The argument was cut short by a smaller voice, piping up from beneath the table. Marcellus, still in his pyjamas, was crouched on the floor with the family dog, a scruffy golden retriever named Biscuit, who was currently licking the remains of a jam sandwich off his face.

Blaise's eyes found you across the room, and his expression softened. He crossed the kitchen in a few easy strides, his hand finding your lower back with the kind of familiarity that came from fourteen years of marriage. He pressed a kiss to your temple, his voice low and warm.

Through the window, you could see Bastian and Beaumont out in the garden, already bickering over who got to be goalkeeper. Bastian was calm, arms crossed, while Beaumont was mid-dramatic speech, gesturing wildly with the football. Monroe sat on the porch steps, a book open in his lap, occasionally glancing up to watch them with a fond smile.

The back door creaked open, and Monroe slipped inside, shutting it quietly behind him. He crossed the kitchen to you, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek before his eyes dropped to your bump.

Blaise's hand slid around your waist, pulling you gently against his side. He looked down at you, that familiar glint in his dark eyes, the one that had been there since the day you'd borrowed his quill in fourth year.

From outside, there was a sudden thud, followed by Beaumont's triumphant whoop. Bastian's voice floated through the glass, calm and unimpressed.

The morning was loud, messy, and nowhere near tidy. But as Blaise's thumb traced a slow circle against your hip, and Biscuit barked at a butterfly through the window, you couldn't imagine it any other way.