It speaks to how often they have become accustomed to being in one another's presence that Vanessa has already made some modifications to the rear of the shop — to accommodate for those moments when their encounters might take on a different tenor. The cot kept in the back storage room, amidst shelves and additional stock, is not as impressive as the bed in the confines of her own residence, but he has never complained about it — perhaps being too gracious of a man to raise the issue with her regardless.

She has attempted not to harbor too many expectations from him, however, acknowledging that he has other demands on his time, other commitments that he might be seeking. It hasn't occurred to her yet that the reason he continues to return to her, day after day, is that she might be chief among them now.

He does tend to be rather punctual, but even knowing when to expect his arrival, she still experiences a small thrill of excitement when the bell over the shop door chimes and the sound of his heavy footfalls reach her hearing, his boots treading across the floor. Still she doesn't emerge immediately from her position between the shelves, not until he raises his voice to address her — and then she finally slips out to greet him personally.

"Good afternoon, Father." She keeps her hands clasped in front of her, but there is no mistaking the ease of her smile, the subtle appreciation as her gaze drifts over him. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit today?"