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I blink. “I don’t know what to wish for.”

“You don’t have to tell me. Just… wish.”

I stare at the glowing embers. At the little moon-shaped twig ring we made, the burned chocolate on my fingers, the way her hair curls around her ears when she’s smiling.

I wish I could make this feeling last. This warmth. This weird, lovely little peace.

I don’t say it out loud. Just let it float.

A shadow moves behind us, and we both turn to see Torack returning, phone no longer in hand. He stops when he sees us—me with one graham cracker in hand, Lillian covered in marshmallow.

He blinks.

“Did you build a shrine?”

“No,” Lillian says sweetly. “We summoned moon spirits.”

I wave. “They brought snacks.”

He eyes the fire. “That safe?”

“Safe-ish.”

He steps closer, kneels beside his daughter, eyes softening in a way I haven’t seen much. He brushes her hair back from her forehead.

“She did good,” I say before I can stop myself. “Real good.”

He looks at me, like he’s trying to figure something out. His jaw flexes, but he nods.

“Thank you,” he says.

I shrug. “We were just waiting for you.”

And then I feel it—that click. That tiny, shifting thing that says we’re not just coworkers in a weird woodsy project anymore. We’re something else now. Co-conspirators. Maybe something even more dangerous.

People who care.

CHAPTER 6

TORACK

Idon’t like surprises. They usually mean fire, lawsuits, or elves whining about their dietary restrictions again.

But this morning, walking into the camp’s makeshift HQ, I get hit with one that doesn’t make my teeth itch. It makes me pause.

Julie.

She’s in the center of the storm, headset around her neck, hair tied up like she’s been through three crises already—and won all of them. She’s got clipboards hanging off her arm like armor, and she’s mid-argument with a twelve foot tall troll delivery driver who looks like he’d rather face a banshee than contradict her again.

“No, I don’t care what the manifestsaid,” she snaps. “Those folding chairs were meant for the arts cabin. Not the canteen. There’s a whole difference between crafts and carbs.”

The troll nods like his life depends on it, hauling the chairs toward the right spot.

Julie spots me, points a pen at me like it’s a weapon. “You’re late.”

I blink. “Didn’t realize I had a curfew.”

“I gave you a verbal one. Yesterday. During the plumbing review.” She taps her toe like a frustrated mother who’s said this too many times.