☆ roller girl ☆

“No, no, pass me that. G, pass me—“

“Alright! Damn, give me a sec, Tuck.”

A bag of chips crinkles between your shoulders as Garrett passes Tucker the bag from the front seat. A hand appears above the center console to collect them, and the snick of the plastic tearing open sounds somewhere behind you. Three mouths crunch and smack and your patience wears thin as floss. Or thinner than floss. Whatever’s so thin, it’s practically frayed.

Garrett glances at you as you shift, legs angling toward the window and away from him. Your disappointment is palpable, emanating in waves like the heat against the glass you’re staring through.

It was supposed to just be the pair of you. You, Garrett, your family cabin on the Cape and a few days of fun. Except somehow, the guys weaseled their way in. The words parent-free-cabin were uttered in the wrong place at the wrong time, and suddenly a weekend for two became a party.

A rogue knee jolts your chair and brings you out of your thoughts.

“Hey,” Garrett scolds, reaching back to slap Dean upside the head. “Chill out.”

“Sorry, Dad.”

The backseat erupts into slow snickers and Garrett turns back to the road, shaking his head with a huff. His hand moves to your thigh, big and warm and skating firmly over your flesh. He rubs in a small circle before cupping the width of your thigh, fingers slipping between the space where they cross. You can feel him in your periphery, the weight of his unwavering gaze on you. But you’re just not done being annoyed yet.

“Baby,” Garrett murmurs, shaking you gently by the thigh.

You shift further, arms coming to fold over your chest. Garrett sighs, moving his hand back to the wheel.

This was going to be a long drive.

♡♡♡

“Baby, I swear I didn’t know they were serious.”

“You could’ve said no.”

“I did! I—come on, what are you doing?”

He watches you take the bed apart pillow by pillow only to rearrange them in a makeshift Tetris barrier down the center. Your bags were quickly discarded—dropped, more like—by the bedroom door upon your arrival to the cabin, and you made quick work of claiming the master bedroom.

You pat obnoxiously at the pillows until they deflate on impact. Just for good measure.

“You can sleep over there, I’ll sleep over—“

“Hell no, I’m not dividing the bed. Baby, come here.”

Despite his plea, he’s already reaching for you, hand around your hip to steer you into him. You keep your glare focused on his chest, arms limp at your sides as he tips your head up by the chin and crowds in close.

“We can still make the most of it. We’ve still got this room all to ourselves, don’t we?”

His neck bends, knees giving a little to reach your mouth without the usual help of your tiptoes. His mouth is soft, mint-scented from anxious roadtrip gum. His kiss brushes both your lips together, mouth closed, at first refusing his touch. But the affection softens you. Just a little. Your arms slacken at your sides, chest easing in its tightness.

Garrett can see it. The way you’re starting to melt. Layer by layer. Maybe you aren’t even mad anymore. Maybe you just want all the attention the boys were hogging in the car. Maybe you just want to feel like his only priority right now. He likes to make you feel special. He knows you like it, too.

“My pretty girl,” he murmurs, lips skating over your cheek before pressing another gentle kiss to the apple of it.

He trails delicate affections along your jaw, down your neck. He focuses on the spot behind your ear, just underneath it, the juncture where the flesh is tender with nerves. You squirm a little, body finally giving audience. Your hands come to his stomach, fisting the fabric of his t-shirt over hard muscle. Soft little noises escape you, noises Garrett isn’t sure you know you’re making. He sucks at the skin over your throat and chuckles through his nose when your breath catches.

“That feel good?” he hums, the teasing upturn of his voice settling right below your navel.

You nod, swallowing against his mouth. “Mhm.”

Garrett mimics your noise, pulling up only to turn your head by the chin to free the other side of your neck. He mirrors his actions of the previous side, slow kisses and lazy tongues and tight suctions. Your skin is alight, buzzing with heat and attention and want. Your hand slips from his stomach down the front of him, disappearing between your bodies to tug at his buckle.

“You want somethin’?” He chuckles in the same confident fratboy way he did the night you met, when he was so sure of himself and you were so infatuated.

“You.”

Garrett tears himself away from your neck and latches onto your mouth like a lifeline. You love when he’s like this, chasing each of your breaths like they’re the key to his own. He nips at your bottom lip and his hands squeeze your sides, a crushing force against your ribs.

You feel the edge of the bed against the backs of your thighs before you tumble over, flat on your back and reaching greedily for Garrett’s firm biceps. Thankfully, he’s quick to close the gap, one foot on the floor and the other hiked to the bed by the knee against your thigh. He drops down to one forearm, freeing a hand to skate along the outside of your thigh and hook it over his hip.

He feels the softness, the warmth of your skin. His fingers slip under the hem of your shorts, teasing along the band of your underwear.

“Still mad at me?" he asks, dragging his hot, wet mouth down your throat.

Your insides shimmer and wriggle with delight when you force out a soft: "Yes."

Garrett hooks both hands in the waistband of your shorts, yanking them and your panties down in one go, hard enough it feels like rug burn on your thighs. He stands before you now, motioning with one hand to sit up. You push up on your palms, arms lifting to free you of your shirt. He whips it somewhere behind you, shoving and slapping at the pillow divider on the center of the bed behind you.

"Get this shit outta here," he mutters, cupping his hand under the band of your bra to push you up the mattress. "Need a clean workspace."

You giggle, tipping your head to watch him pinch his shirt at the neck and yank it over his head. No matter how many times you've seen him naked, his physique never fails to leave you wanting. The rippled series of sculpted muscle down his stomach, the veins protruding from his forearms, the curves and valleys of biceps well cared for. The reminder of the tattoo between his shoulder blades always comes with equal excitement. To watch the letters disappear between the movements of his back as he works on you, to leave your marks on the words when he's pushing down on you, stretching your legs wide.

"You're thinking dirty thoughts, I can see 'em on your pretty face."

You blink into the present, cheeks warm when you find Garrett's gaze. "Maybe."

Garrett pushes his jeans over his hips, just a pair of grey boxers keeping his cock restrained. A damp patch darkens the fabric and makes you swallow. He quirks one brow, content to stand there as you writhe.

"Care to share them?"

You hum, hands leaving the mattress to trail along your sides. His eyes immediately follow, licking over the exposed surface of your flesh.

“No,” you murmur, voice weakening under the scrutiny of his dark eyes. He watches you unabashedly, free of embarrassment or insecurity. His cock presses harder against his boxers, a near painful hardening. “I don’t think I will.”

Garrett’s gaze flickers to the shy smile pursed on your lips. He chuckles, tongue swiveling over his bottom lip.

His cock bobs free and your resolve fizzles almost immediately. You shift on the bed, thighs parting instinctively. Garrett glances at the movement and snickers. One hand begins to tug at the length of his cock, the other reaching to skate his knuckles down the inside of your right thigh.

“Always open right up for me,” he muses. He trails just his fingertips over your center, ghosting touches that cause your stomach to ripple and your skin to dapple with goosebumps.

Your hips tip up to chase his touch, silently pleading for more of it. But Garrett pretends not to notice, even though he knows your body and its quiet tells like the back of his hand. He rubs small and whispered circles over your clit that make you gasp and only just begin to whine.

“You want somethin’, sweetheart?” He lightens his touch—if it were even possible. You only just feel the presence of his fingers against you.

“Garrett,” you huff, reaching for his arm between your legs.

His chuckle rumbles through him and into you, a deep vibration straight to your core.

“My needy girl,” he coos, eyes set at the apex of your thighs where you need him most. “Tell me what you want.”

“Want you to touch me,” you murmur, guiding his fingers where you want them—need them. He sweeps two fingers over the growing wetness and your hips jerk. “Please.”

Two thick fingers inch in slowly, easing through the tightness of your excitement. His thumb presses to your clit, rubbing over the pulsing bud. You groan, eyes fluttering shut and head burrowing back into the mattress.

“Yes,” you sigh, dumb to the twist of your hips grinding on his hand.

Garrett presses his other hand down on your hip, anchoring you to the mattress. “Stop squirming. Let me make you feel good, baby.”

You blink your eyes open slowly, nodding your compliance with shallow breaths. Garrett tips his chin down, nodding back curtly. He’s got that look in his eye—the one that means he’s laser-focused. The one that means he’ll do whatever it takes to unravel you, and you’ve never been in safer hands.

Garrett sweeps his other hand up your thigh, bending to press his mouth to your knee. His fingers continue to work between your thighs, pumping deep, curling in that soft and tender spot that makes you ache. A trail of kisses journey down your right leg, and when he can’t reach as he stands, Garrett sinks to his knees beside the bed.

Heels braced on his shoulder blades, Garrett repeats the path of kisses on your left leg, fingers quickening their pace inside you. Your eyes pinch shut, hands reaching for the softness of his dark curls. You scrunch them in your fists, low whines and cries pulled from your throat on their own accord.

His fingers are gone for a split second before they’re replaced with something hot and wet—his mouth, latching onto your clit and sucking tight. Your back arches off the bed, a sharp and elated gasp cutting through the room. Garrett moans against your core, spurred by the tightness of your fists in his hair and the squeeze of your thighs on either side of his head.

His palms are wide and callused when they encompass your thighs, squeezing the meat of them enough to leave little kisses of remembrance as he sets a hungry pace on your pussy. Alternating between a tight latch and a loll of his tongue, dipping into your entrance and slipping along your clit.

“Fuck, Garrett,” you hiccup.

He feels your thighs begin to vibrate against his ears, squeezing a little tighter. He feels like he’s suffocating, like he might die right here—and it’ll be worth it. Your face has a glow when you’re like this, all flushed cheeks and dewy skin, swollen lips from biting away your sounds. If he had his hands free, he’d tug your lip away with his thumb, demand you let all your noises run free.

But he’s got a job to finish. He’ll be damned if he doesn’t make you cum.

His groans reverberate through you as he roughens up, a sloppy push and pull between his prodding tongue and tight mouth. He scrapes his teeth just gently over your sore and swollen clit and you squeal, toes curling and heels digging into his back. The grip you have on his hair might leave him damn near bald, but fuck does he love to see that look on your face.

He licks whatever you give him, scooping his tongue inside your fluttering hole. He kisses your clit gently, hands kneading your thighs to soothe their shaking. Your fingers slacken in his hair, stroking through his curls in an unsteady, calming rhythm. He knows you’re bringing yourself down, too, even in your attempt to coax him.

Garrett perches his chin on your thigh, smoothing small circles with his fingers on your hipbone. Your breaths are still unsteady, but they’re whole, complete transactions of inhales and exhales. The gorgeous glow clings to your pretty face.

He hums, a sideways smile on his shiny mouth. You breathe a laugh, thumb swiping his cheekbone.

“Okay,” you sigh. “You’re forgiven.”

Garrett furrows his brows in faux confusion. “Oh, did you think we were done?”

That cute little lip bite to conceal a smile is enough to get him on his feet again. He presses his thumb into your chin, pulling your lip free and baring your mouth. He swallows you, tasting sweet and salty with sex. Small pips of sounds echo off the back of his throat as he kisses you with clear possession. Even if you were entirely alone in a room, Garrett always kissed you like he had something to prove. Like someone was watching, questioning his love for you.

He pulls from your mouth with a wet pop. “Fuck, turn over. Come on, baby.”

He pats your hip with a dull smack and pushes off the bed. You flip over instantly, eager and bouncy. Garrett plucks the hook on your bra first, pushing the straps down your arms.

His mouth meets your bare shoulder, body bent to cup against yours, chest to back and skin to skin. His hand paws at your breast to knead and squeeze, pinching at your nipple enough to sting. You gasp, head resting back against his temple. He kisses what he can reach, the corner of your mouth and along your sticky cheek.

“You want me, honey?”

Your nod is quick and dizzy. Garrett shakes his head, a gravely hum of distaste rumbling in his throat.

“No, no. Do you want me?”

“Yes, Garrett.”

You hold your breath in the pause that follows, lightheaded and waiting. Garrett responds by slipping his hand between your bodies, guiding the head of his cock over the wetness between your thighs. He prods at your entrance once, twice, just barely breaching past resistance.

You whine, hips rocking back against him. “Garrettt.”

His laughter is sharp and throaty in your ear, shuddering up your spine. “Alright, alright. I’ll give you what you want, baby.”

You blow a slow breath between your lips as he inches in, full and deep until he’s flush against your ass and pulsing between your walls, squeezing him tightly. You drop your head with a satisfied sigh, almost content to just rest like this. The size of him is a comforting, blissful stretch.

Garrett hooks his arm around your neck, fitting your head in the crook of his elbow. Now lifted upright, Garrett brings his mouth back against your cheek and slowly tilts his hips. Your breaths rasp against the corded muscle of his forearm, firm and hot and biteable under your chin.

“Fuck, feel so good,” he grits into your ear. “Atta girl, takin’ me so good, baby.”

Your eyes flutter shut as he sets a slow and steady pace. The drag of his cock pulls and prods on the spot you need it most, where your ache for him beats a bright and needy pulse. You lift one hand up to meet his arm around your neck, nails piercing the hot flesh there. He grunts, shifting to grind a little deeper, the flesh of his chest slickening against your back. He shifts his hips, grinding a little deeper, fucking a little harder. The sharp slap of skin fills the room, soon paired with your squeaky yelp. You rise to your knees, clinging to and relying on his hold around your neck to keep you stable.

He holds you steady, even as his own body begins to quake, his free hand journeying down your stomach to circle at your clit. The noise you release is anguished, agonized, full of want and wet tears. It spurs him on, thrusts more like jolts to keep his cock deeply lodged inside you. He knows you’re close, knows you’re already sensitive from his mouth. He wishes he could see the way your eyes grow wet, hopes he can feel a tear slip down your cheek so he can kiss it away.

You’re seeing spots, head swollen with a mystified haze. Garrett’s teeth scrape over the sticky apple of your cheek as he humps a little harder. He kisses the dull sting with full lips.

“Think they can hear you out there? Crying so pretty for me, baby.”

You sink your teeth into your lip to muffle another cry, a syrupy tingle gathering so deep in your belly that it feels like he’s scooping your insides out. Garrett kisses you again, swift and wet.

“Hope they can,” he grunts, and you jump with a choked cry when he rears back to slap the side of your asscheek. “Hope everyone hears what a mess you are for me.”

You nod back, delirious and dumb. His fingers are back on your clit then, pulling a string of aimless babbles from your mouth as the world blackens around you. He moves his fingers in a dizzying pace, and paired with the stretch of his cock, it’s a surefire way to make you cum.

“Let go for me, baby,” he murmurs, breath hot and heavy against your face. “Lemme feel it.”

He gives you no choice, really. His fingers continue to dance on your clit and his cock continues to fill you to the brim, and it’s as he squishes his mouth against her cheek and murmurs a string of ‘good girl’s in your ear that you tumble headfirst over the edge.

He crowds you into the bed, forearm moved from your neck to your shoulder blades where he presses you firm into the mattress. It muffles all the over-pleasured cries shrieked from your mouth as Garrett fucks you through your orgasm. Fits of trembles wash over you in waves, shuddering your whole body in his hold. He keeps hold of your hip to bring your ass to meet his thrusts, angled over your body to pin you down.

“Fuck,” he hisses, slowing down as his thighs begin to quake, his calves cramping. “Want me to fill you up, baby?”

You nod deliriously, fully weeping now. Garrett doesn’t waste a second, and it’s as a trail of warmth fills you up that he collapses over your back.

“Shit,” he pants, hands gentle and soothing on your sides.

You sniffle, the bed wet with drool and tears beneath you. “Shit indeed.”

He chuckles, turning his head to press a kiss to your damp back. You wriggle, desperate for the taste of his mouth again. His arms tremble when he pushes up on his palms to tip his head over your shoulder. Your kiss is warm and salty and sweet.

Garrett presses your heads together and smiles. “My girl.”

A flush bites at your cheeks, a small smile playing on your mouth.

But a sharp rap on the door and a voice on the other side breaks through the daze.

“We could indeed hear all of that,” Dean announces.

Garrett snatches a pillow from behind him and throws it toward the door. “Fuck off, freak.”

Dean scuttles away in a fit of snickers. Garrett huffs, looking back down at you with a sideways smile.

october 24th, 2002.

"Abracadabra!"

Steve lazily slumped his head aside and played dead for the seventh time in the past half an hour, killed by his daughter's sparkly, ribboned purple wand. She giggled with giddy glee at his weak performance, covering her mouth with a tiny hand to stifle delight from her victim. But Steve still caught it, heart fluttering with pride at the sound—his favorite pastime in the world these days was making Jane laugh.

Peeking one eye open, Steve watched her twirl in her satin cape, bedazzled with jewels and shiny gold stars. She was somewhere between a princess and a witch. Jane’s indecisiveness led to Halloween costumes you could never quite decipher. One thing about the littlest Harrington was she refused to be confined to just one thing.

“Is that laughter I hear?”

“Daddy, you’re not supposda talk! You’re dead!”

Steve waited a moment for Jane’s momentary irritation to pass before jolting upright with a quiet roar. She squealed, jumping on her toes clad in little pink socks, given a fright by her father. He scooped her up in one swift pull, hoisting her into the air over his shoulder before spinning around the center of the living room.

“It’s alive, it’s alive!” Steve bellowed theatrically.

Jane was a mess of laughter and hiccups, dangling over his back. He loved her belly laughs—the ones that brought her back to infancy, when the sound of Steve dropping a pen and dramatically groaning about it had her squealing in her highchair. She was continuously enamored by her father and his otherworldly presence. In little Jane’s eyes, Steve was the sun and the moon.

Steve hauled her onto the couch, sharing in her breathless laughter as it faded to huffs. He collapsed beside her, feigning exhaustion from his rise from the dead. She instantly perked up and climbed into his lap, her rebound from play much quicker then Steve’s these days. Being out of the ring for so long had taken its toll on him.

“Oof—Jane, no climbing.”

Jane scrambled over the back of the couch, hurtling toward the carpet with a thud. Steve rubbed his temples, praying the dull ache of an oncoming headache would fade with care. He always felt terrible when a migraine immobilized him in a dark room away from you and Jane, though even his doctor said after a head injury like his, there was no avoiding them. If he didn’t look after himself, he’d stumble backward.

But Steve always put himself on the back burner when it came to Jane.

“Can we go outside and play in the leaves?” Jane asked, skipping her way around the couch in clumsy steps.

Steve glanced through the living room window, overlooking the gated yard. The sky was a dull, pale blue, and the trees rattled with an angry wind. The leaves Jane spoke of, crisp and brightly-colored, swirled around the yard.

“I don’t know, Janey…”

“Please, please, please?”

Jane put on her best weepy-eyed pout (one she inherited from her mother), and gazed up at her father with tightly-clasped hands. Her wand stuck out between her fingers, ribbons tangled together. The cape she’d been wearing for days, tied loosely around her neck in a rumpled bow over a purple tulle dress, was wrinkled from crumpling and folding and play. She refused to take it off, despite your pleas for her to do so.

“Please,” Jane added, feet stomping impatiently.

Steve rubbed his temple harder, wincing and grimacing. “Honey, you know Mommy doesn’t want you goin’ out when it’s cold like—“

“I’ll wear a scarf! C’mon, Dad!”

And it was the affection oozed in a title he earned in a ten hour labor spent squeezing your hand and coaxing you through trembling wailing and grievous pain—Dad. His little girl that had grown so big, sprouted from a wriggling little thing that cried and gurgled all day, to a child incapable of wrangling for more than a few minutes—all within a matter of moments in Steve’s mind. There were moments when Steve believed he would no longer have the privilege of being Dad; when his mind was black and numb and nothing, and his hands didn’t work for themselves.

So ‘Dad’ was an utterance never ignored. Never, not once. ‘Dad’ was a cry always given into.

Leaning forward, Steve tossed Jane a playful grin. They always shared smiles like telling secrets. “Alright. But you’ll wear a coat, too.”

✶ ✶

“Dad, Dad, look at me! Wee!”

“Not too high, Janey,” Steve called, easing into the cushion of a wicker chair in the stone area of the backyard, where he lit the fireplace in case she came running with a shiver.

Jane, however, was busy swinging on her bright yellow swing-set, careening into the air with propelling legs and a toothy grin—wand tucked snugly beneath her arm, of course. Steve waved, sharing another smile. With Jane, Steve always smiled with his teeth. You thought he looked handsomest like that.

Steve absently drummed his fingers on his thighs as he watched Jane swing and sing to herself, wanting nothing more than to smoke a cigarette. Trips outside, especially in the cold, always came with the old, familiar craving for a Marlboro Red. But alas, his days of shriveling his lungs were over—pity.

“I’m gonna jump!” Jane bellowed, feet pointed toward the grass littered with goldenrod leaves in front of the swings.

Steve jolted up, jerking into Dad-Mode. “Jane, don’t you dare—“

And then she was soaring toward the dirt, a pile of pink fabrics and a puffy purple coat. As though in slow motion, she lowered to the ground—where she landed with a thud. Steve instantly leapt to his feet, taking off with a speed he didn’t know he was capable of to reach her.

“Jane—Janey, look at me, are you hurt?” He grabbed her with the insistence of emergency, hoisting her into his lap and scanning for injuries.

Though her eyes pinkened with tears, mouth opening with an anguished cry, it was not a broken bone nor bumped head she was crying for—but her cape, wrinkled and rumpled, now torn at the ruffled seam.

“Janey, what hurts?” Steve hounded, trying to catch his own breath. His heart was in his mouth and it tasted like vinegar.

“N-nothing,” she hiccuped, slurping snot through a tiny nose.

“Then why are you cryin’?” He swept a big palm gently over her sticky cheeks as he spoke.

Moved to hysterics from the pain of ruin of such a cherished token, Jane only lifted her torn cape at her side and pointed.

“Look!” she wailed with the ache of mourning. “It’s ruined!”

Steve tried not to smile, though it would have only been out of pure fondness. Jane’s heart was bigger than most at her age, and the intimacy she shared with her “things” never failed to amuse him. How she treated her stuffed animals, letting them take turns in her bed so they wouldn’t “feel left out.” How she stopped to pet earth worms and wave to squirrels, how she tried her damnedest to pet every stray cat. How she had collections of acorn tops and rocks on her bookshelf from walks in the park, each with an origin story and a name and a place in her heart.

“Oh, boy,” Steve sighed, gently pushing her hand down to rest. He pulled her a little tighter against his chest. “Alright, it’s alright. Deep breaths, Janey, it’s okay.”

As she hiccuped and soaked his sweatshirt, Steve wracked his brain for any sort of solution that didn’t involve bothering you. All you asked for was an afternoon to yourself, a few hours for a latte and a book on a park bench alone after errands, free momentarily of needing to have eyes on every inch of your head and a hand always at the ready. And Steve promised you could have it.

He couldn’t ruin it over a ripped cape and some backyard tears.

Scooping her up, Steve carried Jane back into the house, where he placed her on the couch and clicked on the tv for a hopeful distraction. He plucked a VHS from the shelf, popping in something colorful and guaranteed to entertain her wandering mind. A hurried trip to the kitchen came with a bowl of animal crackers and a juice box, all placed in her lap with a kiss to the head.

“Alright, kid, this is what we’re gonna do,” Steve announced, stepping back to place his hands on his hips with sincerity. “I’ll take the cape just for a few minutes, okay? And I’m gonna do my best to fix it.”

Jane blinked up at him, pushing crackers individually into her mouth. “Like Mommy does?”

Steve tried not to wince. “…Yeah…yeah, like Mommy does. So, I just need the cape for a little bit, okay? Just so it can go get a check up and…maybe a bath.”

Jane looked less than pleased, and he could practically see the gears turning in her head, an overthought contemplation brewing in her brows. God, she took so much after Steve.

“Does that sounds okay?” Steve pressed.

Jane slowly nodded. “Okay.”

Once the cape was in his possession, Steve rushed to the laundry room, keeping the door propped open to listen for anything alarming. He paused every few moments to peek his head out and look around the corner, though only ever caught the back of Jane’s head as it bored into the tv.

“Fuck,” he muttered to himself, gazing around for tools.

Laundry detergent, fabric softener, ironing board, iron—Christ, what the hell was he supposed to do? He’d seen you sew before, knew you’d taken care of mending shorts and sweaters and tears in dresses—but how was he supposed to know how to do it himself? Hell, he didn’t even know where you kept the sewing supplies.

“Daddy, is my cape all better yet?”

Steve jumped, wiping sweat from his head as he paced the room. “Uh, yeah, sweetheart! Just a second!”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” came much quieter and under his breath.

Steve glared at the cape lying on the washing machine. At this point, he’d just have to go out and buy a new one, and hope he could come up with some sort of lie fantastical enough to keep Jane from crying in the meantime.

“I’m home!”

And there came your voice, pinging through the house as you clicked down the foyer. Jane’s little feet pattered hurriedly your way, and a cold sweat dripped down his back when Steve heard your excited squeals for the hug Jane no doubt collected you in.

“Oh, I missed you! What’ve you been up to, chick? And where’s Daddy?”

“He’s givin’ my cape a check up.”

Steve rolled his eyes, waiting for your giggle. It was still adorable when he heard it, no matter how emasculated he felt by the whole predicament.

“Oh, is he? Well, what happened to it?”

“She ripped it throwin’ herself off the swings.”

You looked up from Jane to see your husband shuffling into the room, holding a frilly, sparkly purple cape limply in his hand. Your lips pressed into a smile, adjusting Jane on your hip when she wiggled. But that smile faded when you processed your daughter’s antics, and you turned to her with a sterner face.

“Jane, we’ve talked about those swings. You remember how to stop swinging? You gotta catch your feet on the ground—no jumping off the swings. That’s how you get hurt.”

Jane pushed her hair away from her eyes with her palms. “But I didn’t get hurt! Jus’ my cape got hurt!” She pointed toward it for proof.

You swallowed your next smile. “I know, but what if it had been you? Mommy and Daddy would be so sad if you got hurt, Janey.”

She blinked, pondering this a moment. “Really?”

Steve stepped in, coming to stand behind you and look over your shoulder sincerely at Jane. “Very sad.”

She pursed her lips, a telltale sign of guilt. She tended to cry if she knew she upset anyone. “Well…okay.”

The pair of you sandwiched her with a kiss, one on each cheek, and swiftly swept her frown away with a tickle to her tummy. Steve blew a raspberry on her cheek and chuckled when she scrunched up her nose and wiped it off her skin. You placed her on the ground, and she tugged on the end of your coat.

“But what about my cape? Daddy didn’t do the check up right.”

You turned to Steve, holding out your hand. “Looks like this is a job for Mom, then, huh?”

Steve handed it over, kissing your cheek this time. “Yep.”