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JULIE

T orack thinks he's good at hiding.

He’s not.

He wears silence like armor and efficiency like a shield, but his tells are everywhere—tight shoulders, clipped words, the way his jaw flexes when he’s trying not to react. Today, that tension is worse than usual. It follows him like a shadow, coiled and heavy.

And I’m done watching it from the sidelines.

Facing the board’s sabotage together is one thing. Practically a battle; he's more than comfortable fighting it. But after the morning I just had, I have another fight to pick with him.

And I know he doesn’t want to hear about it.

I follow him across the camp, boots crunching quietly over the gravel path. He doesn’t know I’m tailing him. Or maybe he does and just doesn’t want to deal with me. Either way, I’m not backing down.

The trail past the bunkhouses curves sharply into a dense copse of evergreens, where the underbrush is high and wild and the trees block most of the early afternoon sun.

There’s still moisture clinging to everything from the storm two nights ago— mossy rocks, tangled brambles, even the air, thick with the scent of pine and something deeper, older.

“Torack!” I call, breath catching.

He doesn’t stop, but his spine stiffens.

I pick up speed, boots slipping a little in the soft earth. “Torack, wait!”

He halts at the end of the old footbridge, hands on his hips. Doesn’t turn.

So I step right up beside him, heart pounding with adrenaline and a whole lot of other things I’m trying not to name.

“You’re doing it again,” I say.

“Doing what?” he growls, not looking at me.

“Carrying the world on your back and calling it a Tuesday.”

His jaw ticks, a storm cloud hovering just behind his eyes. “Julie, I don’t have time for this.”

“No,” I snap. “You don’t have time not to hear this.”

Finally, he turns toward me, and I meet his stare without flinching.

“You’ve been ignoring her,” I say, quieter now.

His brow furrows. “Who?”

“Lillian.”

I don’t miss the flash of guilt in his eyes.

“She asked where you were three times during the mural session. She painted a sun and left it blank in the middle because she said she couldn’t remember how your eyes look when you’re happy.”

That lands hard.

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.

“I know you 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 fall into 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.”

His hands are still on my waist, and mine have drifted to the collar of his shirt, fingers resting against the heat of his neck.

“I meant what I said,” I add. “Let me help you.”

He tilts his head, kisses the corner of my mouth—softer this time, more promise than passion.

“You already are,” he says.

We stand there a moment longer, wrapped in the sounds of birdsong and breeze, the world holding its breath around us.

Then I grin. “I should go. We’ve got a rogue goblin trying to repaint the archery signs in glitter.”

He smirks. “Again?”

“Yep. This time with unicorn decals.”

He groans, but his eyes are softer now.

I step back, but I don’t go far. “Come find me later?”

His gaze darkens just a bit, voice low and rough. “I will.”

I start to turn, then pause, glance back.

“Maybe this time,” I say, teasing, “you can come with an actual plan.”

His reply is a growl and a look that leaves no room for confusion.

Let’s just say the rest of my day?

I’m not gonna get much done with that look echoing through me.