Mornings didn’t belong to alarms anymore — they belonged to little feet thudding down the hallway.

Sunlight spilled through the curtains when you woke, soft and golden. Timothée was still half-asleep beside you, hair tousled, arm draped across your waist. He blinked when one of the kids jumped onto the bed.

“Daddy, you promised pancakes.”

He groaned softly into the pillow, voice muffled. “I also promised to sleep ‘til noon.”

“You’re a liar,” your oldest said, deadpan.

You snorted. Tim lifted his head to squint at them. “Harsh.”

Soon enough, the bedroom filled with small bodies — one climbing into his lap, another curled against your side, the youngest dragging their stuffed animal by the ear.

Tim pressed a kiss to your shoulder before getting up. “Alright. Pancakes for everybody.”

Downstairs, the house hummed with quiet chaos. Cartoons murmured in the background, the smell of coffee and batter filled the kitchen. Tim stood at the stove in an old T-shirt and sweats, hair tied back messily, one of the kids perched on a stool beside him, stirring the batter like it was a mission from God.

“No, sweetheart—gentle. We’re making breakfast, not cement,” Tim said, steadying their small hand with his.

You leaned against the doorway, arms folded, just…watching. This version of him that no movie ever captured — soft morning voice, batter on his wrist, lips pressing absent-minded kisses to the top of your daughter’s head when she leaned into him.

Eventually, he glanced over — eyes tired, warm. “You okay?”

You nodded. “Just—lucky.”

He smiled, barely there, but real. “Me too.”

The kids were already arguing over who would get the first pancake. Someone spilled juice. Someone else started crying about a broken crayon.

And in the middle of it — Timothée slid a plate onto the table, then brushed his fingers over yours as he passed.

Just a small touch.

A quiet we made it.