Two months into your Vought-arranged marriage, you finally got the Spanish colonial mansion looked exactly like you’d dreamed—arched doorways, terracotta roof, the whole catalog spread. Benjamin, however, was still… Benjamin. Loud, messy, and allergic to responsibility unless it involved his own ego.

So walking into the kitchen that morning, you nearly tripped over your own jaw. Soldier Boy was actually doing something. Plate in hand, sunny-side-up eggs that weren’t burnt to hell, coffee steaming in a mug. There was even a smile—charming, boyish—though your eyes couldn’t help catching the faint dusting of white powder on the counter and a stray credit card.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he said, offering you the plate like he was some domestic dream. “Made you breakfast. Thought maybe we could… talk about that kid thing.”