"You."
His mouth twitches into a smile, and he pushes off the counter, crossing the room in three long strides. He stops in front of me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to see his face, and cups my jaw with one hand.
"You've been looking at me for years," he says, his voice low and teasing.
"And I plan to keep doing it."
He leans down and kisses me, slow and warm, and I sink into it, my hands coming up to rest on his chest.
His heart beats steady beneath my palm, strong and reassuring, and I feel the tension I didn't realize I was still carrying finally release.
When he pulls back, his thumb brushes across my cheek, and his expression softens.
"You're a good mother," he says quietly.
The words catch me off-guard, and I blink up at him. "Ezra—"
"You are. Even when she's difficult. Even when she slams doors and rolls her eyes and acts like the world is ending because you asked her to help with dinner. You're patient. You're kind. And she knows she's loved."
My throat tightens, and I have to look away for a moment, blinking back the sudden sting of tears.
"Thank you," I whisper.
He presses another kiss to my forehead, then steps back and moves toward the hallway. "I'll go talk to her."
"You don't have to."
"I know. But I want to."
I watch him disappear down the hall, his footsteps heavy on the floorboards, and then I hear the soft knock on Kinsley's door.
The door opens and closes, and I hear the low rumble of Ezra's voice, though I can't make out the words. A moment later, I hear Kinsley's voice, sharper and more animated, and then laughter.
I smile and turn back to the stove.
A few minutes later, the door opens again, and Kinsley emerges, her expression sheepish. She crosses the room and stops beside me, not quite meeting my eyes.
"Sorry," she mutters.
"For what?"
"For being dramatic."
I set the spoon down and turn to face her. "You're not being dramatic. You're being thirteen."
She looks up at me, her dark eyes uncertain. "Dad said I should help with dinner."
"Only if you want to."
"I want to."
I smile and gesture toward the counter. "Can you slice the bread?"
She nods and moves to the cutting board, picking up the knife and sawing through the loaf with careful precision. I watch her for a moment, noting the way her hands have grown steadier, more confident, and I feel a pang of something bittersweet.
Ezra returns to the room, his expression satisfied, and catches my eye. He doesn't say anything, just nods once, and I know everything is okay.
Bolt wanders over and sits at Kinsley's feet, tail thumping hopefully, and she sneaks him a piece of bread crust when she thinks we're not looking.
