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“Still…” I say softly. “She flew. Even if it was only for a few seconds.” I glance up at him. “That’s promising, isn’t it?”
His expression softens. “It is.”
I can’t help smiling. “That means we’re on the right track.”
“It means,” he says thoughtfully. “The concept works.” He studies the damaged wing again. “Now I just need to make it better.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks. The afternoon breeze stirs the tall meadow grass around us, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth.
“I…” I rub the back of my neck, guilt settling heavily in my chest. “You spent days building these for Maple. I’m sorry it ended like this.”
Lucan waves his hand dismissively. “It’s alright. She isn’t my first unhappy customer.”
A laugh slips out before I can stop it. “I suppose that’s one way to look at it.”
We step out of the enclosure together, and I pull the gate shut behind us, making sure the latch clicks securely into place. As we start to walk down the dirt path, his arm brushes mine, sending an inexplicable flutter through my chest.
I glance up at him. “Well, the least I can do is offer you some tea after all this.” I gesture toward the cottage. “You came all the way out here, built an incredible prototype, only to watch my patient set it on fire.”
His cheeks pinken ever so slightly. “You don’t have to.”
“I know. But I’d like to.”
His expression melts into that warm, gentle smile that’s quickly becoming one of my favorite sights.
“Alright,” he says softly. “Tea sounds nice.”
Chapter Six: Lucan
Micah’s tiny teacups look absolutely comical in my hands. Still, I have to admit, the tea is good. The spiced chai is perfect for the crisp autumn weather, warm with cinnamon and just enough sweetness.
I take another sip and glance around his cottage.
It’s prim and proper, every surface dusted to perfection. Gray stone walls are lined with overflowing bookshelves, each one packed with books on medicine and animal anatomy. Ivy spills from ceramic pots perched on the windowsills, their green vines curling delicately along the stone. The fireplace casts flickering orange shadows across the walls, bathing the cozy room in a warm, golden glow.
Micah carries his own cup into the sitting room and gestures toward the sofa.
“Sorry about the ceiling,” he says.
I pause. “The ceiling?”
He looks upward, his mouth twisting sheepishly. “It’s a little… short.”
I follow his gaze.
He’s right. The wooden beams are low, just barely brushing the top of my head.
“I’ve never had a giant in my home before,” he admits.
I bark out a laugh. “Half-giant, actually.”
He gives a small apologetic smile. “Sorry.”
I wave a hand dismissively. “I’m used to it.”
He lowers himself onto the sofa, and I carefully settle beside him, mindful not to crush the delicate cushions beneath my weight.
“So,” Micah says, cradling his cup in his lap. “Where did you live before you came to Thistle Grove?”
