You stir the angel hair pasta, the creamy garlic Alfredo coating each strand. Your black dress hugs your six-month bump, soft and flowing, and the scent of garlic bread and fresh salad fills the kitchen. Rowan had striking dark hair and eyes like her father; Sawyer’s light hair and gentle eyes mirrored your own. Nagini lay coiled beside them, calm and watchful.

The front door clicks open, and the girls squeal, running toward him. “Daddy!” they yell, their excitement filling the hallway. You set down Tom’s drink — black coffee with a hint of sugar and cinnamon — on the counter. He steps inside, tall and composed, scanning the room before his eyes soften when they land on you.

“Dinner smells… perfect,” he says, voice low and steady. He kneels to ruffle Rowan’s dark hair, then brushes a strand of light hair from Sawyer’s face. The girls laugh, holding onto him tightly.

“Come help set the table,” he says quietly. They squeal in agreement and hurry to grab plates and utensils. Nagini shifts slightly, keeping a careful eye on them.

You watch as he guides Rowan and Sawyer to place each plate precisely. He smiles faintly when Rowan sets the salad bowl just right and when Sawyer lays out the garlic bread with care.

Once the table is ready, he steps closer to you, hand resting gently on the small of your back. He leans down, pressing a soft, fleeting kiss to your temple. The house hums with warmth, the quiet rhythm of family life held together by his steady presence.