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As Joe and Hank busied themselves with cleaning the tomato sauce catastrophe, Mike, Bubbles, and I huddled together at a safe distance. Bubbles, intrigued by the unusual flurry of activity, tried to saunter over to the mess but was quickly scooped up by Mike.
"No, no, Bubbles," he chided gently, "Glass is no place for your royal paws."
As we sat there on the kitchen floor, I couldn't help but notice the secret loving glances exchanged between Mike and Joe.
"Did Mike ever tell you about the time when he flooded the bathroom?" Joe called out over his shoulder, a smile creeping into his voice. “He left the tap on and forgot all about it.”
Mike's eyes lit up, "Oh, Daddy, that was so much fun!" he recalled, a mischievous grin on his face. "I was just trying to make the bathroom into a swimming pool!"
"And the pancakes!" Joe chuckled, "He decided he was going to make breakfast for me one morning, but ended up dusting the entire kitchen in flour."
"You forgot about the burnt pan, Daddy!" Mike added enthusiastically. "It looked like a volcano had erupted right there in the kitchen."
As I looked at Joe, his eyes full of love and indulgence for Mike, I couldn't help but wonder. Could Hank ever look at me that way?
Once the glass shards were cleared and the floor was wiped clean, we relocated to the living room. A variety of toys were scattered across the floor, the sight of which seemed to transform the atmosphere, lightening the mood and reminding me of the playful spirit that had initially been promised in Mike's email.
Yet, as we immersed ourselves in play, my mind kept wandering back to Hank. The way his muscles had flexed as he'd helped clean the kitchen, the way he'd quietly watched the interaction between Mike and Joe with a smile on his face.
"You know, Mike," I said hesitantly, "I'm beginning to understand Daddies a bit more. Seeing Joe with you, the affection... it's not like what I used to think. I hope I'll find a Daddy like that one day."
His eyes twinkled as he regarded me with a smirk, "Oh, really now? You didn’t tell me you had a sex dream about Hank. I thought we told each other everything."
I felt my cheeks grow hot. "How did you...?" I began, but Mike simply chuckled.
"Call it my Little Sherlock Holmes intuition," he replied, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "In fact, you can call me Little Holmes if you wish. I have this knack for guessing things based on what people say and how they say it. But that's a secret, okay? And just for the record, I think it's only a matter of days now before your dream comes true."
Before I could question him further, he held up a hand, "Interpret it as you will."
The spell was broken by Joe's voice announcing dinner was ready. The playful world we had created was quickly dissolved as Mike and I left our Little states, transitioning back to our adult selves. We made our way upstairs to Mike's room to change out of our onesies and into more formal dinner attire. Mike handed me a beautiful pink summer dress with a broad grin on his face.
"I ordered some women's clothes online, just in case we had future playdates or sleepovers," he explained. His thoughtfulness touched me and I found myself giving him a genuine smile.
Stepping back into the living room after changing, I noticed Hank looking at me. His eyes widened as he took in the sight of me in the dress, making my heart flutter.
The dinner table was a feast of culinary delights that left me speechless. The centerpiece, a well-seasoned roasted chicken, was tantalizingly golden brown, the aroma of rosemary and thyme filling the room. A medley of seasonal vegetables in a delicate white wine sauce offered a colorful contrast, while the crusty garlic bread was a promise of carb-induced happiness. But the dish that stole my heart was the mushroom-filled tomato pasta.
"Oh my gosh, Joe," I exclaimed, unable to contain my delight after the first bite, "This pasta is heavenly!"
A proud grin spread across Joe's face. "I'm glad you like it."
Hank cleared his throat from the other end of the table. "You know, I helped too."
I turned my attention to Hank, surprised to find him looking somewhat miffed. "Oh really? Did you supervise?"
A playful spark flashed in his eyes. "No, I actually did more than just 'supervise'. I cooked the vegetables."
"The ones swimming in white wine sauce?" I asked, my eyebrows lifting in mock surprise. "I must say, I didn't peg you for a fan of the finer things."
"Oh, and I suppose you are?" Hank shot back, leaning back in his chair with a smug expression.
The conversation took a turn from there, veering from the meal at hand to a wildly unrelated debate about our tastes, with both of us staunchly defending our preferences.
"I bet you only listen to sappy love songs," Hank teased.
"Better than your boring old rock anthems," I retorted, poking my tongue out at him.
We found ourselves engaged in a whirlwind of bickering about everything under the sun.
