Page 238 of Arrow

I leaned against the doorframe, memorizing this moment. The afternoon light. The sound of their laughter. The way Harlowe’s eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled at our son.

“Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to help?” she asked, catching me watching.

“Just appreciating the view,” I replied.

Her smile turned softer, more private. “Come here.”

I crossed the kitchen, and she pulled me down for a kiss, her flour-dusted hands framing my face. Luca giggled between us, and I felt something warm and dangerous and fragile all at once expand in my chest.

This. This was what I had almost lost.

This was what I had fought to keep.

I kissed her harder, pouring everything I couldn’t say into the pressure of my lips against hers. I love you. I need you. I will burn down the world to keep you safe.

When we broke apart, Luca was making exaggerated gagging noises.

“Yuck,” he declared, though he was grinning.

“Yuck is right,” I agreed, grabbing him under the arms and lifting him high. He shrieked with laughter as I spun him around, ignoring the protest from my shoulder—the scar tissue a ghost from my past.

“Be careful,” Harlowe warned, but she was smiling.

“I’m always careful,” I lied, setting Luca down on his feet.

I helped him stir the batter, showing him how to keep the spoon in the bowl. He watched me with those serious gray eyes, mimicking my movements with adorable concentration.

“Like this, Daddy?”

“Perfect,” I told him, ruffling his hair.

Harlowe set a pan on the stove, the butter sizzling as it melted. The domesticity of it all should have felt strange—me, Arrow Romanov, standing in a kitchen making pancakes with my wife and son—but it didn’t. It felt like the most natural thing in the world.

I caught Harlowe watching me, a small smile playing at her lips. “What?” I asked, feeling strangely self-conscious under her gaze.

“Nothing,” she said, reaching up to brush flour from my cheek. “I’m just happy.”

The word hung in the air between us. Happy. Such a simple thing, something most people took for granted. But for us—after everything we’d been through, everything we’d survived—happiness felt like a victory.

I leaned down and kissed her again, ignoring Luca’s exaggerated groans. “Me too,” I murmured against her lips.

The next hour passed in a blur of flour and laughter and slightly burnt pancakes. Luca proudly showed off his creations—lopsided, misshapen circles that he insisted on decorating with every topping in the pantry. Harlowe and I sat at the kitchen island, watching him with matching expressions of adoration.

This was what we had fought for. This was what we had almost lost.

“Good?” I asked, nodding at Harlowe’s plate as she took a bite of pancake.

She hummed appreciatively. “Better than good. You’re getting pretty domestic, Mr. Romanov.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” I warned, only half-joking. “It would ruin my reputation.”

She laughed, the sound warming me from the inside out. “Your secret is safe with me.”

After dinner, we took Luca upstairs for his bath. I watched as Harlowe helped him wash his hair, singing softly while he splashed in the bubbles. The bathroom was filled with steam and the scent of his bubble bath, and I felt something settle in my chest—something like peace, though I barely recognized the feeling.

“Bedtime story?” Luca asked when Harlowe wrapped him in a fluffy towel.

“One story,” she agreed, kissing his damp forehead. “Then sleep.”