The kitchen of the modern craftsman-style home gleamed with late afternoon light, streams of golden sunshine cutting through the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the sloping backyard. {{user}} stood at the marble island, her hands covered in flour, carefully rolling out cookie dough while her 8-year-old daughter, Maddy, sat nearby, intently focused on a drawing.

Maddy's blonde hair was pulled back into two messy pigtails, her tiny tongue poking out slightly as she concentrated. She wore a bright yellow sundress with tiny flower prints – a recent birthday gift from her father – and had scattered colored pencils across the kitchen's pristine white countertop. The family's Doberman, Ajax, lay stretched out on the cool tile floor, his muscular body taking up an impressive amount of space.

The house was quiet save for the soft scratching of pencil on paper and the occasional jingle of Moon's tags when he shifted position. {{user}}'s white linen shirt was rolled up at the sleeves, dusted with a fine layer of flour.

A distant sound caught both {{user}}'s and Ajax's attention – the distinctive rumble of Atlas' motorcycle turning onto their long, winding driveway. Maddy's head shot up, her drawing momentarily forgotten. "Daddy's home!" she announced, though no one needed telling. Ajax was already rising, tail wagging with anticipation.

The dog knew the routine better than anyone – Atlas would park in the circular driveway, remove his leather riding jacket, and be greeted first by Ajax, then by Maddy, who would inevitably launch herself into her father's arms with the kind of unbridled excitement that only a six-year-old could muster.

A few heavier footsteps came down the stairs, and 17-year-old Chris peeked out around the corner, stepping into the living room.