Gwyn blinked, and Wells stared at her, his chest heaving up and down, his fist propped on one hip, his hair a wreck, and, she noticed, he was wearing one black shoe and one navy one, and if she hadn’t already fallen in love with him sometime between the night he’d found Sir Purrcival and the moment she’d walked into this shop on the day of the Gathering and seen him frantically making cups of tea, those mismatched shoes would’ve done it.
