Breakfast began quietly, like a morning that doesn’t need to be rushed.
For the children — porridge with baked pumpkin and seeds.
Everyone eats differently:
one picks out the pumpkin first, carefully setting the porridge aside,
another scoops everything at once so the seeds crunch between their teeth.
Someone swings their legs under the table,
someone blows seriously on their spoon,
and there is no hurry here, no demands — only living childlike energy.
The teachers are annoyed —
who did they set the table at the kindergarten for, if everyone is here?
I shrug.
Children are sacred. I won’t allow them to be scolded.
For Nate — buckwheat with roasted blueberries.
The blueberries are dark, warm, slightly tart —
as if they add depth rather than sweetness.
Food for someone who maintains his form
not through effort, but through inner discipline.
For Jonathan — rice porridge with caramelized banana
and exactly one quarter of an apple.
He eats the banana first,
then the rice,
the apple at the very end — like a full stop.
A small personal order inside the general noise.
A great CFO at work.
Everyone else — in proud madness and chaos.
Someone reaches for someone else’s spoon,
someone trades bites,
someone suddenly decides they urgently need that plate.
Laughter, rustling, movement —
the enemy of order in all its splendor.
I laugh. I feel free and cozy.
You can eat with your hands and get messy.
You can stick anything that fits into your nose.
At the table, no one is alone.
No one eats alone, on the run, on their phone.
Everyone is here.
Everyone together.
The food is warm, the morning is alive,
the family is gathered — what could be better?
Breakfast went just right.
I changed clothes right after.
“Miss, you really don’t take care of your things,”
the laundress will scold me again.
I shrug.
They’re just things.
But breakfast was so much fun.
Who cares about stains on cashmere.
…
Nate’s office.
I inhaled and knocked awkwardly.
A little quieter than I meant to.
— Kitten.
— Hi… — I felt shy.
He stood up and came closer.
His arms wrapped around my waist,
his lips warmed me with a kiss.
I flushed all over.
— Nate.
— Mmm? — he buried his nose in my curls.
— Love, can I ask you something?
— What exactly, kitten?
And as he said it,
his breath ended up dangerously close — too close.
He started slowly, almost lazily,
moving down my neck —
not really touching,
but in a way where every almost hit harder than real touch.
I tried to breathe.
But my shoulders tensed,
my fingers trembled slightly,
and I made completely useless, pitiful attempts to resist.
— Love…
— Mmm…
He began to nibble my ear —
not sharply, but playfully,
testing, feeling where my boundary is.
His fingers slid into my hair,
first gently, then possessively and firmly,
gathering my curls into his palm.
I moaned.
His darkness takes over.
That movement suddenly stripped me of clarity.
My thoughts scattered.
My body answered first.
I stopped remembering why I had come.
What I wanted to say…
Carefully, almost tenderly,
he guided me onto the couch.
He didn’t push, didn’t pull —
he simply directed me.
And then he began to stretch his shirt —
button by button.
The waiting tormented me, and I bit my nails.
“You’re such a kitten, love.”
I blushed.
He leaned in and kissed me,
and my head began to spin.
His closeness,
his breath,
and my heart beating far too fast.
I sat there,
my cheeks burning,
my breath uneven,
and he was right there —
too close to return to words,
and too calm
not to feel
that he had everything under control.
“Nate…”
“Mmm.”
A pause.
I blushed again.
“You’re so seductive.”
He smiled slyly.
“You are too, kitten…”
…
I finally decided to ask him.
Not right away.
First a breath.
Then another.
“Nate…” — softly. — “Will you watch nature documentaries with me?”
He leaned down and gently kissed my forehead —
the kind of kiss that says everything has already been understood.
“Of course, love.”
In the living room, I’m sitting on his lap.
A blanket over us.
Warm. Soft.
I wrap my arms around him —
tight, my beloved.
On the screen, Nat Geo Wild.
And that’s frightening for me.
Very.
I’m afraid of those programs.
Not of the stories —
of my body’s reaction.
Some scenes make me start shaking.
Fear rises in waves.
Anxiety makes me restless,
jittery,
as if my body wants to run,
and my mind can’t keep up to explain where or why.
The calm voiceover and the quiet nature scare me.
The anxiety starts beating against its cage.
Too calm. Too quiet for it.
Almost like a spike through the heart.
But then — Nate.
His hands are strong and warm.
They don’t squeeze.
They hold.
I fit entirely inside them —
completely,
without anything left over.
The warmth of his body,
his even, steady breathing,
a rhythm that doesn’t break.
And my body —
slowly,
carefully,
begins to give in.
Not to fear.
But to understanding.
We are safe.
Here.
Now.
In his arms.
Then the children joined us.
Not all at once, but with noise, with movement —
the way it always happens in a house full of life.
I had to shift a little.
The girls would never let me have Nate.
And I know that.
He is their support.
Their beloved dad.
Nate wrapped his arms around the girls —
pulling one closer,
resting his hand protectively over the other,
so naturally, as if they had always been an extension of his body.
And I sat behind him,
my arms around his back.
My palms placed where he is warm and real.
Not in the center of the frame,
but inside the scene.
In my place.
Roman suddenly stuck his tongue out at everyone —
wide, demonstrative,
with all the seriousness of someone
emphasizing his autonomy
and freedom of choice.
Next, Cody and Josh burst in.
As always —
right on the edge between an actual topic
and a perfectly legitimate reason to start a fight.
Words fly fast,
tones are sharp,
gestures already too close to each other
for this to be just a conversation.
— “That’s not how it is at all!”
— “You just don’t understand!”
— “You always twist everything!”
They argue,
interrupt each other,
almost bump shoulders —
and there is so much life in it
that the room seems to grow larger.
Nate doesn’t even move.
He simply is.
And I can’t help laughing —
Josh and Cody are absolute sharks.
How they ever managed to reach such success
and still remain such kids, I have no idea.
The screen keeps showing its own thing —
jungles, animals, movement —
but real life is here:
on the couch,
in laughter and arguments,
in a tongue stuck out on the sly,
in children who know
they have a home.
I looked around.
Alright. Okay.
Six are missing.
Three adults.
Three kids.
I went to get Jonathan.
A knock.
Soft.
“Love…”
I stood there, waiting.
Knocked again — a little more insistently.
“Jonathan, love.”
The door opened.
He stood in the doorway —
so serious,
so composed.
I couldn’t hold it in and laughed.
“Excuse me, Mr. Very Important Ass,” I said with my most polite face.
“Would you be so kind as to postpone conquering the world
and come downstairs to watch a show with us
about how dolphins mate —
unless, of course, that seems to you
too silly,
childish,
and primitive?”
He looked at me.
A pause — just long enough to save face.
I held the pause, just as composed.
And finally, he smiled.
“Of course.”
I practically lit up.
Leaned forward
and kissed him on the cheek — quick, grateful, genuine.
“Thank you.”
Jonathan came down about ten minutes later.
Not immediately —
like someone who first carefully closes his own worlds
and only then steps into the shared one.
Behind him — Ivy with the boys.
Loud, lively,
the boys racing each other —
who’s faster, who’s higher, who’s stronger.
Sophie brought tea.
Warm mugs, hands instantly finding their place,
steam rising slowly,
and the room grows quieter from within.
I caught myself smiling.
No one is posing.
No one is trying to be convenient or correct.
Someone sits on the floor,
someone settles sideways,
someone drinks tea that’s too hot and winces.
And there isn’t the slightest flaw in it.
The whole family together.
Not like a picture.
Like breathing.