Because this is what I want. This domesticity. This family unit. These moments that aren’t curated for content or filtered for algorithms. Just real life happening in a cabin in the woods that I’m absolutely not freakingout about.
The ventilation hood hums quietly overhead, whisking away any cooking smells before they can linger.
When they’re finished, dinner is surprisingly good. Marco made this simple spaghettiaglio e oliodish that tastes like butter and garlic had a love affair with pasta.
Ben eats three servings and declares it “almost as good as Nonno’ssfogliatelle.”
“Almost?” Marco raises an eyebrow.
“Nothing beats Nonno’s pastries, Daddy. You know this.”
I nearly spit out my water laughing. Because she’s absolutely right and completely savage about it.
He sighs. “Fair point,piccola.”
After dinner, Ben insists on telling us about Frederick’s woodland survival skills. Apparently the snail is an expert at finding safe hiding spots and knows exactly which leaves are edible.
“He ate seventeen leaves today,” she informs us seriously. “And none of them made him sick.”
“Frederick’s very wise,” I tell her.
“I know.” She yawns. “Can we do the Brave Rules before bed?”
I smile patiently. “Of course.”
We move down the hallway to the bedroom. Ben climbs into bed with Frederick. Marco sits on one side, I sit on the other.
“One, two, three squeeze,” I say, taking her small hand.
She squeezes back. “One, two, three brave.”
“Now smell the cocoa.”
She inhales deeply even though there’s no cocoa. Just the memory of it.
“And blow the steam.”
She exhales slowly. Her whole body relaxes into the pillows.
“So brave, my sweet girl,” Marco tells her quietly.
“I know.” Another yawn. “Frederick says I’m the bravest.”
Marco smiles proudly. “Frederick’s right.”
Within minutes she’s asleep. Starfished across the bed with one arm flung over Frederick like he might escape in the night.
Marco adjusts the blanket around her. The gesture is so tender it makes my chest ache.
“She’s out,” he whispers.
“Hard.”
We retreat to the great room. It’s basically just an open space with a couch, a table, and a fireplace that Marco carefully lights after triple-checking the flue and staging a fire extinguisher within arm’s reach because apparently even romance requires a safety protocol.
“You’re really intense about this,” I observe as he adjusts the screen for the third time.
“Fire’s unpredictable.” He turns off the overhead lights and settles back on the couch beside me, finally satisfied.
