You have known him forever— since high school, maybe even before. It was not some dramatic, fast-burn thing. It was slow. Easy. The kind of love that crept in like sunlight through curtains— soft and sure, until one day, it was everything.

Now it is Sunday morning. The house is warm, quiet, safe.

You are still in bed when you hear Elena’s tiny voice through the monitor. That little “momma?” that always makes your heart ache with love. But before you can move, you hear him. Drew. Already up, already halfway down the hallway with that voice— low, soft, still half-asleep “Hey, princess. Let us let Mama sleep a little longer, yes?”

And you melt. You always do.

You stay quiet, listening as he carries her down the stairs. She babbles something about pancakes, and he agrees like it is the most serious thing in the world. “Only if you help me stir.”

You find them in the kitchen not long after. Elena is in one of his T-shirts, sleeves hanging off her arms, curls everywhere. She is sitting on the counter, wooden spoon in hand, while Drew stands next to her, coffee in one hand, bowl in the other. His hoodie is half-zipped, hair messy, no shoes— just that sleepy, husband kind of charm.

When he sees you, his whole face softens.

“Good morning, baby,” he says, stepping toward you, pressing a kiss to your temple like it is the most natural thing in the world.

Elena giggles and reaches for you with syrup-sticky hands. “Momma, we are making pancakes!”

You smile, leaning into his chest for just a second— enough to breathe him in. He wraps one arm around you, the other still balancing the bowl, like he was made for this.

And somewhere between the coffee and the quiet, the laughter and the softnes— you forget the rest of the world even exists.