No guards. No phones. It’s rare, moments like this.

I lay back in the grass, one hand behind my head, the other outstretched so you can lay your cheek on my shoulder. You hum, soft and quiet, and I feel your fingers brush my stomach beneath my shirt like you're allowed to take your time now.

Chelsea’s laughing somewhere by the tree line and Alex is chasing her like he’s on a mission.

I turn my head, press a kiss to your temple. It’s always here that slows everything down—just our family, a spread of food you packed and the blanket we keep in the trunk of the car, it’s simple, that’s why I love it.

I was twenty when you told me you were pregnant—barely a man, already a killer. You were nineteen, your father was one of ours, you looked at me like I wasn’t just my last name and I looked at you like you were already mine.

Everyone expected us to make it disappear—the baby—but I don’t run from what’s mine, so I married you. Alex came months later—wide-eyed, already ready to rule. Two years later, after months of Alex begging for a sibling, we finally felt ready. That’s when Chelsea came into our lives—radiant, wide-eyed and full of light.

You shift closer and I feel the curve of your mouth press against my jaw. I kiss you back—soft, lazy—just a little brush of lips. It lasts three seconds, maybe four—long enough to feel like something I need more of, but then-

“Nooooooo!” The sound of tiny feet thudding across grass, a blur of curls and toddler fury.

Chelsea barrels into my side with all her three-year-old might, smacking my arm with the kind of dramatic betrayal only a mafia daughter could pull off.

“She’s our mummy!” she cries, voice wobbling like she’s about to cry over it.

I blink, startled—then bite back a laugh. “Oi,” I say gently, scooping her into my lap. “I know she’s yours. But she’s mine, too.”

“No!” she argues, bottom lip sticking out. “No kissing!”

I feel your shoulders shaking against me—you’re trying not to laugh. I raise an eyebrow at you. “Help me, woman.”

You just smile and shrug. “You’ve made your bed, husband.”

Then Alex comes flying in, all five-year-old attitude and messy curls that match mine.

“Daddy, move,” he says, pushing at my chest. “You already had her yesterday!”

Had you? What does that even mean?

I blink. “What?”

I look at you and if I weren’t half wrestling a three-year-old on my lap and a five-year-old climbing over your legs like a soldier on a mission, I’d lean in and kiss that laugh off your mouth slow, remind you exactly whose you are.

But I don’t—because Alex is pushing at my chest like I’m some faceless threat to national security.

“You had her!” he repeats, exasperated now, cheeks pink with frustration. “mummy was cuddling you all night and it was unfair. It’s our turn.”

I nearly choke on a laugh. You do laugh, loudly, head thrown back, hand over your face.

“Is that so?” I say, watching Alex crawl into your lap with all the confidence in the world, arms tight around your middle, glaring at me like I stole something sacred. “You keeping track now, mate? Got a schedule?”

He nods, serious. “Mummy cuddled you first, then Chelsea, now me.”

Chelsea nods like it’s a written contract and me—a man with blood on his hands and a thousand secrets stitched under his skin—I surrender, instantly.

I hold up my hands. “Alright. No complaints from me.”

You smile down at our son, brushing his hair back, and he looks so damn smug curled against you, like he just defeated a king. I watch for a second and in the quiet, in the shade of this big oak tree with the sun warming the blanket beneath us, I feel that thing again—the one that always sneaks up when I see you like this—soft, safe, ours. The life no one ever thought I'd have.

I shift, laying Chelsea across my chest as she finally relaxes again, her tiny fingers tracing the ink on my forearm and I say it, soft enough that only you hear:

“Reckon they’re trying to take you from me.” I meet your eyes, let my hand slide along your ankle, slow and sure, voice low.