"You're hilarious. In a deadpan way. I bet Grandmother never noticed."
Something shifts in his expression. The almost-smile fades. "She didn't encourage conversation."
Right. Because she treated him like a weapon.
I turn back to my dough, kneading it with renewed purpose. "Well, I'm not her. And I like talking to you. Even if you are secretly mocking my baking techniques."
"I'm not mocking. I'm... observing."
"Uh huh."
Silence falls, but it's different now. Comfortable. I knead the dough, feeling the rhythm of it, the way my magic seeps into the flour and yeast and water. *Comfort. Warmth. Home.*
"You were good tonight," Cadeon says suddenly. "At the meeting. You listened. Asked intelligent questions. Offered to help without seeking credit."
"I barely said anything."
"You said enough. More importantly, you didn't posture. Didn't try to dominate the conversation or prove yourself." He pauses. "She would have."
I look at him, surprised.
"Your grandmother was brilliant," he continues, his voice carefully neutral. "Powerful. Disciplined. But she was also... harsh. She needed everyone to know she was the strongest person in the room."
"And I'm not."
"No." He meets my eyes. "You're not. You're something else."
"What?"
He considers for a long moment. "She was winter. Cold. Sharp. Unforgiving. You're..." Another pause. "Spring."
I don't know what to say to that. Don't know if it's a compliment or just an observation. But something in my chest loosens anyway.
"Spring," I repeat. "The season of new growth and allergies."
"And renewal. Hope. Things that have been frozen learning to thaw."
Oh.
Oh.
We look at each other across the kitchen, and something passes between us. Not through the bond. Just... between us.Two people who are maybe, possibly, starting to understand each other.
"The dough needs to rise," I say, my voice coming out softer than I intended. "First rise takes an hour. Are you going to stay?"
He doesn't hesitate. "Yes."
"Even though it'll be boring? Just sitting here while dough rises?"
"I've spent two centuries waiting for orders," he says quietly. "Sitting here while you create something is the opposite of boring."
And he does. He stays.
He sits at the kitchen table while the dough rises. While I punch it down and shape it and set it to rise again. While the cottage fills with the smell of yeast and warmth.
We don't talk much. We don't need to.
But he's there. Present. Choosing to be in this space with me.
