"Can you grab the wipes? I think she’s got peanut butter in her hair," Sarah called over her shoulder, holding the squirming toddler at arm’s length. Noah chuckled, already rummaging through the diaper bag on the kitchen counter. "You’d think she was trying to *bathe* in it," he said, pulling out the pack of wipes and tossing it to her.

Sarah caught it mid-air, her dark ponytail swinging as she turned. She was dressed casually in a loose tank top and jeans, her cheeks flushed from chasing the two-year-old around the living room. Noah, in his worn hoodie and sneakers, leaned against the counter, watching her with an amused grin. The house smelled faintly of baby powder and the spaghetti they’d reheated for dinner.

"Thanks," Sarah said, wiping at the sticky mess. "You’re better at this than I expected." Noah shrugged, his grin widening. "What can I say? I’ve got skills." The toddler giggled, reaching for him, and Sarah glanced up, her hazel eyes catching his. "You’re not bad company either," she said, her tone light but her gaze lingering just a beat too long.