Chapter Text
The cottage smells like driftwood and wild rosemary when Zena and Elira step inside, the kids’ voices trailing in behind them.
“Shoes off,” Elira reminds gently, arching a brow.
“Yes, ma’am,” Joseph and Eli echo, amused. Micha giggles, already hopping on one foot trying to tug off his sandals.
Zena shuts the door behind them, her eyes soft as she watches her wife shepherd their sons in with practiced calm. Joseph, eighteen, helps Micha with his bag, ruffling his curls affectionately. Eli, fifteen, is already digging in the fridge, muttering something about being starved to death.
Elira kisses Zena’s temple in passing. “I’ll wrangle the wolves. You start lunch?”
Zena nods, her hand brushing lightly over her wife’s. “With help.”
Micha perks up instantly. “I’m helping Mama Zena!”
Elira grins. “Of course you are, little fox.”
In the Kitchen
Zena stands at the counter, hair pulled into a loose braid, her favorite soft wrap cardigan tied over a linen dress. Micha stands on a step stool beside her, tongue poking out in concentration as he spreads dairy-free butter onto slices of fresh bread. Zena slices tomatoes, glancing down to guide his hand now and then.
“You’re doing amazing,” she says, voice full of warmth.
“I want to make the sandwiches extra special so everyone feels really loved,” Micha announces seriously.
Zena melts. “Then I think we’re already halfway there.”
In the Living Room
Elira sits on the couch with Joseph and Eli, her legs tucked under her and a notebook balanced on her lap. Joseph is sprawled beside her with a sketchpad, Eli munching an apple.
“So,” Elira says, tapping her pen, “Tomorrow. The cliffs are beautiful, but if we go to the lake trail, Micha can collect rocks again.”
“Lake trail,” Joseph says easily. “We’ll help carry stuff for Mom, too.”
Eli shrugs. “Can we stop at the bakery after?”
“Deal,” Elira replies. “But only if we pack extra water this time.”
Zena overhears from the kitchen and smiles to herself. Her heart aches in that soft, full way only her family can stir.
They eat outside, picnic-style on the back deck. Grilled cheese with basil from Zena’s windowsill garden. Cut fruit. Iced herbal tea. The sea is just barely visible in the distance, sparkling between dune grass and wildflowers.
Elira sits close to Zena, brushing crumbs from her lap. Zena leans into her, grateful for the quiet weight of her wife’s arm around her waist.
“Mama, you forgot to eat your strawberries,” Micha says solemnly, holding up the little bowl.
Zena takes one, dips it in honey, and kisses the top of his head. “Thank you, sweetheart.”
Later, the boys are scattered around the house—Joseph sketching, Eli reading, Micha passed out across the couch with a stuffed fox clutched to his chest.
Zena dozes against Elira’s side in the armchair, a warm throw blanket over their laps. Elira reads quietly beside her, one hand resting on Zena’s thigh, thumb tracing absent-minded circles against her soft cotton skirt.
The sun sinks lower. The breeze carries the scent of salt and lavender through the open windows.
Zena stirs slightly, murmuring, “This is my favorite kind of day.”
Elira presses a kiss to her temple. “Mine too.”
And in that small, perfect moment, everything feels right—quiet, grounded, full of love that runs d
eep and steady like the tide.