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“That’s just a bonus.”

“Say it again,” she whispers.

“What?”

“What you said earlier.”

I take her hand and hold it over my chest.

“I love you, Julie Wren. Fiercely. Entirely. Probably stupidly.”

She laughs, then cries, then laughs again, her forehead resting against mine. “I love you too,” she breathes. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

We sit on a log near the fire pit long after most of the kids have drifted off, their laughter echoing faintly through the trees like the tail end of a spell. Julie leans against my shoulder, andI rest my cheek against the top of her head. Her hair smells like marshmallow ash and pine, and I’d bottle it if I could.

“You know,” she murmurs, voice almost drowned out by the low pop of embers, “I used to think I wanted sleek. Corporate. Something with clean lines and scheduled breaks.”

I huff. “You came to the wrong forest.”

She chuckles. “Apparently, I came to the right life.” Her fingers toy with mine—absent, instinctual. There’s no tension anymore. No hesitancy. Just her and me and the fire and a world we helped fix. “Do you ever think,” she continues softly, “that love sneaks up on you when you’re not ready?”

“All the time.”

She looks up at me. “And you don’t regret it? Us?”

“Julie.” I sit up just enough to see her clearly. “You could paint glitter on my tusks and I wouldn’t regret a damn thing.”

She laughs, real and bright. “Tempting.”

We’re interrupted by the thundering of tiny feet. Lillian, wide-eyed and wrapped in her favorite patchwork blanket, plops down beside us with no preamble.

“Someone tried to hex the honey again,” she announces, dramatic. “The kitchen is in chaos. I’m hiding.”

Julie blinks. “Wait, right now?”

“It’s under control,” Lillian adds. “Probably.”

I pull her into my lap and kiss the top of her head. “Glad to see you’re still reporting emergencies like a general.”

“I learned from the best.” She beams, looking between us. “Also, I wanted to be here for the smooches.” Julie gives me a sideways look, one brow raised.

“Well?” she says. I lean in and kiss her—slow, soft, no fireworks or frenzy. Just two people who know exactly what they’ve found in each other. Lillian squeals.

“GROSS. But yay!” She flops dramatically back onto the log, arms spread wide like she’s claiming the stars.

Julie snuggles closer. “Is this what you pictured when you started all this?”

“No,” I say honestly. “I thought we’d build a camp. Maybe fix a few things. I didn’t know we’d build a life.”

Julie is quiet for a moment, then whispers, “Me neither.”

And in the flickering firelight, with my daughter dozing beside us and the scent of ash and night blooming around us, I know—this is it. This is the good stuff. This is home.

CHAPTER 30

JULIE

The stars are ridiculous tonight.