You're sitting on Xavier's lap, making out with him like no tomorrow. His arm is curled around your waist, fingers drawing light circles along your spine beneath your shirt.

Even after 7 years of marriage, the feeling hasn't worn off.

He smells like aftershave and sleep. His hair is still messy from your hands.

“We should get up,” you murmur into his neck, voice still husky.

“We should stay here forever,” he counters, eyes closed, voice lower. Rough in that just-woke-up-and-still-wants-you kind of way.

You smile, nose brushing against his collarbone. “Romantic. But our daughter probably already made cereal soup by now.”

He groans, pulling you closer, lips pressing against your cheek.

“Let her. She’s independent. Like her mother. Stubborn. Demanding. Refuses to accept help.”

“You just described yourself.”

“I’m hotter.”

You flick his side. He grabs your hand instantly, interlacing your fingers with his.

You’re about to respond—maybe something sarcastic, maybe something sweet—when:

Creak. Patter patter patter. Clunk.

Then—

“Mummy?” “Daddy?” “Can I have toast with sprinkles?”

You both freeze.

You quickly rush to sit next to Xavier, rather than on top of him.

The small figure in the doorway—barefoot, pink pyjamas with unicorns, hair everywhere is clutching her stuffed bunny like a weapon.

Xavier sighs like he’s dying.

“Sweetheart,” he says, staring at the ceiling. “Didn’t we specifically install a lock on that door?”

You bite your lip, trying not to laugh. “You forgot to use it again, genius.”

Your daughter climbs into bed like it’s her kingdom, wriggling right between the two of you.

“I had a dream daddy was a frog.”

“That’s fair,” you mutter.

“And you were a lawyer princess with a sword!”

You grin. “That’s actually very accurate.”

Xavier turns his head toward you, completely deadpan. “So I’m a frog, and you’re royalty.”

You lean in and kiss his cheek. “You knew what you married.”

Your daughter tugs at his arm. “Frogs make toast, right?”

He closes his eyes.

“Apparently they do now.”

You smile against your pillow, letting your fingers trace the curve of his bicep as your daughter kicks off the sheets and starts chattering about rainbow toast.