Archive of Our Own ^beta

1: The Drop-Off (6y)

The city dares to be beautiful this morning.

Piltover’s early light stretches long over the rooftops, gilding the edges of glass and iron with something almost tender. The skytram hums faintly in the distance, the world already ticking toward motion, but here—on the quiet path leading to Jayce’s townhouse—everything feels suspended. Too still. Too perfect. Like the universe is holding its breath.

Mel doesn’t like it.

Her daughter is skipping beside her, one hand clutched around the handle of a little canvas backpack, the other gripped firmly in Mel’s own. Small fingers, warm and sticky. She’d insisted on carrying her own things this time. A milestone. One more sign that she’s not so little anymore. One more reason Mel’s chest aches like something’s come loose inside it.

“Do you think Daddy will make pancakes?” Kanara asks, bright-eyed, the way only children can be when they’re still small enough to believe that the world is soft and reliable.

Mel smooths down a rebellious dark curl on her daughter’s forehead, tucking it gently behind one ear. “If you ask him nicely, I’m sure he will.”

The words are calm. Clipped at the edges. She doesn’t let her voice betray anything else—doesn’t let the tremor in her chest travel upward, doesn’t let her fingers tighten in panic or nostalgia. She’s practiced this. Polished it. Every gesture, every tone.

They reach the bottom of the steps.

Jayce’s townhouse is modest by Piltover standards, nestled into a residential corner of the city where the stone is worn smooth by time and the hedges are always perfectly trimmed. The kind of place with a porch just big enough for a flower pot or a forgotten pair of boots. The kind of place that says ‘home’ in a voice so quiet it hurts to hear it.

Mel hesitates on the top step. Kanara tugs her hand, impatient.

Before she can knock, the door opens.

He’s there. Of course he’s there—Jayce has always been five steps ahead when it comes to the things that matter. He’s barefoot, his hair sleep-rumpled and pushed back like he’s already dragged a hand through it half a dozen times. He wears a soft grey henley and charcoal joggers, sleeves pushed to the elbows, revealing the familiar line of muscle and the scar on his wrist she used to kiss when he wasn’t looking.

His eyes find Mel first.

There’s a beat—half a second too long where he just looks at her, gaze softening and then sharpening in a blink, like he’s trying to decide whether to smile. Or whether it will hurt too much if he does.

Then he crouches and opens his arms wide.

“Hey, precious.”

Their daughter squeals and hurls herself into his embrace. Jayce lifts her easily, tucks her against his chest like he was made to carry her, and presses a kiss to her cheek. She giggles. Mel watches the way his arms curl around her, protective and utterly natural, and swallows something bitter and warm at the same time.

Jayce looks up again.

“Hi,” he says.

It’s soft. Careful. Neutral. But the way his eyes linger on her face—just a breath too long on her mouth before flicking upward—makes her want to step back. Or forward. She doesn’t know which would be worse.

“Hi,” she replies, her voice as crisp and impersonal as starched linen.

A silence settles between them. Not hostile. Not quite awkward. Just full. Dense with everything they haven’t said. Every call that ran too long, every shared parenting schedule that came with clipped pleasantries and late-night texts that ended in ellipses.

Jayce breaks it first. “Do you want to come in? Just for a second. Coffee’s already done and I have that tea you love.”

Mel falters.

She shouldn’t. She knows she shouldn’t. Every time she steps into that house, her boundaries soften like sugar in tea. The kitchen somehow smells like her favorite blend. The pictures framed are of the past and present. Sometimes she sees her handwriting on a sticky note and wants to scream. Or sob.

But their daughter looks up at her with pleading eyes.

“Please, Mama? Just for a minute?”

And Mel—Mel is nothing if not weak for the two people who have always known how to undo her.

“…Just a minute,” she murmurs.

Jayce steps back, still holding their girl in one arm, as if he never wants to put her down. Mel follows them inside. The air is warm. Familiar. The kind of familiar that clings to your skin and whispers, this used to be yours.

The dining table has a half-finished coloring book and a plate of apple slices on it. There’s a tiny hoodie hanging off the back of a chair. She sees her daughter’s favorite stuffed animal, GranBear, already sitting on the couch, waiting.

It’s too much.

She stays near the door, hands folded neatly in front of her like armor.

Jayce disappears into the kitchen, still chatting with Anara about pancake toppings. Mel watches him move—how he leans down to listen when their daughter talks, how he laughs when she says something absurd about putting pickles on waffles. The sound of it rolls down her spine, makes her mouth go dry.

She turns away before he can catch her staring.

He comes back a minute later, places a cup of tea on the console table near the entryway. Her favorite blend. Two sugars, a dash of milk.

“I remembered,” he says simply.

Mel takes the cup. Her fingers brush his. She flinches at the contact. He doesn’t.

A silence blooms between them again. Not angry. Not cold. Just heavy.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, eyes fixed on the rim of her cup.

Jayce nods. “You look tired.”

Mel huffs a soft laugh. “That’s a polite way to say I haven’t been sleeping.”

“Maybe,” he says, quieter now. “But… I worry, you know. About you.”

She lifts her eyes then, sharply, and sees the truth of it written all over his face. The care. The guilt. The longing he never quite dares to voice.

“Don’t,” she says, too fast. Too harsh.

Jayce’s jaw clenches, but he nods. Like he’s used to that answer.

Their daughter comes barreling back into the room at that exact moment, holding a drawing she wants to show her mother. Something bright and scribbled and chaotic. Mel crouches, cups her daughter’s face, kisses her forehead.

“I’ll see you in a few days, okay?” Her voice is calm. Steady. “Be good for Daddy.”

“I always am,” the girl grins.

Mel rises. Jayce is watching her again.

This time, she can’t meet his gaze.

She turns to go, fingers trembling just slightly as they curl around the doorknob. But before she opens it, she hears him say:

“Mel.”

She pauses.

“I—” He breaks off. Swallows. Then, softer: “Call me if you need anything.”

She nods. Doesn’t look back.

The door clicks shut behind her.

And Mel walks down the steps alone, warm hands rapidly cooling, spine straight and heels sharp, like she didn’t almost cry just from standing in the threshold of what they used to be.

Interlude I: Steel and Silk (0y)

The recovery room was quiet, save for the faint click of an IV and the occasional hush of nurses outside. Mel lay propped on crisp white pillows, her hair undone and tumbling in dark coils over one shoulder, eyes half-lidded from exhaustion. Her daughter—hers—was asleep in the bassinet beside her, one tiny fist curled by her cheek.

The door creaked open.

Mel didn’t need to look to know who it was. The room changed when Ambessa Medarda entered—like the temperature shifted, like steel was unsheathed. The general’s boots echoed softly on the tile as she approached the bed, pausing before the bassinet.

“She’s small,” Ambessa said, tone unreadable.

“She’s perfect,” Mel replied, too tired to lace it with defiance.

Ambessa’s eyes flicked to her granddaughter, then to her daughter. “And you?”

Mel’s breath hitched. Not because of the question—but because of the way it was asked. Not clinically. Not coldly. Almost… tenderly.

“I’m fine,” Mel murmured, though her voice betrayed the crack in her armor. “Sore. Raw. Like I’ve been split down the middle.”

Ambessa’s gaze sharpened. “You were. That’s what it means. You tear yourself open, and then you bleed for something that will one day break your heart.”

Mel flinched. “You make it sound like a war.”

“It is,” Ambessa said. “One you’ve chosen to fight without a shield.”

Mel’s hands tightened around the blanket. “I’m not you.”

“No,” her mother agreed, and this time there was something almost like pride in it. “You’re softer. More foolish.”

“I love him,” Mel said softly, eyes falling to the child. “Your disapproval won’t change that.”

“I know.”

That stunned her into silence.

Ambessa folded her arms and exhaled. “I trained you to survive. Not to raise a daughter. But you… you surprised me, Imelda.”

Mel looked up sharply. No one used that name. Not unless they meant to hurt her. Or remind her who she was suppoed to be.

Ambessa stepped closer, then—startlingly—reached down and touched the child’s tiny foot with the back of one gloved finger. “I wasn’t built for this. For softness. For… waiting by a bedside while my daughter bled.”

Mel blinked fast. “Then why are you here?”

Ambessa’s voice was low. “Because you did what I couldn’t. You didn’t burn everything down to make yourself strong. You made room.”

Something trembled in Mel’s throat. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

“I almost didn’t because I was worried you didnt want me here.”

Silence stretched.

Then Ambessa, in a motion too graceful to be casual, sat on the edge of the bed. “You’ll need help.”

“I have help,” Mel whispered. “Jayce has been—”

“I didn’t mean him.”

Mel swallowed. Slowly, she leaned back, her hand drifting toward the edge of the bassinet. “I don’t know how to be a mother.”

Ambessa was quiet for a long time. Then:

“No one does. We learn too late. By then, the damage is done.”

Their eyes met. And in that moment, Mel didn’t see the general. She saw a woman who had never known how to hold a child. Who had loved in broken, brutal ways. Who was trying now, too late, but trying.

Mel whispered, “You could be part of her life.”

Ambessa looked down at the sleeping girl. “If you let me.”

“I’m tired of fighting,” Mel admitted, voice hoarse. “Maybe it’s time to let something else in.”

Ambessa nodded once, solemn as a vow. “Then I’ll stay.”

Mel didn’t cry. Not really. But her hand found her mother’s, and neither of them let go for a long, long time.

2: The Sick Day (6.5y)

Jayce knows something is wrong the moment his daughter doesn’t come thundering down the hallway like a one-girl stampede. Usually, she’s awake before the sun—pattering feet, groggy complaints about too much light, asking if pancakes can happen again. Always again. But today?

Silence.

A stillness that crawls under his skin and tightens every muscle in his chest.

He knocks softly on her door before pushing it open.

She’s curled in bed, small beneath the blankets, a flush on her cheeks that doesn’t belong there. Her favorite stuffed animal is clutched in one hand. Her amber eyes blink open when he enters, and it’s immediate—the way her lower lip trembles.

“My tummy hurts,” she whispers.

Jayce is beside her in two strides. He brushes his hand over her forehead, finds it too warm. Feverish. Damp with sweat.

“Okay, baby,” he murmurs, voice soft like water. “Let’s take care of you.”

He doesn’t panic. He’s been through worse in the lab. He’s seen wounds and blood and broken things. But nothing—nothing—undoes him quite like seeing her sick. His Anara, so full of light it hurts, now dimmed and shaking and scared.

He scoops her up gently. She doesn’t fight it, just leans her burning little face into the crook of his neck and he lays her down on his couch with a forehead kiss. 

He calls the paediatrician first. Then the pharmacy. Then takes her temperature again, carefully logs the number. His hands are steady. His heart is not.

He texts Mel.

JAYCE: She’s got a fever.

JAYCE: Staying home with her today. No school. Already called the doctor.

JAYCE: Will keep you updated.

The reply is almost immediate.

MEL: How high?

MEL: Has she eaten anything? Can she keep fluids down?

JAYCE: 101.7

JAYCE: Just water so far. Gave her the fever reducer. Trying toast next.

Another message.

MEL: I’ll come.

Jayce stares at the screen. The words blink back at him. Not ‘should I?’, not ‘do you need me to?’. Just:

“I’ll come.”

He types out a dozen different replies. Stops. Deletes them all.

JAYCE: Front door’s open.

He sets the phone down and goes back to Kanara. She’s curled up with a blanket wrapped tight, eyes half-closed, watching cartoons without really seeing them.

She looks so small.

Jayce kneels in front of her, brushes a hand through her curls. “Mama’s coming,” he whispers.

A flicker of a smile. “Good.”

He doesn’t ask why. He already knows.

Mel arrives twenty minutes later.

No makeup. Hair pinned back in a bun that’s come undone at the nape of her neck. She wears an oversized cream coat and carries a bag of essentials—cooling gel, children’s electrolyte drink, those flavourless crackers Kanara swears taste like sadness.

She doesn’t greet Jayce.

She beelines straight for their girl, kneels, and cups her flushed face in both hands like she needs to feel the heat for herself to believe it. Her lips move silently—small reassurances, a kiss to her temple, the cool press of her forehead to their little one’s.

Jayce watches.

Mel is both clinical and soft all at once. She pulls out the gel pads, cuts open the packet with steady fingers, sets one against Kanara’s forehead, and smooths it gently into place. Her touch is precise. Practiced.

“I missed you,” their daughter murmurs.

“I missed you, too, my darling girl.”

Jayce doesn’t breathe for a moment.

Eventually, their girl drifts back to sleep on the couch, her fever dipping just enough. The cartoon flickers quietly in the background, and Mel straightens slowly, rolling her shoulders like she just remembered she has a body.

Jayce hands her a glass of water.

She accepts it with a quiet “thank you,” but doesn’t look at him. Not at first.

They sit in silence, side by side on the coffee table, eyes trained on their sleeping daughter. The hush between them stopped being awkward a year ago, 9 months after their break up. Now it’s just… familiar. But heavy. Like they’ve both forgotten how to speak in this room without it becoming dangerous.

“She gets so ashen when she’s sick,” Mel says quietly.

Jayce nods. “Like you.”

Mel glances at him. Something flickers in her gaze—surprise, or maybe the dull ache of remembering how well he knows her body. Her silences. Her patterns.

“You remembered that.”

He lets out a soft breath. “I remember everything.”

A beat. Then another.

Mel looks away.

“She’s going to be fine,” he says, more to himself than to her. “But if you want to stay a while—”

“I wasn’t going to leave,” Mel cuts in gently, but firmly.

Jayce swallows. He nods. “Good.”

They lapse into silence again. He watches her fingertips—how they curl slightly against her knee, how her wrist tenses when she’s holding something back. He used to read every microexpression like a map. He still can. It hasn’t faded. Not really.

“She cried for you last week,” he says quietly. “At bedtime. Said she wanted her mama.”

Mel closes her eyes.

“I didn’t tell you because… I didn’t want to make it harder.”

Her lashes flutter. Her hand curls tighter.

“Jayce,” she says softly, and it sounds like both a warning and a wound.

“I’m not trying to start anything,” he adds, though that’s a lie. “Just… I think she misses you more than she lets on.”

“I miss her too,” Mel says, and then her voice trembles. “Every night she’s away.”

And then she cracks, just a little.

It’s barely visible, but Jayce sees it. The slight hitch in her breath. The way she lifts her hand to her face like she might pretend it’s an itch and not an instinct to wipe away something warm and unwanted.

He doesn’t think.

He reaches out. Just a hand to her back. His palm was between her shoulder blades. Not pulling her close. Just… anchoring her.

Mel doesn’t move away.

“She’s lucky to have you,” she says after a long time. “She’s got your strength. Your steadiness. I know she’s safe here when it’s your turn.”

Jayce doesn’t answer that. He’s still focused on the shape of her through her coat, the way she hasn’t shrugged off his hand yet.

“I miss her those two weeks we’re apart,” Mel whispers. “And sometimes… I miss this.”

Jayce doesn’t breathe.

She turns toward him, finally, eyes wet and dark.

“I miss us,” she finishes, the words barely audible. “But I don’t know if I can survive trying again.”

Jayce wants to say ‘You don’t have to survive it. You can just let me love you.’ He wants to say ‘I never stopped.’ But he doesn’t.

Instead, he curls his hand gently around her wrist. Just holds it. Thumb brushing her pulse.

“You don’t have to decide anything right now,” he says softly. “Just… let’s take care of her. Together. Today. That’s all.”

Mel nods.

And for the first time in over a year and a half, she leans into him, slowly, quietly, and rests her head against his shoulder. He breathes in the scent of her hair, tries not to let it break him.

The cartoon ends.

Their daughter stirs in her sleep.

And Jayce closes his eyes, knowing that—for now—he has everything he’s ever wanted within reach again.

Interlude II: Every Good Son (5y)

Jayce stood in his mother’s kitchen, holding a chipped mug he’d long ago made in a school ceramics class. The handle was still crooked, the paint a blotchy blue. Ximena had never once considered throwing it out.

Rain tapped gently against the windows. Kanara’s tiny pink rain boots were by the door. She was in the living room with a coloring book, humming under her breath, oblivious—for now.

Ximena watched her son in silence.

Jayce looked like he hadn’t slept. His shirt was rumpled, sleeves pushed up over forearms tense with something unspoken. His eyes were red. Not freshly—just the tired kind, the ache that sets in when crying no longer helps and you’re too proud to do it again.

“Tell me,” Ximena said softly, hands wrapped around her own mug.

Jayce didn’t answer at first. He stared at the floor. Then, a breath, shallow and slow.

“We broke up.”

Silence.

“Mel and I.”

Ximena didn’t move, but something in her face fell. Not in shock—but in the kind of knowing ache that mothers carry long before their children are brave enough to speak it aloud.

“Oh, my baby…”

He swallowed hard. “It wasn’t one thing. It was… a hundred. The hours, the pressure. We just kept missing each other. And then we started making each other small. And I didn’t even realize I was doing it until she was already closed off.”

His voice cracked on the last word.

Ximena stood, walked over, and placed her hand lightly on his back. “Did you stop loving her?”

Jayce shook his head immediately. “No. God, no. That’s the worst part.”

Ximena’s voice was quiet. “Then why did you let her go?”

He shut his eyes. “Because love isn’t enough if it makes you both miserable. And I—I wasn’t who she needed me to be.”

“You were a father. And a partner,” Ximena said gently.

“But I wasn’t present,” Jayce murmured. “Not like I should have been. She needed someone who could sit in the mess with her, not someone who kept trying to fix it with a schedule and a lab report and a speech about progress.”

Ximena studied him for a long moment.

Then she pulled him into her arms.

Jayce didn’t cry—not really. But he folded forward like someone collapsing after a long, uphill run. Her arms were smaller now, frailer than when he was young. But they still held. Still knew how to hold a boy too big for his grief.

“We’re gonna co-parent,” he whispered into her shoulder. “Our girl.”

“Of course you are,” Ximena murmured. “Mel may feel many things towards you, but she knows how much you love Kanara.”

He nodded, jaw clenched tight. “She still calls her Mama and me Papa. While I look for my own place I tuck her in four days a week. And sometimes Mel leaves the light on by the door when it’s her turn. Like she wants me to come inside. But I don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I go in,” he said, breath catching, “I won’t leave when it’s time.”

Ximena pulled back to look at him. “And would that be so terrible?”

Jayce gave her a crooked, broken smile. “Only since she doesn’t want me to stay.”

They stood together for a long time, the smell of tea hanging in the quiet. In the next room, his daughter giggled at something. Light and free.

Ximena squeezed his hand.

“You’re a good man, Jayce. Not because you get everything right. But because you try. That’s all a child needs. And maybe, someday, both of you will try again.”

Jayce looked toward the direction of the living room.

He hoped so.

3: The Parent-Teacher Conference (7.5y)

The message comes in at 2:37 PM. Jayce reads it twice.

“We’d like to request an in-person meeting regarding an incident with your daughter today. A physical altercation with another student has been reported.”

He doesn’t even finish his protein bar. Just stands, sharp and mechanical, grabbing his blazer from the back of the chair and swinging it over his shoulders before he’s even fully processed the words. The assistant who’s been shadowing him for weeks knows better than to ask questions.

“Clear the rest of my day.”

The car ride is brutal. Traffic like coagulated blood. Every second is an itch beneath his skin. By the time he reaches the pristine private academy they’d fought so hard to get her into—the one with the laminated brochures and the quietly polished racism masked under words like legacy and community—he’s halfway to murder.

Mel is already there.

He spots her Audi in the lot. Then sees her, standing just inside the glass doors of the administration building in a crisp navy coat and dark red heels, arms folded. Her face is pure frost—shoulders tight, expression cool. Beautiful and lethal.

Her eyes meet his as he enters.

They don’t speak right away. They don’t have to.

Finally Mel’s jaw ticks slightly. “Have they told you what happened?”

“Only that there was a ‘physical altercation.’” Jayce’s voice is sharp. Clipped. “No context. No names. Just enough to sound like our daughter is the problem.”

Mel huffs through her nose. “How very transparent of them.”

Jayce doesn’t say it aloud, but they’re already in agreement. Their Kanara, who’s never lifted a hand in anger—who’d rather cry than shove—is not one who fights. Not unless someone started it first.

They’re escorted into the conference room by a secretary who looks as if she’s walking two leashed lions into a tea party.

Inside are the assistant headmaster, a guidance counselor, and Mrs. Woodfield, the third-grade teacher with the thin smile Jayce has never liked.

Mel’s smile is razor-wire.

“Good afternoon,” she says, sliding into the chair without waiting for anyone to offer it. “You’ll have to excuse my tone if it comes off… cold. I’m still waiting for someone to explain why we were summoned under vague disciplinary language without clarity on what occurred.”

Jayce sits beside her. Folds his hands in front of him.

“Well,” the assistant headmaster begins, “there was an incident at recess involving your daughter and another student. Physical contact was made—”

“By whom?” Jayce cuts in, voice low and hard. “Let’s start there.”

The guidance counselor clears her throat. “It appears she pushed another student. A boy in her class.”

Jayce leans forward.

“And what provoked her?”

A silence.

Mrs. Woodfield blinks. “We understand emotions run high in children at this age—”

“No,” Mel interrupts, calm and surgical. “He didn’t ask if you understand childhood psychology. He asked what precipitated the push.”

“She said he called her a name,” the teacher replies, visibly uncomfortable. “A… slur.”

The temperature in the room drops.

Jayce’s knuckles go white.

Mel doesn’t blink. “Which slur?”

The counselor interjects, “I don’t think it’s productive to repeat—”

Mel’s voice is silk-covered steel. “If you expect me to speak to my daughter about this, I will need the exact language. Do not  spare me for your comfort.”

A pause.

Then the words: Half-breed. Street rat. Mistake.

Jayce feels a muscle twitch beneath his eye.

Mel exhales slowly, as if she’s trying not to detonate.

“So,” she says softly, “she defended herself against racialized verbal abuse, and your concern is that she pushed him?”

The assistant headmaster tries to recover. “Violence of any kind—”

“Oh, please,” Mel snaps. “This isn’t about violence. This is about optics. You are uncomfortable that a mixed child didn’t sit quietly while being called a mistake. You are uncomfortable because she’s articulate, bold, and unafraid of standing up for herself. And you’ve labeled that defiance. Not courage.”

Jayce is shaking now, but it’s cold, composed fury.

He lifts his voice, measured and clear.

“You want to discipline my daughter for having more integrity and strength than most of the adults in this building?” He levels a look at them. “I have patents with my name etched into Piltover’s skyline. And my daughter carries my name. She is not afraid of boys who call her a mistake. She knows she’s better than that.”

Glancing at Mel, he adds, “And she carries Medarda blood. She knows when to meet cruelty with poise better than most adults at her young age. If she pushed that boy, it’s because none of you protected her.”

The silence after that is choking.

Jayce pushes on. “So here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to remove any disciplinary notes from her record. You’re going to send an apology to our daughter in writing. And you’re going to contact the other child’s parents and begin that conversation.”

Mel leans back slightly. “And if you fail to do so, we will be escalating this to the board. I’m very good at writing letters that make people nervous. Would you like a sample?”

They don’t answer. They don’t have to.

Jayce can see it in their faces—the guilt, the discomfort, the awareness that they picked the wrong parents to treat like second-tier patrons.

…

They find their daughter waiting outside the office, feet kicking against the bench legs. She brightens when she sees them—just a little.

Jayce crouches first.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

She looks at him warily. “Am I in trouble?”

“No,” Mel says, kneeling beside them, her coat fanning around her like a queen’s train. “You’re not.”

Kanara’s wide amber eyes water. “But I pushed him. I did.”

Jayce touches her knee gently. “Sometimes, defending yourself doesn’t look like silence.”

Mel strokes her cheek. “But we will talk about it. Because your words are sharper than your hands. And we want you to always lead with the strongest weapon you’ve got.”

Kanara leans into her mother.

“I was scared,” she whispers.

Jayce presses a kiss to her hair.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “You were brave anyway.”

Mel catches his eyes over the top of their daughter’s head.

And in that look—fierce, quiet, understanding—he sees it again. The pieces of them that never really stopped working in harmony. The part of her that still trusts him to protect what they made together.

He offers her a nod.

She doesn’t return it.

But she lets a small smile creep on her face.

Interlude III: You Let Him In Again (7.5y)

Mel had insisted she was fine.

She said it as she breezed past Elora and Kino in the foyer, her coat unbuttoned, her heels a little too loud on the tile.

“I’m fine,” she repeated, sweeping toward the kitchen, where she opened the refrigerator, stared at it without blinking, then closed it again before going to stare at her daughter’s empty room because she’s with her father for another week.

“I’m fine,” she parrots as she walks back into her kitchen. 

Neither Kino nor Elora answered.

Elora was perched on a barstool, swirling her wine. Kino leaned against the counter with the posture of someone who’d spent all day in committee hearings and wasn’t above starting a domestic intervention just to spice up the evening.

Mel poured herself a glass of water. Sat down stiffly. Crossed her legs at the knee. Uncrossed them again.

Elora raised a brow. “So.”

Mel’s expression didn’t flicker. “So?”

Kino poured himself whiskey, then cleared his throat theatrically. “You want to tell us why you’ve been repeating “I’m fine” unprompted since you got home?”

Mel lifted her chin. “I’ve had a full week.”

“Uh-huh,” Elora said. “And nothing to do with Jayce?”

Mel said nothing. Her eyes were calm, remote, faintly disdainful—as if she were peering down a long corridor of mistakes and choosing, very deliberately, not to examine them.

Kino tilted his head. “Was it the meeting on Wednesday?”

That was enough to make her blink. Slightly. “Who told you?”

“Our niece,” Elora said, smiling. “I called her. She said you and her dad ‘used magic to make the teachers nicer.’ Direct quote.”

Mel’s lips twitched, almost imperceptibly.

Kino chuckled. “So what was it? Some boy shoved her?”

“No,” Mel said tightly. “He called her a half-breed. Among other things.”

The silence shifted. Elora’s jaw went hard. Kino set his glass down.

Mel swallowed, her voice soft but precise. “She pushed him. Just once. And the school tried to make her the villain.”

Kino’s voice was low. “Did they now.”

“We handled it,” Mel replied quickly.

“You and Jayce?”

Mel froze. That fraction of a pause was all Elora needed to pounce.

“Oh no. No no no.” She pointed a finger at Mel’s face. “Don’t you dare try to pretend that didn’t mean anything.”

Mel exhaled. Stood. Walked to the window.

“You should have seen him,” she said after a moment. “He came in like he was ready to tear the walls down. And then he sat beside me and—”

Her voice wavered. She crossed her arms tightly. “And it was like nothing had ever broken between us.”

Elora and Kino shared a look.

Mel went on, quiet and hollow. “He said she carried his name. And that she carried my blood. And for a second I—”

Her fingers clenched. “I forgot we weren’t a family anymore.”

Kino’s voice was gentle. “But you are.”

Mel shook her head. “Not like that. Not the way I want.”

And then she caught herself.

Too late.

Elora smirked. “Ah. There it is.”

“There what is?” Mel snapped.

“The truth,” Kino said mildly, “that you’re still in love with him.”

“I am not—”

“Oh, come on,” Elora drawled. “You just waxed poetic about him like you were reciting tragic verse in school.”

Mel turned sharply. “I have a child to protect.”

“Yes,” Kino said. “But I don’t think this is about her anymore. I think it’s about you. About how you still look at him like he’s the fire you don’t want to put your hand too close to. Because it burned you once, but gods, didn’t it feel good?”

Mel was silent.

She hated them both.

She loved them both.

Elora stood and walked over, tugging the front of Mel’s perfectly tailored blouse like a sibling about to start braiding her hair.

“You still love him, Mel. You always have.”

Mel looked away. “We drifted apart. He left long before I officially broke it off. And I—I might’ve been a tad overbearing about Nara.”

“And he’s been with you,” Elora said simply. “Again. And again. And again. And you’ve learned to loosen the reins on Kanara.”

Kino added, “The only one still punishing him and yourself for the past is you.”

Mel’s voice came out brittle. “Because I don’t want to go back just to be left again.”

“You won’t be,” Elora said, softer now. “The way you’ve grown, he has too.”

Mel closed her eyes.

“He held her hand,” she whispered. “Our daughter’s. And mine. Just for a second. And it felt like home.”

Kino moved beside her. Rested a hand on her shoulder. “Maybe it still is.”

She opened her eyes.

Outside, the sky had turned violet. Her daughter’s tiny coat still hung on the hook near the door. And in her purse, Mel had folded the note Jayce had slipped into her pocket at the school, in his familiar blocky handwriting.

‘She’s so much like you.’

Mel touched her stomach absently, not even thinking about it.

Elora noticed.

Kino did too.

Neither of them said a word.

But the warmth in their gazes made Mel ache.

“You’re allowed to want it back,” Elora murmured.

Mel stood in the darkening kitchen, her pride a soft thing now. Malleable. Unfolding.

“…I know,” she whispered.

4. Her First Night Away From Home (8y)

Mel didn’t realize how quiet the penthouse was until it was empty.

Not silent—there was always the hum of the refrigerator, the faint buzz of the streetlights below, the occasional creak of old floorboards settling beneath polished marble—but quiet in a way that rang inside her chest. Hollow. Unbearably so.

She stood at the doorway longer than she meant to after closing it behind her daughter, who had just vanished into the backseat of another mother’s sleek hovercar with a pink overnight bag and a casual wave. “Love you, Mom!” she’d called. Just like that.

No tears. No hesitation. Just gone.

Mel had smiled until the car turned the corner. And then she stared at the empty street. The stillness.

She didn’t cry. Not exactly. But her chest ached in that way it used to during the worst days of her childhood—the coldest ones. Not from weather, but from distance. The kind you could never quite measure in feet or time zones. Only in ache.

She poured herself a glass of wine and took one sip. It tasted like metal. She put it down, untouched again.

By ten o’clock, she’d circled the living room four times. By ten-fifteen Elora had stated she and Lest needed their beauty sleep and hung up. By ten-thirty, she was texting Jayce.

MEL: She’s at Ava’s. First overnight.

JAYCE: I remember. You okay?

MEL: No.

JAYCE: Want company?

Her fingers hovered over the screen. She didn’t answer.

The buzzer rang twenty minutes later anyway.

Jayce stood outside her door, holding a bottle of wine like some ridiculous rom-com lead. He was wearing jeans, a Henley, and that sheepish, knowing half-smile that said ‘I didn’t wait for permission but I hoped you wouldn’t mind.’

Mel opened the door and stepped aside.

“Hi,” he said, gently. “I brought the good stuff.”

She let out a breath that might’ve been the edge of a laugh.

“Of course you did.”

They sat on the couch like they had a hundred times before—far enough apart to pretend there was no gravity between them, close enough that their knees almost brushed when they both shifted.

The wine helped. Or maybe it didn’t. Maybe it just gave her something to hold, something to sip, something to look at when she couldn’t bear to look at his handsome face too long.

“She didn’t even look back,” Mel said softly, staring into her glass. “Not once.”

Jayce leaned back. “That means you did something right. She felt safe. Brave.”

“She’s eight,” Mel murmured, voice breaking slightly. “Eight and fearless. I don’t know whether to be proud or terrified.”

Jayce reached out, fingers brushing hers lightly where they rested on the couch cushion.

“I think it’s both,” he said. “It always is.”

They fell quiet again. The city flickered outside the tall windows. Inside, it was dim and gold and warm and unbearably still.

“She’s got your courage,” Jayce said after a while. “That unshakable steel. She walks into rooms knowing who she is—her own worth.”

Mel blinked slowly, eyes fixed on the skyline.

“She has your heart,” she said. “It’s… enormous. And impossible to hide.”

Jayce looked at her then. Really looked. Like maybe he was memorizing her all over again.

It was close to three in the morning when he stood. She walked him to the door in silence, unsure if she wanted him to leave or wanted to stop him.

At the threshold, he hesitated.

His fingers brushed a lock of her hair back behind her ear—light, reverent, like he was afraid of breaking something.

Then he leaned in and pressed a kiss to her temple. Soft. Lingering.

“Goodnight, Mel.”

She nodded, throat tight.

“Goodnight.”

He stepped into the hall.

Mel stayed in the doorway until the elevator doors closed. Only then did she move.

One hand found the doorframe, fingers tightening like she needed the anchor. She closed her eyes and exhaled through her nose.

She was fine. She had always been fine.

But gods help her, it had never been this hard not to ask him to stay.

Interlude IV: The Little Things (8y)

The next morning, Mel sat at the breakfast counter in her robe, a half-empty cup of tea cooling in her hands, and stared at the single pink hair tie left behind on the marble surface.

Their daughter was meticulous, but not perfect. She often left tiny traces of herself scattered across Mel’s world—crayon marks on the underside of the dining table, a plastic charm bracelet hooked onto the gearshift in Mel’s town car, stickers hidden in the back pages of legal briefs Mel brought home to read.

But this morning, the pink hair tie felt like a punch to the sternum.

She reached for her phone again. She didn’t text Jayce. She almost did—twice. She told herself she didn’t want to seem needy.

By noon, she had organized the legal briefings by most annoying client, re-sorted the emergency contact folder, and alphabetized the snacks in the pantry. She told herself it was productive. She told herself she liked order. That it wasn’t about distraction.

At 3:12 p.m., her phone pinged.

JAYCE: You okay?

MEL: You texted me first.

JAYCE: Of course I did. I know you.

She chewed her lip, fingers hovering.

MEL: I’m still not used to the quiet.

JAYCE: I know. I keep going to her room to check what scheme she’s up to now before I remember.

JAYCE: I was thinking of making dinner. Just… for us. No pressure. Mama gave me the recipe for that pasta she likes.

MEL: She’s not here.

JAYCE: I know. But maybe we can still eat like we’re a family.

Mel stared at that message for a long time. Not because it surprised her, but because of how much it didn’t.

They were a family. The lines had blurred a thousand times, shifted and rearranged, but they never really disappeared. Even on their worst days, they had been a unit. Even when they fought. Even when they broke.

She didn’t reply, but she showed up at his apartment at seven, carrying a rare whiskey her parents swore by and a box of her favorite dark chocolate.

He opened the door with a smile that was a little too soft for her heart to handle. She stepped inside, breathing in the scent of basil and garlic, and let herself be part of something that almost felt like home.

They ate on his balcony, the air warm with the first real signs of spring. Jayce talked about a new clean-tech accelerator he was mentoring. Mel told him about a ridiculous client who tried to cite an “emotional support monkey” in a court filing.

She laughed. He reached over to brush something from the corner of her mouth. She froze.

Their eyes met. The air went still.

Jayce’s hand hovered, then fell away.

“I should go,” she said, too quickly.

He nodded, like he didn’t want to make it harder.

He walked her to the door, and this time, neither of them touched.

But when she lay awake that night, staring at her ceiling, Mel couldn’t stop hearing his voice from the balcony—low, unguarded, warm.

‘Maybe we can still eat like we’re a family.’

She hated how much it still made her ache.

…

Kanara came home the next morning, cheeks slightly flushed from too much sugar and not enough sleep, dragging her overnight bag behind her like a defeated soldier.

Jayce was already at Mel’s apartment when the car pulled up. He’d stopped by to discuss a contract he was offered in partnership, and Mel had offered him coffee she didn’t plan to drink but still stocked up on for him.

The front door opened, and their daughter ran in like she hadn’t been gone two nights but a month, or a year. She flung her arms around Mel’s waist and then did the same to Jayce with a sleepy murmur of “Hi, Daddy.”

Jayce caught her easily, lifting her just enough to kiss her temple before setting her down.

“Have fun?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“I didn’t sleep at all,” she whispered. “Ava’s house smells weird. Like oranges. But not the good kind.”

Mel’s smile tugged at the edges. “Synthetic citrus?”

“Worse. Fake sin-the-tic citrus.”

Jayce chuckled. “That sounds tragic.”

She nodded solemnly, pulling away and flopping onto the couch. “Also, they don’t put chocolate chips on their pancakes.”

Mel and Jayce exchanged a look—one of those long-practiced parental glances laced with amusement and silent understanding.

“She asked about you two,” Kanara said suddenly, flipping over onto her stomach. “If you were still in love.”

Mel stiffened. Jayce sat slowly.

“What did you say?” Mel asked carefully.

Their daughter shrugged. “I said you’re not married but you kind of love each other. Like… in the way GranBear is still my favorite toy, even if I don’t carry her every day anymore.”

Silence.

Jayce stared at the floor. Mel swallowed.

“That’s… very poetic,” Jayce murmured after a beat.

“I’m eight,” she said, proud. “I read poetry now.”

Mel reached over to brush a curl from her daughter’s cheek, her heart suddenly heavier than it had been all morning.

“You’re very observant,” she said softly.

“I just think you both look sad when the other one goes.” Nara buried her face in the pillow and added, “Also you talk nicer when you’re in the same room.”

Mel met Jayce’s gaze. And this time, neither of them looked away.

5. The Fight (8.5y)

It started with a school brochure.

Glossy. Heavy-stock. The kind of folder that screamed prestige and privilege. Mel found it tucked into Kanara’s backpack after pickup one afternoon, between a crumpled spelling test with an ‘A+’ and a half-eaten bag of dried strawberries.

“Summerbridge Academy?” she said aloud, frowning. “Where did you get this?”

Her daughter shrugged from the passenger seat. “Mrs. Lavelle passed them out. She said some of us might get invited to the placement track if our grades are good.”

Mel knew Summerbridge. Legacy school. Uniforms, equestrian electives, trust-fund children named things like Caspian and Arabella. Her mother had nearly sent her there before deciding Mel would fare better at the Orlon Institute in The Blessed Isles, where at least the social cannibalism had polish.

By the time she brought it up with Jayce that weekend—while they were out with Nara at the park—he surprised her by saying, “Maybe it’s worth considering.”

Mel turned toward him, her sunglasses slipping down her nose.

“You’re joking.”

Jayce glanced at their daughter, who was racing toward the monkey bars with a friend, then back at Mel. “It’s just a brochure.”

“It’s a pipeline. Into the same world that chewed me up for years.”

“Mel,” he said carefully, “it’s one of the best schools in Runeterra.”

“For whom?”

Jayce stiffened. “For her. Maybe.”

Mel folded her arms, the sharp bite in her voice rising before she could smooth it down. “She’s half you and half me. She’s brilliant, creative, and stubborn as hell. I’m not putting her in a school where she’s the only girl like her in every classroom.”

“I just think—”

“That we should buy our way into respectability?” she snapped. “Jayce, she’s already learning she has to prove herself just to be treated like she belongs. I will not put her somewhere that makes it worse.”

Jayce’s jaw clenched. “So what do you suggest? That we coddle her? That we lower the bar because the world is hard? You’ve always been so unwilling to even bend when it comes to her and screw whatever I think.”

She blinks. Jayce never talks to her like this. 

“No,” Mel said belatedly. “That we raise her with pride. That we make sure no one treats her like she’s lucky to be included. That starts with us. I am unyielding because I don’t want her prepared to hinge her entire worth on anyone else. Not like I was for years, Jayce.”

Kanara turned then, glancing at them from the jungle gym, sensing it—the change in the air like the world itself was holding its breath, the tightness in their posture, the storm brewing in her parents’ tone even if she couldn’t hear their words.

Mel softened for a second, guilt flickering through her.

But Jayce pressed on. “You don’t get to decide this alone.”

“And you think I am?” she bit back. “You think I haven’t asked myself a thousand times how to protect her? What to give her, what to withhold?”

Jayce exhaled, hard. “I’m not the enemy, Mel.”

She breathes trying to swallow the words she’s been holding back for years but-

“No,” she said. “You’re just the one who left without a fight.”

He froze.

The silence was too loud after that.

Kanara approached slowly, uncertainly. She didn’t say anything, just reached for her mother’s hand.

“I’m tired,” she mumbled. “Can we go home?”

Mel nodded without looking at Jayce.

“Of course.”

She didn’t speak to him when he walked them to the car. Didn’t speak when he opened the door. Didn’t even glance back.

The slam of the door was too final.

She cried when she got home.

Not the pretty kind, either. The ugly kind. Silent, choking sobs, face pressed into the side of the couch after she sent her daughter off to her room with a snack and a quiet promise of movie night.

She hated that Jayce could still get to her. Hated that he always had.

Ten minutes later, the doorbell rang.

She didn’t answer it right away. She thought about pretending she wasn’t home.

But something in her chest—stupid, stubborn—knew it was him.

Mel opened the door.

Jayce stood there with a bouquet of flowers in his hand. Wild, unarranged. Like he’d rushed into the nearest market and grabbed whatever looked vaguely apologetic.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he said immediately. “But I’m sorry.”

Mel didn’t speak.

“I hate fighting with you,” he added, stepping closer, holding out the flowers like an offering. “I hate making you cry.”

Her lip trembled before she could stop it. She turned her face away and sat on the nearest surface, but Jayce stepped into the apartment, dropped to one knee beside her chair, and looked up like he was praying.

“Mel,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “Please.”

Her breath caught.

“I can’t stand hurting you,” he said. “I’d rather cut out my own goddamn heart, but we will have disagreements in how we raise Anara. It’s normal.”

Tears pooled again, blurring the sharp lines of his face. She looked at him—at the messy hair, the flushed cheeks, the fear in his amber eyes that their daughter inherited—and hated how much she still wanted him to stay.

Jayce reached up, cupped her face in both hands.

They were inches apart. His eyes searched hers.

She didn’t pull away.

Her voice came out hoarse. Barely there.

“Not yet.”

It shattered him.

But he didn’t kiss her. Not yet. He just let his forehead rest against hers for a moment longer.

And for now, that was enough.

Interlude V: In the Quiet After (8.5y)

The next morning, Kanara watched her mother make tea with the same expression she used when observing frogs at the botanical garden—half curiosity, half concern.

Mel’s movements were careful. Too careful. As if any sharp sound might crack the floor beneath her.

“Are you mad at Daddy?” Kanara asked, perched on a stool with a slice of toast she’d barely touched.

Mel paused, fingers around the handle of her cup. “No.”

“But you were fighting.”

“We disagreed.” She sat across from her, cupping her daughter’s umber cheek. “Sometimes that happens, even between people who care about each other.”

“But you cried.”

Mel’s throat tightened.

She considered lying. Instead, she chose the gentler truth.

“Yes, I did.”

“Because of him?”

Mel hesitated. “Because… it’s hard, sometimes. Loving someone who doesn’t always see things the way you do.”

Kanara was quiet for a long moment.

Then: “I heard you say he left.”

Mel’s spine straightened.

“You weren’t supposed to hear that,” she said softly.

“I know.” She looked down at her toast. “But you still said it.”

Mel reached across the table, taking her daughter’s hand in hers. “Your dad loves you more than anything. And we both love you enough to fight for what we believe is best. Even if that hurts sometimes.”

Her daughter frowned. “I think you both forget I’m watching.”

That landed deeper than anything else.

Mel nodded slowly. “I won’t forget again.”

Then she kissed daughter’s forehead and tried not to cry.

Interlude V, Continued: Bruised (8.5y)

Jayce looked like hell.

He wasn’t bleeding or limping—nothing dramatic like that. But Caitlyn noticed the way he kept wringing his hands under the table. The way he stared at the untouched coffee in front of him like it might answer for his sins. And Viktor—ever observant—just slowly lowered his book and sighed.

“Oh no,” he said. “What did you do this time?”

Jayce didn’t answer right away. Just let his eyes drop to the table, shoulders hunched like he was trying to fold himself smaller. As if shrinking might soften whatever guilt clung to him.

“She won’t talk to me,” he said at last.

Cait exchanged a glance with Viktor, who arched an eyebrow and pushed the book aside to focus on his tea, clearly deciding to let this one play out with minimal emotional investment—at least for now.

“What happened?” Caitlyn asked gently.

Jayce ran a hand through his hair, eyes tired. “We fought. About a school. Summerbridge.”

“The prep one?” Viktor asked, glancing up now with faint recognition. “With the uniforms and the weekly polo matches?”

Jayce gave a hollow laugh. “Probably. Yeah.”

Cait blinked. “Wait, for Nara?”

Jayce nodded.

“Oh,” she said, drawing out the word, understanding dawning. “Mel must’ve loved that.”

Jayce flinched. “Yeah. She was… furious. Said it was a pipeline into a world that hurt her. That she didn’t want our daughter to grow up feeling like she had to perform to be accepted.”

“She’s not wrong,” Viktor offered mildly.

“I know,” Jayce said immediately. “I know that. I just—God, it was a brochure. I wasn’t saying we should sign the papers tomorrow, I just thought—maybe we should look.”

“And you told her that?” Cait asked.

Jayce hesitated. “I tried. But it escalated. Fast.”

He looked up then, eyes raw. “She said I left without a fight. Back then.”

Caitlyn’s face softened. “Oof.”

Viktor frowned. “That is not nothing.”

Jayce leaned forward, bracing his arms on the table. “I didn’t even know she thought that. I thought… I thought I was giving her space. Respecting her boundaries. But maybe I was just scared.”

“Of her?” Cait asked.

“Of losing her more than I already had.”

There was a long silence after that.

Finally, Viktor set his cup down with a small clink. “You know,” he said, “Mel is not a puzzle you get to solve once and never revisit. She’s not a blueprint or an equation. She evolves. And she doesn’t forget.”

Jayce swallowed hard. “I know.”

“She still let you back in,” Caitlyn reminded him. “She didn’t have to. Could’ve just been a frosty co-parenting situation but it’s not. You two built something again. You don’t come back from a breakup while raising a kid together and still look at each other the way you two do unless there’s still something there. That means something.”

Jayce nodded slowly. “She opened the door. Even after that fight, she let me in. I said I was sorry. I brought flowers. Like a complete idiot.”

“That’s not idiotic,” Cait said. “That’s called trying.”

“She said ‘not yet,’” Jayce whispered, and for a moment, his voice nearly broke again. “She didn’t say ‘never.’ But gods, it felt like… like she was holding the whole ocean back just to not fall apart in front of me.”

Viktor tilted his head. “Maybe that’s the point. She’s still letting you see it.”

Jayce looked up, startled.

Caitlyn nodded. “She’s still choosing to let you in. Even if she’s hurting. Even if she’s scared. That says a lot.”

Jayce blinked hard, rubbed at his eyes. “I don’t want to fight with her. I hate it.”

“No one likes fighting with the person they love,” Viktor said, “but it means you both care. That’s the hard part, Jayce. Not getting back together—but staying. Showing up. Fighting well.”

“Fighting fair,” Caitlyn added. “And not forgetting she’s not just your partner. She’s a mother protecting her daughter’s future. A woman with her own scars. A whole person.”

Jayce let out a breath, shaky but steadier than before.

“I’ll do better,” he said softly. “I have to.”

Vik smiled faintly and nudged his arm. “Start with listening. Then maybe ditch the Summerbridge idea.”

“And never mention polo around her again,” Cait added with a smirk.

Jayce laughed, barely—but it was a real sound. Small. Wounded. Hopeful.

“She still looked at me like she didn’t want me to go,” he said. “Even when she told me not yet.”

“Then don’t go,” Caitlyn said simply. “Just be patient.”

Jayce sat back in his seat, hands folded now, calmer.

He didn’t have a plan. Not really. But he had a truth in his chest that wouldn’t let him give up.

He loved her. Fiercely. Flaws and fire and all.

And he wasn’t going anywhere.

+1: The One Time They Do (8.5y)

It was late when she arrived.

The kind of late that swallowed the world in silence, when even the city felt like it was holding its breath.

Mel stood at Jayce’s doorstep, her curls wet with rain, mascara faintly smudged beneath her eyes. She wasn’t wearing heels. No jewelry. Just an old hoodie over a silk blouse and the look of someone who couldn’t pretend anymore.

Jayce opened the door in a soft, worn jogger, no shirt and bare feet.

He blinked, stunned.

“Mel?”

She didn’t answer.

He reached for a towel, wrapped it around her shoulders with reverence, his fingers lingering at her collarbone like he was afraid she’d vanish.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Her voice cracked.

“No.”

He didn’t ask more. Just pulled her in.

She clung to him, soaked through, her cheek pressed to his chest like she needed to memorize the rhythm of his heart again.

“I can’t stop missing you,” she whispered.

His breath caught.

“I miss you too.”

She looked up.

And then she kissed him.

There was no hesitation this time. No stuttered pullback, no guilt. Just her mouth on his and his arms around her like he’d never let go again.

They stumbled back into the apartment. Rain dripped from her hair to his chest, to the floor, to the space between them. He kissed her like he remembered every version of her—the poised politician, the fierce mother, the woman who used to laugh into his neck in the dark.

Her fingers curled into his hair.

“Tell me you still want me,” she whispered.

His forehead pressed against hers. “I never stopped.”

They found the couch together. It was messy—kisses punctuated by breathless laughter, the tearing of wet clothes, the pause to make sure she was still sure.

She was.

She always had been.

He kissed her like a promise. She held him like a prayer.

And when it was over, when she lay tangled with him on the cushions with her head on his chest and her fingers tracing the line of his ribs, she said, “This doesn’t fix everything.”

“I know,” he said.

“But it’s something.”

He kissed the top of her head.

“It’s everything.”

Epilogue: Ten Candles

The backyard was filled with ribbons of pink and gold.

Streamers rustled gently in the breeze above tables stacked with pastel cupcakes and glittered punch cups. The scent of jasmine and frosting hung in the air as the sun dipped low, catching the laughter of children darting between garden hedges and balloon arches.

A decade.

Jayce still couldn’t believe it. Their Kanara—ten years old today, dancing barefoot on the lawn in a sequined dress, her curls catching the sunlight like spun bronze.

She was radiant. And she was theirs.

Mel stood a few steps away, one hand resting against the small of her back, the other pressed just above the curve of her belly—round now, undeniable. Her ring glinted in the light: a custom-made design with subtle Noxian craftsmanship, Jayce’s handiwork hidden in the metalwork, a tiny Hextech core suspended at its center like a captured sun.

She was radiant, too.

Jayce couldn’t look away.

“Still in awe?” Viktor asked, stepping up beside him with a grin, one of Sky’s arms around his waist for a quick squeeze. She smiled and handed Jayce a cup of lemonade before retreating toward the snack table to help organize the gifts.

“Every damn day,” Jayce murmured.

“Good.” Viktor’s smile softened. “You earned this.”

Across the lawn, his mother Ximena—elegant as ever in a blue shawl and gold earrings—held court at one of the shaded tables, correcting someone’s pronunciation of cóctel de camarón while sipping a paloma.

Ambessa, all commanding presence and amused smirks, stood like a fortress behind the children’s table, arms crossed as she oversaw the birthday cake being brought out like a military maneuver. Beside her, one of Mel’s fathers, Azizi —diplomatic, gentle—offered a napkin to one of the kids who’d smudged frosting on her cheek.

Rudo, the scientist and Mel’s other father, hovered by the drink station, gently explaining the sugar content of different juices to a group of fascinated ten-year-olds while Kino helped pin a blindfold on the birthday girl for an elaborate game of piñata that somehow involved holograms.

Elora, ever the stylish godmother, had shown up with a designer tote full of personalized gifts and matching earrings for her “favourite niece named Kanara”. Caitlyn, in crisp linen and a shy smile, had just arrived from a patrol shift and was already pulling Jayce into a hug.

It should have been overwhelming.

Instead, it felt… right.

A web of family and found family. Of bruised love healed over. Of roots that had taken hold and flowered into something unshakably strong.

Their daughter let out a victorious cheer as she landed a hit on the piñata, sending a shower of candy down onto the grass.

Mel laughed. Her laugh was different now—lower, freer, fuller in her belly. The baby inside her kicked once, and she paused, hand resting over her dress. She looked up to find Jayce watching her.

She smiled.

He came to her then, slipping behind her and wrapping both arms around her front, one hand on her belly, the other across her hips. Her head tipped back against his shoulder.

“Ten,” she whispered.

“I know,” he murmured. “You made a whole decade of her.”

“We did.”

He kissed her temple, then again, lower, against the corner of her jaw.

Kanara turned just in time to catch the moment, her gaze squinting in mock horror. “Ewwww!”

Jayce laughed into Mel’s shoulder. Mel turned, pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“You’d better get used to it,” she called out, hand resting firmly over her stomach. “There’s going to be more of us soon.”

Their daughter crossed her arms, a candy bracelet looped three times around her wrist. “Only if I get to help name him.”

“Or her,” Mel corrected.

Ten year old grinned, her father’s dimples showing up. “Deal.”

Jayce looked around: at his mother, at Viktor pretending not to cry as Sky braided their daughter’s hair, at Ambessa standing with one hand on Rudo’s shoulder and her other gesturing at something to Kino, at Elora tugging Lest into a slow spin under the fairy lights strung across the fence.

And then at Mel.

His fiancée. His partner. The woman who had once shoved him out the door and still let him back in.

“I love you,” he whispered.

Mel turned her face to his, eyes glittering. “I know.”