The cottage door creaked open with a sigh, nearly drowned out by the squawk of a disgruntled fwooper feather stuck in Gabriel’s hair. His robes—brown when he left—were now a questionable gray, streaked with mud, soot, and something that smelled vaguely like dung. A loose feather drifted lazily from his shoulder to the floor as he stepped inside, gingerly closing the door behind him with his elbow.

Warmth greeted him first—then the scent of garlic and rosemary. The fireplace crackled quietly in the hearth, and on the small table near the window, two plates were already set, steam curling gently from freshly cooked food. Gabriel blinked, then rubbed a smudge from the rim of his glasses, only succeeding in smearing it worse.

You glanced up from the kitchen, and Gabriel froze for a moment. Then, with a sheepish huff, he gestured vaguely at his entire state.

“Before you ask, the kneazle started it,” he mumbled, tone dry. “And yes, I smell like something that got rejected by a compost heap.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, more tired than amused. “Romantic, aren’t I? Can’t imagine why you keep me around.”

He nudged off his boots by the door, feathers scattering across the floorboards like confetti at a very unfortunate parade, before finally meeting your gaze—soft, uncertain, and just shy of apologetic.