“I got it, mija,” I tell her, wrist flicking just in time. Perfect golden circle lands on the plate.
She beams at me like I just performed a magic trick. Sofia Domingo. Seven years old. Brown curls everywhere, eyes too damn smart for her own good, dimples that should honestly be illegal. She’s perched on a stool at the counter, chin in her hands, pajama shirt crooked on one shoulder, watching me like I hung the moon.
Her little brother is on the floor behind me, dragging a dump truck across the tile and making engine noises that sound like something is dying.
Mateo Domingo. Five. Built like a linebacker already. Loud. Fearless. Sticky. Always sticky. I don’t know how. Kid could walk through a car wash and still come out with syrup on his elbows.
“Daddy, watch this,” Mateo yells, launching the truck into the leg of the table.
“Easy, champ,” I say, glancing back. “Truck stays on the ground.”
He grins like rules are suggestions.
From the hallway, I hear soft footsteps. Slower. Familiar. My shoulders loosen before I even turn.
Brooke walks in wearing one of my old t-shirts and sleep-soft hair that falls down her back like a secret only I get to touch in the mornings. Her eyes are still heavy with sleep, lips pink and bare, skin warm and golden in the early light. Eight years and she still hits me right in the chest every time I look at her.
She leans against the doorframe, arms folded loosely, watching the chaos like she finds it all deeply entertaining. “Good morning, short-order cook.”
“Morning, beautiful,” I say, my mouth curling without even thinking about it.
She walks over and wraps her arms around my waist from behind and presses her cheek into my back. Warm. Soft. Mine. My hand automatically settles over hers, thumb brushing slow, familiar circles over her knuckles.
Sofia grins at us like she’s catching something scandalous. “You guys are doing the hugging thing again.”
Brooke laughs quietly into my shoulder. “We’re married, sweetie. We’re allowed.”
Mateo squints up at us. “When I get married I’m gonna hug Mama all the time too.”
Brooke bends down and kisses the top of his messy hair. “That’s exactly what you should do.”
I slide a pancake onto Sofia’s plate and another onto Mateo’s, then turn just enough to steal a kiss from my wife. Not rushed. Not desperate. Just slow and warm and familiar, the kind that still sparks low and steady in my gut even after years of shared beds and shared bills and shared babies.
Her fingers slide into the waistband of my sweatpants for half a second, teasing. “You’re in a good mood.”
“Hard not to be,” I murmur.
Her eyes soften in that way that still gets me. Like she’s seeing everything we built, all at once.
We move around each other easily, passing plates, pouring juice, bumping hips. Domestic chaos. Crumbs everywhere. Mateo drops syrup on the floor and pretends not to notice. Sofia steals the crispiest edge off my pancake when she thinks I’m not looking. Brooke gives me a look when she catches her, trying to pretend she’s stern and failing miserably.
It’s loud. It’s messy. It’s perfect.
Eight years ago, I found her shaking in the dark woods, barefoot and terrified and broken open in ways no one should ever be. I carried her out like something sacred, something fragile and strong all at once. I didn’t know then what she’d become to me. What we’d become to each other.
I just knew I wasn’t letting her go.
We didn’t dance around it for years or pretend we were scared of what we already knew. Once she started healing and trusting again, once she looked at me like I wasn’t just safety but home, everything locked into place fast and sure. Six months after we got together, we stood in Bella’s backyard with fairy lights tangled in the trees, Switch crying like a big damn baby, Blade pretending not to, Bri glowing and pregnant, the whole Iron Reapers family packed in tight around us like armor and celebration all at once.
Brooke wore lace and sunlight and that quiet strength she carries like a crown.
I didn’t hesitate for a single second when I said my vows. No fear or doubt, just certainty so solid it settled straight into my bones.
I thought my heart was full then. Turns out it had room to grow. Sofia came first. Screaming, stubborn, beautiful from the second she hit the world. Brooke cried when they put her on her chest, like something inside her finally unclenched after a lifetime of holding tight. Mateo followed two years later, loud and fearless and exactly like his mama when she’s standing her ground.
Now our mornings sound like this. Laughter. Arguing over syrup. Little hands tugging on my legs. Brooke leaning into me like it’s instinct instead of choice.
After breakfast, the kids scatter into the living room to build what looks suspiciously like a city destined for destruction. Brooke leans back against the counter, sipping her coffee, watching them with that soft smile that never fails to undo me.
