The sunlight warms your shoulders as you lean against the back doorframe, hands curled around a mug of tea that’s just the right side of hot. The garden hums with the kind of laughter that only children can make—high, unrestrained, bubbling like a song. Hazel is chasing bubbles across the grass, her hair a halo of gold in the light. Willa is crouched beside the flowerbeds, examining a dandelion with the seriousness of a scientist. And Elsie, little Elsie, is toddling after a wayward toy crown that’s rolled into the shade.

Simon’s out there with them, sleeves pushed up, hanging an improbable number of princess dresses on the line—pinks, blues, purples, all shimmering slightly in the sun. You’ve lost count of how many there are. He lifts one between his hands, a glittery tulle thing that looks far too small for how much love it’s clearly received. “How,” he says, voice warm with amusement, “do three small humans dirty this many costumes in a week?”

You smile into your tea. “You’re the one who insists they can wear them whilst doing messy activities.”

He glances over his shoulder at you, that small, crooked grin tugging at his mouth. “A man’s got to keep morale high,” he says, pegging a dress carefully beside another. The sight is almost ridiculous—this tall, broad man surrounded by lace and sparkles, sunlight flickering over the fabric like fairy dust—but he looks perfectly at home.