Page 20 of The Dark Elf's Found Family
"The pressed flower goes here," Rhea says, pointing to a spot on her sketch where she's drawn a detailed bloom. "Because Nya said the petals looked like they were dancing in the wind before we picked it."
"Excellent observation," Ciaran says seriously, his ink-stained fingers tracing the delicate lines she's made. "You've captured that movement in your drawing. The petals seem to flutter even on paper. Excellent work."
The genuine praise in his voice makes something warm unfurl in my chest. He's not just humoring her—he truly sees the artistry in her work, the careful attention she pays to detail. When he looks up and catches me watching, his smile is soft, almost questioning, as if he's checking to make sure I approve of how he's speaking to my daughter.
With Nya, his gentleness runs even deeper. When she falters climbing the stairs to our apartment, her breathing shallow and quick, he doesn't fuss or panic. Instead, he simply appears at her elbow, offering his arm as casually as if they're taking a leisurely stroll. There's no shame in his assistance, no dramatic concern that would make her feel like a burden. Just quiet support until she finds her strength again.
"Better?" he asks softly when her breathing evens out.
"Much," she replies, and the grateful smile she gives him makes my throat tight.
I've seen how other adults react to children who struggle—the excessive worry, the way they speak louder as if volume will somehow help, the uncomfortable hovering that makes everyone involved feel worse. But Ciaran treats Nya's limitations as simply another fact to navigate, like weather or terrain. He adapts without making it about his own discomfort or need to fix things.
Then there are the gifts he brings Rhea. Small things, nothing expensive or showy, but chosen with a care that catches me off-guard each time.
A raven quill appears on my counter one morning, sleek and perfectly trimmed for drawing. "I noticed Rhea's been using that old one that's wearing down," he says when I raise an eyebrow. "This one has better flexibility for detailed work."
The next day, it's a pressed flower—a delicate bloom I don't recognize, its petals preserved in shades of deep purple andsilver. "Nya found it on our walk yesterday," he explains. "She thought Rhea would like the color combination."
But it's the hair ribbon that really undoes me. Blue-green silk that perfectly matches Rhea's eyes, purchased from what he claims was "just a market stall I happened to pass." The lie is gentle, transparent—I know he sought it out specifically, probably spent more than he should have on something so simple. When Rhea ties it in her wild curls, her whole face lights up with the kind of joy that comes from feeling truly seen.
"Thank you," she whispers to him, suddenly shy in the way children get when kindness overwhelms them.
"You're very welcome," he replies, and the warmth in his voice makes my hands shake as I rearrange bottles of ink that don't need rearranging.
But it's not just Rhea he pays attention to. He notices me too, in ways that leave me unsettled and grateful in equal measure.
When I mention in passing that Eda's sweet bread is my favorite indulgence—something I allow myself maybe once a month when the shop has done particularly well—he shows up the next morning with a still-warm loaf wrapped in brown paper.
"Eda mentioned she made extra yesterday," he says casually, though I suspect he specifically requested it. "She thought you might enjoy some."
The bread tastes like honey and contentment, and I have to turn away to hide how much the gesture affects me.
When I sigh about my shoulders aching after a particularly busy market day, rolling them to work out the knots from lifting heavy boxes of parchment and ink bottles, he appears at my shop before dawn the next morning.
"I thought I might help with the restocking," he says simply, already reaching for the crates I'd planned to haul upstairs myself. "If you don't mind the company."
He works efficiently, his long arms making quick work of reaching the high shelves I usually have to climb a stepladder to access. His movements are careful, respectful of my space and my system, but his presence transforms the tedious task into something almost pleasant. We talk quietly as we work—about the girls, about the village, about the small details of daily life that I haven't shared with anyone in years.
It unsettles me, how carefully he pays attention. How he remembers not just the big things but the tiny preferences, the casual comments, the throwaway observations I make without thinking. No man has noticed my small details in years, and certainly no one has acted on them with such thoughtful consistency.
That night, I sit by the fire watching Rhea and Nya bent over their sketching, their dark heads close together as they work on some elaborate project involving pressed flowers and intricate borders. The firelight catches the silver flecks in their violet eyes, making them sparkle like stars. Rhea's new ribbon gleams in her hair, and Nya's breathing is easy and even, her cheeks pink with health instead of the pale exhaustion I first noticed weeks ago.
Something tightens in my chest, sharp and unexpected. Hope, I realize with a start. Hope curling through me like smoke, filling spaces I thought I'd permanently sealed off. The possibility that this could be real, that Ciaran could be different, that maybe—just maybe—I could trust again without being destroyed for it.
The thought terrifies me.
I force myself to remember Cyprien, though his name tastes bitter even in my thoughts. Remember his promises that melted like smoke the moment real responsibility appeared on the horizon. How he spoke of love and forever while his bags were already packed, his attention already turning toward whatever new inspiration called to him from distant cities.
Dark elves and artists can't be trusted,I remind myself, the familiar mantra I've repeated for ten years whenever longing threatens to override common sense.They're beautiful and charming and utterly unreliable. They take what they need and leave nothing but broken hearts and empty promises behind.
But even as I recite the words, they feel less solid than they used to. Less like absolute truth and more like... protection. A shield I built to keep from being hurt again, one that's served its purpose but might no longer fit the situation I'm facing.
Because Ciaran isn't like Cyprien, is he? He doesn't speak in grand gestures or dramatic declarations. He doesn't promise me forever or paint elaborate pictures of the life we could build together. Instead, he shows up. He pays attention. He treats my daughter like she matters and his own like she's precious beyond measure.
He's here, present and steady, in ways that Cyprien never was even when we shared the same bed.
"Mum, look!" Rhea calls, holding up her sketch. It's a detailed drawing of our shop, but surrounded by an elaborate garden full of flowers I recognize from her pressed collection. Nya has added small figures—a woman behind the counter, a man arranging books, two girls playing among the blooms.
