𝓭𝓪𝓭𝓭𝔂'𝓼 𝓵𝓲𝓽𝓽𝓵𝓮 𝓰𝓲𝓻𝓵

i like pizza

dick grayson x Reader

The rooftop is quiet, save for the soft hum of Gotham City below. You're sitting cross-legged next to Dick, sharing a pizza box between you. The moonlight reflects off the sleek black of his suit, but he looks more relaxed than ever. The domino mask hides his eyes, but you can feel them on you anyway.

“I like pizza,” he says, breaking the silence with a grin, as if this is some profound revelation.

You smirk, biting into a slice. “You like pizza. Groundbreaking.”

His smile widens. “You like pizza.”

“I do,” you reply, matching his playful tone. “Are you building up to something, Grayson?”

He leans back on his hands, the warm breeze tousling his dark hair. “Maybe. But you’ll have to wait for the big finish.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart betrays you, skipping a beat. Dick Grayson has a way of pulling you into his orbit, where everything feels lighter, brighter—even on a night like this.

“I am bad at poems,” he suddenly declares, tilting his head dramatically, his face angled toward the stars. His tone is so earnest, it takes you a second to realize he’s trying to be funny.

You laugh, a soft, genuine sound that makes his smile soften into something more sincere. “Yeah, I can see that,” you tease.

“Harsh,” he replies, pressing a hand to his chest as if wounded. Then, leaning forward slightly, he looks at you with a kind of quiet intensity. His voice drops lower, losing its humor but keeping its warmth. “Kiss me.”

The words hang in the air, simple but charged. You freeze, your slice of pizza forgotten. The world feels like it’s tilting, your pulse racing to keep up.

“You’re just going to throw that out there?” you manage to say, your voice barely above a whisper.

He shrugs, but his gaze doesn’t waver. “Sometimes you just have to say what you feel. No masks, no games.”

For a moment, you wonder if he’s talking about more than just this—if he’s showing you a glimpse of the man behind the mask. Either way, you don’t wait for him to repeat himself. You lean in, meeting him halfway.

The kiss is warm and unhurried, like a secret shared between just the two of you. When you finally pull back, his forehead rests lightly against yours, and there’s a spark of mischief back in his voice.

“So,” he says softly, “does this mean we’re sharing the last slice?”

You laugh, your chest light, and nudge him playfully. “Not a chance, Grayson.”

He grins, the rooftop feels like the safest, happiest place in the world.

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐈 𝐒𝐄𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔?

Charles Leclerc x Reader

The soft glow of streetlights bathed your quiet neighborhood in golden hues, the warmth of the evening air still lingering on your skin from the perfect date you had shared with him just hours ago. Charles had been nothing short of a dream—charming, kind, and effortlessly funny. Every moment spent with him felt like something out of a movie, yet you never expected the night to end like this.

As you stood by your bedroom window, lost in thought, your phone buzzed—a message from Charles.

"Look outside."

Heart racing, you pulled back the curtain, and there he was. Standing under the streetlamp, his signature tousled hair illuminated by the soft glow, Charles held a sign in his hands. Bold letters scrawled across it read:

"WHEN CAN I SEE YOU?"

A breathless laugh escaped your lips as warmth bloomed in your chest. His eyes met yours, hopeful, playful, and a little nervous. You could hardly believe it. He had just dropped you off, yet here he was again, standing outside your house like the hero of a romantic film.

You grabbed a notebook from your desk, scribbled down your response, and held it up against the window:

"RIGHT NOW?"

Charles' grin widened, dimples appearing as he nodded enthusiastically. He motioned for you to come down, and without a second thought, you slipped on your shoes, heart hammering with excitement.

The moment you stepped outside, he was there, hands in his pockets, looking at you like you were the most beautiful thing in the world. "I know I just saw you," he admitted, voice soft, "but I already missed you."

You laughed, shaking your head at his ridiculous yet undeniably sweet confession. "And now?" you teased.

He stepped closer, reaching for your hand, fingers grazing like electricity sparking between you. "Now, I never want to leave."

And just like that, the night that was supposed to end hours ago became a memory you’d cherish forever.

blah, blah, blah....shut up

Dante Sparda x Reader

You step into the dimly lit cathedral, boots clicking against the cracked stone floor. Shadows stretch long and jagged across the decrepit walls, the faint glow of moonlight filtering through shattered stained glass windows. You know he's here. You always do. The air carries that familiar charge—like lightning waiting to strike.

And then, he speaks.

"Well, if it isn’t my favorite thorn in the side. Couldn’t stay away, could you?"

The voice, smooth as silk and sharp as a blade, comes from the darkness above. Dante Sparda. That smirk of his practically audible even before you see his face.

You tilt your head slightly, fingers tightening around your weapon. "You’re the one who makes this whole 'hero of humanity' thing a lot more interesting. Couldn't resist the urge to see me again?"

A slow clap echoes through the cathedral as he steps out of the shadows. That cocky strut of his, the way his crimson coat flares behind him—it’s maddening how he makes the line between charm and arrogance blur. His silver hair glints in the pale light, and his mismatched eyes, one blue and one crimson, are locked on you.

"You’ve got a way with words," he drawls, stopping a few feet from you, Rebellion slung lazily over his shoulder. "Too bad I’ll have to cut this poetry slam short."

You roll your eyes, though your lips twitch in a smirk of their own. "Big talk from someone who’s never managed to land a killing blow."

He chuckles at that, low and rich, the sound curling around you like smoke. "You’d miss me too much if I did." He leans forward just slightly, tilting his head. "Tell me, sweetheart, what keeps bringing you back? The thrill? The chase? Or…" He flashes you a grin sharp enough to cut glass. "Is it me?"

Your stomach twists, and not in the way you’d like to admit. His arrogance is insufferable, but you’d be lying if you said it didn’t light a fire under your skin. Still, you’re not about to give him the satisfaction.

"You’re delusional," you retort, stepping closer, daring him to close the gap. "But if you must know, I like keeping my enemies alive. Makes the victories more satisfying."

He hums thoughtfully, his gaze sweeping over you, unabashed and brazen. "Oh, I bet you do."

You scoff, but there’s heat rising to your cheeks, and you hate how he notices. He always does. His grin only widens, and for a brief moment, you wonder if he’s teasing you just to throw you off your game—or if he really means it. Either way, it works.

"You done yet?" you snap, raising your weapon, the blade gleaming as it catches the faint light. "Or are you just stalling because you know you’re going to lose?"

Dante’s eyes light up with that familiar spark of reckless excitement, and he lifts Rebellion, pointing it lazily at you. "Oh, I’m just getting started, babe."

And then he’s on you, a whirlwind of steel and smirks, the clash of your blades ringing out through the cathedral. He fights like he talks—bold, unpredictable, and maddeningly confident. Every strike you throw is met with a counter, every feint answered with a cocky remark that makes you want to punch that smirk off his face.

But there’s something about the way he moves, the way he watches you, that keeps you from hating him entirely. His eyes burn with more than just battle lust; they hold something else, something you can’t quite put into words. And damn it, you’re starting to think he knows it too.

He locks your blade with his, faces inches apart, his breath warm against your skin. "Admit it," he murmurs, his voice low and teasing. "You’re having fun."

You glare at him, trying to ignore the way your heart skips a beat. "Shut up."

He laughs, leaning in just a fraction closer. "You’ll miss me when I’m gone."

You don’t answer. Not with words, anyway. Instead, you shove him back with a growl, your blade flashing as you press the attack. His grin only widens, and for a fleeting moment, you think you see a flicker of something genuine behind his cocky facade.

Love Grows

Laurie Laurence x Reader

You’re sitting cross-legged on the patchy grass outside the Marches’ house, a canvas propped up on your knees and a brush clutched in your fingers. The late afternoon sun catches the fiery strands of your untamed red hair, making them glow like embers. You’re trying to capture the scene in front of you—a mix of sun-dappled trees and the charming, worn shutters of the house but your mind keeps wandering.

And then, of course, he appears. Laurie Laurence. Teddy, as Jo calls him, but you prefer Laurie. There’s something about the way the name rolls off your tongue that feels like music.

“Painting again?” His voice is warm, teasing. You don’t look up immediately. Instead, you dip your brush into a streak of crimson and drag it across the canvas.

“Observant as ever,” you reply dryly, though you’re secretly glad he came. He always comes. There’s something magnetic about Laurie—the way his dark hair falls into his eyes, the way his laughter feels like a promise of mischief. You know he doesn’t belong to you, not really. He belongs to Jo, or maybe to the whole March family. But when he’s here, leaning lazily against the fence like he has all the time in the world for you, it’s easy to imagine otherwise.

“What are you working on today?” he asks, stepping closer. You can feel his shadow fall across your canvas.

You shrug, deliberately nonchalant.

Laurie chuckles, a low, rich sound that makes your heart skip. “You’re full of mysteries, you know. People talk about you, you know that? They say your hair’s wild, your clothes don’t match, and that you’re always mumbling about colors no one else can see. They think you’re crazy.” He says it lightly, but there’s something in his tone—a challenge, maybe.

You finally glance up, meeting his eyes. “And what do you think?” you ask, the question slipping out before you can stop it.

“I think,” Laurie says slowly, “that the world would be a much duller place without you.”

The words hang in the air between you, heavier than you expected. You feel heat rise to your cheeks, but before you can respond, Laurie drops to the ground beside you, long legs sprawled carelessly. He plucks a blade of grass and twirls it between his fingers. “Teach me,” he says suddenly.

You blink. “Teach you what?”

“To see the world the way you do.” He gestures vaguely at your painting. “To make it look so alive, so...wild. Like you.”

There’s a tenderness in his voice you’re not used to, and it disarms you. You hand him the brush before you can second-guess yourself. “Here. You try.”

Laurie takes the brush with a grin, but as he awkwardly drags it across the canvas, you can’t help but laugh. “You’re hopeless,” you tease.

“Hopelessly charmed, maybe,” he retorts, and the way he looks at you then, eyes soft and searching, makes your breath catch. You wonder if he knows what he’s doing to you, if he feels the same pull that you do.

For a moment, the world seems to shrink to just the two of you, the colors on your canvas forgotten. Laurie leans closer, so close you can see the tiny flecks of gold in his eyes. “You know,” he murmurs, “you’re kind of a mystery to me, too.”

And then, just as quickly as the moment came, it’s gone. Laurie leans back, grinning like the scoundrel he is, and hands you the brush. “You’re a better teacher than I am a student,” he says.

But his words linger, and as the sun sets and the colors deepen, you find yourself wondering if maybe, just maybe, you’re not such a mystery to him after all.

𝑰 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒕'𝒔 𝒌𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒆

John Wick x Reader

You step onto the terrace, the cool night air brushing your skin, and the city sprawls before you—its lights twinkling like stars, a reminder of all the times you used to dream with him. You don’t know why you came here tonight, not really. Maybe it’s the glass of champagne you’re holding in your hand, or maybe it’s the way the gala inside feels too constricting. You feel a sudden need to breathe, to escape the glitz and glamour for just a moment.

You slowly slip off your heels, a small sigh escaping your lips as you feel the pressure lift from your feet. You close your eyes for a second, grounding yourself in the sounds of the city below. The hum of traffic, the occasional distant laughter, the clink of glasses from inside the ballroom. It all blends into one low murmur, a noise you once thought you couldn’t escape.

Then you hear it.

The quiet, measured footsteps behind you.

You don't need to turn around to know who it is. You can feel it, in the way the air shifts around you, in the tension that suddenly tightens your chest. John Wick. That name. That face. That past. It's been years since you last saw him, years since you last spoke, yet here he is again, the same intensity in his presence, the same storm of contradictions wrapped up in one man.

He stands just a few feet away, not close enough to touch, but close enough that you can feel the pull of him. His eyes are on you, but you don’t look at him—not yet. You haven’t figured out how to face him yet, after all this time.

"You always did like the quiet," he says, his voice low, rough, like gravel being ground underfoot. His words stir something deep inside you, a forgotten ache, a soft memory of what was once so easy between you two.

You take a long breath and finally turn, meeting his gaze. There it is, that flicker in his eyes, the same dangerous fire that used to haunt you—still haunts you. But there’s something different now. Weariness. A kind of resignation.

"Why are you here?" You don’t recognize your own voice—it’s calm, steady, like you’re in control. But deep down, you can feel the storm brewing. It’s always been like this with him, hasn’t it? A push and pull you could never quite untangle.

"I could ask you the same thing." His gaze flickers to the city beyond you both, as if looking for something. Or maybe running from it.

You can’t help but let out a bitter laugh. "Always the man of few words, John. Always running."

"Not anymore," he replies quietly, almost to himself, but you catch it.

The distance between you both feels like an ocean now, yet your heartbeat betrays you, thumping louder than the city beneath your feet. It’s stupid, isn’t it? This unresolved tension, the way you’ve always gravitated toward each other, like magnets, pulling back together no matter how far apart you’ve drifted.

"Why did you leave?" The question escapes before you can stop it. It’s raw, unexpected—yet it’s been there all along, lingering under the surface. He owes you that answer. You owe yourself that answer.

He doesn’t answer at first, his gaze narrowing as he takes a step closer. You can smell him now, a blend of cologne and leather, something dark, familiar. But then he pauses, his voice dropping low, almost like a confession.

"I had things to do. People to protect." His jaw tightens, eyes flicking to the ground for a moment. "Things got... messy."

You nod, a cold chill creeping through you. You know exactly what he means. You knew him before the gunshots, before the chaos. You knew him when he was still yours—and you were his, in some broken, unspoken way.

"Did you ever think about me?" The words slip out before you can bite them back.

John’s eyes meet yours, the weight of your question hanging between you like smoke. His expression is unreadable, but something shifts in his gaze—a flicker of regret? Or maybe longing. He’s never been good at hiding what he feels.

"Every day," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper, but the sincerity is there, in the way he looks at you. "I tried to forget. But some things you can't walk away from."

Your heart skips a beat. He’s here. He’s saying all the right things, but you don’t know if you should believe him. After everything, after the pain, the betrayals... Can you even go back to that version of you both?

You step back, away from him, needing space. Your mind screams at you to run, but your body betrays you, frozen in place.

"You should go." It’s a command, but it feels weak, unsure, like a part of you is begging him to stay.

John doesn't move immediately, just watches you, his gaze lingering on your face as if trying to memorize it all over again. Then, finally, he gives a slow, almost imperceptible nod.

"Maybe next time," he says, his voice softer, gentler than before. Then, with a single step backward, he turns and walks away, disappearing into the shadows.

You’re left standing there, on the terrace, with nothing but the city lights, the cool night air, and the echo of a past you thought you'd buried.

𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐞

James Potter x Reader

The music fills the room, a soft melody swirling through the air, its notes light and playful. You’re lost in the comfort of the quiet evening, the warmth of the fire flickering on the hearth casting a golden glow over the room. James, casually leaning against the armrest of the couch, lifts his head, eyes meeting yours across the room. There's a mischievous smile tugging at his lips, something you know all too well.

Without saying a word, he stands up, his movements graceful as he closes the space between you. His hand reaches out, fingers warm, and your heart skips as he gently takes yours. You can feel his touch—the familiar softness, the strength beneath.

“Dance with me,” he says, his voice a quiet invitation, pulling you from your thoughts. There's no hesitation in his tone, only a quiet certainty, as if he knows you can’t resist.

You glance up at him, eyes softening. The music continues, the beat slow and steady, and you let him lead you into his arms. His hands find their place at your waist, while you place yours against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. The world outside the room seems to disappear. It’s just the two of you, moving together, swaying in time with the song.

James pulls you in closer, his touch tender as you rest your head against his shoulder. The air is thick with unspoken words, with all the affection he has for you, and you can feel it in every movement, in every gentle step.

For a moment, the whole world stops spinning. The only thing that matters is the way your bodies fit together perfectly, the way the music seems to slow, allowing you to savor this moment forever.

He pulls away just enough to look into your eyes, his gaze filled with something deeper. “You’ve always been my favorite dance partner,” he says, his voice full of affection and a hint of playful arrogance.

You smile softly, a feeling of contentment washing over you as you press closer, letting the warmth of his presence fill you. Just the two of you, dancing, lost in each other’s company, under the quiet spell of the music.

Monaco

Charles Leclerc x Reader

You can feel the weight of the past as you stand in the shadows of Mónaco. The salty air brushes your skin, mixing with the distant hum of the city’s nightlife, but none of that matters. Your eyes are only on one thing: the memory of him.

It’s been months maybe even years and yet the streets of this city hold him like an echo. You know that your plan was never meant to be forever. You were never meant to stay. It was always supposed to be fleeting, the way the summer nights come and go. You, Charles, and the promise of something more... something that could have been, but was never destined to last.

You remember how he used to take your hand as the sun set over the harbor, his face a mask of calm beneath the weight of the world. There were moments when you thought he could escape the fame, the pressure, and just be yours. But reality was always waiting, hovering like the darkness over the circuit at night, just as unpredictable as the next race. The promise of forever slipped through your fingers like sand, and suddenly, there was nothing but the silence between you.

You know it’s too late to go back. To reimagine what could have been. But part of you still holds on to the idea of him of the way his smile could light up even the darkest corners of your mind. The way he kissed you under the lights of the casino, telling you that everything would be okay, even if you both knew better.

You never spoke of a second chance. You didn’t need to. It was clear that the world around you his world was too big, too overwhelming for the two of you. The distance between you grew, just like the races that he kept winning, while you stayed on the sidelines. But there’s a part of you, the part that still lingers in the back of your mind, wondering what if.

What if there was another chance? What if this city, with its grand, timeless streets, could bring you both back together? You laugh softly at the thought. The answer is clear, even if it hurts. You were never meant to stay in each other's lives. But the memories of what happened here under the shadow of the circuit, in the quiet moments when you were alone together will never leave you.

𝐋𝐚𝐳𝐲 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠

Alexei Vronsky x Reader

The first rays of dawn creep through the gossamer curtains, casting soft golden light across the room. You awaken to the quiet rustle of movement nearby, your heart quickening before your eyes even open. The subtle aroma of fresh coffee mingles with the faint scent of cedar and citrus—his scent, distinctly Alexei.

When you finally open your eyes, he is there by the window, his silhouette framed by the early morning glow. Alexei Vronsky, ever the picture of effortless elegance, is dressed in a loose white shirt, the first few buttons undone, and dark trousers that cling perfectly to his lean form. His dark hair is tousled, his face turned toward the pale morning sky. For a moment, he seems lost in thought, as if he’s carrying the weight of the world.

“Good morning,” you murmur, your voice still thick with sleep.

His head turns at the sound, and when his eyes meet yours, they soften instantly, a rare and fleeting vulnerability in their depths. He crosses the room in long strides, the faintest smile playing on his lips. The smile is just for you—it always is.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed. His fingers brush a strand of hair from your face, lingering against your cheek. “But the light...it was too perfect not to watch.”

You prop yourself up on one elbow, letting the sheet slip from your shoulder. “And you didn’t think to share it with me?”

“I wanted to preserve the peace,” he replies, though there’s a playful glint in his eyes now. His hand trails down your arm, tracing idle patterns against your skin. “But I’m glad you’re awake. The morning is always better with you.”

You laugh softly, the sound seeming to warm him. He leans down, pressing a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, before finding your lips. The kiss is unhurried, tender, as though he has all the time in the world for you—and only you.

“Shall we take our coffee outside?” he murmurs against your lips, his breath warm and intimate. “The garden is beautiful this time of day.”

“Only if you promise to keep me warm,” you tease, though you already know he will.

His eyes darken slightly, filled with something deeper than just affection. “Always,” he vows.

And with that, Alexei rises, holding out his hand to you. The morning stretches ahead, full of promises whispered in golden light and moments shared in quiet intimacy.

𝐀𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭?

Peter Parker x Reader

You lean against the rooftop, the city lights shimmering below like a thousand stars caught in the web of concrete. The wind ruffles your hair, but you're not bothered by it. Not when you're so focused on the one person who’s been messing with your mind lately—Spider-Man.

He's perched on the edge of the building, eyes scanning the streets below, looking for trouble. But the moment you step into his line of sight, everything shifts. He straightens up, his posture alert, but there's a flicker in his eyes, a challenge, maybe even a glint of something else. He knows who you are, and you know him. You've crossed paths more times than you'd care to admit—fighting, teasing, bickering.

And yet, there's always that tension. You can feel it in the air, like the charged buzz before a thunderstorm.

“So, what are we doing tonight, Webhead?” you call out, deliberately leaning closer as you speak, making sure he notices the sway of your voice. You see the way his jaw tightens, how his body stiffens, and it's almost enough to make you smirk. Almost.

“You know,” he says, voice low and steady, but you can catch the edge of something more, “I’m getting kind of tired of you showing up just to cause chaos.” He flips himself into a crouch, ready for anything.

“Cause chaos?” You raise an eyebrow, your lips curling into a playful smile. “I’m just here to have a little fun. You should try it sometime.” Your eyes meet his, and there's an almost teasing energy in your stare, the same electric current that always seems to pass between you two.

His eyes narrow. “Are you flirting with me or starting a fight?”

You let out a soft laugh, a laugh that dances between confidence and something far more dangerous. “Why not both?” You take a step closer, watching the way his breath catches. You know he’s trying to keep his cool, but the way his gaze flickers down to your lips gives him away. You’ve seen that look before. He’s not entirely immune.

There’s a beat of silence between you, the kind that teases at something deeper. Something almost… dangerous. You both know you're enemies. You've fought on opposite sides countless times. But there’s something about this game you play. It's like a constant tug-of-war between attraction and animosity.

Spider-Man lunges toward you with a speed you barely manage to sidestep. The playful tension slips into something more intense, more urgent. He spins around, keeping his distance, but you can feel his presence pressing in on you.

“Don’t pretend like you didn’t want that,” you tease, taking a slow step forward, daring him to make the next move.

His lips twitch, like he’s about to say something—maybe even flirt back—but then he stops himself. It’s almost as if he’s wrestling with his own reaction, weighing the consequences of letting this thing between you two slip into something more. Something… personal.

But then, in a flash of motion, he’s gone. No fight. No words. Just the whisper of his webbing as it disappears into the night.

You stand there for a moment, watching the empty space where he used to be. A soft laugh escapes your lips.

This isn’t over. You both know it.

And deep down, you both know it never will be.

First time parents

Carlos Sainz x Reader

The glow of the morning sun filters through the nursery curtains, casting a golden hue over the room. You stir awake, feeling the weight of exhaustion mixed with an overwhelming sense of joy. Beside you, Carlos shifts, rubbing his eyes as he hears the faint whimpering of your newborn.

"I'll get her," he murmurs, voice husky with sleep.

You watch as he moves with surprising gentleness, scooping your daughter into his arms. His hair is tousled, his T-shirt slightly wrinkled from the restless night before, but there's a softness in his gaze that makes your heart clench. He walks back to the bed, cradling the tiny bundle between you.

"She has your nose," he teases, brushing a finger over her delicate features.

"And your stubbornness," you counter, remembering the way she refused to sleep unless she was held—much like her father, who couldn't stand being still for too long.

Carlos chuckles, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead before placing another on your daughter's tiny hand. "We're in trouble, aren’t we?"

You sigh, resting your head against his shoulder. "Completely."

The past few weeks have been a whirlwind—late-night feedings, endless diaper changes, moments of pure bliss mixed with sheer exhaustion. Yet, through it all, Carlos has been your rock. Despite his intense schedule, the races, and the media appearances, he’s always here, always present.

Last night, when the baby wouldn’t stop crying, he had walked around the house for hours, humming softly in Spanish until she finally fell asleep. You had stood by the doorway, watching the man who commands speed and precision on the track move so patiently, so lovingly, as if time had slowed just for the two of them.

"Do you ever miss the quiet?" you ask now, watching as your daughter grips his finger in her tiny fist.

Carlos shakes his head, smiling. "Not for a second. This—" He gestures between the three of you. "This is the best race of my life."

Tears prick your eyes, and he notices, tilting your chin up with a teasing smirk. "Are we getting emotional?"

You laugh, swatting his arm, but he only pulls you closer, pressing his lips to yours in a kiss that speaks of every late-night whisper, every shared dream, every moment of love that led you here.

Parenthood is messy, unpredictable, and utterly exhausting. But with Carlos by your side, it’s also the most beautiful adventure of all.