Work Text:
The afternoon sun slants golden through the sugar maple’s bare branches, casting long shadows over the backyard where dried leaves crackle underfoot. Kris’s shoulders ache pleasantly from the repetitive scrape-and-drag of the rake, the rhythm interrupted only by Oliver’s shrieks as Harrington—eighty pounds of enthusiastic mutt—barrels past him, sending a freshly gathered pile scattering.
Zorro, ever the dignified sentinel, huffs from his post beside Marlo’s sprawled form on the porch steps. The toddler’s knee is daubed with neon-green antiseptic, a badge of honor from his earlier tumble. Adam’s fingers twitch around his own rake. Kris catches the glint in his husband’s eyes—that particular spark of mischief that hasn’t dimmed in fourteen years.
“I know that look, Adam,” he warns, voice low. “Don’t you dare.”
Adam’s grin is all teeth. “But the leaves are calling my name!”
“No, they are not—”
The rake hits the grass with a thud. Adam launches himself backward, arms outstretched, and the universe rewards him with the perfect crunch of brittle foliage. Oliver’s gasp is audible even over Rose’s delighted squeal. Two pairs of tiny feet pound across the lawn, Pharaoh’s nails clicking frantically behind them as they dive into the fray. Adam emerges grinning, chestnut hair strewn with scarlet and amber. Marlo points and giggles, sticky fingers clutching Zorro’s wrinkled collar.
Kris sighs, but it’s ruined by the way his mouth betrays him, curving helplessly upward. “You’re ridiculous,” he mutters, stepping over the wreckage of their labor.
Adam catches his wrist. The leaves cling to Adam’s sweater as Kris yanks him close, their foreheads bumping. Around them, the kids’ laughter spirals into the crisp air, tangled with the dogs’ joyous barks.