1786

“Alexander!”

You squealed, giggling uncontrollably as your husband practically pinned you against the kitchen counter, smothering your face in kisses like a deranged man who hadn’t seen his wife in years—when in reality, he’d just come back from a two–hour meeting.

Your giggles echoed through the room like music to his ears. He grinned boyishly, delighting in your laughter as his hands slid around your waist—one of them pausing on the curve of your growing baby bump. At five months pregnant with your third child, you were glowing ( and perpetually exhausted ), and Alexander made it his personal mission to love you enough for the days he wasn’t around.

He placed a kiss to your nose. Then your cheek. Then your forehead. Then—

“EWWWWWWWWWWWW!!”

Alexander paused mid–kiss, turning to find your two eldest standing in the doorway like pint–sized critics at a theater performance they didn’t ask to see. Four–year–old Philip wore a look of absolute betrayal, his tiny fists clenched at his sides. “Pa! Stop kissing Ma!! That’s gross!!”

Beside him, two–year–old Angelica furrowed her brows, nose scrunched like someone had just waved a diaper in her face.

“Yucky,” she declared with the serious authority only toddlers can summon.

Alexander shot them a wicked grin. “Oh nooo,” he cooed dramatically, turning back to you. “Better cover your eyes…”

And with that, he dipped you low like you were in a Regency–era romance novel and pressed a very extra kiss to your lips.

From behind him: “NOOOOOOO!!”

Philip dramatically flopped to the floor like he’d been wounded. Angelica covered her eyes and waddled away screaming, “Ears AND eyes, Mama! I can’t SEE or HEAR!”