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JULIE

T he first rule of public relations: nothing melts adult skepticism like giggling children with marshmallow-sticky faces and glitter on their shoes.

I didn’t invent the rule, but I’ve mastered it. And today? Today’s the test.

I’m standing near the crafts pavilion with a clipboard in one hand and a damp towel in the other, watching a goblin child—Snitch, who is extremely allergic to rules—happily paint runes on a rock while two human kids from town crouch beside him like he’s showing them how to unlock treasure.

“Yours glows!” one of them exclaims.

“Yours sizzles,” Snitch says smugly. “That’s the good kind.”

I mark it down. Rune painting: successful. No sparks. No property damage. Minor transfiguration risk: acceptable.

I wipe a smear of enchanted paint off the picnic table and glance across the lawn. It’s a full outreach day, and we’ve got every staff member on rotation.

The meadow between cabins has been transformed into a chaotic, colorful mix of game stations, treat tables, spell-safe zones, and folding chairs that absolutely should’ve been replaced last year. A local vendor is selling pickled troll cucumbers. Another is hawking mood charms shaped like puppies.

But what really matters and what makes my heart clench, is the way the kids look at each other. Not like strangers. Not like enemies. Just like… kids.

“I gave him my wand bracelet,” a young witch whispers to her mom, who stares like her daughter just handed over a loaded gun.

“He earned it,” the girl adds.

I don’t interfere. Some things you let unfold on their own.

Behind me, Groth is very carefully pretending not to hand out caramel apples. His disguise consists of a sun hat that looks like it belonged to a 1950s tourist and a pair of sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose like they’re protecting national secrets.

“Don’t say anything,” he grunts as he hands a goblin toddler an apple the size of her head.

“I wasn’t gonna,” I murmur. He grumbles but doesn’t move.

I check my watch.

Torack’s late.

Not surprising. He hates spectacle. Hates optics. Hates anything that smells like performance over purpose.

But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hoping he’d show.

I glance toward the archway gate and there he is.

Oh.

Okay.

So maybe my stomach flips. A little.

He’s not dressed like he’s trying to impress anyone, which somehow makes him look more commanding—black henley rolled to the elbows, cargo pants, utility belt strapped with spell fuses.

He walks like he owns the dirt under his boots and has no intention of making small talk about cupcake displays.

But he’s watching the kids. I know that look. Not assessing. Appreciating.

I wave him over. He raises a brow but heads my way.

“Did you approve the pixie petting zone?” he asks, deadpan.

“Yes,” I say. “They’re on a leash system.”

“I didn’t know pixies could be leashed.”

“They can’t. It’s symbolic.”

He eyes the giggling chaos near the hedgerow. “One of them’s juggling frogs.”

“They signed a consent form,” I say brightly. He huffs something that might be a laugh. I hesitate.

Then, quietly, “They’re getting along. The kids, I mean.”

He nods once. “I see that.”

“And the parents aren’t throwing things,” I add.

He glances around. “Yet.”

There’s silence for a second too long, which is always dangerous for me because it makes me say the things I usually filter out.

“I know you didn’t love the outreach idea,” I say.

“I didn’t,” he agrees.

“But it’s working.”

He doesn’t respond immediately. And then: “It is.” He looks down at me. “You were right.”

I blink. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I said you were right.”

I put a hand to my heart. “Do I get a trophy? A badge?”

“Don’t push it.” But his mouth twitches, and that’s enough.

A group of kids stampedes past us toward the snack tent, and one of them stops in front of Torack. It’s Lillian.

“Daddy,” she says, breathless. “Come see the dragon egg hatching! Julie said it’s not real fire, but I saw sparks and everything!”

He lowers into a crouch. “Are you keeping them all in line?”

“Obviously,” she says, arms crossed. “But they need backup.”

“Lead the way.”

She grabs his hand, tugging. He goes with her, and something in my chest loosens—like I’ve been clenching a fist I didn’t know was there.

I return to the event perimeter, checking in with volunteers, answering questions, calming one frantic dad who thought rune paint might permanently stain his toddler’s skin (it doesn’t, unless you activate it).

I’m in my element. Halfway between panic and purpose.

An hour later, as things start to wind down, I find myself at the lemonade stand, sipping a cup that tastes like victory and maybe a hint of lavender.

The sky’s gone golden, and the shadows stretch long.

The town delegation is still lingering, chatting with parents, swapping recipes, holding enchanted bracelets like they’re considering belief once again. And across the lawn, Torack is talking with one of the local dads.

Not glaring. Not grunting. Talking.

The dad claps him on the back, and Torack doesn’t flinch.

I don’t think he knows I’m watching. But I don’t look away. Because this was the whole point. Not just surviving scandal or neutralizing Renault or winning over funders.

This is healing.

I believe it’s possible.

I tell myself to focus.

There’s still tear-down to coordinate. Thank-you bags to pass out. Someone needs to collect the enchanted ducklings from the sensory garden before they unionize.

But my eyes keep drifting toward him.

Torack stands near the now-empty snack tent, talking to the dad who brought three kids and left with two hand-crafted shields and a questionable wand permit. They shake hands. The dad smiles. And Torack—gods help me—almost smiles back.

I take a breath and cross the lawn. My heart beats faster with each step.

Not because I’m nervous.

Because I want to be seen. And he sees me.

The second I’m in his periphery, his shoulders shift like he’s already read the thought behind my approach.

“That looked civil,” I say.

“It was.”

“Did you lose a bet?” His tusk tips with a half-smirk.

“He complimented the obstacle course. Asked about sending his son next season.”

I blink. “Seriously?”

“His exact words were ‘I didn’t expect my kid to get along with a troll, but here we are.’”

I laugh. “Progress.”

“Small miracle,” he mutters, but he’s watching me now. Really watching. It does things to me.

Standing this close to him in the amber dusk, the scent of magic still lingering in the air like honeysuckle and heat. His eyes dark and unreadable. His presence magnetic in that serious, self-contained way he has. The kind that says I will carry this whole world if I must.

And I want to say something witty, something professional, but what comes out is, “You look good today.”

His brow lifts. “That so?”

“Don’t get smug,” I mutter.

“I wasn’t aware I could look anything other than terrifying.”

“You usually aim for terrifying.”

“And you usually aim for perfect.”

That catches me. I look away, fingers tightening on my clipboard. “I just want things to go well.”

He’s quiet a moment. Then, softer than I expect, “They are.”

When I glance up, his gaze is gentler. The kind of look that brushes against skin and bone and makes you forget every list you've ever written.

My heart stutters. I swallow. “Torack?—”

“Julie.”

He steps closer. Barely an inch. But it changes the air.

“I keep trying to stay professional,” he says, voice low. “But every time I look at you…”

My breath catches.

“You’re not just holding this place together. You’re changing it. How do I stand in front of that and not reach for it?”

I don’t mean to step closer. But I do. We’re toe to toe now. The world narrows to pine and fading sunlight and his hand, lifting, pausing at my jaw.

“I’ve been scared to want you,” I whisper.

“I’m not scared,” he says. “Not anymore.”

He leans in and we both jump when Lillian runs up with a giant frog in her arms.

“Look what I caught! It burps spells!” Torack steps back instantly, clearing his throat.

“Time to round up enchanted fauna.”

I can’t help it, I laugh. And blush. And almost trip on my own clipboard backing away. But when I turn, he’s still watching. And I know. We’re not avoiding it anymore.

I know I'll see him tonight.