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"Can I show you my rocks?" Millie asks suddenly, already grabbing his hand without waiting for an answer. "Uncle Adellum helps me find the sparkly ones. I have a blue one that looks just like the sky when it rains!"
Araton looks up at me, silently asking permission. For a heartbeat, I'm transported back to that first night in my shop, when those same golden eyes had asked an entirely different question. I'd given in then too, against my better judgment.
"Go ahead," I say softly, stepping back to give them space.
The relief and gratitude that flashes across Araton's face is so raw it makes my chest ache. As I watch him being led away by our daughter's tiny, insistent hand, a tangle of emotions knots itself in my stomach—happiness that Millie isn't afraid, relief that Araton is treating her with such gentle reverence, and an undercurrent of guilt that threatens to pull me under.
I was so sure I was right to leave, to protect Millie from a father who might not want her or might take her from me. Now, watching them together—their matching golden eyes, their identical expressions of wonder—I'm no longer certain of anything.
Araton was veryserious about being in Millie's life. He sees her daily, and he seems enamored.
The first week of their new arrangement, I stand in my doorway, arms crossed over my chest like armor, watching Araton walk away with Millie skipping beside him. Her small silver wings flutter with each bounce, catching sunlight. My daughter's hand disappears inside his much larger one.
"We're going to catch thalivern by the river," she informs me with the gravity of someone announcing a diplomatic mission.
"Don't let her near the water alone," I call after them, hating the tremble in my voice.
Araton turns, the sun catching the gold in his eyes. "I'd sooner cut off my wings than let harm come to her."
I believe him, which terrifies me more than doubt ever could.
When they return that evening, Millie's curls are tangled with flower petals and her clothes bear the cheerful stains of adventure. The sight of her perched on Araton's broad shoulders, those silver-flecked gray wings curving protectively around her smaller ones, creates a lump in my throat I can't swallow past.
"Mama! We found FIVE thalivern and Papa can make his voice sound like a black pitter bird and I climbed a tree and?—"
"Bath first," I interrupt, struggling to keep my expression neutral at her casual use of "Papa."
Araton sets her down with careful hands. "I'll see you tomorrow, sweetheart."
He turns to leave, but Millie grabs his pant leg. "But you didn't tell Mama about the burigo that jumped on your head!"
That night, he stays for dinner.
By the second week, I find myself unconsciously setting a third plate at our small table. Millie chatters through dinner, her golden eyes bright with stories, while Araton listens with an intensity that makes my chest ache. He never interrupts her, never dismisses her nonsensical tangents. I'd expected arrogance from him—the same smug confidence he'd always worn like a second skin—but with Millie, he's different. Softer around the edges.
"And then Uncle Ady said I could help with his painting tomorrow if I wanted, but Papa said we're going to look for special rocks for my collection, so maybe the next day?"
I glance up and catch Araton watching me over Millie's head, his expression unreadable. When our eyes meet, something electric passes between us—that same dangerous current that's always hummed beneath our interactions.
"Uncle Ady won't mind waiting," I say, finally breaking away from his gaze.
Later, after dinner, I find myself lingering in the kitchen longer than necessary, wiping down already-clean counters while Araton reads to Millie in the living room. His deep voice carries through the house, rising and falling with the story. When I finally join them, Millie is half-asleep on his lap, her tiny wings twitching with dreams.
"She's out," he whispers.
I should take her to bed, should usher him out the door with a polite but firm goodnight. Instead, I sit across from him, watching how carefully he cradles our daughter.
"You're good with her," I admit reluctantly.
Something flashes across his face—pain, anger, gratitude—too fast to identify. "I had three years to make up for."
The accusation lands like a slap, but I don't flinch. "I did what I thought was best."
"For her? Or for you?"
He carries Millie to bed before I can answer, his wings brushing the doorframe as he navigates the narrow hallway. When he returns, I expect him to leave, but he sits across from me again, the space between us charged with unsaid things.
"Teach me," he says quietly.