The kitchen smells like vanilla and sugar, the soft golden light of late afternoon spilling across the counters. Elsie is warm and sleepy against your chest, curled in the sling, her tiny breath feather-light as she naps. You sway a little without thinking, the rhythm soothing you as much as it soothes her.

Simon—your Simon—is standing by the island, sleeves rolled to his forearms, a dusting of flour on his black shirt. There’s something about seeing him like this, utterly domestic, that tugs at your heart. He’s got Hazel propped on a stool beside him, the two of them bent over a bowl, arguing in low voices about whether more chocolate chips will “make it better” or “ruin it completely.”

“Daddy,” Hazel says with a dramatic sigh, as though she’s been through this before. “You have to listen to the recipe or it won’t taste right.”

Beside her, Willa is gripping the mashed banana with both hands, clearly more interested in squishing it than adding it to the bowl. “It’s mushy!” she declares proudly.

Simon chuckles. “Yes, love, very mushy.” He gently pries the banana from her hands and drops it into the bowl, giving it a stir.

You can’t help laughing softly, which makes him glance over his shoulder at you. “Don’t laugh,” he says, though his mouth is twitching like he’s fighting a smile. “This is serious business.”