A tiny tornado in paw patrol pajamas barreled through the living room, a half-eaten strawberry in one fist and a plastic dinosaur in the other.

Ethan dismissed the concept entirely and launched himself onto the couch cushions, bouncing with the kind of boundless energy only a two-year-old possesses. His curls bounced with him, dark and unruly like Rafe's, though his eyes were unmistakably yours.

Rafe was already halfway across the kitchen, but he paused, looking at you with that familiar softness. He always did that now—checked in with you first, like you were the queen and he was just your loyal knight.