This isn’t her Rowan. Even at their (apparent) age, they had never been quite so lanky, and their features were never quite so fine. The warmth of their smile speaks of a level of comfort in themself that Ami’s Rowan has only found in the last couple of years, and the feminine flair that her friend and packmate still wears so well is absent, replaced by a truly androgynous look, all wrapped up in clothes that her kids would wear.

Above all else, there’s not even a glimmer of recognition in their dark eyes as they turn their attention to her. Friendly and open, with the same welcoming comfort that makes them a great den parent, but no shared bond of all the years between them.

“You ain’t got it round right, that’s probably a good place to start.” They chuckle, leaning over to grab her instructions. They flip the page over, then hesitate, and glance back at the pile of components, then flip a few pages forward and back.

“Oh fucking hell, one of them bloody elves has been at this, it’s all fucked up. I swear, those little shits get into everything. Hold on, hold this.” They pick the staple holding the instructions together open, then hand her the top page. “Let’s get it all straightened out, then it might make more sense.” Fingers crossed, anyway.