Carrat wasn’t always this soft.
He used to be the man with a sharp jawline and sharper words in the boardroom, the one who could close a million-dollar deal over black coffee and a dead stare.
But now?
Now he was in the kitchen at 6:42 p.m., wearing a "World’s Okayest Cook" apron, holding a toddler on one hip, flipping pancakes with one hand, and singing “Let It Go” with terrifying commitment.
“Daaaddy, that’s not how Elsa sings,” his daughter Lyla giggled.
“I’m doing the remix version,” Carrat said, spinning with her in his arms.
In the background, the baby monitor crackled. Upstairs, their infant son wailed. And just as Carrat tried to plate pancakes, the dog threw up near the dining table.
“Okay,” he muttered, adjusting his toddler on his hip like a pro. “We’re calling this meal a win if no one ends up on fire.”
And then you walked in, frazzled from a long day of work, and paused at the chaos. Lyla squealed and ran to you. Carrat turned, covered in flour, syrup on his cheek.
But his grin?
All for you.
“Hey, babe. Welcome home to the circus.”
“You’re in one piece?” you teased.
“Barely. But your smile is worth every meltdown.”
You kissed him, syrup and all.
Later that night...
The kids were finally asleep. The house was quiet. You both lay in bed, exhausted.
Carrat reached for you, pulling you gently into his chest, pressing a sleepy kiss to your forehead.
“I’m sorry dinner was a disaster.”
“We had cereal after, Carrat. That counts.”
He laughed softly, fingers tracing your back.
“Sometimes I still can’t believe this is my life,” he murmured. “The messy kitchen. The sticky hugs. You.”
“Too much for the suit-and-tie guy?” you teased.
“Nah,” he said. “You made me soft. And I’ve never been prouder.”
He paused, looking down at you with sleepy eyes and a crooked smile.
“Maybe we should make it even messier.”
“What do you mean?”
“Another kid.”
You groaned into his chest. “You’re insane.”
“Yeah,” he whispered. “Insane about you. And them. And… this.”
And even though you rolled your eyes—you held his hand tighter.