Then she screams.
She screams, loud and angry, filling the whole room. Something in my chest cracks open. I don't even have words for what I'm feeling. Joy. Fear. Love. All of it, all at once.
My daughter.
My hands shake as I lift her and set her on Samantha's chest. Samantha's arms go around her right away, and the look on her face just about undoes me.
"Hi," Samantha whispers, her voice choked with tears. "Hi, baby girl."
The baby quiets down, like she recognizes Samantha's voice. Her eyes are squeezed shut, fists waving, face all scrunched up and mad at the world.
I can't look away.
Samantha looks at me, tears running down her face. In that look, I see it all. Past, present, future. Her and our daughter. That's it. That's my whole world now.
"She's perfect," I say, my voice rough.
"She is," Samantha agrees. Then she smiles, tired and radiant. "Aurora."
The name settles over us. Aurora. Like the lights outside. Like the start of something new.
I lean down, pressing my forehead to Samantha's, one hand on our daughter's tiny back. "Aurora," I repeat. "It's perfect."
Behind me, I hear Ella sniffle. When I glance back, she's wiping her eyes, trying to look tough and failing spectacularly.
Everett's still at the door, but when I catch his eye, he's smiling. A real, genuine smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes.
The magic in the room pulses, bright and warm, wrapping around the three of us like a cocoon. Outside, I can hear voices rising in celebration. The whole North Pole knows. They can feel it, the shift, the arrival of something precious and powerful.
But in this room, it's just us.
Samantha, tired and beautiful, holding our daughter. Aurora, tiny and loud, already making herself known. And me, kneeling next to them, heart about to burst.
"Welcome home, little one," I whisper, my finger brushing against Aurora's impossibly soft cheek. "Welcome home."
Epilogue
Samantha
The bakery at the North Pole always smells like cinnamon and something else I can't quite name. Maybe hope, maybe just the promise that anything could happen here.
I pull a fresh batch of rolls from the oven, the heat brushing my cheeks, and set them on the cooling rack. Through the window, snow drifts down in slow, lazy spirals, each flake catching the strange twilight that turns everything lavender and gold. The aurora shimmies overhead, just in case I forget for a second that I'm a long way from Caraway Cove.
Not that I miss it.
It still catches me off guard, that thought. I loved my old bakery. Built it with my own hands, sweated over every inch. But this place? It's a different beast. The ovens here seem to know what I want before I do, and the dough rises if I so much as whisper encouragement at it. The elves who wander in and out all day have stopped being customers and started being friends, which is a kind of magic all its own.
Speaking of which, Mira pokes her head through the doorway, her silver hair catching the light. "Samantha, those rolls smell divine. Are they ready?"
"Give them five minutes to cool," I tell her, wiping flour from my hands. "Unless you want to burn your tongue."
She grins, unrepentant. "Worth it."
I shake my head, but I can't help grinning. When I first landed here, the elves seemed like something out of a painting. Too beautiful, too perfect, too much. Turns out, they're just as likely to sneak a pastry and whisper about each other as anyone back home. The only real difference is the cheekbones sharp enough to slice bread and their unnerving ability to materialize right behind you when you're talking to yourself.
The door chimes, and I glance up to see Ella striding in, clipboard in hand, looking every inch like she was born to run this place.
"Hey," she says, not looking up from whatever list she's currently demolishing. "We need to move Tuesday's team building session to Thursday. Half the workshop crew is needed for an emergency sleigh repair."
