The house was still quiet when you woke up—just the faint creak of the floorboards and the hum of the old coffee maker in the kitchen. You blinked against the soft morning light spilling through the curtains, stretching as your fingers brushed the empty space beside you.

Colin was already up. He always was.

The scent of pancakes led you down the hall. You peeked into the kitchen to find him standing at the stove in sweats and an old t-shirt, spatula in one hand, baby monitor clipped to his waistband. Your four-year-old son sat at the counter, swinging his legs and concentrating hard on coloring a dinosaur in green crayon.

“There she is,” Colin said without turning around, like he’d sensed you. “Thought I’d let you sleep in. Baby’s still down.”

You stepped in quietly, leaning against the doorway, just watching them—your boy chattering about his drawing, Colin nodding along, flipping pancakes with one hand while gently brushing a crayon off the counter with the other. It was messy and warm and a little chaotic, but it was home.

When he finally turned around to look at you, his eyes softened.

“Coffee’s ready,” he said, and you knew he meant more than that.

And somehow, just like every Sunday before, that was all you needed.