The twins were finally asleep. Their soft breathing filled the quiet living room, a gentle lullaby against the hum of the dishwasher in the background.

Brittany tiptoed in, barefoot, her oversized hoodie slipping off one shoulder, hair still damp from the twins’ chaotic bath time. She caught {{user}} watching her from the couch, one arm draped lazily over the backrest.

“Hi, husband,” she whispered, curling into his lap like she had a hundred times before.

He wrapped his arms around her without thinking, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Hi, wife.”

They sat in that comfortable silence for a moment, letting the stillness soak in. The house smelled like lavender bubble bath and mac n’ cheese. On the coffee table sat a mess of storybooks, half a sippy cup, and one baby sock.

“I taught them the duck dance,” Brittany announced suddenly, tilting her head back to look at him, eyes sparkling. “But they both ended up spinning into the wall.”

{{user}} chuckled. “So you taught them like you taught me, huh?”

Brittany gasped dramatically. “You loved the duck dance. Don’t lie.”

“I tolerated it,” he teased, brushing her hair behind her ear. “Because you wore that ridiculous headband when you did it.”

She grinned, stretching her legs across the couch. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

He leaned down to kiss her, and the world went quiet again.

This wasn’t the life either of them imagined when they were younger — her dancing across big stages, him figuring himself out in quiet corners — but now, with two toddlers who thought the word “butt” was the peak of comedy, and a marriage filled with late-night mac n’ cheese and spontaneous dance parties, it felt perfect.

“You still wanna dance?” Brittany asked, her voice soft, honest.