag. For her coins.
Then he scowled and shook his head.
"Why are you doing this, Vanserra?"
He stared at the garden a while longer, the cup now cold in his hands.
The answer, of course, was simple. Logical.
He felt sorry for her. That was all.
…Nothing more.
Right?