The following morning in the Wolfe mansion came with a soft glow pouring through cream-colored curtains, birds chirping somewhere outside, and the delicious scent of French toast wafting through the air.
Talia padded out of the bedroom barefoot, Zane in one arm, Luna still asleep in her crib. Her curls were pulled into a messy bun, oversized T-shirt hanging off one shoulder, and no makeup, just the pure glow of a mom on a mission for coffee.
Ethan was already in the kitchen.
Shirtless.
Cooking.
Talia.exe has stopped working.
His back flexed as he flipped toast on the stove, muscles rippling beneath his tattoos, a towel slung over one shoulder, and an espresso cup in his hand like a walking contradiction between domesticity and sin.
He glanced over his shoulder with a smirk. "Good morning, sunshine."
Zane squealed in response, flailing his tiny fists.
"Your son approves of the view," Talia said, blinking like she wasn't having a full internal breakdown.
