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“Yeah.”

I press a kiss between his shoulder blades.

The old Dane still lives here.

Not Killer Miller.

That man never existed.

But the man who checks every lock twice does.

The man who wakes when one of our children coughs.

The man who watches.

Protects.

Makes sure everyone he loves is exactly where they’re supposed to be.

I slide my hands beneath his shirt. “Come to bed.”

“In a minute.”

“She is breathing.”

“I know.”

“Rosie is fine.”

“I know.”

“Dane.”

He turns in my arms and his hands settle on my hips.

“Bossy.”

“You like it.”

“Sometimes.” I rise onto my toes and kiss him.

His mouth softens against mine. Then he looks over my shoulder toward the crib.

I laugh. “She’s fine.”

“Yeah.”

“Come on.” I tug him toward the door.

He doesn’t move. Instead, his hands tighten around my waist. “Want another one.”

I nearly choke. “What?”

“Another baby.”

“We have three.”

“I can count.”