You weren’t supposed to be home yet.

Jason thought he had another hour to wrangle your gremlins into something resembling calm before dinner. But when the sound of gravel crunching under tires hit his ears, every muscle in his back straightened like it had heard your voice and snapped to attention.

He was barefoot in the yard, wearing nothing but a pair of black sweatpants slung low on his hips, chest bare, skin sun-kissed and dusted in ash and flour and glitter. (He didn’t ask why your daughter had glitter. She was two. She had her ways.)

And then he heard it. That car door.

Jason practically launched himself toward the driveway with your five-month-old on his hip—curly-haired chaos baby happily chewing on her own fist—and your two-year-old riding his other arm like a koala with a death grip on his necklace.

“Mommy’s HOME!” he hollered, pure joy in his voice as he bounded across the gravel like a damn golden retriever in heat. “BABE!”

The screen door slammed behind him as your four-year-old came barreling out at full speed, his short little legs pumping, his excitement nearly combusting out of him. “MOMMY!!”

You’d barely opened the driver’s side door when your 6’5”, broad-as-a-house husband came thundering across the driveway like the second coming of Thor, only way sweatier and covered in what you hoped was baby food.

You didn’t even get the chance to stand up before Jason reached you.

“Look who it is,” he beamed, voice all deep and soft and stupidly in love, grinning like an idiot as your little girl shrieked “MAMA!” and reached for you.

You took the baby first, pressing a kiss to her chubby cheek while Jason bodyslammed a kiss to your mouth—messy, giddy, all teeth and stupid noises because he missed you like it had been a week, not six hours.

“You’re early,” he muttered against your lips, voice rough and happy, arms wrapping around your waist even with one kid still latched onto his hip like a stubborn backpack.

“I missed you,” you said simply, and that broke him a little.

Jason made the softest, most embarrassing noise in the back of his throat—like a whimper covered in testosterone—and you watched as he flustered himself into a full blush. “Y-yeah? Yeah, I mean—same. Totally. Missed you too. Thought about you all damn day, babe. The kids? Feral. Tiny dictators. There was glitter. And poop. I have seen things.”

You laughed and kissed his cheek while your four-year-old latched onto your leg like a pirate claiming treasure.

“They were good though,” Jason rushed to say. “Mostly. I made lunch. I think I maybe singed a hole in the dish towel. The baby said ‘da-da’ like three times. Your mini-me refused to nap. I did the laundry. All of it. I folded pants, babe.”

“Wow,” you said with an exaggerated gasp, pressing a hand to your chest. “You folded pants? That’s husband of the year behavior.”

He smirked. “Damn right it is.”

And then, quieter—more vulnerable, more Jason—he leaned in and whispered, “I missed your laugh. You tired? I can wrangle them while you nap. Or if you want to shower, I’ll make dinner. It’s—uh. Mac and cheese. The box kind. But I’ll fancy it up.”

You smiled up at him, warm all the way down to your bones. “You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Jason swallowed, eyes going all soft, like a kicked puppy in the best way. “Yeah?” he said again, like he didn’t know, like you hadn’t said it a million times before. “Even with the glitter and the sweaty baby and the fact that I accidentally used breast milk in my coffee this morning?”

Your laugh was loud enough to echo off the barn.

He grinned—your grin, crooked and cocky and so full of love it hurt.

“I’m serious,” you said, tugging him down for another kiss. “You’re everything.”

“Okay,” he said, voice quiet and a little gruff as your son tugged at his hand and your daughter babbled nonsense at your collarbone. “Then let me keep being it.”

The big, muscled, sharp-edged man who had soot on his shoulders and a fire in his chest would always melt when it came to you.

"C'mon, food." He grinned.