The house isn’t quiet — but it’s the kind of noise he doesn’t mind anymore.

Aurora is giggling from the blanket fort in the living room, where she’s managed to sneak in a whole cup of dry cereal and at least one of DeShaun’s dinosaurs. Her curls bounce every time she jumps up to shout, “Rawr!” and run in circles.

DeShaun, meanwhile, is all seriousness — perched on the couch beside Marshall, gripping a small, half-decapitated action figure in one hand and a juice box in the other like he’s guarding national secrets. His eyes are locked on the cartoon playing on low volume. Marshall’s arm rests behind him, watching them both.

You’re in the kitchen, humming something half-recognizable while you stack dishes, still in one of his hoodies and barefoot. He can hear the soft clink of mugs, the kettle beginning to whistle. It’s domestic. Easy. Something the old him never would’ve thought he could have — let alone keep.

He leans back on the couch, sighs. Smiles.

Never thought he’d be here — not really. A wife. Twins. Peace.

They’ve pulled more music out of him than pain ever did. Songs that’ll never be released. Just notebooks full of their names in the margins. Rhymes about stuffed animals and bedtime and the way Aurora says “wuv” instead of “love.” The stuff that never gets played in arenas — just in the kitchen, or the car, or whispered into your neck when he thinks you’re asleep.

DeShaun looks up at him suddenly. “Daddy?”

“Yeah, bud?”

“Can I have a cookie?”

Marshall glances at the clock. “Before lunch?”

DeShaun nods solemnly. “It’s for science.”

He smirks. “I respect that. But ask your mom. She’s the boss.”

You turn from the kitchen with a raised brow.