"Actually," she said slowly, "after the November matches... I was wondering if maybe I could get some space for practice at that big estate? Just a small area, nothing fancy. Somewhere I could train when I visit."

I considered this. The estate was massive—obscenely so. We'd built a full golf course on the grounds and still had space that we hadn't figured out what to do with yet. Space for Jasmine's shooting range was more than possible.

It was trivial.

I didn't say anything. Just made a mental note to have it ready by the time she came back from her November matches. A proper facility. Professional grade. The kind of range that would make her teammates jealous and her training more effective than anything she could access through official channels.

Because I did not want to make her something small, apparently, excessive was one of my names now!

"Peter?" She waved a hand in front of my face. "You okay? You just... went somewhere."

"I'm fine." I smiled. "Just thinking."

"About what?"

"About how we can make it work."

She immediately jumped in, hands up like she was surrendering. "I only need a small space. Really. No need to build anything or make a big deal out of it—"

I shook my head, cutting her off with the kind of finality that came from having already made the decision. "Are you going to quit?"

She blinked. "What?"

"Shooting. Are you going to quit?"

"Hell no." The answer came fast, automatic, with the certainty that defined someone's identity rather than just their hobby.

I shrugged. "That's why you need a proper range. Not some improvised setup we throw together each time you visit. A real facility gives you freedom. You'd be able to decide if you want stay as long as you want at your conveniency without worrying about training. Come and go as needed. Treat it like a second home base. You can stay home as much as you want without worrying about the training your missing out like right now."

Jasmine opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again like a fish trying to figure out how breathing worked.

Madison chimed in before Jasmine could formulate a protest. "Fortunately, there's Soo-Jin. With her there, you two can train together."

Jasmine laughed—the kind of laugh that came from genuine amusement mixed with disbelief. "That child?"

Madison, Emma, and Sarah all laughed in response. Not at her. At what she didn't know yet.

They'd seen what Soo-Jin could do.

Feeling like she wasn't being heard, Jasmine pressed forward. "I'm serious. Are you guys really comparing that child to a national team prodigy like me?"

Emma set her fork down with exaggerated care. "Sorry if this sounds offensive, but we've seen you shoot, Aunt Jas. You're good. Really good." She paused for effect. "But Soo-Jin? That girl is on another level."

Jasmine's expression shifted from amused to offended in the space between heartbeats. "I'm on another level. I made the national team. I've competed internationally. I've—"

She started listing achievements like she was reciting a resume during a job interview where the interviewer had suggested she might not be qualified. World Cup rankings. Competition scores. Recognition from coaches who'd trained Olympic medalists.

It was impressive. Genuinely impressive.

"So, what does Soo-Jin have?" Jasmine finished, voice carrying that edge of someone whose professional credentials were being questioned by people who didn't understand the industry.

Emma shrugged with the casual cruelty only family members could deploy. "For starters? Soo-Jin saved us all from the shooting."

Jasmine's hand slammed down on the table hard enough to make silverware jump. Wine sloshed in glasses. "I saved Priya! And that slow drunk girl—Mia or whatever—when Tommy her boyfriend ran for his mother!"

"True," Emma acknowledged with infuriating calm. "You saved two people. Soo-Jin saved more than ten."

The silence that followed was the kind that happened when someone's credentials met someone else's results and the results won.

I caught Mom's eye across the table. That psychic dialogue parents and children develop after years of nonverbal communication. The look that said help me before this becomes a thing.

Mom cleared her throat with the authority of someone who'd been breaking up fights between these two for years. "The food's getting cold. And I have a reality TV show to catch."

Emma and Jasmine both subsided immediately—the universal response to maternal intervention that transcended age and achievement. They went back to eating, but the tension still hummed under the surface like a live wire wrapped in politeness.

Previously it was always like this when Jasmine came home. Emma and her would argue about anything, both reflexively taking opposite sides of every issue like it was a competitive sport.

Sarah and I would watch like spectators at a tennis match, occasionally offering commentary but mostly just enjoying the show until Mom got tired of it and deployed the mom voice that made everyone shut up and eat their vegetables.

The only difference now was that we were in a mansion instead of our cramped old house And Madison was here, watching the family dynamics with the fascinated attention of someone studying a foreign culture.

I couldn't help the smile that spread across my face—genuine, warm, the kind that came from a place in my chest that didn't calculate angles or measure advantages.

I loved my family.

The chaos. The arguments. The way Emma and Jasmine could go from zero to battlefield in under thirty seconds over nothing. The way Sarah would make dry observations that made everyone laugh even when they were trying to stay mad. The way Mom would end conflicts with the simple power of "I worked a double shift and I'm not listening to this."

Madison caught my expression and raised an eyebrow—a question.

I just shook my head, still smiling.

Some things didn't need explanation. Some moments were perfect exactly as they were—messy and loud and completely normal in ways that money couldn't buy and power couldn't manufacture.

This was one of them.

Family dinner. Arguments about shooting. Mom threatening to leave us all for reality TV. Emma being Emma. Jasmine defending her credentials against a teenager she'd just met but would absolutely lose to if they ever competed.

Normal.

Beautifully, perfectly, chaotically normal.

And I was going to savor every second of it before the next crisis hit and reminded me that normal was a luxury I couldn't afford for long.

But for now?

For now, I had my family, my home, and my mother's lasagna.

The rest of the world could wait.

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