Page 55 of Single Mom's Orc Daddy
And she is right.
The Hollow. The shop she built from nothing. The school I raise beam by beam on the ridge, runes carved into each post so the walls will hold more than wood. The laughter that fills the square, the warmth of lantern light in fog. The child who carries magic brighter than any flame, and the woman who reclaimed herself and chose me.
Ours.
When the festivalquiets and lanterns gutter low, we walk home under the stars. The fog has lifted just enough for the sky to show itself, scattered with sharp silver light. Mari is asleep in my arms before we reach the house, her small head tucked against my chest, her curls damp with sweat, her little fist tangled in my shirt. She smells like sugar and smoke, and each slow breath eases something in me that never eases anywhere else.
At the cottage, I carry her to bed. She murmurs in her sleep, clutches at my finger, holds on for a moment longer before releasing me. I tuck her under her quilt and stay there too long, just watching her breathe, listening to the soft sound of safety that I never want her to forget.
When I step into the front room, Krista is waiting by the fire. The glow paints her face gold, her eyes tired but sure. She does not look like a woman who doubts her worth anymore. She looks like a woman who knows exactly what she has built, and that it will stand. She leans against me when I sit beside her, rests her head on my shoulder, and our hands find each other again without thought.
The Hollow hums around us. The fire crackles. Mari dreams safe in the next room. I don’t need words, and neither does she.
I never believed in fairytales. Not for monsters like me.
But sitting here, with the weight of her against me and the sound of our child’s breath steady in the dark, with the Hollow quiet and alive around us, I know this much is true:
Monsters don’t get fairytales.
Unless they make them.
