She smiles at me, really smiles, and something in my chest settles the way it always does when she’s steady.
My dad follows, juggling overnight bags.
“Surprise,” he says, though there is nothing subtle about this ambush.
“You could’ve warned us,” I tell him.
Beckett shifts both kids higher in his arms. “You brought reinforcements.”
“We brought sugar,” my dad corrects.
Roger circles the children like a very large, veryenthusiastic security guard. One of them squeals and throws their arms around his neck. He immediately melts to the floor, tail thumping so hard it rattles the cabinet.
Our house fills in seconds.
Noise.
Shoes kicked off.
Voices overlapping.
Someone is already asking what’s for dinner.
Beckett lowers the kids but keeps one hand steady on a shoulder as they bounce in place. He looks over at me across the madness.
There’s no question in his eyes.
This is ours.
I catch my mom watching me for a second. She tilts her head like she’s taking inventory. Making sure I’m happy. Making sure I’m whole.
I give her a small nod.
I am.
One of the kids grabs my hand. “Are we making dinosaur pancakes again?”
“Obviously,” I say.
“Uncle Beckett lets us put chocolate chips in them,” another one tattles.
Beckett raises a brow. “You’re welcome.”
I roll my eyes. “Doctors can’t be trusted with sugar.”
He grins at me, then leans down to kiss the top of my head.
I look around.
At my parents inside our home.
At the spare bedrooms that will be full tonight.
At the dog named Roger sprawled across the floor.
At my husband, holding the hand of a child who isnot his and looking like the safest man in the world anyway.
I thread my fingers through his for half a second before one of the kids wedges in between us, demanding immediate attention.
