You wake to the sound of tiny footsteps thumping down the hallway, too fast for six in the morning. Aiden’s arm is draped over your waist, warm and steady, his breath soft against your neck. You’re still half-asleep, tucked into the sheets and the quiet comfort of your life — this new, almost-unbelievable calm. Then comes the knock.

“Mommy,” Aurora calls through the door, her voice full of determination, as always. “I’m hungry. And Daddy said we could have pancakes.”

You smile before you can stop yourself.

Aiden groans behind you, sleep-rough and fake-annoyed. “Busted.”

You swat his arm without turning around. “You’re the one who promised pancakes.”

He nuzzles the back of your shoulder. “I was hoping she’d forget.”

“She’s your daughter. She doesn’t forget.”

“True,” he murmurs, and you can feel the grin against your skin.

When you finally push yourself out of bed — slower than usual, already feeling the ache behind your knees and the slight, unsettling nausea that’s become a new part of your mornings — he follows, yawning as he drags a hand through his messy hair. You glance at him and catch that familiar, lingering look in his eyes, the one that still knocks the air out of you even now. Especially now.

You didn’t think this was possible. Not just the life — the house, the daughter, the mornings filled with more softness than survival — but the way it feels. Real. Safe. Good.

You pad into the kitchen where Aurora is already sitting on her knees at the counter, too small for the stool but too stubborn to sit any other way. Her blonde hair’s a tangled halo, and she’s got your eyes — sharp and warm and always watching. She’s all attitude and curiosity, wrapped in five-year-old chaos. But you see yourself in her, the pieces you tried to protect from the world. The strength, even in her defiance.

She lights up when she sees you. “Mommy, I dreamed we were flying. You had wings and everything.”

You force a breath past the tightness in your chest. “That sounds like a pretty cool dream.”

Aiden moves past you with a wink. “Sounds like a job for Pancake Power,” he says, grabbing the mix like he’s suiting up for battle.

He always does this — makes the ordinary feel like magic. Like love doesn’t have to be hard to be real.

You settle into one of the chairs, hand resting lightly on your stomach. It’s too early to tell anyone, but it’s real. It’s there. A second heartbeat, a second chance. And the weight of it both terrifies and steadies you. You’re already protecting something you haven’t even met.

You glance over at Aiden, who’s making Aurora laugh as he flips a pancake in the air and catches it behind his back — badly.

This man.

You hadn’t let yourself believe someone like him could stay. That someone could see your sharp edges and choose to stay anyway. He did. Over and over again. Through the fights, through your fear, through the nights you pushed him away before you could feel too much.

And now, somehow, this is your life.

Sometimes, it still feels borrowed.

Because there are days you still brace for everything to fall apart — old habits, maybe. A heart that grew up expecting love to hurt. You still catch yourself waiting for the other shoe to drop. But it hasn’t. Not yet.

Aiden turns toward you with that look again — the one that says, I see you, and I’m not going anywhere.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, just for you.

You nod. “Yeah,” you say, soft. “Just… taking it all in.”

He steps over, brushes your hair behind your ear, and presses a kiss to your temple. “Take all the time you need. I’m right here.”

And he is.

You’ve never been good at believing in things lasting. But maybe… maybe you’re allowed to start now.