“You’re so hot,” Calliope said without thought, gaze still caught on her wife, the words slipping out unfiltered and sincere.
Lola rolled her eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m just telling the truth. Don’t blame me. Blame your insanely good-looking parents and their impeccable genetics.”
Lola laughed once again, the sound rich and unguarded. She leaned back against the wall, eyes warm as she took Calliope in, like she was memorizing her in pieces. Like she always did, as if Calliope were something precious and finite.
“If I’d known all it took was a farmhouse and a hacker wife to reach my final form, I would’ve retired from bounty hunting a lot sooner,” she said teasingly.
Calliope snorted. “Liar. You loved that life.”
“I loved parts of it,” Lola corrected gently. She reached out, tucking a damp curl behind Calliope’s ear, thumb lingering there. “I loved the adrenaline. I loved knowing I could take care of myself. But I didn’t know I could have this too.”
Calliope felt that settle somewhere deep in her chest, heavy in the best way. Calliope hadn’t known she could have this life either. Any of it. The quiet mornings. The shared showers. The goats screaming bloody murder because one of them thought another was getting fed first. The digital fortress hidden behind farmhouse walls. The people they’d gathered around themselves, every single one of them chosen, stubborn, feral…loyal.
“I didn’t ask you to give any of that up,” Calliope said quietly, the old fear surfacing for just a second.
“No,” Lola agreed. “You didn’t.” She smiled, softer now. “You just made yourself available to me in any way I’d have you and, before I knew it, I couldn’t stand the idea of leaving.”
They stood there for a moment longer, breathing each other in.Outside, the wind rattled the old windows again, a low warning hum that felt more like background noise than danger.
This place was solid.
Fortified.
Loved.
“Okay,” Calliope said eventually, clapping her hands once, breaking the spell with practiced ease.
“I’ll make breakfast. Cinnamon french toast?”
“I suppose it will have to do,” Lola said, dropping a chaste kiss on her lips. The kind of kiss that promised more later, once the house stopped feeling like a hostel. “At least until these people get out of our house.”
“I’ll cook. You wrangle the children.”
Lola raised a brow. “Which children?”
“All of them,” Calliope said. “Including my son.”
“I couldn’t wrangle that boy with spurs and a lasso,” Lola said fondly.
“Don’t put images of you in cowboy boots in my head,” Calliope whined.
Lola laughed, shaking her head as she left the room.
The farmhouse was already awake in its own way. The hum of servers came from behind a disguised panel near the stairs, the quiet heartbeat of the digital defenses Calliope maintained even on holidays.
The kitchen smelled like strong coffee, like warmth and intention. This was her favorite place in the house. She never felt more at peace than when she was in there. It reminded her of better times, of being little, of baking with her grandmother, her hands dusted in flour and her laugh larger than life.
Dimitri was at the table, exactly where she expected him to be, demolishing a bowl of cereal while Arlo hovered nearby with a mug of coffee, looking as angelic as ever. The contrast between them never stopped amusing her, chaos and calm in perfect balance.
“Morning, menace,” Calliope said, pressing a kiss to Dimitri’s hair as she passed.
“Morning, mother,” he replied sweetly, then added, “Make it French toast.”
She shot him a look. “Demanding.”
“You love me.”
