The house smells like butter and rosemary and something sweet you can’t quite name baking in the oven. You’re standing in the kitchen doorway, watching Christmas dinner be made without having to move a muscle.

Simon is at the hob, barefoot on the wooden floor, sleeves pushed up, moving with that quiet, intent focus of his. Elsie is tucked snugly against his chest in the wrap, warm and cosy, her tiny cheek pressed just beneath his collarbone. Every so often, she makes a soft newborn sound—more breaths or grunts than noise—and Simon stills immediately, one hand flattening over her back until she settles again.

Hazel and Willa orbit him in a blur of energy.

Hazel, the chaos that she is at five years old, tears past with a plastic crown sliding lopsided on her head. “Dad, look!” she shouts, even though she’s already halfway across the room, trainers skidding against the floor.

Willa, three and determined to be louder than her older sister, barrels after her, socks slipping as she laughs so hard she almost cries. “Run run run!” she chants, the words tumbling over each other.

“Careful,” Simon says without a second thought, voice calm and unhurried. He reaches out with his foot and gently blocks Willa just before she collides with the counter. “Kitchen rules.”