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The morning after a hard-won victory is always a delicate thing.
Sometimes, you wake up with a black eye and a hangover.
Sometimes, you wake up with a new scar, a mysterious debt, or an existential crisis.
And sometimes, you wake up in bed between your longtime girlfriend and your former apprentice while your best friend and part-time paladin calls up the stairs to let you know the coffee's on.
I blinked at the ceiling. Which, problematically, was a well-constructed ceiling. No water stains. No cracks. No ghostly residue of past violent deaths.
This was Michael Carpenter's ceiling.
Alright. Not catastrophic. I had woken up here before. Usually, after a party or an ass-kicking. Sometimes both. Generally, Charity would throw a blanket over me with all the maternal fondness of someone covering a corpse in the street and hope I left before breakfast.
The second sign something was off was the warmth.
Two distinct, human-shaped sources of warmth.
On either side of me.
One of whom was currently snuggling into my chest.
I swallowed.
Very cautiously, I lifted my arm.
Blonde hair.
Oh, hell.
Molly let out a tiny, contented sigh and nuzzled closer.
OH HELL.
I started to move. Which was, in hindsight, a mistake. Because the other source of warmth moved too, shifting against me, a leg lazily tangling with mine, a sleepy breath against my shoulder.
"Mmm… morning," came a voice I knew very well.
I turned my head.
Murphy cracked one eye open, blinked at me—then past me—then took in the entire situation.
I braced for impact.
Her fist curled. A reflex.
Then—
She smiled.
Not a smirk. Not a you're about to hit the mat, Dresden grin.
A real smile.
Oh, no.
"Murph?" I croaked.
She stretched, leaned up, pressed a chaste kiss to my jaw. "Good morning, Harry."
"Good morning?!"
Molly stirred. "Mmm… warm…"
"Nope!" I yelped, launching upright like a corpse jolted by a defibrillator.
Which went about as well as you'd expect, given I was entangled with two women who were apparently just fine with all of this.
I lost my balance, yelped again, and promptly crashed to the floor, dragging half the blanket with me.
Thud.
Pain.
Laughter.
Murphy peered over the edge of the bed, smirking. "Smooth, champ."
"What. Just. Happened?"
Molly rolled onto her stomach, chin propped on her hands. "You celebrated. We celebrated."
Murphy nodded. "Extensively."
I flailed at the bed. "Why were we—"
"Because," Molly said, matter-of-factly, "Michael said there was one bed left, and we could figure it out like adults."
"And we did," Murphy added. "Sort of."
"Sort of?!"
Molly grinned. "You kept trying to sleep on the floor."
Murphy shrugged. "You're a gentleman, but you're also an idiot. We figured you'd be less of one if we just pinned you down."
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
From downstairs—
"Harry! Coffee's ready!"
Michael Carpenter. Former Knight of the Cross. Calling up to me like it was just another perfectly normal morning.
He had to know how this looked.
A rustling sound from the doorway. I turned my head just in time to see one of Michael's younger kids peeking in, freezing, gasping dramatically, and scampering away.
Oh great. Perfect.
Murphy sighed, stood, stretched. "Come on. Let's get coffee before Charity decides we've desecrated her sheets and exorcises us with bleach."
Molly hopped up too, impish. "You're cute when you panic, boss."
"Not helping!"
Molly kissed my cheek. "Never do."
I was still sitting on the floor, reevaluating every life choice I'd ever made, when I heard a snrk from my pocket.
Bob.
"Don't you say a word," I hissed.
Bob's glow flickered with barely-contained glee. "You know, boss, I was gonna make a joke, but…"
He paused. Milked the silence.
Then:
"…nah, you got this."
And that was the moment I officially gave up on everything.
I groaned.
And went downstairs for coffee.