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His arms fall to his sides, fists unclenching.

“She’s a kid, Torack. She doesn’t understand board meetings and zoning permits. All she knows is her dad keeps disappearing behind a clipboard and a mission she can’t see.”

“I’m trying,” he says, and the way his voice cracks a little? It breaks something open in me.

“Iknowyou are. But trying doesn’t mean cutting yourself off from everyone who wants to help.”

He looks away, out toward the lake where the mist still rises in soft curls from the water’s surface. It’s quiet out here. No radios. No hammers. Just the low rustle of pine needles and the distant sound of something small scurrying through the brush.

“I’m not sure how to do both,” he admits.

I take a breath, step closer. “You don’t have to know. You just have to stop pretending that needing help is weakness.”

He blinks like I just smacked him.

“You keep putting yourself last,” I continue. “You’re terrified of failing everyone, so you fail yourself first. That’s not noble, Torack. That’s self-sabotage in a fancy package.”

He exhales slowly, hands balling into fists again. “If I let go—if I let anyone in—it all falls apart.”

“Or maybe,” I say softly, “it starts to fallinto place.”

His eyes find mine again, and the look there? It knocks the wind out of me. Like I just stepped into the center of something sacred and volatile and real.

“I see you,” I whisper.

And I do. All of him. The man who built this camp from ruins. The father trying to raise a daughter in a world that’s still learning how to hold tenderness in strong hands. The soldier trying not to break under the weight of peace.

“I see how hard you fight. How much you sacrifice. But you don’t have to do it alone.”

The silence between us stretches, taut and pulsing. I swear I can feel my heartbeat in my fingertips.

Then he takes one step toward me.

“You want in?” he murmurs.

“Yes,” I breathe. “I want in.”

His hand rises, brushes along my jaw, thumb grazing the edge of my mouth like he’s checking to see if I’ll break.

I don’t.

I lean in.

And then he’s kissing me.

It’s not tentative. There’s no hesitation. It’s heat and hunger and months of built-up tension exploding into something I can’t explain but never want to stop. His mouth is warm, his tusks brushing gently along my cheek as he deepens the kiss, hands gripping my waist like I’m the only thing anchoring him to earth.

My hands go to his chest, feeling the thrum of his heartbeat beneath the solid wall of muscle. Everything about him is big and steady and fierce, but the way he kisses me? It’s tender. Like a question he doesn’t know he’s asking.

When we break apart, I’m breathless.

So is he.

We don’t move right away. Just breathe each other in.

Then he lets his forehead rest against mine. “I don’t want to lose this camp.”

“You won’t,” I whisper. “We won’t.”