The urge to pull her into my arms and kiss her senseless is almost overwhelming. But today’s about something different. Something deeper.
“So, ready for today’s challenge?” I settle onto the couch and pat the cushion beside me.
Ana settles beside me, her thigh brushing mine. “I’m not sure. What do you have in mind?”
If I’m not mistaken, she’s trusting me. She looks less wary than she has before.
Turning to face her, our knees touching, I explain, “Today, we’re going to communicate without words. Just gestures, facial expressions, maybe some interpretive dance if you’re feeling frisky.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “All day? But how will we—”
Placing a gentle finger on her lips, I shake my head. “That’s the last thing you get to say until sunset. Trust me, Ana. This is about intuition, about learning to express yourself beyond words.”
Uncertainty flashes in her eyes, but then determination sets in. She nods, squaring her shoulders.
I stand and offer her my hand. Ana takes it, allowing me to pull her up. Our bodies align, and for a moment, we just stand there, drinking each other in.
Gesturing toward the kitchen, I mime eating. Ana nods, following me.
Before we can begin our silent cooking, a commotion outside catches our attention. Curious, we step onto the porch to investigate, Ana self-consciously pulling my t-shirt below her knees.
A group of elementary school kids on a nature hike has paused near our cottage, their excited chatter filling the air. Their teacher is trying to corral them, but they’re rambunctious and rowdy. Then they become even more distracted—by me.
“It’s Nyxx Night!” one kid shrieks, and suddenly all eyes are on us.
I glance at Ana, seeing the amusement in her eyes. With an exaggerated wink, I stride inside and return with my flute. This is the perfect opportunity to show her another side of the Pied Piper legend.
Without a word—fitting for our day’s challenge—I strike a pose and begin to play. The melody is playful and light, inviting. The kids are instantly entranced.
With a theatrical gesture, I beckon them to follow. Their teacher looks hesitant but nods her permission when she sees it’s just a short trek around the cottage.
As I march, the children fall in line behind me, giggling and trying to mimic my exaggerated high-kneed steps. I lead them along a winding path, occasionally spinning or hopping on one foot, much to their delight.
Ana follows behind us as though she, too, is caught up in the Pied Piper’s hypnotic spell, her expression a mix of disbelief and fondness. I can almost hear her thoughts: “So this is the Pied Piper in action.”
After a full circuit of the cottage, I end the impromptu parade with a bow and a flourish. The kids burst into applause, and even their teacher seems charmed.
As the group continues on their hike, now buzzing with excitement, I rejoin Ana on the porch. She’s shaking her head, but her smile is warm.
I shrug, grinning. Even without words, I know she understands. Sometimes, a little magic is all it takes to bring joy to others. It’s what being the Pied Piper is all about.
With that unexpected but delightful interlude behind us, we head back inside to silently prepare breakfast.
We work in tandem. It’s awkward at first—lots of pointing and over-the-top facial expressions. But gradually, we fall into a rhythm. She steals the spatula from my hand, bumps me with her hip, and I realize how dangerously good it feels to move around a kitchen with her like we’ve done it a hundred times.
When Ana accidentally drops an egg, her face crumples in frustration. Without a pause, we’re both on our knees cleaning it up. After the floor is clean, it’s as natural as breathing for me to stand behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist. My chin rests on her shoulder as I guide her hands through the motion of cracking an egg. The tension in her body melts away.
For a moment, I’d forgotten that she was raised with money. Well, from what I read, I guess you’d call itwealth. Is it possible this woman doesn’t know how to crack an egg? The good part is she seems eager to learn.
Breakfast is a silent affair, but not an uncomfortable one. We exchange glances over our coffee mugs, communicating volumes without uttering a word. When Ana reaches across the table to wipe a bit of jam from the corner of my mouth, the simple gesture feels more intimate than any kiss.
After cleaning up, I lead Ana outside. The sun is high, warming my skin as I guide her to a patch of wildflowers. Kneeling, I pick flowers, motioning for her to join me.
Ana hesitates, her brow furrowing. I can almost hear her thoughts—what’s the point of this? But then she kneels beside me, tentatively plucking a daisy.
For the next hour, we weave flower crowns. Mine is a mess—lopsided and falling apart. But Ana’s … hers is a work of art. Delicate and perfectly balanced, just like her music.
When she places it on my head, her fingers lingering in my hair, my heart swells. I return the favor, crowning her with my disaster of a creation. She straightens her shoulders, lifts her chin, and wears it as though it’s made of the finest gold. If she can make my lopsided mess look regal, God help the critics who ever doubt her stage presence again.
