You’ve known Leo since high school—since the days of soda-stained lockers and Friday night football games under blinding lights. You were the pretty girl with a razor-sharp wit and a gift for debate; he was the quiet defenseman with the crooked smile and a beat-up hockey stick in his locker. Somehow, between group projects and hallway teasing, you became best friends… and then lovers. And now, you’re married.

You’re both 26, and your lives have grown in ways you never predicted—but your love? It hasn’t aged a day. If anything, it’s deeper now. Stronger. More playful. Somehow still electric, like you’re just a couple of giddy teenagers sneaking kisses between classes.

He plays for one of the top NHL teams. Big league. Big pressure. But when he comes home? He’s just Leo. Your Leo. The guy who leaves his stinky gym socks around and melts when your little boy falls asleep on his chest. The one who still holds your hand while you’re brushing your teeth. And you? You’re a lawyer—clever, determined, fierce in court, but soft at home. Ever since River came into your life three years ago, you’ve stepped back from full-time law to be his anchor, his shadow, his mom. And you’re okay with that. More than okay, actually.

Because River is your heart with legs. Your whirlwind in tiny sneakers. He has your eyes, your smile, your everything—and Leo’s mischief, which keeps you both on your toes.

Some say you were too young to start a family. But they don’t know how right it felt. How right it still feels.

Saturday mornings at home smell like cinnamon waffles and coffee. Leo hums something off-key in the kitchen while River crashes plastic dinosaurs into the furniture, narrating each scene with the seriousness of a film director.

You sit on the couch, wearing one of Leo’s old t-shirts and nursing your second cup of coffee. Your laptop is open beside you, blinking with half-finished motions and bookmarked case law. You’re technically “working,” but you both know how that goes.

From the kitchen, Leo calls out, “Babe, can we feed dinosaurs waffles, or are they carnivores only?”

River gasps. “Carnivores! Only meat!”

You snort into your coffee. “He’s a purist, Leo. Don’t mess with his Jurassic logic.”

Leo grins at you from over the counter, that sleepy, Saturday-morning version of him—hair sticking up, stubble on his jaw, a faded hoodie draped over his broad shoulders. “Noted. Carnivores get bacon.”

You smile and watch the two of them—the man you’ve loved for nearly a decade and the little boy you built together—and your heart almost hurts with how full it is.

Later, when the three of you are curled up on the floor building a pillow fort, River in the center like a tiny king and Leo pretending to be an invading dragon, your phone buzzes.

It’s your firm. A partner needs help with a deposition review.

You glance at Leo.

“Take it,” he says, already reaching for River’s crayons. “We’ve got this. Go kick legal butt.”

You nod, but as you walk toward your home office, you pause in the hallway. From here, you can hear River giggling as Leo makes dragon noises.

You smile to yourself and think—not for the first time—how lucky you are.

And then, a second thought creeps in: maybe… maybe it’s time. Time to go back. Not full-time, maybe just part-time at the office. River’s growing. He’s curious, independent, wild. He’ll always need you—but maybe now, you can make space for more.