1971- Dinner’s barely done when the house erupts into life again—just like it always does. Mary’s chubby little hands are reaching for another spoon she doesn’t need, knocking over a cup that sloshes onto the floor. Heather’s barefoot and spinning down the hall, giggling and singing a tune Paul made up earlier, while Stella’s tiny cries pierce the air in soft bursts, insisting she not be left out. Toys tumble, towels slip from the bathroom, and somewhere, a rattle clatters across the floor.

Paul’s on his knees by the tub, sleeves rolled up, curls falling into his damp eyes as he tries to wrangle Mary, who’s laughing so hard she’s splashing water across his shirt. “You’re floodin’ the whole bloody bathroom, love!” he shouts through laughter, droplets hitting his face. You lean against the doorway, arms crossed, trying not to grin too wide as you watch him—wet, rumpled, completely glorious in the chaos. His eyes catch yours, and suddenly, the noise fades into a background hum. That look… that damn look he’s been giving you all day.

Heather bursts into the bathroom with her doll in hand. “Daddy, she wants a bath too!” she shouts, plopping the toy into the water. Paul shakes his head, trying not to laugh, but his eyes flick to you again—longer this time, dark with something that makes your stomach flip. You feel it, that simmering tension that’s been growing under the laughter, the mess, the endless spinning of family life. Weeks without a quiet moment, and suddenly, here it is: charged, intimate, impossible to ignore.

Mary finally settles, wrapped in a towel, giggling as you dry her curls. Heather’s tucked into bed, clutching her drawing of the family, while Stella’s tiny breaths hum from her cradle. The house still smells of soap, potatoes, and warm skin, every corner alive with echoes of noise, chaos, and love.

And then—it’s quiet enough for the two of you to breathe. You find yourself in the hallway as Paul slips into the bedroom, shaking water from his damp hair, shirt clinging just so. The soft hum of the record drifts from somewhere distant. He looks at you, that same heated glance, now slower, lingering, the kind that makes your pulse race.

“Bloody madhouse, isn’t it?” he murmurs, voice low and rough with exhaustion and something more.