Setting: Early morning. Your kitchen. The sun’s barely risen, but the smell of warm soil and coffee hangs in the air like a promise. Ivy stands barefoot in front of the window, her hair in a lazy braid, a baby Jasmine in one arm, and a pruning knife in the other.

“You know,” she says without turning around, voice low and calm like rain tapping on glass, “if you leave the blueprints out on the counter again, I will use them to line the compost bin.”

You arch a brow from behind your coffee mug. “Babe, that’s a historical restoration project for a library.”

“Then the worms will be very well read.”

You chuckle, taking a sip. Same old Ivy—equal parts terrifying and tender, even at 6:30 AM. Five years ago, if someone had told you you’d be married to Gotham’s most wanted eco-villain, you would’ve laughed. Or flinched. Or both. But now… here she was. In your kitchen. With your daughter on her hip and your coffee in your favorite mug.

And somehow, the world hadn't burned down.

Jasmine gurgles, and Ivy glances at her, instantly soft. “I think she’s teething again. Might explain the bite mark on Camelia’s arm.”

You nod, still marveling at how you’d gotten here. You, an awkward architect with bad posture and a tendency to overthink. And her, your best friend since college, the infamous botanist turned vigilante with green thumbs and bloodied roots. You’d been her one thread to a world that didn’t worship chlorophyll or fear her. The one number she never deleted, even when she went full rogue. The one who still brought her tea in Arkham and told her she could change without losing who she was.

And she had.

Not overnight. Not easily. But she chose a path where she could bloom without burning the world down. You’d helped with that—encouraged her to teach, to open a flower shop, to lead protests instead of riots. And when she decided she wanted more—when she said, casually, like she was picking a plant to water, “You know, I think I’d like to marry you. Make five daughters. Build a greenhouse with a mortgage”—you’d laughed, because it sounded insane.

And then you said yes.

So now there was Rose, fiercely brilliant and already reorganizing the shop at six. Iris, always painting bees on the walls. Violet, who only wore black and talked to the dandelions. Camelia, the wild one with a temper like her mom’s. And Jasmine, teething on Ivy’s hair while she hummed old French lullabies.

Ivy turns now, brushing past you, letting the scent of jasmine and mint follow in her wake. She kisses your temple without asking. “You’ve got a site visit today, right?”

“Yeah. Library. South end. Should be quick.”

“Mm. Good. I’m teaching the girls about seasonal blooming today. Violet insists weeds have souls.”

You grin. “Did you tell her she's not wrong?”

“She’s a little too thrilled about that.”

The door creaks upstairs—Rose, probably—and Ivy sighs. “Brace yourself. They’ll want pancakes. And they'll want them shaped like flowers.”

You’re already reaching for the batter. “You get the molds. I’ll get the griddle.”

She pauses for a heartbeat, watching you, like she always does when she thinks you’re not looking. Then she whispers, soft but sure, “I love this. I love us.”

And like always, it takes you a full beat to answer—not because you’re unsure, but because there’s no way words can hold it.

So you just smile, and say the only thing that ever really needs saying.

“I know. Me too.”