Not like this.
She’s sitting at my family’s oversized dinner table, feet swinging a good foot off the ground, nestled between Davrin and Pan like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The table is too tall for her, the cups too big, and the seat cushions still don’t bring her quite high enough—but none of that seems to matter.
She looks like she belongs.
And that’s what undoes me.
Not the way she looks tonight, though that alone could knock me flat—her cheeks still pink from the warmth of the meal, the soft afterglow of mead tinting her smile loose and unguarded, curls bouncing every time she throws her head back to laugh.
Not even the way she made it through Davrin’s entire story—about the bee that got into his boot and refused to leave for two whole days—without once pretending she had somewhere better to be.
It’s the way she’s at ease here.
Like she’s been coming to this table for years. Like she knows the rhythm of our family already, the rise and fall of our jokes, the beat of silence after Ivarr offers an unsolicited farming fact, the moment Flora always breaks in to stir the energy again.
It’s the way she hums in appreciation after every bite of Flora’s honey-glazed roast, tearing off a hunk of bread and dunking it into the sauce with reverence. Like she’s tasting something sacred.
Like she sees all of this—my home, my people—as something precious.
My throat is tight. My brain hasn’t recovered from the apiary, where she took my finger into her mouth and licked the honey clean like it was nothing. Like I’m not still shaking from it.
I dig my fingers into my knees beneath the table, hard enough to leave divots.
Pan elbows me, voice pitched in a stage whisper that echoes far too clearly down the table. “Uncle Garrik, can Iris come live with us?”
I choke.
Iris snorts so hard that honeyed broth comes out her nose, and Davrin lets out a gleeful cackle, slapping the table like it’s the best moment of his entire week.
“No!” I say, louder than I mean to. “I mean—it’s not—that’s not?—”
“She’s cool,” Pan continues matter-of-factly. “She brought me books. Mom says that’s a sign of good character. And she smells nice. And she helped me with my dragon drawing, eventhough she didn’t know what a skytalon’s bone structure looked like.”
“I’m not moving in,” Iris manages, coughing with laughter. “But thank you, Pan. That’s…that’s very sweet.”
“You’d get used to the beds eventually,” he says, nodding like this is a logical point of negotiation. “We could build you a step stool. Or give you more pillows.”
Flora, never one to miss a cue, leans in with a smirk. “Or maybe she wouldn’t need pillows if someone offered to keep her warm.”
I nearly flip the table.
“I can sleep just fine,” Iris says quickly, clearly flustered, her voice going a little high. “On…you know. Surfaces.”
That earns a round of genuine laughter from everyone—even Ivarr, who normally only cracks a smile if someone mentions root rotation strategies or the finer points of tree-sap filtration.
I should be panicking.
I probably am.
But underneath the heat crawling up my neck, beneath the low burn of barely-repressed arousal and the chaos of my family, I’m also—gods help me—happy.
This moment. This table. Her, here.
It feels like something I never thought I’d have.
Something I never thought I deserved.
And yet—watching her laugh, her eyes soft with wine and warmth, her whole body leaning into this family like she’s already claimed a seat for herself?—
