The treehouse felt smaller with both of them inside.
Lamplight danced across rough-hewn walls, catching on drying herb bundles and the spines of old spellbooks stacked haphazardly on a narrow shelf.
A low fire crackled in the stone hearth, throwing warmth against the night chill that seeped through the wooden slats.
The single table stood between them—four chairs still arranged exactly as they had been the last time four people sat there.
Tia hadn't let go of Ed's sleeve since pulling him across the threshold.
Now she stood beside him, studying the handful of orange fruits he'd placed on the table like they were fragile treasures.
"You really carried these all the way here?" she asked softly.
Ed shrugged, suddenly self-conscious.
"They were just sitting in the treasury. Figured… you always liked sweet things. Seemed like the least I could do after showing up looking like I crawled out of a battlefield."
Tia picked one up, rolling it slowly between her palms.
The peel's bright color glowed against her skin.
She lifted it to her nose and inhaled—eyes fluttering closed for a second.
"They smell exactly the same," she murmured.
Then her gaze flicked to him, playful light returning.
"You know what these are for, right?"
Ed blinked.
"Eat them?"
Tia's lips curved into the old mischievous smile he remembered too well—the one that always meant trouble.
"No, silly. You cut them into slices and drop them into bathwater. They release this wonderful fragrance. Makes your skin soft. Very relaxing after a long day."
Ed stared at her.
"You're telling me," he said slowly, "that I ran across half a continent, fought through monster swarms, and nearly collapsed at your door… to bring you bath toys?"
Tia burst out laughing—bright, unrestrained, the sound filling the small room like sunlight breaking through clouds.
"They're not toys," she managed between giggles.
"They're luxurious. And yes—thank you for the luxury delivery service."
Ed rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks warming.
"I thought they were food. They're literally called orange fruits. Who names bath oil 'fruit'?"
"Elves," Tia said primly, still smiling.
"We have superior taste."
She set the fruit down and turned to him properly, eyes softening as they traced the rips in his cloak, the mud on his boots, the exhaustion carved into every line of his face.
"You're falling apart," she said quietly.
"Sit. Let me at least mend that cloak before you bleed through it."
Ed opened his mouth to protest—then closed it when he saw the stubborn set of her jaw.
He knew that look. Argument was pointless.
He sank onto one of the chairs. It creaked under him.
Tia moved behind him, pulling a small sewing kit from a drawer.
The familiar clink of needle and thread was oddly soothing.
She draped the torn cloak across her lap and began working—small, precise stitches that pulled the fabric back together almost invisibly.
Her fingers brushed his shoulder every few moments, light and careful.
Ed watched her hands.
They were the same hands that once wove spells strong enough to shatter stone walls.
Now they moved with quiet domestic grace.
"You kept the same outfit," he said after a while.
"The adventuring gear. Even indoors."
Tia's needle paused.
"I… like feeling ready. After everything, it's hard to relax completely."
She resumed stitching.
"Besides. When you knocked, I wanted to look like the person you remembered. Not some recluse hiding in the trees."
Ed's throat tightened.
"You don't have to perform for me, Tia."
Her hands stilled again.
"I know," she whispered.
"But I wanted to."
Silence settled between them—comfortable, fragile.
Tia finished the last stitch, tied it off, and smoothed the fabric.
"There. Good as new. Mostly."
She stood, crossed to the other side of the table, and picked up one of the orange fruits again.
This time she bit into it without hesitation.
Her face scrunched instantly.
"So sour!"
Ed snorted.
"No way. They're sweet. I checked one on the way here."
Tia's eyes sparkled with mischief.
"Are you calling me a liar?"
"I'm calling you dramatic."
She leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin in her hands.
"Prove it. Feed me another one. My hands are busy being innocent."
Ed raised an eyebrow.
"You just mended my cloak. Your hands are free."
"I'm emotionally occupied," she said solemnly.
"Feed me."
He sighed—long-suffering, fond—and picked up a fruit.
Peeled it carefully.
Broke off a segment.
Held it out.
Tia leaned in and took it from his fingers with her teeth—deliberately slow, eyes locked on his.
She chewed.
Then grinned around the bite.
"Sweet."
Ed groaned.
"You absolute menace."
Tia laughed again—soft this time, almost shy.
"We used to do this all the time. You'd get so flustered. I thought you'd forgotten."
"I didn't forget," Ed said quietly.
"I never forgot any of it."
Her smile faded into something gentler.
"Neither did I."
She reached across the table and rested her hand over his—small, warm, steady.
For the first time in ten years—maybe longer—Ed felt the knot in his chest loosen just a fraction.
The fire crackled.
The orange fruits sat between them like tiny promises.
And for one fragile moment, the world outside the treehouse didn't exist.