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Miles

Five Years Later…

Five years.

I still can’t believe it’s been that long since I pulled Mabel from that wrecked car and knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she was mine.

Now, I watch her from the kitchen window, barefoot in the grass, as she chases our eldest around the backyard. Her blonde hair is in a messy bun, and she’s laughing, that soft, bright sound that still makes my chest ache in the best way. A toddler sits on her hip—our daughter—and the baby monitor clipped to her waistband hums with soft static from our youngest napping upstairs.

I don’t know how I got so lucky.

She’s everything. She’s still fierce and funny, guarded sometimes—but damn, she’s the best mom. Every part of her that was once cautious and hesitant to trust is now all-in. With me. With our family. With this life.

I still wake up some days and take a second to soak it in.

“Miles!” Jensen’s voice booms as the back door opens. “You grilling or hiding in here like a coward?”

I snort. “I’m marinating.”

He makes a face. “That better not be code for ‘forgetting.’”

“It’s not. I’m serious this time.”

He strides in, our son hot on his heels. Luca—our five-year-old, named after Mabel’s favorite character from some romance novel she made me read when she was pregnant—has his shirt half on and mud streaked up one cheek.

“Uncle Jensen made me fly!” he declares, beaming.

“Yeah?” I ruffle his hair, smearing the dirt even more. “That sounds dangerous.”

“It was awesome.”

“He only hit one bush,” Jensen adds with a shrug.

“Very reassuring.”

Mabel steps inside with our two-year-old, Indie, still perched on her hip. Indie thinks she runs the whole house—and let’s be honest, she kind of does. Her green eyes narrow like mine when she’s grumpy and sparkle like her mom’s when she’s happy. Right now, they’re sparkling.

“There’s dirt on the baby,” Mabel says without judgment, just amusement.

“That’s my fault,” Jensen offers.

“I assumed.”

“Hey!” Dillon’s voice echoes as the door to their side of the townhouse opens, and she steps through the shared gate between our yards. Her belly is round again—pregnant with their second—and she’s holding a bag of cookies over her head as her daughter, Scout, tries to jump for them.

“Sugar bribes are a cruel and unusual punishment,” Mabel says, grinning as she kisses Dillon’s cheek in greeting.

“They’re pregnancy survival tools,” Dillon counters. “Besides, she’s Jensen’s daughter. If I don’t wear her out now, she’ll never sleep.”

“Fair.”

I lean against the counter, arms crossed, taking it all in. This house. My woman. These kids. Jensen and Dillon are in and out as if we all share one big, chaotic home. We kind of do.

When Mabel catches my eye, she gives me that soft, secret smile. The one that still undoes me. The one that reminds me this is real. She crosses the room, and I catch her around the waist, dropping a kiss on the top of her head as Indie tugs my beard.

“Hey, baby girl,” I murmur, and my daughter gives me a big, gap-toothed smile.

Mabel leans into me. “Did you ever think it’d be like this?”