Page 7

JULIE

T he meeting starts with a chair that wobbles and a clipboard that sticks to my thigh.

We’re crammed into the half-finished main hall—some kind of future multi-use space that currently smells like pine and freshly dried paint.

The board members are seated around a makeshift table cobbled together from two saw-horses and what I’m pretty sure is part of the kitchen countertop.

Groth is perched on a flipped-over crate, chewing the stub of a pencil.

Renault has his legs crossed like we’re at a tea salon.

Dena’s floating. Literally. Hovering a few inches off the floor, wings twitching in irritation every time Groth drops sawdust on her shoes.

And then there’s me. In the corner. With my notes, my carefully printed itinerary, and the growing itch between my shoulder blades that says I’m about to do something I wasn’t technically hired to do.

Torack steps in last, clipboard in hand, expression somewhere between thundercloud and tax audit.

“All right,” he says, voice low and clipped. “Today’s goals—confirm the infrastructure timeline, finalize the food logistics, and figure out why the hell Cabin Seven still doesn’t have plumbing.”

“We’re waiting on the elemental inspector,” I say automatically.

He glances at me, nods. “Julie’s tracking that.”

I straighten slightly. A glow warming in my chest. Recognition. Not bad.

Groth raises his hand. “Also, we need to deal with the supply reroute. The mushrooms are gonna spoil in the sun.”

“Shouldn’t be serving them raw anyway,” Renault mutters.

“They’re a snack and a weapon,” Groth says proudly.

Dena sighs. “Can we not start the spore war again?”

Torack cuts through the chaos with one look. Everyone quiets. “Let’s move through the priority items. Julie, what’s first?”

All eyes turn to me.

I take a breath. Big. Bold.

“First up is the revised bunk scheduling matrix. I made adjustments to the sleeping arrangements to better accommodate the newer cabins and reduce the risk of interspecies tension.”

Renault sniffs. “Do you have any actual qualifications in conflict zoning?”

“Nope,” I say, flipping the laminated chart around for everyone to see. “Just common sense and an absurd number of late nights reading intercultural behavioral case studies. Here’s your visual breakdown. Color-coded. With legend.”

I pass out copies.

Groth blinks at the chart. “What’s this circle mean?”

“That’s your designated mushroom storage. Away from the bunks that can house centaurs. Because they hate fungal spores. You’re welcome.”

Dena raises a delicate hand. “And this red triangle?”

“Ah. That’s the no-fly zone. We don’t want the fairy wings getting scorched by the wood stove flue.”

Torack leans back in his chair slightly, watching me. I can feel it. That assessing, unreadable stare. He’s doing that thing again—trying not to smile but failing just a little.

I forge on.

“I also made adjustments to the food vendor rotation. Renault, I subbed out the dryad bakery for the kelp co-op since you flagged the nut contamination issue.”

He looks surprised. “I… appreciate that.”

“And I added signage for dietary codes—color-coded bracelets per camper so the kitchen doesn’t have to memorize two hundred preferences.”

Dena claps softly. “That’s brilliant.”

“Wait, so we’re keeping the mushroom kebabs?” Groth asks, hopefully.

“If they’re grilled and kept in a sealed container,” I say. “On odd days only. You’re not poisoning anyone on my watch.”

I expect Torack to cut in. Redirect. Commandeer the room again.

Instead, he grunts. “That’s efficient.”

And maybe it’s the heat, or the adrenaline, or the fact that I haven’t eaten since breakfast—but that sounds dangerously close to a compliment.

“And finally,” I add, clicking to the last slide on the projector, “I reorganized the daily schedules to make room for downtime. Quiet hour, post-lunch. Structured silence. Kids need time to process.”

Renault leans forward. “That wasn’t in the original outline.”

“Nope,” I say. “It wasn’t.”

Dena’s eyes narrow, thoughtful. “You’re not just managing logistics.”

“I’m not just a secretary.”

Torack speaks then, low and deliberate. “No. You’re not.”

The words land like a warm weight in my chest.

When the meeting ends, the others drift out—Groth muttering about fungus rotations, Renault double-checking his scarf’s wrinkle ratio, Dena levitating off with perfect grace.

I linger.

So does he.

Torack leans against the edge of the table, arms crossed, gaze still locked on me like I just performed a magic trick and he’s not sure if he wants to applaud or interrogate me.

“You hijacked my meeting,” he says.

“I optimized it.”

“You outmaneuvered my contractor.”

“He left a soggy bag of shrooms in the communal fridge.”

“You organized a full operational pivot without telling me.”

“I was going to tell you,” I say. “Right after I did it.”

He tilts his head, eyes scanning my face. “You always work like this?”

“Only when people assume I don’t know what I’m doing.”

There’s a beat.

“I don’t assume that anymore,” he says.

Silence stretches, taut and strange and full of something unspoken.

“You’re sweating,” he says.

“I’m working ,” I reply, reaching up to swipe at my forehead.

Torack takes a step closer. My pulse stutters.

“You need water?”

“I need people to stop doubting me.”

“I don’t,” he says again. Lower now. Closer.

I swallow. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

Another breath. Another beat.

He leans in slightly, but doesn’t touch me. His gaze flickers over my face like he’s reading something I haven’t written down.

“Neither am I,” he says.

And just like that, I feel it again.

That tension. That possibility. The crackle of something building between us like a storm just starting to roll in.

But then he steps back, grabs his clipboard.

“Dinner’s at six. Try not to scare the chef.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You should warn him you’re coming.”

He smirks. “Touché.”

And then he’s gone.

I stand there for another full minute, staring at the slide that still reads “Conflict-Free Meal Planning” and wondering if I just dreamed that entire interaction.

Not just a secretary. Not just a meeting.

Maybe not just a job anymore either.