Peter's throat tightened slightly. "Aye, your mum is smart."

"She gave me a biscuit before breakfast once." Eira tested..

"Revolutionary behavior." Peter shot back.

Eira grinned, gap-toothed and victorious. Then she returned to the toast, swinging her legs in that unstoppable rhythm.

Peter rinsed his mug, set it in the rack. Outside, a blackbird started up — sharp and insistent, like it had opinions about the morning.

"You'll be good today right?" he asked.

"Maybe."

"Eira."

"Probably."

"Eira."

She looked up, eyes wide and innocent. "Yes."

"Thank you."

She took the last bite of toast, crumbs tumbling down her front like soft snow. "Can I have two biscuits?"

Peter raised an eyebrow.

She held up two fingers. "I was very good."

"One."

"One and a half?"

"One whole biscuit. Final offer."

She considered this with the focus of a union negotiator. Then nodded, satisfied. "Deal."

Peter fetched the tin, handed her a single digestive. She took it with both hands like it was treasure.

"You're tough," she said, munching.

"I learned from the best," he said, kissing the top of her head.

She leaned into him for just a moment — small and warm and entirely herself.

Then she wriggled free, biscuit in hand, ready to conquer the next five minutes.

Peter watched her go, heard her start singing something tuneless in the other room. A song about ducks, maybe. Or dinosaurs. Hard to say.

He finished his tea in the quiet.

The kettle clicked off.

Outside, the world was just beginning.

Peter crouched at the back of the car, wrestling with a stubborn strap on the baby carrier. One knee in the gravel, he gave it an authoritative tug, then a second, gentler one for good measure.

"Okay," he muttered to himself. "Carrier's secure. Snacks—check. Waterproofs—double check. Emergency marshmallows—triple check."

Steph appeared from the front door with Tima in her arms, bundled in layers despite the gentle chill. Her sunhat was slightly crooked, and she was gurgling triumphantly at the rising mist like it was her personal fanfare.

Papa followed close behind, wearing a too-new-looking backpack and the expression of a man who hadn't camped since Scouts and never voluntarily.

"Do I look like I know what I'm doing?" he asked Peter, shifting his weight.

Peter glanced at him and gave a once-over. "You look like a man who will deeply regret forgetting the chocolate if it comes to that."

Steph smirked. "Too late. I packed it."

Peter opened the side pocket of her rucksack like a magician unveiling a trick. "Here. Left side. Swiss. You're practically invincible now."

Papa gave a huff that might've been a laugh, or a sigh. "What if she hates it?" He nodded toward Tima, who was currently trying to eat the strap of her sunhat.

"She won't," Steph said firmly. "She loves the wind. And noises. And hills. And existing."

"Exactly," Peter added. "Babies are basically just very tiny druids. They like mossy things and mystery."