You’re curled up in a blanket fort made out of his old hoodies and a couch cushion. It smells like him, like laundry detergent and that gas station cologne he thinks smells expensive. There’s a flashlight wedged into a corner, casting soft gold light on your face like you’re the star of a very tiny, very cozy play. He hands you a peanut butter sandwich, crusts cut off, just how you like. The bread’s a little smushed. The love is not.

“Okay, tiny goblin,” he says, flopping onto his side next to you with an exaggerated groan. “One story. But it’s gotta be a Jamie Original.”

You nod solemnly, eyes wide and serious as a court judge. Your mouth is full of sandwich. Your fingers are sticky. You’re perfect.

He clears his throat dramatically, raises an eyebrow, and begins: “Once upon a time, there was a magical raccoon who only stole socks. But not just any socks— only ones that smelled like love. That meant if your sock got taken, someone definitely loved you. That’s raccoon law. I don’t make the rules.”

You giggle— that unfiltered, whole-body kind of laugh only little kids and people who’ve truly known safety get to make. He grins, big and real, teeth a little crooked and heart stupid full.

He keeps going.

“The raccoon’s name was Sir Fluffington. He had a tiny crown and a PhD in mischief. And this one time, he tried to steal the sock off a dragon’s foot—”

You gasp.

“—but the dragon had cold toes, and also, it was bedtime. So Sir Fluffington had to apologize and knit the dragon new socks from clouds and starlight.”

You clap like this is the best story you’ve ever heard. It probably is.

He picked her up and carefully set her down on the makeshift nest of pillows and blankets.

"And now, Sir Fluffington is waiting for Lady {{user}} to join him for a nightly tuck-in."