"That's not something to take pride in."
"Disagree. Consistency is admirable even in terrible joke-telling." I'm rewarded with another laugh, the sound warming something deep in my chest.
A knock at the door interrupts us. My assistant, Rellis, sticks his head in with an apologetic expression.
"Master Valas. Your afternoon appointments are waiting."
Right. Patients. Responsibilities. The real world intruding on this moment I'd happily stretch into hours.
"I'll be right there." I turn back to Keira. "This will take maybe an hour. You're welcome to wait here, or we could continue to the shops after?—"
"Can I watch?" The question surprises both of us, I think. She hurries to add, "Only if it's appropriate. If your patients wouldn't mind. I just... I'd like to see you work."
Something in my chest pulls tight. "You want to watch me work?"
"Yes." No hesitation. "Unless that's strange?"
"Not strange. Just..." Unexpected. Touching. Perfect. "Of course you can watch. As long as patients consent."
So she does. Settles into a chair in the corner while I see patients—a k'sheng merchant with a persistent cough, a zagfer mason with an infected wound, a child with a broken arm that needs setting and healing.
And through it all, Keira watches. Not with judgment but genuine interest, seeing how I interact with each patient. How I explain treatments, adjust magic to individual needs, calm fears with touch and reassurance.
When the last patient leaves, she's smiling.
"What?" I ask, washing my hands in the basin.
"You're good at this. Really good." She stands, moving closer. "That child was terrified when he came in."
"And smiling when he left." Because I'd made the splint look like a dragon scale, told him he was now part-dragon and needed to roar to activate the healing magic. "Fear makes healing harder. Especially for children."
"You care about them." It's not a question. "All of them. Not just because they're paying patients but because they're suffering and you can help."
"Isn't that the point of being a healer?" I dry my hands, studying her expression.
"I don't know. Is it? For everyone in your position?" She crosses her arms, something challenging in her posture. "Or just for you?"
"You're asking if I'm an exception or a rule."
"I'm asking if you're real." The words come out softer than probably intended. "If all of this—" She gestures vaguely at the practice, at me, "—is who you actually are or just who you're pretending to be."
The question cuts deeper than she maybe knows. Gets at the heart of what's happening between us—this fragile, growing thing that requires trust she has every reason not to give.
I move closer, closing the distance until we're standing within arm's reach. "I'm real, Keira. This is real. Everything I've shown you, told you—it's who I am. Not performance or pretense."
"How do I know that?" But she doesn't step back. "How can I trust what I'm seeing?"
"You can't. Not completely. Not yet." Honesty feels important here. "Trust takes time and evidence. But I'm hoping you'll give me the chance to prove it. To keep showing you until you believe it."
She searches my face, hazel eyes reflecting something I can't quite name. Want tangled with fear. Hope tempered by wisdom born from pain.
"We should go to the shops," she finally says. "Before they close."
It's not an answer to my actual question. But it's not a refusal either. Not rejection, just... deferral. I'll take it.
"Come on, then." I collect my satchel, offering my arm this time instead of just my hand. "Let's see what other opportunities Daryn's invented for us to spend time together."
She looks at my offered arm for a heartbeat. Then, with something that might be bravery, she takes it.
