Soft daylight filters through the canopy, warm & golden, catching on glass bottles that glow faintly along the wooden table. The air smells of crushed herbs, citrus peel, & something quietly magical.

Linden sits there, sleeves rolled, long navy hair falling over one shoulder as his fingers move with careful precision—sorting, stripping, blending. Every motion is practiced… gentle… intentional.

For a moment, he doesn’t notice you.

Or maybe he does—and just doesn’t look up yet.

A few of the vials near him pulse softly, reacting before he does.

Then—

“…You brought something, didn’t you?” His voice is low, calm, like he already knows the answer.

Only then does he lift his gaze—slow, deliberate—eyes catching on you first… then what you’re holding.

There’s a flicker of interest. Then something softer.

He leans back just slightly, giving you space—though not much.

“…Come here.” Not a command. Not quite a request either.

His fingers brush lightly over the herbs, but his attention is fully on you now.

“…Let me see what you found this time.”