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Like the sky decided to outdo itself. Too many to count, not that I haven’t tried. Lillian’s already declared she saw a constellation shaped like a goat doing yoga. Torack said it looked more like a gremlin doing taxes. And somehow, both seem accurate.

We’re lying in the grass just outside the camp circle, far enough to escape the chaos of enchanted bedtime routines and fae glitter emergencies, close enough to hear the soft hum of laughter and music still echoing from the fire pit. The first day of camp is officially over, and somehow no one caught on fire.

That’s a win in my book.

Lillian is curled between us, one arm flung across my stomach, the other clutching a mason jar full of glowing fireflies. She’s breathing soft and slow, eyelids fluttering with dreams I hope involve fewer snakes than this morning’s craft hour.

Torack’s beside me, one hand cradling the back of my neck, thumb tracing lazy patterns against my skin. We haven’t said much. We don’t have to. The silence between us isn’t heavy anymore—it’s full.

Comfortable.

Home.

“Did you ever think,” I whisper, “we’d end up here?”

Torack grunts, which in orc-speak is a complex emotional language. This one probably meansnot in a million years, but I wouldn’t change a thing.

I smile. “I mean it. This place. This—us.”

He shifts, just enough to lean in and press a kiss to my temple. “You saved this camp.”

I scoff. “Hardly.”

“You did.” His voice is low, steady. “I was just holding the pieces together. You turned them into something real.”

“You helped.”

He chuckles. “I did paperwork. You wrangled investors, reconciled goblin plumbers with fae architects, and taught my kid how to roast a marshmallow without setting the forest on fire.”

“I only did the last one once.”

“I saidwithout.”

I laugh, and Lillian murmurs something sleepy about unicorns and pudding.

We fall quiet again, watching the fireflies drift above the tall grass like floating bits of magic. One lands on my wrist. Its light pulses soft and slow, like a heartbeat.

“Can I ask you something?” I murmur.

Torack hums.

“Do you think… we’re enough? For her?”

He’s quiet for a long beat. “She’s smiling again. She laughs in her sleep. She believes in bedtime stories. I think we’re doing okay.”

I turn my head to look at him. “You’re really good at this.”

“At what?”

“Being her dad. Being mine.”

He freezes for a second, then exhales like he’s been holding it forever.

“You’re mine,” he says, rough and soft all at once. “I knew it the minute you started alphabetizing the spell permits.”

I choke on a laugh. “Romantic.”

“Hey, everyone’s got a type.”