Page 47 of Little Witch

"He also asked if the Hollow still did the Halloween festival," Orias said. "Practically lit up like a kid when I said yes."

"We should take him. All of us." I turned onto my side, facing both of them. "Dad too. God, imagine explaining any of this to Mrs. Hartley if she asks where Dad's been for the last however-many years."

"Extended business trip," Rowan said immediately. "Very hush-hush. International demon relations."

"That's somehow both a lie and completely accurate." I laughed.

We lay there a while longer, trading stupid, small stories, the kind that didn't matter but felt good to say out loud after everything we'd just survived. Eventually the conversation slowed, and Orias's hand found my waist, thumb tracing idle patterns against my hip.

"So," I said, voice dropping into something warmer. "What now?"

Orias snorted. "What do you mean, what now?"

"I mean, we survived a magical prison, saved your dad, got your brother back—"

"Your stepbrother," Rowan grinned. “He’s your brother now too, Amber.”

"Semantics. My point stands. We did the big dramatic thing. What happens after the big dramatic thing?"

We all considered it, genuinely, turning the question over instead of brushing it off with a joke.

Then I sighed. "I go back to running the bakery, I guess. The festival's still happening, whether or not I've got a functioning nervous system left to run it with. Dad's going to want to actually be part of it this time, not just hover behind the counter like a ghost."

"Speaking of the bakery." Rowan's voice went carefully casual in a way that immediately made me suspicious. "I was thinking I might help out."

I propped myself up on one elbow, staring at him. "You. Baking."

"Is that so hard to believe?"

"You've burned toast, Rowan. I have witnessed this with my own eyes."

"That was one incident. Years ago. I've grown as a person."

"He set off the smoke alarm making toast," I told Orias, who was already grinning like Christmas had come early.

"In my defense, the toaster was defective."

"The toaster was fine. You put it on the highest setting and then walked away to answer the door." I squealed.

Orias laughed hard enough to shake the whole bed. "I've seen this man summon a storm out of thin air and I still wouldn't trust him within ten feet of a cinnamon roll unsupervised."

"You're both cruel and I don't appreciate it," Rowan said, though he was fighting a grin the whole time he said it. "Fine. I'll start with something simple. Something idiot-proof."

"There is no idiot-proof version of a cinnamon roll. That recipe has ruined grown adults." I snickered.

"Then I'll learn. Slowly. Under close supervision. You can stand over my shoulder criticizing my technique the entire time, I'm sure you'll enjoy that far too much."

"I really will," I admitted, unable to hide the smile creeping across my face.

"I want in too," Orias said. "Not baking. Just supervising the supervising. Someone needs to document this properly for posterity."

"You're both banned from the shop during opening hours if this goes how I think it's going to go."

"Devastating," Orias said, entirely unbothered, already pulling me closer against him. "Truly, a devastating blow to my morning routine."

I let myself sink into the warmth of both of them, the weight of the last few weeks finally starting to properly settle instead of pressing down. Rowan's hand found mine over the blanket, and I felt Orias's mouth find my shoulder, slow and unhurried, no rush behind it at all.

"You okay?" Rowan asked quietly, some of the teasing dropping out of his voice. "Actually okay. Not just surviving-okay."