“Honey, not sugar,” Mal said, handing me a mug. “Just how you like it.”
I took a sip and tried not to show how much I appreciated that he remembered. After years of marriage, he knew exactly how I took my coffee. Honey instead of sugar, because as I’d explained once at 2am during a particularly heated debate, “sugar is for quitters.”
“You remember,” I said, though of course he knew.
“I remember everything about you.”
“That’s either romantic or creepy. I haven’t decided which.”
“Both. It can be both. I am a creep for you.”
Before I could respond, a small tornado burst into our bedroom, running from his guards.
“I want my SCARY MONSTER shirt!” Killian announced at a volume that suggested the castle was on fire.
“It’s dirty, baby,” I said, setting down my coffee and bracing for negotiation. Because everything with a four-year-old was a negotiation. Lengthy, exhausting negotiations where the tiny dictator always had the upper hand.
“But it’s my FAVORITE!”
Mal and I exchanged a glance. We’d gotten so good at this over the years that we could have entire conversations without words. This one said:Here we go again.
“What about your dragon shirt?” Mal suggested.
“What about your dragon shirt?” I said at the exact same time.
We both stopped, looked at each other, and smiled. Totally in sync. Sometimes it was terrifying how well we knew each other.
Killian considered the dragon shirt proposal with the seriousness of a council member debating war strategy. “The blue dragon or the red dragon?”
“You have two dragon shirts?” I asked him, but looked at Mal.
“I may have purchased duplicates when you were not looking.” He said, smiling like an angel.
“You’re spoiling him.”
“He is a prince. He should have options.”
“He’s four.”
“A four-year-old prince with options. And excellent taste in dragons.”
Killian, sensing he was losing our attention, made a break for it. He was surprisingly fast for someone with such short legs. Mal went left, I went right, and we managed to corner him by the wardrobe in a move that required more tactical coordination than it should have.
“Dragon shirt,” I said firmly. “Red dragon. Final offer.”
“Can I wear my crown too?”
“You don’t have a crown yet. You’re not king.”
“I have the flower crown I made!”
Right.
“Fine,” I conceded. “Red dragon shirt and flower crown. But we’re brushing your hair first.”
“DEAL!”
Getting Killian ready was a contact sport. When he tried to escape during teeth-brushing, Mal blocked the door while I cornered him with the toothbrush. When he insisted his socks were “too tight” and needed to be changed three times, I handled the sock negotiations while Mal got his shoes ready.
