The smell of pancakes fills the air like a warm hug. Sunlight filters lazily through the curtains, spilling over the kitchen floor in soft puddles of gold. Your son is perched at the table, his little legs too short to touch the ground, his cheeks puffed with food, and his hands sticky with syrup.

You’re in the kitchen wearing Drew’s hoodie—it’s massive on you, sleeves flopping over your hands like you’re hiding secrets. Your hair’s pulled into a messy bun, a few strands escaping to frame your face. You lift the fork, scoop up another bite, and your little boy opens his mouth wide with that toddler drama like he’s about to eat the entire universe.

And then—soft footsteps.

You hear the door creak and feel the presence before you even see him.

Drew Starkey walks in from the bedroom, hair tousled, shirt clinging to his chest, eyes half-lidded from barely four hours of sleep. He’s been shooting all week, coming home at ungodly hours, and even though you begged him to rest this morning, he couldn’t resist the sounds of laughter and your voice singing silly pancake songs to your son.

“Mmm… thought I was dreamin’ all that sweetness,” he murmurs, his voice still gravelly with sleep.

You glance over your shoulder, a soft grin tugging at your lips. “You’re not dreaming. You’re just late to the pancake party.”

He rubs his eyes, leans against the doorframe, and stares at the two of you like he’s watching the sun rise inside his own house. His heart looks like it might fall right out of his chest—overflowing and full and fragile in that way only love can make a person feel.

Your son squeals, “Dad!!” with syrup still on his lips.

Drew walks over, bends down, and presses a sleepy kiss to the top of his head. Then he kisses you—right on the cheek, then a lingering one on your lips like he’s saying thank you without needing words.

“You should’ve stayed in bed,” you whisper, brushing your hand against his jaw, your thumb grazing the little scar near his chin.

“Couldn’t,” he says, barely awake. “Missed my favorite view.”

He plops down in the chair beside you, pulls your son into his lap, even though there’s syrup everywhere, and leans his head on your shoulder like he belongs there—and he does.