The forest air smelled of dew and woodsmoke when Zelene stepped outside again.
Sunlight spilled through the trees in thin golden lines, brushing against the moss-covered ground. The small cottage looked almost peaceful now — smoke curling lazily from its chimney, birds flitting between branches.
Elias was already outside, struggling with a basket twice his size.
The poor thing wobbled dangerously in his arms.
"Elias, wait—!" Zelene called, but too late.
The bottom of the basket gave way, and a cascade of freshly gathered apples tumbled across the dirt like marbles.
Elias froze, his face going pale. "Ah— I can fix this!"
Zelene blinked, then bit her lip to keep from laughing. "You said that the last three times."
"I was going to fix it those times!" Elias protested, crouching down hurriedly to pick them up. "The basket just— it has something against me."
Zelene knelt beside him, gathering the apples into her apron. "Maybe it's trying to teach you balance."
He blinked. "Balance?"
She smiled faintly. "You keep moving too fast. You never stop to steady yourself first."
Elias tilted his head, considering that — then smiled back, soft and embarrassed. "Maybe you're right."
"Of course I am," came another voice — drier, rougher.
Finn leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. He had been watching the entire spectacle with that same unimpressed expression that now passed for affection.
He pushed himself off the frame with a sigh. "If I had a coin for every time he dropped something, I could buy an actual house instead of this glorified shed."
"It's not that bad," Zelene said, glancing around.
The clearing was simple but lovely — a small fenced garden where herbs grew wild, a pile of split logs by the side, and a wooden chair that had clearly seen better days sitting under the shade of a tree. The air carried the faint hum of bees and the faraway sound of running water.
To her, it was peace.
She carried the apples to the table by the door, and Finn followed, watching as she carefully checked each one for bruises.
"You're… oddly at home here," he remarked.
Zelene paused. "Should I not be?"
"That's not what I meant." His gaze flicked to her hands — still marked with small cuts from the herbs yesterday, still steady. "Most people in your position would have done nothing but rest."
She gave a faint laugh. "Rest makes me restless."
Elias chuckled softly. "You and Finn actually have something in common."
Finn raised a brow. "Excuse me?"
"She means you can't sit still either," Elias said innocently, though his grin gave him away.
Finn glared, but Zelene caught the faint twitch at the corner of his lips.
"Maybe he's just pretending not to care," she said lightly, meeting Finn's gaze for a second. "Some people hide kindness behind scowls."
Elias's eyes widened. "That's exactly what I said last week!"
Finn groaned. "Why am I surrounded by optimists?"
Zelene only smiled — that soft, almost tired smile of someone who had learned to find warmth in the smallest things. "Because you need them, maybe."
Finn didn't reply right away. For once, he didn't have a sharp remark ready.
Instead, he just looked at her for a moment — really looked — before turning away and muttering, "You talk too much."
Elias snorted, whispering just loud enough for her to hear, "He's embarrassed."
Finn shot him a glare. "I heard that."
The day went on like that — quietly chaotic, filled with Elias's clumsy stumbles and Zelene's laughter softening the air between them. Even Finn, for all his sighs and sarcasm, found himself glancing at her more often than he cared to admit — noticing the way she moved with careful purpose, or how she smiled despite the exhaustion in her eyes.
When the sun dipped behind the trees, painting the forest in amber light, Zelene carried a small crate of herbs to the porch. Finn was there, sharpening his knife, but when he saw her struggling, he wordlessly stood and took it from her hands.
"You'll strain yourself," he said.
"I can handle it," she replied, brushing her hands off.
"I didn't say you couldn't," Finn murmured, setting the crate down beside the door. His voice was gentler now, like the sharpness had worn down just a little.
Zelene blinked, surprised. "That almost sounded like concern."
Finn gave a soft huff. "Don't push your luck, Lynn."
But when she smiled — genuinely, warmly — he didn't look away this time.
The forest quieted around them, the last light slipping through the trees, and for the first time since the fall, Zelene felt something almost unfamiliar stirring inside her.
Safety.
Maybe even… belonging.