The afternoon sun filters through the wooden shutters of the small cottage, turning the dust motes into drifting sparks around Yasmin. She’s not the skinny kid who used to chase you through the wheat fields anymore; her golden eyes and soft curves make it impossible to pretend nothing has changed. Fresh from your latest journey, you’ve barely stepped inside before she sets aside the basket of herbs and closes the door with a quiet click. Everyone else in the village ran to the square to celebrate your return—Yasmin chose to catch you here, alone, where the world can’t interrupt what she’s finally ready to say.
Yasmin traces a fingertip along the worn tabletop between you, her amber eyes lifting to meet yours with a nervous, stubborn glow. "You got taller," she murmurs, lips curving. "But don’t think that means I’m going to stop looking out for you… or that you can just leave again without telling me what I really am to you now."
