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"And over there is Mama's shop!" Millie's excitement peaks as she points to the building I've become intimately familiar with over the past weeks.
We cross the street, and I catch a glimpse of Ronnie through the window, her auburn hair falling forward as she measures something into a small jar. She tucks a strand behind her ear with practiced precision, her movements economical and focused.
My wings shift restlessly, an involuntary response I can't seem to control around her anymore.
"Can we go see her?" Millie tugs at my hand, oblivious to the complicated emotions churning beneath my composed exterior.
"Of course." I allow myself to be pulled toward the shop, telling myself it's solely for Millie's benefit. A lie I'm becoming less convinced by each day.
The small bell above the door announces our arrival. Ronnie looks up, and for a heartbeat, something soft and unguarded flickers across her face before she schools her expression.
"Mama! I showed Papa the whole village and told him about the time the river got too high and Uncle Ady had to carry me on his shoulders!"
"Did you now?" Ronnie's lips curve into a smile, and I catch myself tracking the movement. "I hope you didn't talk his ear off."
"I enjoy her stories," I say, meeting Ronnie's gaze over our daughter's head. "She's a remarkable guide. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree when it comes to knowing exactly what people need."
The compliment lands softly between us. Ronnie's cheeks flush slightly, her gray eyes widening just enough that I know she caught my meaning. Her shop is meticulously organized in the same precise way she used to arrange her supplies in her old storefront—everything in its place, nothing wasted.
"Mama, can Papa stay for dinner again?" Millie asks, already pulling herbs from the lower shelves she's allowed to touch.
"If he'd like to," Ronnie answers, her eyes still on mine.
"I'd like to," I reply honestly.
That evening, after a meal of roasted root vegetables and fresh bread that Ronnie baked herself, we put Millie to bed together. I watch as Ronnie tucks the blankets around our daughter, smoothing back wild curls from her forehead with a tenderness that makes my throat tight.
"Tell me about the stars again, Papa," Millie mumbles sleepily.
I sit on the edge of her bed, careful not to disturb her nearly-asleep form. "The stars are ancient beings who watch over us from the heavens. They collect our stories and weave them into constellations..."
By the time I finish, her breathing has deepened into sleep, small silver wings twitching occasionally with her dreams. Ronnie stands in the doorway, arms crossed, watching us with an expression I can't quite decipher.
When we retreat to the main room, silence settles between us—not uncomfortable, but charged with potential.
"I noticed your herb garden could use some attention," I say finally, the words coming out before I've fully formed the thought. "I could help, if you'd like."
Ronnie tilts her head, studying me with those perceptive gray eyes. "You know about herb gardens now?"
"I know about many things." I allow a smile to curve my lips. "And what I don't know, I learn quickly."
To my surprise, she doesn't hesitate or push back as she once would have. Instead, she nods toward the back door. "It does need work. The zynthra is overtaking everything."
The night air carries the scent of meadowmint and rich soil as we step into the small garden behind her shop. Moonlight catches on the silver threads in my wings as I kneel beside her, careful to keep them folded tight so they don't disturb the delicate plants.
"Show me what needs doing," I say quietly.
The moonlight silvers the edges of the herbs, casting delicate shadows across Ronnie's garden. She kneels beside a patch of zynthra, her movements precise and practiced as she parts the vibrant leaves with calloused fingers. I watch her hands—strong, capable hands that have built a life here, that have raised our daughter.
"These ones," she says, guiding my attention to particular stems. "See how the leaves have this slight curl at the edges? And the color is deeper, more vibrant? That's when they're perfect for harvesting."
I lean closer, inhaling the sharp, earthy scent. "And these others?"
"Too young." She shakes her head. "Give them another week. The stems need to be firmer."
Her shoulder brushes against mine as she shifts to check another plant. Neither of us pulls away. This newfound comfort between us feels fragile, precious—a tentative bridge replacing the burning intensity that once defined our encounters.
We work in companionable silence, me following her lead as she shows me which plants to trim, which to leave. The rhythm is soothing—her murmured instructions, the soft sounds of our breathing, the occasional rustle of my wings adjusting to accommodate our movements.