I grab the shower gel and wash him, my hands mapping the body I know and love, softened by time but beautiful as ever. He turns without being asked, and my hands find his ass, gently kneading his cheeks as he sighs. I run my knuckles down his crease, enjoying the soft sound he lets out as I clean the evidence of our fucking. When I’m done, he grabs the shampoo and lathers it in my hair. His nails gently rake across my scalp, making my eyes fall closed again.
He takes his time, moving to get the shower gel, and washes my body with soft touches.
When he finishes, he lets me guide him out of the shower, both of us dripping onto the bathmat. I grab a towel and wrap it around his shoulders, tugging him into my chest, drying him off slowly. He leans into me like he always does.
“Love you, Blue,” he mumbles into my neck, words muffled and warm.
I close my eyes, kissing the damp waves at his temple where threads of grey have started to appear. “Love you too, baby,” I say, feeling it all the way down to my bones. “Let’s get dressed and back to the kitchen before we have to explain why Daddy was ‘helping Papa in the shower’ instead of making breakfast… again.”
He laughs and lets me lead him out of the bathroom.
The pan hisses when the batter hits, the sweet smell wafting up. My lower back twinges when I shift my weight, and I have to bite back a grin. Worth it.
Gabe leans against the island, blue mug cupped in both hands, watching me over the rim. His hair is still damp, cheeks faintly pink. He looks good here, in this kitchen that still feels a bit too grown-up for me sometimes. A real house. Our house. We signed the papers exactly a year before the social worker called and said the magic words:if you’re willing to take two girls…
Obviously we were. The twins were meant to be ours. My eyes cut to the fridge, a mirage of colorful magnets, family photos, and a history of love told in Post-its. So many “I love yous,” cheesy jokes, tiny doodles. Every day, they bring little memories back to me, reminders of everything we are.
“You’re making them too big,” Gabe says, but there’s no real complaint in it.
“They’re Saturday pancakes,” I tell him seriously. “Saturday pancakes are legally required to be extra large.”
He rolls his eyes, but his mouth tugs up. “You spoil them.”
“I was put on this earth to spoil my Shaws,” I say with a wink.
He chuckles, walking into my space and giving my lips a peck. “I have therapy Monday afternoon, you okay to get the girls from school?” he asks.
He still sees Dr. Keane, just once a month now. He told me sometimes they just sit and chat about their weekend plans or talk about smutty books, which made me smile. He still suffers with anxiety at times, but he has the tools to deal with it, and I’m always there to support him. There have been many hard days and nights over the years, so many times we’ve held each other through the night. But I’m as sure now as I’ve ever been, Gabe is mine. To have and to hold, through everything.
“Yeah, no problem. I’m actually going to take them to the movies after school with Theo.”
“They’ll love that,” he says genuinely before his voice turns sly, “I can’t wait to spend the evening explaining why they can’t get tattoos yet.” Amusement lines his tone. He eyes my arms, now covered in tattoos. His finger trails through the blond hair covering our history. Willow leaves, book quotes, the girls’ names, song lyrics.Us. Inked into skin.
I open my phone on the counter as the pancake cooks, clicking into my playlists.
“You Make My Dreams (Come True)” begins as Gabe’s shoulders shake.
“Really?” He smiles at me indulgently.
“Really,” I confirm as I pull him into me. As always, his arms come around my shoulders, and my hands hold his hips as our temples press together. It’s a lovely moment, sweet and domestic. And while I wouldn’t say I ruin it by singing, some might disagree. My tone is off-key, I get half the words wrong, and I step on Gabe’s toes more than a few times. Not once does he make fun of me or ask me to stop, just smiles as his fingers card through my hair.
The thump-thump of small feet on the stairs catches our attention. Two sets. One chaotic, one careful. I squeeze Gabe’s hip before moving to check the pan. I’ll be in trouble with the girls if I burn breakfast again.
Freya barrels into the kitchen first, curls wild, unicorn pajama top on inside out and backward. Which is impressive, because she certainly didn't go to bed like that. She stops dead when she sees the stove, eyes wide. “Pancakes!” she screeches like a baby Velociraptor.
Right behind her, Elodie pads in silently, clutching her fox stuffie, still blinking awake. She goes straight to Gabe, pressing into his side. Two soft, quiet souls.
“Morning, girls,” I say, flipping a pancake. “You sleep okay?”
“Yes,” Elodie mumbles into Gabe’s top.
Freya beelines for me, wrapping her arms around my legs. “Hi, Daddy.”
I drop my free hand to her hair, ruffling it gently. “Hi, trouble.”
Gabe tips Elodie’s chin up. “Good morning, Elodie,” he says softly.
Her lips twitch. “Good morning, Papa.”
