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Before anyone can answer, Silas bolts across the yard like he’s been shot out of a cannon.

"That’s Gregory!" he shouts, diving forward dramatically and scooping the frog up in both hands like it’s made of gold. "That’s my favorite one!"

Lucien looks at him like he’s considering homicide. "You named the frogs."

Silas cradles the stupid thing like a newborn. "Of course I did."

Elias tips his head, grinning like a bastard. "Gregory, huh? What makes this one so special? His winning personality?"

Silas straightens, chin high. "He’s got an extra toe."

Everyone goes quiet.

Orin finally speaks, voice dry as old parchment. "You’re aware frogs don’t have toes in the traditional sense."

Silas beams at him like he’s just been blessed. "And that’s why Gregory is special. He defies the system."

Elias leans toward her, voice pitched low but obnoxious. "You know, you’re the reason we’re all like this."

She glances at him sideways, eyes bright. "Like what?"

"Domesticated." He grins, repeating the word like it’s his new favorite joke, throwing a wink at me.

I roll my eyes so hard it hurts.

Lucien exhales slowly like this entire morning is testing his already thin patience. "You’re all out of your godsdamned minds."

Orin hums thoughtfully beside him, gaze cutting over the mess of us. "I think that’s the point."

Silas raises Gregory like a trophy. "Long live the revolution!"

The frog croaks loudly. Luna’s laughing again—loud, reckless, full—and it settles deep in my chest like a bruise I never want to heal.

Because it’s stupid.

And it’s safe.

And it won’t last.

But right now, in this yard full of frogs and madness, with her laughing like the world isn’t trying to kill us—

It’s everything.

Luna

The hallway is quiet when the knock comes. Not the way it’s quiet when someone’s sneaking, but quiet like the house itself is holding its breath. Measured. Intentional. Like whoever’s on the other side is aware that this moment is supposed to mean something.

I’m halfway through lacing my boots when I hear it, glancing at the door like it’s started speaking in riddles. It’s not Silas—he wouldn’t bother knocking, he’d kick the door open and throw himself inside like a human tornado. Not Elias either; Elias pounds like he’s got no shame, demanding attention before he’s even said a word.

This knock is softer.

Precise.

I cross the room, fingers curling around the handle, half-expecting chaos on the other side.

But it’s Orin. He stands perfectly still in the hallway, like he’s been carved from stone and just now decided to start breathing. The candlelight from the wall sconce flickers over him, throwing faint shadows across his sharp cheekbones and the mess of curls falling across his forehead. His hair looks like he combed it once and then ran his hands through it, careless in that way only someone who knows exactly how pretty they look when they don’t care can pull off.

He looks young—stupidly, dangerously young, like every polished twenty-something you’d cross paths with at a university library and wonder what tragedy lived behind their eyes.