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He kisses my forehead gently.
“The brightest love doesn’t burn everything down,” he says quietly.
I look up at him.
“What does it do?”
“It stays.”
The kids’ breathing evens out.
The puppies finally stop chewing long enough to sleep.
Snow keeps falling.
Seven years ago, he was a man who thought loving again would undo him.
Now he’s a father with flour on his jeans, puppy fur on his socks, and four children who know only the steady version of him.
This time he didn’t lose everything.
He found it.
And it’s loud.
And messy.
And spotted.
And warm.
And ours.
The End
