Two months later.
The world had shifted from autumn's golden embrace to winter's crisp whisper, and in that time, Eliot and Celia's lives had tangled together like ivy on an old stone wall—slowly, stubbornly, and beautifully.
Eliot, once just a farm boy with dirt under his nails and a scowl for the sunrise, now moved between his family's fields and Oswald's ramshackle hut with the ease of a man who'd found his purpose. The harvest was over, the hard labor done, and in its place? Herbs. So many herbs. Bundles of them, hanging from rafters, stuffed into jars, pressed between pages of Oswald's moldy old books. And Celia, sharp-eyed, quick-witted Celia, was the one teaching him to tell the difference between "this will cure your fever" and "this will make you wish you were dead."
Celia, meanwhile, had somehow become part of the Graymond household without anyone quite noticing how it happened. Shoko no longer raised an eyebrow when she drifted in smelling of pine and mystery. Alya and Lilia dragged her into hushed conversations about cramps and coughs, and Akira? Well, Akira just liked her stories—the weirder, the better. "Tell me again about the mushroom that makes people see dragons!"
But the real change? The one that made Eliot's stomach flip when he wasn't paying attention?
It was the way Celia laughed when he messed up.
The way she'd nudge him with her elbow when he got a remedy right.
The way their hands brushed when passing vials of tinctures, and neither of them pulled away.
And then there were the evenings by the river, where words weren't needed at all.
Celia stood outside the Graymond house, clutching a pouch of dried mint like it was a holy relic. Inside, Shoko was elbow-deep in bread dough, flour dusting her nose.
"You're hovering," Shoko said without looking up. "Either come in or leave, but pick one." Celia stepped inside. "I brought mint. For your headaches." Shoko eyed the pouch. "And?"
"And… I want Eliot." The kneading stopped. "Excuse me?"
"Not like..." Celia's face burned. "As an apprentice. Officially. Oswald's drowning in work, and Eliot's actually good at this. Like, scary good. Yesterday he fixed Old Man Gout so well the man cried and tried to adopt him."
Shoko wiped her hands, considering. "Daniel won't like it."
"Daniel doesn't like sunshine, but that doesn't stop the dawn."
A snort. Then, grudgingly: "Fine. But if his chores slip, it's on you."
Daniel Graymond was repairing the fence behind the house as usual. Hearing footsteps, he didn't even turn around.
"Shoko already spoke to me." Celia froze in place, feeling her pulse quicken. "I... don't want you to think I'm trying to take your son away."
Daniel finally turned, crossing his arms. His gaze was heavy and scrutinizing.
"What else would you call it? You're here every day. He follows you around like a puppy." Celia's cheeks flushed. "He's... truly a good student. And this could become his life's work."
"For him?" Daniel snorted. "Or for you?" Celia opened her mouth, but words failed her. Unexpectedly, Daniel laughed, his face softening. "Alright, enough teasing. I see how you look at each other."
"We... that's not..." Celia became completely flustered.
"Joking," Daniel waved his hand. "If he wants to—let him go. Just be back by dinner." Celia beamed with happiness. "Thank you! You won't regret this."
Eliot lay curled under his blanket, fast asleep, when the door to his room creaked open softly. Celia froze on the threshold, watching the first morning rays play across the contours of his shoulders. She stepped inside, carefully closing the door behind her. For several seconds, she stood motionless, gazing at his peaceful face. Then, taking a deep breath, she approached the bed and cautiously sat on the edge.
"He looks so... vulnerable in his sleep," she thought, hesitating to wake him. Her fingers trembled slightly as she lightly touched his shoulder. "Eli..." Her whisper was barely audible.
He stirred, mumbled something unintelligible, and rolled onto his back—but didn't wake. Celia smiled. She leaned closer, her hair spilling onto the pillow beside his face.
"Wake up," she whispered right into his ear, a teasing lilt in her voice. Eliot blinked, squinting against the light before slowly opening his eyes. When he saw her so close, his expression shifted to surprise. "Celia?" His voice was rough with sleep. "What..." She didn't let him finish, squeezing his hand in hers.
"Your father agreed!" Her eyes shone. "You're officially my apprentice now." Eliot sat up, rubbing his eyes. Then, suddenly, the meaning of her words hit him. His face lit up with such joy that warmth spread through Celia's chest.
"Really?" He grabbed her hands. "You're not joking?"
She shook her head, unable to suppress her smile. But in that moment, she realized just how close they were. Her breath quickened when she noticed his gaze flicker over her face—lingering on her lips. Celia jolted back, feeling her cheeks burn.
"I—I should go," she muttered, standing. "Oswald's waiting." But Eliot didn't let go of her hand. "Wait," he said, his voice warm. "Thank you. For everything."
They froze, staring into each other's eyes. The air between them hummed with unspoken what-ifs. Celia was the first to look away, though her smile remained. "Meet me at the hut?" she asked, already heading for the door.
"Absolutely," he replied, and there was something new in his eyes—something she hadn't noticed before. As she closed the door behind her, Celia pressed a hand to her chest, feeling her heart go badum badum badum. This morning would stay with her for a long time.
The crisp winter air bit at Celia's cheeks as she hurried toward Oswald's hut, her breath puffing in white clouds. Her heart still raced from the morning's encounter—Eliot's sleepy smile, the warmth of his hands, that unspoken moment that had left her flustered.
"The heck?! Why do I feel so embarrassed? Get it together, Celia. You're a healer and a witch... well... in the past, but not some lovestruck girl..."
She nearly collided with Shoko at the garden gate. The older woman steadied her with flour-dusted hands, taking in Celia's flushed face. "You look like you've seen a ghost," Shoko remarked, eyebrows raised. "Or something more interesting. Did something happen?"
Celia pressed cold hands to her burning cheeks. "No! I mean—I'm just happy. About Eliot's apprenticeship." Shoko's knowing smirk said she wasn't fooled. "Mmm. That kind of happy, is it?" She patted Celia's shoulder. "Well, don't let Oswald keep you two working too late. Dinner's at sundown."
As Shoko walked away, Celia groaned quietly. "Was she really that obvious?"
Oswald's hut loomed ahead, smoke curling from the chimney. The old healer stood outside, tossing feed to his ravens. They cawed loudly as Celia approached, their beady eyes tracking her every move.
"Late," Oswald grunted without looking up. His gnarled hands scattered seeds across the frozen ground. "Again."
The hut's warmth enveloped Celia as she stepped inside, but it did nothing to soothe the restless flutter in her chest. The moment the door creaked open again, she knew without looking—Eliot.
Her breath caught as he entered, snowflakes melting in his dark hair, winter's chill still clinging to his coat.
This, she thought, watching him shake off the cold, this is what sunlight feels like.
The realization struck her like a lightning bolt—Eliot wasn't just the boy who made her laugh or the apprentice she was training. He was the steady hand that caught her when she stumbled, the quiet voice that anchored her in storms, and the first person who'd ever looked at her and seen Celia beneath all the titles—witch, healer, outsider.
He was...
Home. The word settled in her ribs, warm and terrifying.
"Brought honey cakes," Eliot announced, holding up a familiar cloth-wrapped bundle—the same kind his mother made every winter solstice. His smile when their eyes met was brighter than the hearth's flames. "Figured we'd need—"
"—bribes to survive my teaching," Oswald finished with a snort, snatching the bundle. "First lesson. Frostbite salve. Now." As they settled at the workbench, Eliot's knee bumped hers beneath the table. This time, Celia didn't pull away.
"Home," her heart whispered again, watching his careful hands measure yarrow. This is what home feels like.