She walked in two days later.
I was refilling the calendula jars when the bell chimed. I didn't look up right away. I was used to the rhythm of customers now—the hesitation at the door, the shuffle of feet, the clearing of a throat. But this time there was no hesitation. Just footsteps. Deliberate. Unhurried.
I set down the jar and turned.
Paulina stood just inside the doorway, hands loose at her sides, scanning the shop with the kind of casual interest that didn't fool anyone. She was dressed well. Too well for Crescent Hollow. A cream sweater that probably cost more than my rent. Dark jeans without a single crease. Hair pulled back in a way that looked effortless but wasn't.
She looked exactly like I remembered. And nothing like I remembered.
Ember went very still in my chest. Not the flicker of warmth I'd felt with Thiago. Something colder. Sharper. A warning that didn't need words.
Paulina picked up a jar from the nearest shelf. Arnica. She turned it over in her hands, read the label, set it back down. She moved to the next shelf. Comfrey root. Same routine. Pick up. Read. Replace.
I stayed behind the counter and watched her.
"You have a nice setup here," she said finally. Her voice was light. Conversational. Like we were old friends catching up. "Quiet town. No pack politics. I can see the appeal."
I didn't answer.
She picked up another jar. Lavender this time. She held it up to the light, watching the dried petals shift inside the glass.
"Thiago told me he ran into you," she said. "I was surprised. We all thought you were dead."
The word hung in the air between us. Dead. She said it the way someone might say relocated or remarried. A fact. A footnote.
"I'm not," I said.
She smiled. It was a small smile. Polite. "Clearly."
She set the lavender jar down and turned to face me fully. Her hands folded in front of her. Her posture was perfect. She looked like a Luna. She'd gotten good at it.
"I'm not here to cause problems," she said. "I just wanted to see for myself. Make sure there weren't any... misunderstandings."
"Misunderstandings," I repeated.
She tilted her head slightly. "About what happened. Six years ago. I know it must have been difficult for you. The rejection. The exile. But you have to understand—Thiago and I, we built something together. A pack. A life. We've spent six years making the Ashford Pack stronger. More stable. He's respected now. Admired."
I didn't move. I didn't blink.
She took a step closer. Not threatening. Just closing the distance. "Whatever you think you're doing here—staying in this town, running this shop so close to our territory—I need you to understand that Thiago is mine. By bond. By title. By six years of work. He's not yours anymore. He never really was."
Ember stirred. Not a flicker. A growl. Low and guttural and furious.
I pressed my thumb against the edge of the counter. The wood was smooth. Solid. Real.
"Then manage it," I said.
Paulina blinked. "What?"
"If he's yours," I said quietly, "then manage it. I'm not doing anything. I'm here. Running my shop. Minding my business. If that's a problem for you, that's not my problem."
Her smile didn't move but something behind her eyes did. A flicker. Brief. Gone.
"I just wanted to make sure we understood each other," she said.
"We do," I said.
She held my gaze for another moment. Then she turned and walked to the door. Her hand rested on the handle. She paused.
"You always were stubborn," she said softly. "It's why Father liked you better."
She left.
The bell chimed. The door closed. I stood there with my hands flat on the counter, pressing down until my arms shook.
Ember was still growling. The sound filled my chest, my throat, the space behind my ribs. I couldn't tell if it was rage or fear or something older than both.
I locked the door. Flipped the sign to Closed. Went upstairs.
I didn't reorganize the shop that night. I sat on the floor of my apartment with my back against the wall and my father's medallion in my hand. I pressed my thumb into the hollow backing until it left a red imprint on my skin.
Ember flickered. Not a whisper. A question.
I didn't answer it.
I didn't know how.
***
I reopened the shop the next morning. Unlocked the door. Tied my apron. Started the inventory check.
But something had shifted. I could feel it in the way my hands moved—too precise, too controlled, like I was trying to hold something together that wanted to come apart. I rearranged the jars on the back wall. Alphabetical order. Then by frequency of use. Then by color.
None of it felt right.
I re-labeled the shelves. My handwriting was smaller than usual. Tighter. I had to redo three labels because the ink smudged.
Ember was quiet. Not silent. Just waiting.
I pressed the medallion so hard that afternoon that it left a mark on my thumb that didn't fade for two days.
