He chooses carrying.
The brothers move. Jasper grumbles but complies. Theo hums cheerfully while dismantling something that absolutely wasn’t meant to be dismantled twice. Every so often I call out a correction.
“No, that box is lying.”
“That needs to go back.”
“Who packed this and thought that was acceptable?”
“That was me,” Jasper admits.
“Reflect on that,” I tell him.
Miranda leans towards Ivy. “She’s terrifying.”
Ivy beams. “Isn’t she marvellous?”
I glance up and catch Geoff watching me. Not hovering now. Just… looking. Something in his expression softens when our eyes meet. I smile at him, small and private, then go back to the clipboard.
This is chaos, but it’s my kind of chaos. Labelled. Directed. Already settling into shape.
And as I sit there, barking orders at three Corbin brothers who are absolutely doing as they’re told, it hits me with a quiet certainty.
This wasn’t a mad idea.
This just needed proper organisation.
Which, frankly, I trust far more than fate.
16
Goblin-approved Escape Plan
Geoff
Iwake up beforemy alarm and lie there for a second, staring at the ceiling, listening.
The flat sounds different.
Not louder. Not busier. Just… occupied. Like it’s aware it’s hosting more life than usual and is trying not to make a fuss about it.
I get up quietly and head into the kitchen, still half-expecting to trip over boxes or a suitcase. The island is clear. The kettle fills. Muscle memory kicks in. It’s comforting, having something simple to do with my hands.
I’m reaching for the mugs when movement catches my eye.
Christa shuffles into view from the spare room, socked feet dragging slightly like the floor has personally offended her. Her dark hair is everywhere, a determined halo that suggests sleep was optional. Her face is bare. No eyeliner.No armour. Just her, blinking against the light like she’s negotiating with the morning.
She’s wearing fluffy pyjamas that look aggressively soft.
Something in my chest tilts.
“Morning,” I say, keeping my voice low like the day might spook her.
She squints at me. “Is it too early to be alive?”
“Debatable,” I reply. “Do you want breakfast?”
“I can make my own,” she says automatically, even as she leans one hand on the counter like standing is a group effort.
