"We could be quick," he murmurs. "Like the old days."
I laugh. "The old days? You mean when we had no responsibilities and all the time in the world? The days when we weren’t interrupted by tiny, demanding humans?"
"Exactly," he smirks. "Reckless. Impulsive. Overly ambitious when it came to positions."
I snort. "You pulled a muscle that one time."
"Worth it."
He leans in, lips brushing against mine, and for a second, I forget. Forget that there are three kids asleep upstairs, that tomorrow morning we’ll be elbow-deep in breakfast negotiations and lost socks. Right now, it’s just us. And it’s good.
His hand slides higher...
BANG.
We freeze.
A thud from upstairs. Then a wail. Then...
"DAAAAD, SOPHIE TOOK MY DINOSAUR AND THREW IT AT MY HEAD!"
Dan lets out a long, slow breath, forehead dropping to my shoulder. "I swear to God, I love our children, but I might actually cry."
I stroke his hair. "I’ll hold you while you do it."
He groans, pushing up off the sofa. "To be continued?"
I smirk. "That depends. Can you guarantee there won’t be another spectator?"
He winces. "I’ll triple-check the doors."
As he trudges up the stairs to break up yet another sibling battle, I shake my head, laughing to myself. We might not be the reckless, insatiable couple we used to be. But the spark? The chemistry?
It’s still there. Buried under years of nappies and snot, sure, but very much alive.
And if we have to work a little harder to keep it burning?
Well, That just makes the victory all the sweeter.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
EMMA
I wake up before the alarm.
Not because Ruby is crying. Not because someone has kicked me in the ribs. Not because I’ve mentally remembered six things I forgot to do.
I wake up because I’m warm.
Dan’s arm is heavy across my waist, his breath slow against the back of my neck. There’s something deliciously smug about it. About the fact that I’m sore in places I haven’t been sore in years.
I lie still for a second, replaying yesterday. The glances. The upstairs detour. The ridiculous knickers-in-his-mouth moment. The messages later that night.
Twice in twenty-four hours.
I almost giggle.
The house is quiet. Properly quiet. The kind of quiet that feels like a gift rather than a warning.
