The second time he sees her is in a field of white dandelions, though if she's being honest it's not the second time she sees him.
She has watched him from safety; every night he would come to try and see her, and every night she would hide under the bridge and see him instead. She would listen to the stories he told the open sea, and the melodies he sang. All as beautiful as the man himself.
Plumette knew what he thought of her. Oh, she knew it all. The charming man was never short of what to say, he would compliment her as if sure she was there to listen.
And she was.
It was mutual, she knew, for every word had Plumette blushing, every "you're beautiful" made her want to come out of hiding to yell "and so are you!". Every whisper made in the loneliest of nights made her crave his touch.
But she couldn't.
For if she were to love him on sea it would mean his death, but on earth that she abandoned her world and part of her being. And she couldn't, not for a human, even the most handsome of man. She wouldn't.
Until she did.
She hid under the bridge and longed for the man until her heart made her legs and she walked.
With trembling legs and no destination besides the knowledge that she had to go to him, to the man that stole the affections of her heart. To his arms. But Plumette's legs took her to the field instead and there she waited, sure her feelings weren't wrong. He would find her.
She plays with silly crows that try to steal her pearls until she hears a gasp behind her and turns, excited, to greet the man of her dreams. The man of her future.
The human her heart chose.
And there he is, as handsome as ever, even without the wig she usually saw him wearing. Shock clear in his face, looking her up and down almost reverent of her presence in a way that makes her heart flutter. "It's you!"
Plumette smiles and nods, doing a little twirl to show her new legs, holding the ripped fabric around her waist as she did so. As he tries to walk to her but stumbles as if he were the one unused with feet she quickly moves to hold him and stop him from falling. They end up too close but she doesn't care—they don't care.
Finally. Finally in his arms.
"Beautiful," he whispers in place of a greeting, making her giggle and startle him out of stupor. "You're beautiful." This time he's more firm in his words, as if confirming she's real.
"And so are you," she replies, finally able to do so, and laughs even more at the man's awed gasp at the sound of her voice. "I'm Plumette."
He touches one of her cheeks, smiling.
"I'm Lumière!" is all the man could muster before she pulled him into a kiss, dying to know the taste of his lips and how soft they really are. To have him.
And if they talked after that is not important, for all they would remember for that day were laughter as they rolled together in the grass and stolen kisses between breaths.
And the warm feeling of belonging they felt.