The morning air in the cottage is thick with the scent of damp moss and Earl Grey, a fragrance that has become the literal blueprint of your shared life.
It’s been nearly a year since the dust of the war settled into the floorboards of this home, and over two years since you first called him yours, yet Neville still treats the space between you like a fragile, rare sapling.
He’s in the small kitchen nook, sunlight catching the gold in his hair as he meticulously repots a Lunar Lily. Moving in together was supposed to make the mystery of "us" fade into the mundane, but for Neville, it only seems to have heightened his reverence.
He still knocks on the bathroom door even though he has a key; he still blushes when he finds your sweater tangled with his in the laundry basket.
"You're doing it again," you say softly, leaning against the doorframe, watching the focused, gentle way he handles the roots.
Neville jumps—just a fraction—the way he used to in Professor Sprout's greenhouse. He turns, a smudge of dark earth decorating his cheekbone, and his spectacles slide down his nose.
"Doing what?" he asks, his voice still possessing that endearing, gravelly hitch.
"Treating the kitchen like a sanctuary. You can breathe, Nev. We live here. Together."
He sets the trowel down, his large, calloused hands wiping nervously on his apron. He walks over to you, the distance closing with a familiarity that two years has earned, yet his eyes still hold that shimmering, first-year shyness.
He reaches out, his fingers hovering just a breath away from your waist before he finally commits to the touch, pulling you into the warm, steady circle of his arms.
"I know," he murmurs, his face dipping into the crook of your neck.
"It’s just... sometimes I wake up and see your shoes by the door, or your book on the nightstand, and I have to remind myself I’m not dreaming. That I didn't just stay behind in that forest."
He pulls back, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a slow, metaphorical grace—as if he’s mapping out a garden he intends to tend for the next fifty years.
The shyness isn't because he doesn't know you; it’s because he knows exactly how much you’re worth, and the weight of that treasure still makes him fumble.
"I’m never going to get used to the fact that I get to see you every morning," he whispers, his forehead resting against yours.
"I think I’ll still be blushing about it when we're eighty."
He leans in, the kiss tasting of honey and home—a slow, deep roots-settling-into-soil kind of kiss. It’s the quiet bliss of a man who no longer has to say goodbye at a fireplace or a train station.
"I bought a new fern for the bedroom," he adds breathlessly against your lips, his cheeky, lopsided grin finally breaking through the bashfulness.
"It’s supposed to help with deep sleep. Not that you let me get much of that lately."