"That's very nice, baby." I kiss her forehead and leave her to it. At this point, I've accepted that grass consumption is a phase. A wet, fibrous, mildly concerning phase.
Ten feet away, Leo is not consuming grass. Leo is hunting.
My oldest—all wild blond curls and skinned knees—tears across the yard after Barnaby, our golden retriever. Barnaby is five years old and has the patience of a saint, which is why he allows himself to be chased by a four-year-old who shrieks like a tiny barbarian.
Barnaby circles back, tongue lolling, and Leo tackles him around the neck. They tumble together in the grass, a tangle of fur and limbs and pure, uncomplicated joy.
I lean back on my hands and watch the children, finding it hard to decide which one is the cutest at the moment.
There's a rumble in the distance that has me lifting my gaze. Instead of seeing the sky, Smoke doesn't take long to walk over to us, taking up my whole view.
He's distracting to the point that I've forgotten why I looked up in the first place.
"It's going to rain." Already reading my mind, his mouth curves.
Ah, right. The clouds have been building for the last hour, gray and heavy, but I'd been hoping they'd hold off until naptime. No such luck.
There's another rumble, giving hardly a warning before a fat drop lands on my leg, then another.
The twins look up, confused, as the sky begins to open. Ellie blinks as a drop hits her nose. Emma sticks out her tongue to catch one, abandoning her hunger for green in favor of hydration.
"It's raining, my loves." I scoop Emma into one arm and reach for Ellie with the other. "Time to go inside."
Ellie immediately begins to cry. Emma, sensing solidarity, joins her.
"Leo!" Smoke grabs our son around the waist and hoists him onto his hip like he weighs nothing. Leo howls in protest, and Barnaby seizes his chance, bolting for the back door to reach our destination.
Definitely time for a nap.
I'm already moving, one twin in each arm, their little bodies warm against my chest. The rain picks up fast—not a gentle drizzle but a proper downpour. My sundress clings to my legs. My hair escapes its clip in wet strands.
Smoke reaches the door first, shifts Leo to free a hand, and yanks it open. Leo scrambles down to free himself and barrels inside, still shouting about Barnaby. The golden retriever is already curled on his bed in the corner, looking deeply unbothered and dry, unlike the rest of us.
I step inside after them, kicking the door shut with my heel.
The rain drums against the roof and runs down the windows. The world outside blurs into watercolor.
Ellie sniffles against my neck. Emma has stopped crying and is now fascinated by the water dripping from my hair, reaching up to catch the drops.
I'm standing in the middle of the mudroom, dripping onto the tile, two toddlers in my arms, hair plastered to my face, dress completely see-through.
I look up and catch Smoke staring at me.
His eyes drag down my body like he's forgotten how to blink. The rain has done the same number on him—his white t-shirt is translucent, clinging to every line of his chest, his shoulders, the ink I've traced a hundred times. His hair is darkened and wet, pushed back from his forehead. Water drips from his beard.
He looks like something out of a dream. Or a very specific kind of fantasy.
"Smoke." My voice comes out breathier than I intended. "The kids."
"I know." He doesn't move, doesn’t even blink.
I want to laugh, but I’m too warm for that.
“Roland. The girls are wet. Leo's soaked. We need towels before they catch a fever. We need—"
He finally snaps out of his trance, moving toward me like I’m the only direction he needs to go. His hands come up—not to take the girls, but to cup my face.
He freaking kisses me. It's not the kind of kiss he gives his wife of six years in front of their children.
