Chapter 18: Between Healing and Wanting

Three more days passed in a slow, careful rhythm. Kaelen's strength returned with each one, steadier footfalls, longer walks, and less groaning when he stood up too fast. His tail, the last lingering wound, had finally reached the point where no raw skin remained—just tender, healing patches and faint scarring that would fade in time.

“This one doesn’t need me anymore,” I said lightly that morning, brushing the last of the salve across his lower back while he leaned against the kitchen counter.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he muttered. “I’m still getting used to doing the bandages myself.”

“You’ll manage. You’re stubborn enough.”

He turned his head slightly, flashing me that now-familiar half smile. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

I patted his shoulder and stepped back. “Alright, forest scout. You’re officially discharged.”

He pulled his tunic carefully over his head and gave me a long look. “You sure you don’t want to keep me around? You’ll miss the excitement.”

“Somehow, I think I’ll survive.”

But the ache beneath my ribs was already starting. I could feel it blooming—slow, quiet, and certain.

Kaelen didn’t linger. He packed quickly, efficiently. His sketchbook slid into his satchel, his cloak was slung over one shoulder. And still, we didn’t speak much. We didn’t need to.

When he finally stood by the door, I walked with him. It felt important.

The handle clicked softly as I opened it, and cold morning air rushed in—crisp and clean, edged with the promise of melting snow.

Kaelen stepped outside. His boots crunched against the path. He exhaled deeply and looked up at the sky, then back at me.

And then he turned around.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

His eyes never left mine as he stepped in close—so close I could feel the heat from him beneath his cloak. He lifted one hand to cradle the side of my face, and paused, just a breath away.

I could turn. Step back. End it here.

I didn’t move.

And he kissed me.

Not gently.

Not shyly.

Like he’d waited every day of his recovery to do just this—like it was a question and an answer all at once. I felt it everywhere, deep and warm and real, and the world seemed to tilt for a moment as my fingers curled into the front of his coat before I remembered my own rule.

I pulled back, breathless, heart pounding.

He smiled, eyes bright with mischief and something far more sincere. “I told you I’d come back.”

Then he turned and walked away toward the inn, whistling low and tuneless, hands in his pockets like he hadn’t just kissed the thoughts straight out of my head.

The door clicked shut with the soft finality of a chapter ending.

I stood there in the silence, the cold air lingering around my ankles, the ghost of his lips still warm against mine.

For a moment, I didn’t move.

Not because I didn’t want to—but because every part of me felt like it had been briefly lifted off the ground and hadn’t quite settled again. My heartbeat thundered in my ears. My hands were trembling and I only realized it when I gripped the edge of the table for balance.

“I told him not to kiss me until he left,” I whispered to the empty room.

And he had waited. Not a minute longer.

I pressed a hand to my cheek, still flushed from the kiss, and laughed softly—helplessly. Half flustered, half amazed. My knees finally remembered how to work, and I sank into the nearest chair.

He kissed me like he meant it.

Like he knew.

Like he wasn’t going to waste time pretending it hadn’t been growing between us since the moment he first grumbled about tea blends and tried to pretend he wasn’t watching me.

My journal sat open on the table, last night’s notes still inked across the page. I stared at them, trying to remember what I’d thought was important twenty-four hours ago.

I reached for my pen, flipped to a blank sheet, and scrawled in the margin:

He kissed me.

Stars above, Kaelen kissed me.

And then, beneath that:

And I kissed him back.

I pressed the pen to my lips for a moment, breathing deep to settle myself. Then I closed the book carefully, carried it upstairs like it was something sacred, and placed it on the bedside table.

There would be time later for questions. For nerves. For what next.

But for now, I just sat on the edge of the bed with my hands in my lap and a smile I couldn’t suppress if I tried.

Because Kaelen had kissed me.

And for the first time in a very long time… I wanted to be kissed again.

By late morning, I told myself I needed a change of air.

The herb beds didn’t need tending. The stillroom was clean. There was no patient curled up near the hearth in need of tea or bandages or distraction. Just a quiet, well-ordered cottage and a very loud memory echoing between my ribs.

So I gathered my satchel, packed a small jar of balm, and made my way toward the lower lane, where Bitty’s cottage sat nestled in a blanket of snow like it had grown there.

I knocked once. Twice.

“I’m not dead yet,” her voice called through the door. “Come in.”

The inside smelled like pine resin and sharp ginger. Bitty was by the fire, draped in at least three shawls, working a new quilt square with large, purposeful stitches. Her cat blinked lazily at me from a sun-warmed chair.

“I brought you that balm for your joints,” I said, holding out the jar.

Bitty waved a hand. “Set it on the table. I already feel a storm coming.”

I did as told, then hesitated.

“Sit, girl. You’re hovering like someone who made a mistake or kissed someone they weren’t planning to.”

I froze.

Bitty didn’t even look up from her stitching.

“I—what?”

Her needles clicked calmly. “Your hair’s still mussed from your hood, you’re wearing that soft blue scarf like you forgot what you grabbed, and you’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The one people get when they’re trying very hard not to smile.”

I sank into the chair across from her and exhaled slowly. “He left this morning.”

Bitty finally looked up. “So it was a kiss.”

“Bitty.”

“Don’t ‘Bitty’ me. I knew he would. He’s been walking around like a dog on a leash this past week, all eyes and no hands.”

I covered my face with both hands. “I told him to wait until he left the cottage.”

“And he did, didn’t he?” she said with a smug grin. “Boy’s got restraint and good timing. You lucky thing.”

I groaned softly into my palms. “I told him if he wanted to court me, he could. After he left. I thought I’d have time to... I don’t know. Breathe.”

Bitty laughed so hard her cat twitched its tail in protest.

“Child,” she said, dabbing at her eyes with the edge of her shawl, “if you thought kissing him would help you breathe easier, you need to spend more time around people who’ve been in love before.”

“It’s not love,” I muttered.

“Mmm.” Her needle clicked again. “Not yet, maybe. But it wants to be.”

I stared into the fire for a while, heat blooming in my chest for entirely different reasons than embarrassment now.

“He kissed me,” I said quietly, “like he meant it.”

“And did you kiss him back?” she asked, without a trace of judgment.

“Yes.”

“Then don’t waste the waiting. Let him prove it.”

“I am.”

Bitty nodded, approving. “Good. Let him earn it. Let you earn it too.”

We sat in silence after that, just the fire crackling and her slow, deliberate stitching filling the space between.

And when I left, I felt... steadier. Like I’d said it out loud and the sky hadn’t fallen. Like maybe I could stop holding my breath.

The walk home from Bitty’s cottage cleared my head as much as it chilled my fingers. Her words still echoed behind my ribs, warm and needling in equal measure—but now wasn’t the time for daydreams or wistful reflections.

A storm was coming. And with it, likely bruised elbows, twisted ankles, and half-frozen fingers. Maybe worse.

I stepped back inside my cottage, let the door shut behind me, and rolled up my sleeves.

The guest room still held the memory of Kaelen. A spare charcoal smudge on the bedside table. A faint indentation in the pillow. The slight shift in the room’s energy that lingered after someone had lived there for more than a few nights.

But someone else might need it soon.

I pulled open the windows just enough to let the fresh air in, letting the snow-sweet breeze stir the curtains. Then I stripped the linens from the bed, folded the wool blankets back, and whispered the cleansing cantrip under my breath. The fabrics shimmered faintly, shaking off invisible remnants of sweat and healing oils, refreshed down to the threads.

I set them in the wash basket anyway—habit—and replaced everything with clean sheets from the linen cupboard. A heavier quilt this time, in case whoever next found themselves in that bed came in with a chill.

Next, I checked the rune stone beneath the floorboards. Still warm and stable, but I recharged it with a brief pulse of focus from my palm, infusing it with a steady low warmth that would ease sore muscles and keep the room comfortable through the coldest night.

I moved through the rest of the room with calm efficiency. Restocked the water basin. Refolded the spare towels. Checked the drawer where I kept spare nightshirts and left a fresh pair of socks folded neatly on the foot of the bed.

When I finally stepped back and surveyed the space, it no longer felt like a room someone had left—it felt ready. Like it was waiting.

In the stillroom, I set to work next. Bitty’s storm sense was rarely wrong, and I didn’t want to be caught short.

Three jars of fever tea blend—restocked.

Poultices for sprains and bruises—rolled and wrapped.

Warming salve for frostbite—re-whipped and poured into small tins.

I double-checked my painkillers, made another batch of willowbark tincture, and labeled everything in my clean, looping script. Then I prepared two go-bags with the basics: compress cloths, antiseptic salve, bone-setting brace. One for the satchel I kept near the door. One for backup.

By the time I finished, the sun had dipped behind the trees and the first flickers of cloud had begun to creep across the horizon—thick, gray, and heavy with promise.

I stood in the stillroom, hands on the worktable, and let the calm sink in.

He was gone. And yet the work remained.

The healing continued.

And so would I.

The storm arrived not with snow, but with a roar of wind and the sudden drumming of rain against the roof. Thunder cracked like splintering wood above the village, and a flicker of lightning painted the windows white for a heartbeat.

And then came the knock.

Not one knock, but several, one after the other, scattered throughout the afternoon and into evening.

First, it was the boy from the bakery with a twisted ankle and rain-soaked shoes.

Then Old Danthe’s niece, red-eyed and apologetic, carrying her little brother in wrapped blankets—he’d gone out chasing frogs and come home soaked to the bone, shivering and burning with a fever that hadn't taken hold until dusk.

There was no crisis. No injuries beyond mending. But it didn’t stop. One after another. A bruised wrist from a fall on slick cobblestones. A delivery girl caught in the downpour with a head cold already brewing. Someone else with mild shock from near-missing a lightning strike on the ridge.

I barely noticed the hours passing. My satchel was open beside the door, restocked and depleted in the same breath. The stillroom smelled of mint, boiled bark, and fever salves. The fire stayed lit, but I never had time to sit near it.

By the time the last grateful villager left with a warm compress and a stern warning about wet socks, my hands ached and my stomach growled, and I realized—

I hadn’t eaten.

I leaned against the counter in the kitchen, just for a moment, eyes fluttering closed.

Then—

Knock, knock.

I startled upright.

Not more.

But when I opened the door, it wasn’t a new patient.

It was Kaelen.

His hair was damp under the hood of his cloak, dark curls clinging to his forehead. He held a bundle wrapped in waxed cloth and smelled faintly of spice and smoke and tavern kitchen.

He looked me over from head to toe, then said simply, “You didn’t eat, did you?”

I stared at him, stunned. “How did you—?”

“You didn’t eat,” he repeated, stepping inside.

“I was going to…”

He gave me a look, the kind that said I’d lost all credibility.

I didn’t argue.

Kaelen carried the bundle to the table, unwrapped it, and laid out still-warm bread rolls, sliced roast with herb gravy, and a covered tin of root vegetable mash. My stomach twisted with hunger the moment I smelled it.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

I didn’t say thank you. I didn’t need to. He already knew.

We didn’t talk much. I ate slowly, bone-tired but soothed by the heat of the food and his quiet presence near the hearth.

When I was finished, he took the empty plate and set it in the basin. I stood to follow—and stumbled.

“Whoa,” he said, catching my elbow. “Alright. That’s it.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re done.”

I didn’t argue again.

He guided me gently up the stairs, one hand at my back like a promise. I managed to tug off my boots and outer dress before sinking into the edge of the bed, muscles already sighing into rest.

Kaelen pulled the blanket up over me, carefully, like he wasn’t sure how much he was allowed to touch. He tucked it beneath my chin and stepped back, lingering for a moment beside the bed.

“Thank you,” I whispered, eyes already drifting closed.

“You’d do it for me.”

“I did.”

He huffed a breath that could’ve been a laugh.

And then, quietly—so gently I barely registered it—he brushed a curl away from my cheek.

I heard the door click shut behind him not long after.

And this time, I dreamed not of storms or fevers, but of warm food, quiet company, and someone who knew exactly what I needed—even when I didn’t ask.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I woke to birdsong.

Not a full chorus, not yet—but two distinct calls weaving through the morning light, each one sharp and cheerful, bouncing off the cottage walls like laughter.

The rain had passed. The storm was gone.

And something in the air had shifted.

I stretched slowly beneath the quilt, feeling every muscle hum with the kind of ache that comes from a job done well. My feet were sore, my arms heavy, but my mind was calm in a way I hadn’t felt for days.

Outside the window, the world glistened. Pale sunlight poured across puddles that dappled the muddy path, and every branch still clung to raindrops like glass beads. Beneath it all, the soil steamed faintly in the golden light, warmed for the first time in weeks.

Spring, I thought, sitting up and swinging my legs to the floor. It’s here.

The cold hadn’t lifted entirely. My breath still fogged the window when I leaned close, and I pulled on a heavier shawl before stepping outside with my boots half-laced. But there was no mistaking it—this was no longer winter.

The ground was damp and soft underfoot. The beds behind the cottage, still buried under mulch and faded straw, gave off the scent of earth waking up. I crouched and peeled back a layer—just enough to see the first curling tips of wildleaf pressing through the dark.

I smiled, heart lifting.

There’d be work ahead—clearing the beds, turning the soil, coaxing the overwintered roots back to life. But even more than that, there was foraging to plan.

Dawnroot would be sprouting low near creek beds.

Raincap mushrooms—faintly luminescent and only appearing during the wet cusp between seasons—might already be fruiting in the deeper woods.

And bonefern, good for poultices, would be unfurling in the shaded hollows along the northern ridge trail if I got there before the sun dried them out.

I stood, brushing damp soil from my hands, and looked toward the tree line beyond the cottage. The woods still wore their bare-limbed quiet, but even from here I could sense the stirring beneath. It wouldn't be long now.

I breathed in the scent of damp cedar, moss, and promise.

For the first time since Kaelen left my doorstep, I felt like I could finally settle back into my rhythm. Not as a healer waiting—but as a healer growing again. With things to do, places to go, and new things waiting just under the surface.

I was rinsing my hands in the basin when I heard the familiar knock—firm, even, and just the tiniest bit smug.

I dried off slowly, not rushing.

When I opened the door, Kaelen stood there in his traveling gear, his cloak still damp from morning dew, boots already muddy, curls wind-tossed from the walk. His cheeks were pink from the chill, but his grin was bright and terribly pleased with itself.

“Good morning, Elara.”

“Kaelen.” I leaned casually against the doorframe. “Feeling better, I take it?”

“Well,” he said, placing a hand dramatically over his ribs, “I was—but I find I’m still a little unsteady. Stiff in the joints, maybe even... fragile.”

I raised a brow.

“So,” he continued, completely unbothered, “I thought I might take a slow walk into the woods. Stretch my legs. Get my scouting rhythm back. And—purely for my safety, of course—I thought it wise to bring a healer.”

I crossed my arms. “To keep you on your feet.”

“Exactly.”

I squinted at him. “And this wouldn’t be an elaborate excuse to spend more time with me, would it?”

“Perish the thought,” he said, grinning. “Though if said healer happens to enjoy my company while watching for frost-stirred animals and hunting for spring herbs, I wouldn’t complain.”

I laughed despite myself and stepped back from the door. “You’re incorrigible.”

“And yet, here I am.”

“I have dealt with winter-woken animals before, you know,” I said, grabbing my satchel and cloak from the hook. “I can handle myself.”

“I don’t doubt it,” he said as I joined him on the path. “But I’ll feel better knowing you’re there to back me up.”

“Just as long as you know I’m the one leading if we stumble across a den.”

“I wouldn’t dare try to get between you and your plants.”

We set off down the trail together, boots squelching gently through thawed earth and leaf litter. The trees dripped with melting rain, sunlight catching on branches and pooling in warm flashes across our path.

As we walked, we didn’t speak much at first. Just the steady, companionable silence of two people glad to be in the same space. Occasionally he pointed out faint trails or subtle signs of animals passing—small pawprints, claw marks on bark, snapped twigs—and I returned the favor by identifying sprouting patches of early herbs tucked under rocks and tree roots.

Side by side, step for step, we made our quiet way into the waking woods.

And somehow, it felt less like scouting… and more like coming home.

“This one here,” I said, crouching low near the base of an old cedar, “is frostlace. See the silvery dusting on the leaves? It only grows in early spring when the meltwater seeps through shady roots.”

Kaelen knelt beside me, leaning on one arm for balance, his breath forming little clouds in the cool air. “So if I ever see a patch of that in summer, I’m hallucinating?”

“Or lost in elevation,” I said. “It might grow higher up in the mountains, but down here? Only now.”

He made a thoughtful sound and gently brushed a bit of moss away from the cluster I was harvesting. Our fingers brushed, and neither of us moved for a moment.

It had been like that all morning—small touches, just enough to feel real. A hand on the shoulder when he pointed out a trail. My palm resting against his back as I steadied myself crossing a slippery patch. The occasional, accidental nudge of elbows when we both crouched to examine the same sprout at once.

“Your eye’s better than I thought,” I said as I tucked the frostlace into a paper pouch. “You spotted three growths I nearly missed.”

He straightened with a quiet grunt and gave me a crooked smile. “I may not know the names, but I’ve been reading terrain since I could walk. There’s something satisfying about noticing what most people don’t.”

“I can understand that,” I said softly. “You see the world in lines and patterns. I see it in colors and uses.”

“Put together, we might just make a decent forest witch,” he teased.

“Speak for yourself,” I said. “I already am one.”

He laughed, the sound bouncing through the trees like sunlight.

Later, we wandered into a quiet glade where runoff had pooled into a shallow stream. I was crouched over a patch of bright green runners—early shoots of pepperroot—when Kaelen stiffened behind me.

“Don’t move,” he said in a low voice.

I froze. “What is it?”

“Boar,” he whispered. “Winter bull. Big. Just past that fallen log.”

I followed his gaze and spotted it. Low to the ground, massive shoulders, shaggy pelt still heavy with winter thickness. Rooting near a cluster of mushrooms.

And far too close.

I mouthed one word: “Tree?”

He nodded.

We moved as quietly as we could to the nearest old alder with low, sweeping limbs. Kaelen let me go first, and I scrambled up with practiced ease, boots slipping slightly before finding hold. He followed behind me, breathing a little heavier once he reached the branch beside mine.

“Still recovering, huh?” I murmured.

He smirked. “Worth it.”

We perched there for several minutes, silent save for our breath and the creak of bark under shifting weight. The boar eventually lost interest in the mushrooms and wandered back into the brush, snorting softly.

When the glade was quiet again, I exhaled. “Well. That was invigorating.”

“Let’s say next time you pick the foraging spot.”

I nudged him lightly with my shoulder. “I did. You’re the one who got distracted by that overgrown game trail.”

He grinned, eyes bright. “You can blame me for the boar, but I did find you that perfect patch of bonefern.”

“I’ll allow it,” I said, smiling back.

We spent the rest of the afternoon moving carefully through the woods, gathering what we could. We found frostwort under a fallen stump, firemint sprouting along a sun-warmed rock, and a scattering of raincap mushrooms tucked near the base of an elm—so faintly glowing they looked like stars pressed into the bark.

Kaelen asked questions the whole way. Not in a distracted or idle way—but with genuine curiosity. About how I dried petals, what I used to preserve root oils, why certain herbs bloomed only during meltwater season.

And I found myself loving the sound of his voice when it was full of wonder. Loving the feel of his fingers grazing mine as we passed pouches and shears and tucked leaves away.

“I like this,” he said at one point as we paused to drink from his canteen. “Learning from you. It’s slower than scouting, but it feels... real.”

“It is real,” I said. “Every leaf has a use. Every bruise a salve.”

He glanced at me, eyes soft. “That’s what I like about you.”

I ducked my head, flustered.

He bumped his arm gently against mine. “Not courting you. Just appreciating you.”

“I’m aware,” I said, cheeks warm. “Still dangerous, though.”

He chuckled. “Then I’ll keep walking just close enough to be tempting.”

By the time we turned back toward the village, my satchel was full, and the sun was lowering behind the trees in long golden ribbons. Kaelen’s steps had slowed, but not from pain—just from contentment.

And as we walked side by side, brushing shoulders, exchanging smiles, I felt the earth softening beneath us.

Spring had arrived.

So had something else.

By the time we reached the edge of the village, the sun had slipped behind the hills, leaving the sky streaked with orange and pale violet. The path was muddy but easy now, and the air smelled of wet bark and distant hearthsmoke. I shifted my satchel higher on my shoulder, satisfied with the day's harvest—and with the quiet warmth that had settled between us.

Kaelen walked beside me, his gait steady, a little slower than earlier but relaxed. Thoughtful.

As the cottage came into view, he glanced over at me. “Hey,” he said, casually but not carelessly. “We’re all eating at the inn tonight. My crew.”

I looked at him, curious. “Of course. You usually do.”

He gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Yeah. But I’d like you to come with us. Join us for dinner.”

I blinked. “Me?”

He stopped walking and faced me fully, expression open. “Yes, you. For the companionship. You’ve been out in the woods all day with me. I figured you might like a warm meal with people who’d like to get to know you.”

I hesitated, heart fluttering. “Kaelen, I… I don’t want to intrude. That’s your circle, your space.”

“They want you there,” he said gently. “I’ve talked about you. They’ve seen the sketches. Merra keeps pretending she hasn’t, but Saren said something about your stillroom being better organized than most inns he’s stayed in. You’re not intruding.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You’ve shown them drawings of me?”

“Not just you,” he said with a grin. “Also plants. And teapots. But yes. They know I’m interested, and they’re curious about the woman who makes me grin like a fool in the middle of a card game.”

I flushed despite myself.

“And besides,” he added, voice quieter now, “we might be here a while.”

That caught my attention.

He shifted his satchel and continued, “The dungeon near here? It doesn’t have a dedicated group running it regularly. The Guild’s stretched thin. We’re thinking about staying on. It wouldn’t be as lucrative, but it’d be steady—and needed. Dungeons can’t be left untended. If they build up too much pressure, things start spilling out—monsters, wild magic, sometimes worse. This one’s been growing.”

I nodded slowly. “That’s… important work.”

“We think so too,” he said. “It would mean setting roots. At least a little. And we all like the village. Mira’s cider. Thalen’s already eyeing a place to build a workshop. Merra says she sleeps better here than anywhere.”

“And you?” I asked, voice softer.

He smiled. “I like the trees. And the tea. And the company.”

I looked away, lips twitching despite myself.

“I just… wanted to say,” he continued, “this isn’t a passing thing. Not for me. Not for us. So if you sit with us tonight, you’re not stepping into something temporary.”

I took a breath, deep and settling.

“I’ll come,” I said. “Let me clean up and sort the herbs. I’ll be ready soon.”

“I’ll walk you over when you are,” he said, the warmth in his voice unmistakable.

And as he turned to go, giving me space, I felt something settle inside me—not heavy, but solid.

Like I was stepping into something that might just hold.

Back inside the cottage, I set my satchel on the worktable and began laying out the herbs we’d collected that afternoon.

Or I tried to.

I got as far as spreading the frostwort and raincaps into their drying trays before I realized I was sorting the wrong herbs into the wrong containers—again.

I stared at my own handwriting for a moment, sighed, and began redoing it. For the second time.

Halfway through separating the firemint from the bonefern, I paused, fingers hovering over the curled leaves.

I was too distracted. Every time I tried to focus, my mind drifted to Kaelen’s smile, the sound of his voice, or the way he’d glanced at me when he said I wasn’t stepping into something temporary.

By the time I knocked over the pouch of frostlace and scattered half of it across the floor, I gave up.

“I’ll deal with this in the morning,” I muttered to myself, sweeping the loose herbs gently into a cloth and tucking them back into their pouch.

I washed up, then went upstairs to change. Not anything formal—just a clean tunic in a soft cream linen, with a forest-green vest I hadn’t worn since late autumn. Simple, tidy, warm. I pulled my hair back into a loose braid and wrapped my favorite scarf around my neck—a soft gray wool with embroidered threads of mossy green and pale blue.

Before leaving, I turned back to the stillroom shelves and opened a small drawer. My hands moved more steadily now, guided by muscle memory and intention.

Four small bundles:

A warming salve for sore joints and cold nights.

A healing balm for surface wounds and scrapes.

A tiny vial of fever blend concentrate—just in case.

And one cleansing tincture to neutralize mild poisons or food illness, wrapped in oiled cloth.

Nothing too large. Just the essentials.

A gift for Kaelen’s party. A way to keep them safe, even if I wasn’t with them.

Even if I wasn’t ready to admit how much I wanted them all to come back in one piece.

I tucked the bundles into a small linen pouch and tied it off with a green ribbon. Functional, yes—but with care in the way each knot was tied and label was written.

Just as I finished, there was a knock at the door—quieter than usual. Familiar.

Kaelen, waiting to walk me to dinner.

I slipped the pouch into my satchel, smoothed my vest, and took one last deep breath.

Then I opened the door and stepped out into the soft glow of evening, toward warmth, toward laughter—and toward a seat at a table I hadn’t realized I wanted to belong to.

Kaelen was waiting at the garden gate.

He leaned casually against the post, arms crossed, curls tousled by the breeze. When he saw me, his face lit up—not with surprise, but something softer. Like satisfaction. Like he’d known I’d say yes.

“You clean up nice, healer,” he said, stepping toward me.

“And you’re remarkably upright,” I replied, smiling despite the flutter in my chest.

“I had motivation.”

And then, with no further warning, he leaned in and kissed me.

It was warm and sure, not rushed, and left no room for misunderstanding. When he pulled back, his hand found mine, fingers curling naturally between mine.

“This alright?”

I nodded, cheeks flushed. “It’s alright.”

He held my hand all the way to the inn.

Inside, the tavern was already buzzing. Firelight danced across the wood-paneled walls, and the smells of roast meat and warm cider drifted through the room.

Kaelen led me to a table near the back where his party was already gathered. Merra was halfway through a story, Thalen had two mugs in front of him, and Saren was sharpening a knife—though mostly for show.

When Merra spotted us, her eyes lit up. She elbowed Thalen, who elbowed Saren in turn.

“Well, well,” she said, grinning like a cat in cream. “Look who’s finally decided to show his face—with company.”

“Must’ve taken some convincing,” Thalen added. “Imagine being so sure the healer who kept you alive would actually want to spend time with you outside of the sickbed.”

Kaelen didn’t miss a beat. “It’s my charm.”

Saren gave a theatrical sigh. “We were hoping it was the fever talking, but no—he’s really this confident.”

They all laughed, and I couldn’t help but join in. The teasing was light, good-natured, full of warmth. Not one of them looked at me like I didn’t belong.

Kaelen pulled out a chair for me and murmured, “If they get too rowdy, I’ll remind them you still know how to administer sleeping tea.”

“You assume I wouldn’t use it on you first,” I replied with a smile.

That earned another round of laughter from the others, and just like that, I was part of the table.

Dinner was hearty and full of easy conversation. Thalen tried to retell a story about a slippery dungeon floor and a misfired firebolt, and Merra kept interrupting to correct every detail. Saren leaned over to ask quiet questions about how one should actually bandage a tail wound, “in case Kaelen trips over his ego again.”

They asked about my stillroom, about the teas I brewed, about the best place in the forest to find frostleaf. I answered as best I could, and the longer I sat there, the less it felt like I was being tolerated and more like I was being folded into something.

A found thing. A warm thing.

After the plates were cleared, I reached into my satchel and set a small pouch on the table.

“I brought a few things for you,” I said. “Something for your next dungeon run.”

Curiosity turned quickly to appreciation as I handed out small bundles—each with a warming salve, bruise balm, a vial for fevers, and a tincture for neutralizing bad food or drink.

“I made them myself,” I added. “Just to keep you a little safer. And… I was hoping that if you find any herbs or flora next time you’re in, I could get first pick.”

“Oh, you’re good,” Merra said, examining her bundle. “Bribery and care.”

“You’ll get it,” Saren said. “If it’s green and not trying to eat us, it’s yours.”

“Unless it’s shiny,” Thalen added. “Then we’ll negotiate.”

I laughed, and they laughed with me. I looked across the table and found Kaelen already watching me, eyes warm.

This was what belonging felt like.

And it was just beginning.

The inn had begun to quiet as we stepped outside, the laughter and clink of mugs fading behind the heavy oak door. The night was cold, but not sharp—not with spring rising beneath it. Puddles glistened on the stone walk, and the smell of wet bark and chimney smoke lingered in the still air.

Kaelen walked beside me in silence, not out of awkwardness, but ease. His hand brushed mine once, and though he didn’t reach for it again, I felt the weight of it all the same.

When we reached the garden gate, he paused.

“I’ll let you get some rest,” he said, his voice lower now, like even the trees were asleep and didn’t want to be disturbed.

I turned toward him. The cottage glowed softly behind me, windows lit with amber light, the scent of drying herbs drifting faintly from inside.

“I had a good time,” I said.

He smiled. “Me too.”

And then, before I could second-guess myself, I stepped closer and rose onto my toes—just a little—and kissed him.

Soft. Certain. Mine.

He blinked, surprised—but only for a moment. When I pulled back, his grin spread like sunlight breaking through clouds.

“Goodnight, Kaelen,” I said, hand on the door handle.

“Night, Elara,” he murmured, still watching me like I’d just handed him a secret.

I slipped inside, heart fluttering, and leaned back against the door for a breath before heading upstairs.

In my room, I lit the small lantern and pulled out my field journal. The pages still smelled faintly of pressed chamomile and charcoal.

I opened to a fresh sheet and began to write.

📓 FIELD JOURNAL – EARLY SPRING, FIRST STORM AFTER MELT

Herbs foraged with Kaelen in the southeast woods:

* Frostlace (found under cedar): harvested early while still frost-tipped.

* Bonefern (ridges): young fronds, good for joint salves and inflammation.

* Raincap mushrooms (elm base): faint bioluminescence. Ideal for calming agents when brewed with peppermint.

* Firemint (sun-warmed stones): fresh sprout, spicy scent. Useful for chest salves and warming blends.

Weather: soft sunlight, ground still cold but loosening.

Signs of boar movement—avoid northern glade for a few more days.

Kaelen has a good eye. Noticed the frostwort patch before I did.

...He kissed me this morning. I kissed him tonight. No spells. No fireworks. Just something slow and steady, growing like moss on stone. And I think—I want to see where it leads.