I kiss him, slow and grateful.
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"Being you. Fixing ovens and tolerating invasive questions and—" I gesture at the warm house behind us. "—caring about this."
"Trinity." His voice drops, serious. "Anywhere you are is somewhere I want to be."
The next morning, Dad recruits Korgan for Additional Projects.
I find them in the bakery, dismantling the industrial mixer.
"What are you doing?"
"Preventative maintenance," Dad says cheerfully.
Korgan's elbow-deep in gears. "This hasn't been serviced in years."
"We've been busy."
"Busy breaking equipment."
Dad grins. "I like him, Trin. He's got opinions."
"Lucky me."
They work in comfortable silence, the kind men fall into when they've found common language through tools and mechanical problems.
Mom appears with coffee. "They've been at it since six."
"It's eight."
"Exactly." She hands me a mug. "Your father's in heaven. Someone who actually knows what they're doing."
Korgan emerges, grease-smeared and satisfied. "The mixer will run quieter now. Better torque distribution."
"My hero," I say dryly.
He catches the sarcasm, smirks. "You're welcome."
"How'd I get stuck with an orc who'suseful?"
"Luck."
Dad claps him on the shoulder. "You're good people, Korgan."
It's the highest praise my father gives.
Korgan looks genuinely pleased.
We stay through the weekend.
I teach Korgan the walking route I used as a kid, past the elementary school, through the park, down to the river where teenagers used to jump off the old bridge.
"You jumped?"
"Once. Peer pressure."
