Monica woke because the couch shifted.

Not dramatically. Just enough to register as wrong.

She kept her eyes closed, listening. The living room was quiet except for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the faint, steady breathing coming from the small room just off the living room—Tara’s room. Tara was asleep. That much, at least, was going according to plan.

Then something exhaled directly into Monica’s face.

She opened her eyes.

Howard the Panda was inches from her nose.

It took Monica a full second to process what she was seeing: the familiar stitched smile, the slightly lopsided ear, the unmistakable rise and fall of a stuffed animal that was absolutely not supposed to be breathing.

It was three in the morning.

She did not scream. Years of parenting—and marrying a wizard—had trained that instinct out of her. Instead, she stared back at the panda in exhausted silence.

This was what happened when you married a wizard.

She shifted carefully, and the couch responded by stabbing her lower back in a way that suggested personal betrayal. She’d been sleeping out here for a week—ever since the Gazing Orb, their magical version of a baby monitor, had cracked, sparked, and finally made a sound like a dying kettle before giving up entirely.

Until the replacement arrived, she’d stationed herself on the couch so she could hear Tara if she woke up. Tara’s crib sat in the small room just off the living room, close enough that Monica could hear every sigh, shuffle, and suspicious silence.

They couldn’t use a normal baby monitor. Adam had explained why. Monica had stopped listening somewhere around “interdimensional interception” and “minor entities with opinions.”

She missed her bed almost as much as she missed uninterrupted sleep.

The new Gazing Orb wouldn’t arrive for another five days. She was counting them like a prisoner marking scratches into the wall.

She glanced past the panda.

Sophie was asleep beside her.

Sophie lay sprawled across the couch with the relaxed confidence of someone who had never questioned whether she belonged there, one arm wrapped around Howard like a shield. Monica searched her memory and came up empty.

She had no recollection of Sophie coming out of her room.

Monica considered waking her, then decided she didn’t have the energy for that conversation. Carefully, she wedged herself into the remaining strip of couch and closed her eyes again.

After all, this was already the worst sleep arrangement imaginable.

What was one more complication?

Unfortunately, Sophie and James had been having the time of their lives all week.

They loved that Mom was sleeping on the couch.

They’d treated it as a personal challenge to invent new ways to wake her up. Some were mundane. Flicking on the overhead lights. Jumping directly onto her stomach. Standing inches from her face and whisper-screaming her name until she jolted awake with what Monica privately referred to as morning PTSD.

Others were magical.

There were the tiny electrical zaps—nothing dangerous, Adam had promised, which was exactly what someone said before something was dangerous. Once, a stuffed giraffe had animated itself and gently but relentlessly poked her cheek. Another time, a pillow had attempted to sing.

She no longer slept deeply enough to dream. She merely waited.

Some time later, Tara stirred.

Monica listened as Tara fussed softly in her crib, then settled back down on her own. Monica didn’t move. Experience had taught her that intervening too early was how you turned a brief noise into a full production.

Relieved, Monica finally let herself relax.

That was a mistake.

Tara woke properly not long after, her small cries cutting through the living room. Monica slid quietly off the couch and into the small room, soothed her back to sleep, and returned on autopilot.

Sophie was gone.

Monica stopped short, staring at the empty couch.

She scanned the room. No small footsteps. No whispering. No hovering panda.

Maybe she’d imagined it. Sleep deprivation did strange things to the brain.

She lay back down.

Two hours later, Tara woke again.

Monica went through the motions, comforted her, and returned to the living room already bracing herself.

Sophie was back.

This time she’d claimed nearly the entire couch, sprawled diagonally with territorial certainty. Monica twisted and folded herself into the remaining space, maneuvering with the flexibility of a jungle cat and the grace of a poorly trained gymnast.

She was almost comfortable.

That was when Sophie began to float.

Not dramatically. Not high. Just enough that her back lifted off the cushions. Howard remained firmly beneath her, as if this were a perfectly reasonable mode of transportation.

Monica held her breath as Sophie drifted out of the living room, riding her panda like a horse. Monica followed, too tired to be alarmed.

Sophie floated neatly back into her bed and settled down as though guided by invisible hands. After a moment, Monica tucked the blanket around her and smoothed her hair.

Then she returned to the couch.

Adam was going to have a lot to explain in the morning.

Specifically about wizard childhood powers.

And whether there was a parenting book.

Or at least a cheat sheet.

Because Monica was very sure this wasn’t covered in the normal baby manuals.

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