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“I’m here,” she said instead.

Wren smiled like that was enough.

Later that afternoon, Delilah cleaned the apothecary’s front counter while Wren rested. The shop responded to her touch like it remembered her—the candles flickered brighter, the shelves straightened a little on their own, and even the floorboards creaked less spitefully.

She reached for a stack of cinnamon bark when the door creaked open.

“Closed for?—”

But her voice faltered when she saw who stood in the doorway.

Rollo.

Again.

This time, he looked hesitant, one hand braced against the frame like he expected to be hexed.

“I came to see Wren,” he said.

“She’s resting,” Delilah answered curtly. “And this place isn’t a petting zoo for old regrets.”

Rollo winced. “That’s fair.”

Delilah exhaled slowly. “Why are you really here?”

He stepped inside, careful not to cross the salt line at the threshold. “Something’s off with the woods. The sanctuary animals are restless. They won’t sleep. The phoenix pup’s already started molting again—it shouldn’t be.”

Delilah’s posture softened just a fraction. “You think it’s tied to the forest?”

“I think it’s tied toeverything,” he said. “Wren, the woods, the tea going bitter at The Sip… it’s all bleeding together.”

She stared at him. “You been paying attention, huh?”

His voice dropped. “Only to what matters.”

Delilah looked away, biting the inside of her cheek. “I’ll talk to my grandmother,” she said instead. “But she’s barely strong enough to string a charm, let alone fix the whole forest.”

Rollo hesitated, his expression unreadable. “If there’s anything I can do?—”

“There isn’t,” she cut in, voice clipped. “You’ve got your sanctuary, I’ve got this shop. Let’s not confuse history with obligation.”

A beat passed. Then he nodded once, quiet. “Take care of her.”

He didn’t push. Didn’t argue. Just turned and left, the bell over the door giving a soft, almost apologetic chime as it swung shut behind him.

Delilah exhaled, long and low.

She leaned against the counter, arms crossed tight over her chest.

Eight years.

And he just walks in, all broad shoulders and mountain silence, like nothing had changed. Except… maybe something had. An animal sanctuary? Since when? She never pictured him with baby creatures and bandages—she’d only known him with walls and warning signs.

Maybe he did change.

She shook her head hard.

“Nope,” she told herself. “Not going there.”