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She narrows her eyes suspiciously. “What’s that?”

“We try to find something we can all agree on,” I explain.

“Something funny,” Torin says from the kitchen doorway where he’s eating leftover garlic knots, having taken a break from his drawing.

In the end we settle on an animated movie involving emotionally complicated raccoons and an alarming amount of property damage.

Lucy curls up beside me beneath a blanket halfway through while Briggs stretches out near the fort entrance, broad enough to block half the room.

Torin sits at the opposite end of the couch sketching absently during slower scenes.

Ashby remains in the armchair nearest the lamp, glasses low on his nose while he reviews something financial on his tablet in quieter moments.

Now and again I glance around and wonder if I accidentally opened the wrong door and walked into somebody else’s life.

Then Lucy laughs, the clear, carefree sound drawing all eyes to her. Her hand grabs onto my sleeve while she points at the screen. “The raccoon stole a waffle maker.”

Briggs nods solemnly. “Criminal mastermind.”

Torin deadpans, “His plan has structural integrity.”

Ashby sips his coffee. “Most crimes are enhanced by the possibility of a delicious breakfast at the end.”

Lucy giggles, and every awful thing about today suddenly feels slightly further away.

By the time the movie ends, Lucy’s eyelids are drooping.

“Bedtime,” I murmur gently.

“No,” she mumbles into Bun’s fur. “I want to sleep in the fort.”

Briggs looks genuinely supportive of this plan. “Reasonable.”

I frown at him. “You are the worst possible influence.”

“Thank you,” he says proudly, making me smile against my will.

I carry Lucy upstairs eventually because she’s too sleepy to argue properly anymore. Halfway down the hall she wraps both arms around my neck, her small body warm and limp with exhaustion.

“You smell like pancakes,” she murmurs.

“You smell like pancakes and curly fries,” I argue back gently, although she actually smells of soap. She gives a soft, sleepy giggle that makes something in my chest turn over.

“Grandma Sophie says homes smell different when people are nice inside them.”

“She could be right.”

The bedroom lamp shines softly while rain taps against the windows. I help her into pajamas, then tuck her and Bun into bed.

“Foxy too,” she says, stretching out her hand to where the toy rests on the nightstand. Dutifully, I tuck him in as well, then straighten up to look down on her.

She looks smaller at night. Younger. More uncertain once the distractions of the day disappear.

I smooth her hair back gently from her forehead. “You okay, sweetheart?”

Lucy nods sleepily, eyes closed. Then, after a pause, she says, “I liked tonight.”

Relief, and something warmer, moves through me. “Me too.”