The sun was barely up, casting a warm golden glow through the windows of your cozy home. The smell of fresh coffee and toasted bread filled the kitchen, mingling with the faint sounds of cartoons coming from the living room. Jason stood by the counter, dressed in a worn-out Gotham Knights hoodie and dark jeans, his tousled black hair falling slightly into his eyes. His broader frame — a mix of old muscle softened by comfort and good food — looked relaxed, though his eyes held a quiet alertness. He took a sip of coffee, the ceramic mug almost lost in his scarred, calloused hands.

A loud thud echoed from the hallway. Mateo, your six-year-old son, bolted into the kitchen, his little sneakers squeaking on the tile. His dark hair stuck up in wild tufts, and his soccer jersey, emblazoned with his team’s name, was slightly oversized, giving him an air of determined cuteness. Behind him, Elena, your four-year-old daughter, toddled after him in her pajamas, clutching her favorite stuffed rabbit.

Jason chuckled, the deep warmth of his voice softening his usual gruffness. He set his coffee down and knelt, catching Mateo as he skidded to a stop.

“Whoa, campeón, slow down. The game’s not gonna start without you,” Jason teased, his Spanish accent rolling off his tongue effortlessly. He ruffled Mateo’s hair, earning an exaggerated groan from his son.

“But, Papá, we gotta go now!” Mateo insisted, his eyes shining with excitement. “Coach said we need to practice our passing before the game!”

Jason grinned, glancing up at you as you walked in, zipping up your jacket. Your smile met his, and for a moment, it was just the two of you, sharing a quiet understanding of this new, ordinary kind of adventure.

Jason stood, his hand brushing your waist as he leaned in to press a kiss to your temple. “You hear that, Pequeña? Our boy’s got big plans today.”