“But it’s FUN!” He demonstrated by creating a tidal wave that soaked both of us.
“Your mama is getting wet,” I pointed out, wiping water from my eyes.
“Papa’s wet too!”
“Yes, thank you for that observation.”
There were bubbles on the ceiling somehow. I didn’t know how he’d managed it. I didn’t want to know.
Wen looked at my thoroughly soaked shirt and started laughing. “You look ridiculous.”
“This is your fault,” I accused, wringing out my sleeve.
“My fault? I’m not the one who encouraged the splash war.”
“I was demonstrating proper washing technique.”
“That backfired spectacularly.”
“Everything backfires spectacularly when a four-year-old is involved.”
We were both grinning, standing in a bathroom that looked like a small lake had formed in it, our son covered in soap bubbles and still splashing with joyful abandon.
Finally, we got him clean and wrestled him into pajamas. He was slippery and giggling the whole time, making it approximately ten times harder than it needed to be.
We took him to his bedroom, and he looked around with obvious happiness. He had slept there a few times after the attack, but hemostly slept with us. We hadn’t felt safe enough to allow him to come back to his room. But now…Now it was time.
“I get to sleep in MY room?”
“You missed it, didn’t you?” Wen asked gently.
“Yes. I like my room.” He climbed onto his bed, surrounded by his familiar things. His toys and books and the drawings he’d made that we’d hung on the walls.
“We are just down the hall if you need us,” I reminded him.
“And Torin has guards right outside your door,” Wen added. “You’re perfectly safe.”
Killian nodded, trying to be brave. “Okay. I’m a big boy.”
“You are,” I agreed. “Very brave.”
I picked up his favorite book, the one about the dragon who was afraid of heights. Ironic, really. I settled on the edge of his bed and opened to the first page.
“AND THEN THE DRAGON ROARED!” I used my best dragon voice, deep and booming, as I read the story.
Wen pressed her hand over her mouth, shoulders shaking.
“That’s very dramatic,” she managed.
“Dragons are dramatic,” I said in my normal voice. “It is in their nature.”
“Do the roar again, Papa,” Killian requested, already getting sleepy but fighting it.
I roared again, possibly louder than necessary. The guards outside the door probably thought we were under attack. Killian giggled, his eyes starting to droop.
“And the dragon flew,” I continued, lowering my voice to something more soothing, “over the mountains and the valleys, looking for his courage...”
By the time I reached the middle of the story, he was fast asleep, his little chest rising and falling with deep, peaceful breaths. One hand was curled around the edge of his blanket. The other was resting on my arm, like he’d fallen asleep mid-reach for comfort.
