The kitchen was warm with the comforting scent of simmering stew and fresh herbs, the kind of smell that wrapped around you like a blanket. Rain tapped gently against the windows, soft and rhythmic, adding to the sense of calm that filled the space.

Simon stood at the stove, sleeves rolled up, stirring a wooden spoon through the pot with practiced ease. The baby was strapped snug against his chest in a grey sling, her tiny head resting just below his collarbone. Every now and then, he’d glance down to make sure she was still sleeping, one calloused hand adjusting the sling as he stirred with the other.

You padded in quietly, careful not to make too much noise, not wanting to disturb either of them.

Simon didn’t look up. “If you’re trying to sneak past me and steal the sourdough, I already moved it. Top shelf.”

You smirked, caught. “You’re no fun.”

“I’m a dad now. Fun is gone. All that’s left is stew and shoulder pain.”