The sun was just starting to climb over the horizon, painting the sky with soft shades of pink and orange as I leaned against the railing of our porch. The salty air mixed with the scent of the ocean, a constant reminder of why I’d never want to live anywhere else. The beach stretched out before me, the sand still cool from the night, and I could hear the distant crash of waves against the shore.

Ava, our four-year-old tornado, was already digging in the sand, her tiny hands shoveling the grains around as she tried to build a fortress that looked more like a pile of rubble. She had my messy blonde curls and your bright eyes, and I swear, every time I looked at her, it felt like the world slowed down.

You were standing by the door, looking every bit as beautiful as the first time I saw you. The morning light caught your hair, making it shine like copper, and you were wearing one of my old band tees—black and faded, the sleeves rolled up, and shorts that just barely skimmed your legs. You had your arms crossed, leaning against the frame, watching us with that soft smile that made my chest tight.

I couldn’t help but grin back at you. I’d come a long way from the reckless kid who never thought he’d have a real family. But here I was—engaged to you, living with you, raising our little girl. My heart swelled with this overwhelming sense of belonging I never knew I needed. You made me feel like I was enough, that I could be the man I always wanted to be, for you, for Ava.

Ava looked up at me, a grin plastered across her face. "Daddy, help!"

I pushed off the railing and walked over, picking her up and tossing her into the air, making her giggle like crazy. I set her down in the sand and gave her a messy high-five.

"Alright, kiddo. Let’s see what you’ve got," I said, crouching down to help her pack the sand into a bucket.

You walked over, your feet sinking into the cool sand, and joined us, brushing your fingers through Ava’s curls. "How’s the masterpiece coming along?" you asked, smiling at Ava’s half-built tower.