138- Are you a bee? Because you’re sweet as honey.
ALI
The table’s finally done, simple, but pretty. My homemade bread came out just right, golden and soft, and the vegetables are just finishing in the oven. They were soaked in rosemary and lemon and they smell just right. I even scattered a few edible flowers over the salad even though I know Julian would be just as happy with something out of a takeaway container. Still, this is my version of a love letter. Fresh herbs, careful plating, and a candlelit courtyard that smells like thyme and citrus. The lanterns are glowing gently, tucked between ferns and ivy like stars scattered low to the ground. Music hums from the little speaker I hid behind the aloe plant, something soft and wordless and slow. It’s peaceful. It’s perfect. Which is probably why I’m pacing a little. There’s nothing left for me to do to prepare myself. This isn’t nerves about Julian. I trust him. I adore him. It’s just… This house is mine. My quiet space. My sanctuary. Letting someone step inside it feels more intimate than anything else we’ve done. He’s never been here before. Never seen me in my element. I want him to see this version of me and feel welcome, not overwhelmed. I want him to love this too. I pause beside the table and rearrange a sprig of rosemary for the third time. Then I move it back. Then again. I mutter a charm under my breath, nothing fancy, just a little grounding magic. Honestly, I don’t even know if it does anything or if I’ve just conditioned myself to relax when I say it. Still, I take a breath. Smooth my dress. Nudge one of the chairs slightly more into place. Okay. I can do this. I WANT to do this. I hear a soft knock at my front door and immediately tense up. Oh damn it, I am SO not ready. I’ll definitely mess this up.
I smooth my dress and take one last steadying breath as I walk to the door, already half smiling, expecting to see Julian with that warm, slightly crooked grin of his. Instead, I open it to chaos.
There are five of them. Children. A whole gang of them, breathless and wide eyed, crowded on my doorstep. The tallest barely comes up to my chest. And in a little girl’s arms, something is wrapped in what might be someone’s hoodie. I blink. Once. Twice. This isn’t the first time someone has brought me an injured animal. I’m pretty well known for being the neighbourhood animal lover. I crouch, gently peeling back the edge of the hoodie. Oh wow. This is a new one. For the first time someone has brought me a magical creature.
“Oh stars it’s a griffin.” I whisper. It makes a sound like a wheeze and squeaks pathetically.
“It’s dying!” One of the kids announces in a wobbly voice. Another is already in tears, clutching a juice box.
“We found it behind the bakery!” Someone tells me.
“It was stuck in some netting!” Another adds.
“Piper said you’re the animal lady and you have magic!” Someone says enthusiastically. Huh, I should probably be worried about these kids finding out about magic but they're kids. They’ll tell adults who will say it was a puppy or kitten or something and then as they grow up they'll grow to believe it. It’s not a big deal. As I examine it, the griffin flutters one wing, winces theatrically, and lets out a long, pitiful chirp like it’s performing its own eulogy. Right. Crisis mode. I don’t even think about it. I’m already scooping the poor thing into my arms, shushing it softly.
"You're alright, little one;" I murmur, already stepping back inside, trailing towels and instructions behind me.
“Someone grab the water bowl off the porch. And if you see a pink towel with daisies, bring that too, it’s the softest.” I instruct. The children hurry to obey.
I gently lay the griffin down on the rug in front of the fireplace. Its tiny claws twitch in distress, and the feathers along its spine are fluffed up in dramatic indignation. One wing is clearly askew, not quite broken, I hope, but badly bruised at the very least. There's a smear of blood along its side, and its breathing is shallow and whimpery in that extremely theatrical way.
“Shhh, sweet thing, I’ve got you, you’re going to be alright.” I murmur, wiping gently around the wound with warm, damp cloth while the children crowd around me, all clearly distressed. The front door creaks open slightly wider, and I don’t even need to turn around to know that this time it IS Julian. I feel his presence before I hear his steps. I expect surprise. I expect confusion. Possibly horror. What I do not expect is for him to step inside, spot the griffin shrieking and smile.
“Huh. So who is this little guy?” He says softly as he sets down a small terracotta pot, some kind of cheerful purple flowering herb. He places it on the little table by my front door like it belongs there and steps out of his boots. The children rush to explain everything to him. This is not how I planned to welcome him into my home for the first time. The hallway is a disaster. There are muddy footprints everywhere. A trail of dropped feathers. At least two children are crying and the others are having a whispered argument over whether griffins prefer milk or water. The griffin chooses that moment to make a warbled scream and attempt to bite the washcloth. Julian crouches beside me without missing a beat.
“Do you need anything? Or are we just winging it?” He asks. I shoot him a tired look. He grins sheepishly. I should feel frazzled, flustered, completely undone. I was lighting candles less than fifteen minutes ago. But instead I feel… Calm. It’s like he brought an anchor with him when he walked through the door. If I wasn’t already in love with him, I am now. I nod toward the basket of bandages on the side table.
“Grab the thin gauze, and one of the green jars. It should smell faintly of eucalyptus. That’s the healing salve.” I instruct. He moves instantly, without hesitation. My heart shouldn’t melt at someone competently fetching first aid supplies during a magical emergency, but here we are.
Julian comes back holding the requested items, pausing only to greet a very serious looking child who points at him.
“Are you a griffin doctor too?” She demands. Julian doesn’t even blink.
“Nope, I’m just the assistant.” He says without pause. The child nods solemnly, as if this is a deeply respectable position, and goes to inform the others like. I expect him to sit beside me again, maybe ask what to do next. But instead, he kneels by the coffee table, gathers the rest of the children around him, and starts setting out a handful of leaves, herbs, and some damp moss with all the gravity of a seasoned practitioner.
“We’ll need a bravery paste, griffins heal faster when they know they’re being taken care of. So we’ll enchant this one with extra bravery, alright?” He explains. The kids gasp. I pause just long enough to watch Julian, sleeves rolled up, using a wooden spoon to stir a random mix of kitchen herbs and potion scraps into a bowl.
“Repeat after me, heal the wing, soothe the soul, may this paste be griffin gold.” He says, very seriously. It’s complete nonsense but the children chant it with absolute conviction.
“And also make it smell like cinnamon rolls!” One adds. Julian bows his head in approval.
“A powerful addition. Griffins love baked goods.” He says gently as he catches my eye for a moment. Just briefly. His smile softens in that way it does when he’s not trying to be funny or charming, just completely present. And it’s amazing because I have dirt on my dress, a griffin in my house, my date has been crashed by five children, and somehow, I’ve never felt more romanced in my entire life. Then Julian turns back to the chaos and adds.
“Someone go get the hand towel. No, not that one, the one with ducks. It’s clearly the best choice for magical recovery.” He says firmly. And suddenly there’s a whispered argument between Julian and a small child about fabric softness and enchanted flannel. He recommends clean cotton. The kid insists on glitter to help with the magic. He nods as if this logic makes complete sense and carries on. I’m just so stunned by how naturally Julian fits into this moment. He hasn’t questioned what’s going on and he hasn't panicked. He’s just… Adapted. There’s feather fluff in his hair and something suspicious stuck to his sleeve, but I don’t think he has ever looked more handsome.