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The living room of the modest Woodside house had been thoroughly claimed for movie night. Soft lamps glowed, every available blanket had been dragged into service, and the television screen glowed with the familiar opening credits of *Dwight in Shining Armor*.
Hexela reclined against Baldric on the long couch, her head on his shoulder, one hand lazily playing with the edge of his sleeve. Baldric looked far too smug about the arrangement. On the oversized armchair, Gretta and Dwight shared a blanket, her warrior posture softened just enough that she was practically tucked under his arm. Chlodwig sat cross-legged on the floor cushions beside Phoebe from the pie cart, offering her yet another slice of Swiss apple while she laughed at his formal “fair Phoebe” declarations. Nana occupied the far end of the couch with a bowl of flaxseed cupcakes on one knee and a bag of popcorn on the other, looking like the happiest woman in Woodside.
They had already howled through the pilot, groaned at Jacopo’s lute, and argued over whether Peanut had ever truly been “just a dog.” Now the screen shifted to Season 4, Episode 5: “Smooch.”
On-screen Dwight was cheerfully filming a social-media video for Hexela’s salon. The real Hexela snorted so hard she nearly choked on popcorn.
“Look at my face. I was trying so hard to look mysterious and professional.” Hexela laughed
Baldric chuckled. “You looked like a woman who had just discovered social media and immediately regretted every life choice that led her there.”
The magical lip balm did its work. One by one, Gretta, Hexela, and Nana shimmered into goats—bleating, hoof-stomping, thoroughly undignified goats. The living-room audience lost it.
Nana nearly spilled her cupcakes. “I still remember the taste of that grass. Absolutely dreadful. And the way people kept trying to pet me!”
Goat-Gretta on screen butted Baldric’s leg while goat-Hexela attempted to nibble a curtain. Real Gretta buried her face against Dwight’s shoulder, shoulders shaking with laughter.
“I am never letting either of you live this down,” she declared.
Dwight grinned. “Hey, you made a pretty cute goat. Very majestic. Very… goatly.”
“Dwight.”
“I’m just saying. The little beard was a nice touch.”
Gretta elbowed him. He only laughed harder.
The episode continued. On-screen Dwight, Baldric, and Kirk the Berserker scrambled to find a counter-spell, tracking down the Contrarian whose handwriting looked like it had been written by a caffeinated squirrel. The living-room crowd watched with fond exasperation as the three of them struggled to decipher the instructions before the “goatness” became permanent.
Then came the final step.
On screen, Baldric read the last line aloud with visible reluctance: the counter-spell required a kiss—specifically a kiss with romantic hopes—to break the goat curse. Dwight’s face went through several interesting shades of red. He hesitated, looked at goat-Gretta, and finally admitted (very quietly and very awkwardly) that the hopes were real. The kiss that followed was brief, slightly panicked, and somehow still sweet. Goat-Gretta bleated once, shimmered, and turned back into a very flustered princess.
In the living room, real Gretta and Dwight both froze.
A long, mortifying silence stretched.
“So,” Phoebe said brightly, trying and failing not to grin, “that was the romantic-hopes kiss, huh?”
Dwight’s ears went scarlet. “It was for the spell. Scientific. Magical science.”
Gretta stared determinedly at the ceiling. “It was a tactical decision. Nothing more.”
Hexela smirked. “You two are still the worst liars I have ever met. And I once dated a man who claimed he was only ‘borrowing’ a dragon.”
Baldric cleared his throat. “For the record, the Contrarian’s instructions were very clear. Romantic hopes were required. Half-hearted hopes would not have worked.”
“Baldric,” Dwight said through gritted teeth, “you are not helping.”
Chlodwig raised his pie slice like a toast. “I thought it was quite moving. In a goat-related sort of way.”
Nana reached over and patted Dwight’s knee. “You were very brave, sweetheart. Kissing a goat for love is not something every young man would do.”
Gretta made a strangled sound and buried her face in the blanket. Dwight looked like he wanted the couch to swallow him whole. The rest of the room dissolved into laughter again.
When the episode ended and the credits rolled, the mood softened. On screen, Kirk the Berserker had been right there through the whole crisis—yelling about goats, offering questionable Viking advice, and somehow making the chaos feel a little less lonely.
Dwight was the first to speak. “I miss Kirk.”
Everyone went quiet for a moment.
“I do too,” Gretta admitted. “He was ridiculous. And loud. And constantly trying to start a berserker rage over the smallest things. But he was… ours.”
Baldric nodded. “The man once tried to challenge a toaster to single combat. And yet when the situation was truly dire, he never hesitated.”
Hexela smiled faintly. “He called me ‘lady fair’ even when I was a goat. That takes a certain kind of commitment.”
Chlodwig sighed dramatically. “I never got to duel him. A great tragedy of my life.”
Phoebe nudged him. “You could still yell ‘GOATS!’ at random moments if it makes you feel better.”
Nana wiped a crumb from the corner of her mouth. “He was a good soul. Loud, invisible to half the room, and completely devoted. We were lucky to have him for a while.”
Dwight looked at the blank screen where Kirk’s ghostly form had just faded. “Yeah. We really were.”
For a moment no one spoke. Then Gretta, still a little pink from the earlier embarrassment, reached over and laced her fingers with Dwight’s under the blanket. He squeezed back.
Hexela settled more comfortably against Baldric. Chlodwig offered Phoebe the last bite of pie. Nana passed around the remaining flaxseed cupcakes like a peace offering to the universe.
They stayed right where they were—wrapped in blankets, pressed close to the people who had become family—content to let the next episode wait a little longer. The night was still young, the popcorn still warm, and somewhere, if they listened carefully, they could almost hear a distant Viking voice declaring war on whatever snack dared to exist without him.