For once, no one was yelling.
Dinner had been loud—Atlas’s “no politics at the table” decree only barely containing the chaos—but now the house had thinned out. Pups wrangled to bed. Warriors heading to late patrol. Elara shepherding the last stragglers away from the cookie tray with a look that promised consequences.
Lyra found herself on the back porch, mug in hand, night wrapped around Hollow Ridge like a blanket. The air smelled of wet earth and woodsmoke. Crickets stitched a soft hum at the edges.
The wards purred in the back of her mind. Content.
Cassian slid the screen door open with a soft creak and stepped out, shoulders loose for the first time all day. He carried his own mug, steam ghosting in the cool air.
“You hiding or just appreciating the lack of small sticky hands?” h
