A vase of wildflowers—half wilted but still lovely—sat in the center of the table, their petals curling just slightly at the edges. Austin had picked them a week ago on our walk to the farmers’ market. He had called themwhimsical as helland insisted we needed to take them home.
A faint jazz record spun in the background—something slow and brassy with a whisper of old romance in its bones. We still kind of disliked it, but jazz never failed to remind me of that fateful night Austin and I stumbled on each other and changed everything.
Over all of it, I heard Austin’s low, steady voice. “Pinch the edge, not too hard. Just enough to seal it.”
Winnie giggled. “I am pinching it. This pie is going to be iconic.”
He chuckled. “Can’t argue with that, bug.”
I padded in quietly, barefoot and still warm from my shower, wearing one of Austin’s old T-shirts that hit halfway down my thighs. I clutched a chipped mug of hazelnut coffee in both hands, the rim still warm against my lips.
They didn’t notice me at first.
Winnie stood on a stool at the island, her hair in two messy braids—the complicated Dutch ones that Austin had perfected—and flour dusting her cheeks. Austin hovered beside her, guiding her dough-covered fingers with the same calm gentleness he used to fix a cabinet hinge or straighten a picture frame. His inked forearm flexed as he reached across the counter, the edge of his shirt damp from dishwater, and his hair still tousled from sleep.
I leaned against the doorframe and watched them, my heart so full it felt like it might swell out of my chest and float away entirely.
This was it—the extraordinary ordinary.
Quiet mornings with soft music and too many dishes in the sink. Pie crust under fingernails and giggles over too much cinnamon. Winnie narrated everything like she was hosting her own baking show.
I never thought normal could feel like this. Like freedom. Like coming home.
Austin still kissed me like it was the first time. My favorite moments were when he looked at me across the dinner table like I was made of some impossible dream. I’d spent so long convincing myself I wasn’t the kind of person who got a forever. But he was different. With every slow breath and gentle word. With every night he stayed and every morning he reached for me first.
“Mom.” Winnie spotted me over her shoulder. “Is this not the greatest thing you’ve ever seen?” She threw her arms out, nearly knocking over a mixing bowl.
“Whoa.” Austin laughed, catching it just in time. “Chaos gremlin, reel it in.”
I crossed the kitchen and kissed Winnie’s floury cheek before winding my arms around Austin’s waist from behind. He leaned into me, smiling as I pressed my lips to the back of his shoulder.
“Morning,” I murmured.
He turned just enough to kiss me. It was soft, quick, and familiar—like punctuation on a thought we’d been finishing together for months.
“Hey,” he said, voice still scratchy from sleep. “We’re making blueberry pie. Win thinks we’re going to win the whole contest this year.”
“I’m rigging it,” Winnie stage-whispered. “We’re baking in the magic.”
I smirked. “Obviously.”
Austin’s hand slid to rest against my lower back, warm and steady. “You good?”
I nodded, sipping my coffee and soaking in the light, the laughter, the easy way it all fit together now. “Great.”
I was more than good. I was home.
By late morning, the pie was cooling on the counter, the kitchen was only slightly less of a disaster, and Winnie had shifted gears completely.
She raced through the hallway in her socks, trying to decide which sparkly headband went best with her outfit for the party. I could hear her in her room narrating to her stuffed animals like she was the star of a red-carpet event.
“She’s got main character energy today,” Austin said, stepping beside me as I finished wiping down the counter. Hishand settled on my lower back. “Also, I think I’m still finding glitter in my hair from her unicorn costume last week.”
“Good luck.” I laughed. “That stuff never goes away.”
“I hope this stage lasts forever,” he said quietly, but with a smile that told me it wasn’t the kind that wore you out—it was the kind that rooted you. “It’s the best.”
My chest pinched. Winnie was starting first grade next week.
