I bit his collarbone gently. "Worth the wait."
We lay tangled together, his arm heavy across my waist, my leg thrown over his. The fan turned overhead. I pressed my thumb against his pulse and counted it slowing.
"Mila got in trouble at school again," I said.
Jasper tensed. "What kind of trouble?"
"Relax. Not that kind." I traced the scar on his shoulder, the one from Kiev. "She took your katana to school."
"She what?"
"For show and tell. The assignment was to bring something that represented your family history, and she brought the sword you used to fight Achilles."
"She told them that?"
"She told them her father used it to slay Achilles. The teacher laughed because she thought Mila meant the Greek hero." I pressed my grin against his chest. "And then Mila offered to demonstrate, and they called me to come pick her up."
Jasper was quiet for a long moment. "She didn't actually swing it at anyone."
"She assumed a fighting stance. In the middle of the classroom. Apparently her form was perfect."
Another silence. "I need to lock the weapons cabinet."
"She's your daughter. Locks are suggestions."
Jasper exhaled through his nose, one long breath. "Was anyone hurt?"
"No one was hurt. Señora Vega nearly had a heart attack. The principal wants a meeting."
"I'll handle it."
"You'll handle it? You, the man who taught her the fighting stance?"
He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fine. We'll both handle it."
"Good. Also, it's her turn for class snack day on Friday."
"What does that involve?"
"Bringing snacks. For the class."
"I know what snack day means. What kind of snacks?"
"Mamá already volunteered. She's making churros."
"That's going to make every other parent's contribution look bad."
"That's the point. Mamá doesn't believe in sharing the spotlight."
He almost smiled. I caught it this time, the way his whole face softened for half a second before he pulled it back. He pressed his lips to my forehead.
He was quiet, and when he spoke again, the joke had left him. "I'm going to a parent-teacher meeting," he said. "About a show-and-tell incident. With snack day on Friday."
He said it like he was testing the words for structural integrity, like he'd built something out of materials he'd never been trained to use and kept waiting for the load-bearing wall to give.
"We're terrible parents."
"The worst." I pulled the blanket over both of us. "But her form was perfect. So we're doing something right."
The quiet settled over us. The fan clicked softly. Outside, the valley stretched dark and still, the mountains black against a sky full of stars. Somewhere down the hall, Mila slept in a room she'd decorated herself, walls covered in her drawings, a lock on the door she never used.
Jasper's breathing slowed against my neck. I held onto him. On a rooftop in Casablanca, I'd told him I was going to build this, and he'd looked at me like I was out of my mind.
My kid's charcoal pencils were scattered across the kitchen counter. The man I'd promised it to was falling asleep against my chest.
Turned out I was right.
