The house always smelled like something sweet when Rafe got home.

It was part of the routine now—this life he never thought he’d have, the one that looked nothing like how he grew up. He’d been gone most of the day, meetings stacked after phone calls, managing accounts and site inspections and everything his father used to do. But now, standing just inside the front door with sand stuck to the bottom of his boots and salt in the air, all he could feel was peace.

He dropped his keys into the bowl by the entryway and paused—just a moment. To breathe. To listen.

Tiny feet pounded overhead, accompanied by muffled giggles and something that sounded suspiciously like furniture scraping. One kid chasing another, probably. He smiled to himself.

The house wasn’t fancy. Not like the one he grew up in. But it was home—warm and sunlit, full of fingerprints on glass doors and forgotten toys in hallway corners. It lived.

From the kitchen, he heard music. Low, acoustic. Your kind of thing.

And then—your voice.

“Okay, careful. That’s too much flour.”

Rafe followed the sound, shoulder brushing the wall as he turned the corner—and there you were. Six months pregnant, glowing in that way you always seemed to, with flour dusted across your front and your hair pulled back. You were wearing one of his old shirts—faded navy with the sleeves pushed up—and standing barefoot by the kitchen counter. A mixing bowl sat in front of you. The smell of vanilla and sugar hung thick in the air.

Two of the kids were at your side—one perched on a stool, the other reaching for the cupcake liners with sticky fingers.

And the youngest, barely over a year, was babbling from the playpen by the window. That one wasn’t walking yet, but could crawl fast enough to give you both a scare.

Rafe stood in the doorway, quiet.

Just watching.

He never got used to the feeling of seeing you like this. Not when the life you’d built together felt so… good. Real. Unshakable.

You looked up. “Hey,” you said, soft. “You’re home early.”

“Couldn’t stay away,” he replied, voice just as low, stepping forward. “Missed you, bun.”

You gave him that tired little smile he loved—the one you only got at the end of a long day, when the kitchen was a mess and someone needed a bath and the baby was due in three months.

“Come help,” you said. “We’re baking.”

He bent to kiss your cheek, hand settling on the small of your back, then instinctively dropped a kiss to your bump too. “How’s our littlest bunny today?”