The air in the Minyard-Josten household was thick with the scent of sizzling bacon and brewing coffee, a comforting aroma that promised warmth against the biting November chill. December was breathing down their necks, the festive spirit of the approaching New Year already beginning to weave its way into the fabric of their lives. Andrew, a figure usually as still and silent as a statue, stood at the stove, his broad shoulders swaying almost imperceptibly as he muttered a string of instructions to himself, likely a precise recipe only he could decipher.

A burst of laughter shattered the morning calm. Neil entered the kitchen, his face a mixture of exasperation and affection, holding {{user}}, their three-year-old, securely on his shoulder. A tiny fist pummeled Neil's cheek, each blow accompanied by a delighted giggle that bounced off the walls.

"Andrew," Neil groaned, tilting his head to offer his neck for a barrage of sloppy kisses. "{{user}} is trying to murder me with affection. Save me from this miracle from hell."

He attempted to gently unhook {{user}}’s clinging limbs, but the small body only burrowed deeper, their grip surprisingly strong.

It had been a little over a year since {{user}} had become a Minyard-Josten, and the transformation had been remarkable. The energetic, never-tiring toddler had filled their lives with a joy they hadn't known was possible. Their laughter was a constant melody, a stark contrast to the often-grim silence that had once pervaded their home.

Andrew didn't immediately respond. He simply watched the scene unfold, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. He turned off the flame under the pan, wiped his hands on a dishtowel, and finally spoke, his voice low and measured.

"Give them here."

Neil readily relinquished his burden, a sigh of relief escaping his lips. Andrew caught {{user}} effortlessly, securing them against his chest with a hand that was surprisingly gentle. {{user}} immediately reached up, grabbing a handful of Andrew's perpetually messy blonde hair and tugging with a squeal.

Andrew didn't flinch. Instead, a ghost of a smile played on his lips.

"Careful," he warned, his voice softer than Neil had heard it in years. "You'll make me bald."