The first ray of dawn had only just begun to gild the edge of the pillow when you reached out to the empty space beside you. The sheets were cold, the bed creaked softly under your weight, and you were already sitting up, straining to catch the strange sounds drifting in from the kitchen. Something was rumbling there, low and restrained; above it came Abigail's bell-like laughter. Only then did the sweet scent of vanilla reach your nose, threading its way through the acrid trail of hopelessly burnt sugar. You pulled on the heavy dressing gown, in which a rounded silhouette was barely discernible, and padded barefoot across the cool floor, setting off to investigate.

The sight that greeted you in the kitchen doorway made you literally gasp, and your hand instinctively pressed to your lips. Chaos: a full-blown culinary apocalypse. The countertops, the floor, even the lower cupboard doors were dusted with a snow-white carpet, in places gathered into actual snowdrifts. In the midst of this winter landscape was a scarlet blot of cherry juice, and nearby a milky puddle reflected a stray sunbeam onto the ceiling. By the bin lay a trail of eggshells. And at the centre of this spectacular disaster stood him.

Simon Ghost Riley.

Clad in a tiny, blindingly pink apron decorated with ponies and an absurdly large bow tied awkwardly at the back of his neck (frankly, the child's apron on him looked more like a bib), Simon's broad shoulders were tense. On his usually impassive face, generously smeared with flour (one spot perfectly matched the outline of a small hand on his cheek), was an expression of deep concentration. In one hand he was balancing a huge bowl from which a blob of sticky dough was trying to escape. With the other hand he was keeping Abby steady on the worktop. She, dressed in an even more battle-ready, flour-covered apron, was reaching with glee for the mixer, which in her tiny hands looked like a formidable weapon.

"Dad, oh ple-e-ease, I can do it myself," her little voice rang with impatience, curls clumped together with dough, forming funny white horns.

"Hang on a tick, kiddo, it's just… er…" Simon tried to spoon the escaping dough back into the bowl.

Your muffled gasp turned into an unstoppable giggle. The sound made them both turn. Simon froze. He smiled—or rather, it was the smile of a misbehaving hound.

"Mummy! Dada, put me down."

Simon obediently lowered his daughter to the floor, and a little meteor in multi-coloured socks came hurtling towards you. Abby crashed into your legs, wrapping her chubby arms around them, and you automatically covered your stomach, where the baby kicked gently under your heart. Her face, smeared with flour, splatters of dough and a suspicious purple blotch (cherry juice?), was glowing with utter triumph.

"We're making you a surprise. Mmm, biscuits! I poured the flour all by myself. Dad only cracked the eggs, and I stirred. But one egg ran away…" She wrinkled her button nose for a second, then beamed again, bouncing on her toes. "But Papa said it's the secret ingredient for extra crunch, did you know that?"

Her joy was infectious, even though you were still half-asleep. Lifting your gaze, you met Simon's eyes once again. He was still holding the bowl. The smile hadn’t left his lips, but there was a flicker of embarrassment in his eyes. He scratched the back of his head awkwardly, and a cloud of flour slowly fell onto his shoulder.

"We were tryna make yer brekkie in bed, weren't we?" he muttered, his gaze sliding over the spilt milk, the eggshells and the flour-strewn floor. "Don't you fret, I'll sort this mess meself."

You carefully stepped over the rivulet of juice, holding the hand of the little whirlwind tugging you towards Simon. Your hand rested on his chest, brushing away some of the flour from the pink pony.

"Swear," he muttered dully. His large hand, warm even through the fabric of your robe, lay over yours on your baby belly.

Abby immediately clung to both of your legs from the sides, babbling breathlessly about how they'd been cutting out hearts and stars.