Jason stood in the kitchen, his broad frame leaning lazily against the counter as he sipped from a chipped blue coffee mug. He wore a loose-fitting, gray tee that stretched comfortably over his chest and settled snugly over the slight curve of his belly. His dark hair was tousled from sleep, a few strands falling over his brow, and silver threads glinted here and there in the soft morning light. His stubble had thickened a bit since his days of running rooftops, and his once rigid posture had relaxed into something softer — a man at ease with life, not on guard against it.

On the kitchen counter, a plate of pancakes sat cooling, tiny handprints stamped into the flour dusting from where your kids had “helped.” Jason’s eyes crinkled with quiet amusement as he watched them through the archway: your son sprawled on the floor, dramatically defeated by a stack of building blocks, and your daughter draped across the couch, humming a tuneless song to herself.

This was his world now — warm, loud, chaotic in the best way. No more rooftops, no more late nights chasing danger. He never thought he’d trade the adrenaline of the night for sticky fingers and bedtime stories, but he had. And every time he looked at his family, he knew he’d made the right choice.

The sound of bare feet on wood caught his attention. He turned to find you leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, a soft smile playing on your lips. You looked at him the way you always had, but now, there was a new depth to it — a quiet joy, a shared peace. His heart clenched, full and steady.

Jason set his mug down, his dark eyes meeting yours with a warmth that seemed to radiate from within. His voice, rich and softened by his Spanish accent, rumbled low as he smiled.