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And I can’t stop thinking how good this feels. How good we feel. Like this is what the hard days led to. This is the payoff. The peace. The fire.

The goddamn home I never thought I’d have.

She clings to me like she’s trying to keep gravity from pulling her back down—and honestly? Same.

I don’t want to let go.

We stay like that for a beat too long, panting, foreheads pressed together, her thighs still locked around my waist and my arms bracketing her on the island like I’m scared she’ll disappear if I move.

Her body is slick and soft and warm, and I’m still pulsing inside her when she lets out a quiet, giddy sound that sits somewhere between a breathless laugh and a satisfied sigh.

“Okay,” she whispers, “I take it back.”

My brow lifts. “Take what back?”

“That thing I said this morning about needing a nap more than needing your dick.”

I chuckle, brushing a kiss to the corner of her mouth. “Bold of you to assume I didn’t take that personally.”

“You pouted.”

“I don’t pout.”

“You pouted and ate half a granola bar in retaliation.”

I grin, nuzzling her neck. “Don’t act like that granola bar didn’t turn you on.”

“Everything turns me on lately,” she mutters, sliding her hands down my bare back and giving my ass a little slap. “You could wear a dish towel and I’d still try to climb you like a tree.”

I press a lazy kiss to her collarbone. “Remind me to do the dishes shirtless later.”

She hums. “Please do. Might end up pregnant again.”

My heart skips. Then stutters. Then lands somewhere in my throat. I know she’s joking—I think she’s joking—but still… the image doesn’t feel terrifying the way it used to.

Just… tender.

And dangerous in the most beautiful way.

“You’d look hot pregnant again,” I murmur, my voice low and full of something I don’t even try to hide.

She stills. Just for a second.

Then she kisses me slow, like she knows exactly what I meant and isn’t ready to touch it yet. “We have two newborns and zero brain cells left between us.”

“Yeah,” I sigh. “But damn, we make cute kids.”

“Fact,” she says, tucking a damp strand of hair behind my ear. “Also a fact? We’ve got maybe three minutes before the tiny gremlins wake up demanding room-temperature gourmet.”

I raise a brow. “How do you know?”

She taps her wrist like she’s wearing a watch. “Because it’s been exactly three hours since their last bottle, and my boobs don’t leak—but the baby monitor does.”

Right on cue, a sharp squawk crackles behind us, followed by a low, grumbly whimper. A second cry joins the first a breath later, higher-pitched and twice as dramatic.

A chorus of chaos.

I groan. “Your sons have impeccable timing.”