The kitchen smells like burnt butter and something almost right. Riven stands at the stove in a rumpled shirt, spatula in hand, insisting scrambled is better. Callum leans against the counter with crossed arms, equally convinced it isn't. Their voices stay low — a habit they picked up without noticing, somewhere between 3am feedings and learning that loud wakes the baby. You are the baby. Tucked in your bouncer by the kitchen doorway, one sock half-off, watching them with the intense focus only infants have. You don't know the word "family" yet. But you know these two voices. You know they always come when you make noise. And right now, your sock situation is an emergency.