Page 151 of Scaled Daddy's Secret Heir
He catches my hand and kisses the inside of my palm. Holds it there against his cheek like a vow.
The tide changes.
Wind picks up off the surf.
Somewhere down the hill, Clancy whoops with joy—probably having successfully launched himself off another rock ledge with zero regard for gravity.
Kalev groans.
“I swear, that boy inherited your chaos gene.”
“You love it.”
“I tolerate it with deep admiration.”
I laugh into his shoulder.
This is peace.
Not the absence of danger.
But the presence of something worth protecting.
Andknowingit’s yours.
Not borrowed.
Not conditional.
Ours.
We don’t talk about the war unless someone asks.
Even then, we keep it short. Truthful, but not raw. Like running a finger along a scar—acknowledging the shape of it, but not pressing hard enough to reopen.
Clancy asked me once if his dad had been a soldier.
I told him yes.
Then I told him what mattered more: that Kalev became a father who came home.
We stand in the garden together most evenings, watching the sun pull long gold streaks across the surf. The herbs lean towardthe light like they believe it’s permanent. Sometimes I think I do, too.
Kalev pulls weeds with an intensity that would make a League commander nervous. He teaches Clancy how to spot invasive growth by the stem curve. He tells him soil is memory, and it forgives if you treat it right.
I watch them—my men, my world—and I realize something profound:
We’re not surviving anymore.
We’rebuilding.
There’s a difference. A vast, aching difference.
Survival is teeth and tension and checking the locks twice. It’s counting meals and planning exits. It’s holding your breath in your own home because your past might hear you breathing.
Building?
It’s choosing a paint color just because it’s pretty. It’s baking three loaves of bread when you only need two. It’s making space. Planting roots. Leaving marks on the land because you believe you’ll be here long enough to see them grow.
