The Den had never felt so alive. Warm lamplight spilled across the painted walls, where clouds and flowers bloomed in shades of green and gold. Toys were scattered like fallen stars across the thick rug—tiny wooden wolves, stuffed dragons with lopsided wings, and an entire kingdom of blocks that had already surrendered to chaos. Laughter echoed through it all, bright and unrestrained, the kind that made even the oldest corners of the Moonwood feel young again.

Danika leaned against the doorway, her arms crossed, watching as her mate lay sprawled on their back in the middle of the room, utterly defeated beneath a pile of giggling children. The smallest had managed to climb onto their stomach, shrieking triumphantly, while two others clung to their legs as if they’d caught the world’s most entertaining prey. The air was thick with laughter and the faint scent of sugar and wildflowers—the scent of safety.

“Tragic,” Danika drawled, her mouth curving into a smirk. “The mighty warrior taken down by a pack of six-year-olds. Should I call for backup?”

Her mate twisted their head just enough to glare at her through a mess of hair, still laughing as one of the kids tugged playfully at their sleeve. “Don’t just stand there,” they gasped. “Help me!”

“Hmm.” Danika pretended to think, tapping a finger to her chin. “Or…” She crouched beside the chaos, her grin softening as she surveyed the squirming pile of limbs. “Who wants a treat?”

The reaction was immediate. The children froze, wide-eyed, as if she’d uttered a sacred word. A heartbeat later, they were all clamoring off her mate and racing toward the basket by the wall where sweets were hidden, the thunder of tiny feet echoing through the Den. Danika laughed, the sound warm and low, before turning back to her mate.

“You’re welcome,” she said, offering a hand.

Their fingers slipped into hers without hesitation, warm and calloused, and when they looked up at her—breathless, hair mussed, eyes gleaming with amusement—something inside her softened in a way that still surprised her. For all her sharpness, all the hard edges she wore like armor, her mate’s smile undid her every time.

She tugged them gently to their feet, and they leaned close, foreheads nearly touching. The kids were already building forts again in the corner, their laughter rising like birdsong. Danika’s arms found their way around her mate’s waist from behind, her chin resting on their shoulder as she watched the little whirlwinds of life dart across the room.

One of the kids was trying to convince the others that the wall needed more color—judging by the streak of blue already smudged across the clouds, they’d been “decorating” for some time. Danika sighed, though the smile never left her face. “We’re going to have to repaint that wall again,” she murmured.

Her mate chuckled softly, their hands coming to rest atop hers. “You’ll survive.”

“Maybe.” She pressed a small kiss to their shoulder, the scent of them—warm skin and faint smoke—settling deep in her chest. The quiet that followed was easy, companionable. It was strange, she thought, how peace could feel this loud.

Then, almost without meaning to, she spoke the thought that had been curling at the edges of her heart for months now. “Can we have one already?”

Her mate turned, eyes soft, searching hers as if the question had weight enough to tip the world. Danika smiled—half teasing, half aching—and nodded toward the kids now shrieking over whose turn it was to build next. “A little chaos of our own,” she said.

Her mate laughed, pulling her close until her forehead pressed against their collarbone, the sound of the children’s laughter filling the room like a promise. And in that moment—surrounded by warmth and color and the wild, endless love of their kind—Danika knew there was nothing in this world she wanted more.