She scampers off, and I pull Ivy into my arms from behind, resting my chin on her shoulder as she plates the lasagna.
"This is nice," I murmur.
"What is?"
"This. All of it. Coming home to you and the kids. Dinner as a family. Rose's endless questions and Charlie's teething and your terrible habit of stealing my t-shirts."
"They're comfortable," she defends, but she's smiling.
"I love you," I say, because I can. Because she's here and she's mine and five years later, I still can't quite believe my luck.
"I love you too." She turns in my arms, reaching up to cup my face. "Even when you track mud through the house and forget to put your dishes in the sink and leave your boots in the middle of the hallway where I trip over them."
"I'm working on that."
"You've been working on it for three years."
"Rome wasn't built in a day."
She laughs and kisses me, and I taste home on her lips.
"Mama! Daddy! I'm hungry!" Rose's voice carries from the bathroom.
"Coming!" Ivy calls back. She looks up at me, eyes bright. "Ready for dinner with a three-year-old who asks a thousand questions and a one-year-old who might wake up screaming any minute?"
"Wouldn't have it any other way."
We eat dinner together. Rose chattering nonstop about her day, the dragon she drew, the butterfly she saw in the garden. Charlie wakes up halfway through and I end up eating one-handed while holding him. Ivy's lasagna is perfect, and Rose only spills her juice once.
After dinner, I read Rose her bedtime story. Something about a princess and a dragon that she's heard a hundred times but never gets tired of. She falls asleep halfway through, curled up against my side.
I carry her to her room, tucking her in. She doesn't wake, just sighs and rolls over, clutching the stuffed phoenix Ivy bought her when she was born.
When I come back downstairs, Ivy's on the couch with Charlie again. The TV is on low, some show she's not really watching.
I settle beside her, and she immediately leans into me.
"They're both asleep," I report.
"Miracles do happen." She tilts her head up to look at me. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For being an amazing father. For coming home every night. For building this life with me." Her voice gets softer. "For being nothing like I thought bikers were supposed to be."
"I'm exactly like I'm supposed to be," I correct gently. "A man who loves his family. Who protects what's his. Who'd burn the world down to keep you safe."
"My protector," she murmurs.
"Always."
We sit like that as the evening stretches on, Charlie sleeping between us, the house quiet except for the settling of old wood and the distant sound of crickets outside.
Five years ago, I was alone in a clubhouse, haunted by nightmares and guilt. Convinced I'd always be alone, that I didn't deserve anything good.
Then Ivy walked into my life and proved me wrong.
She gave me a family. Gave me hope. Gave me a reason to fight for something beyond just honor and principle.
