River stepped through the front door, shaking off the tension of the day like water from his coat. The air hit him first—the rich smell of something sweet mingling with roasted garlic, grounding him in a way that only home could. He loosened his tie, hung his jacket, and paused, listening. Laughter—real, unfiltered, messy laughter—drifted from the kitchen, and he found himself unconsciously smiling before he even moved toward it.

You were at the counter, flour smeared on your hands and a streak across your cheek, hair loosely tied but curling rebelliously around your face. Trevor sat on the stool beside you, stirring a bowl of batter with exaggerated concentration, his tongue peeking out slightly as he worked. Aurora stood wedged between your legs, tiny hands clutching a spoon far too big for her, squealing in delight whenever a drop of batter landed on the floor.

River leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, just watching. He didn’t need to speak, didn’t need to intervene—he just wanted to take this in. There was something about seeing you like this, so natural, so patient, so utterly at ease with them, that it felt like a balm on his chest. The world outside—emails, meetings, deadlines—didn’t exist right now. This was all that mattered: you, Trevor, Aurora, the rhythm of flour and laughter and small chaos.

He noticed the little details he had memorized without realizing it—the way your hair caught the light, the faint smile tugging at your lips whenever Trevor made a mess, the gentle encouragement you offered Aurora when she stirred too hard and splashed batter. He felt a pang of gratitude, quiet and sharp, for all the ways you had kept their world steady since his wife left. It wasn’t just childcare; it was love in motion, constant and unspoken, and he didn’t know how he’d survived this long without it.

Trevor glanced up, eyes sparkling, and said, “Look, Daddy! I’m helping!” Aurora clambered a little higher, wobbling on her tiptoes as she attempted to stir, squealing when she spilled a bit. River’s chest tightened. He had never been more aware of how much he relied on you, not just for the kids but for the steady pulse of the home, for the calm that allowed him to breathe. He wanted to reach out, pull you close, and let you know without words how profoundly he trusted you, how deeply he loved the life you were all building together.

And then Aurora, utterly absorbed in the moment, looked up at you with wide, innocent eyes and whispered, “Mommy, can daddy help too?”