PAXTON
The late afternoon sun spills over the vineyard like molten gold, painting the rows of grapes in warm, flickering light. I lean against the old oak post of the porch, arms crossed, watching the chaos unfold.
Shawn and Jasper are engaged in a full-blown sprint between the rows, their laughter sharp and wild, while Sienna chases after them with a stick she insists is a "magic wand.
" Elliott, our fourth, has already claimed the highest branch of the old apple tree, barking orders at Iris and Tamara, our fifth and sixth, like a tiny general.
And then there's Damon, our youngest, barely three, toddling after them all with his arms outstretched, giggling when he trips over his own feet.
Paige sits on the blanket beside me, her honey-blonde hair catching the light as she tilts her head back, laughing at something one of the kids just said. The sound wraps around me like a second skin, warm and familiar.
Ten years.
Ten years of this—of sticky fingers and scraped knees, of bedtime stories and midnight fevers, of a house that was once too quiet now bursting at the seams with life. My father would've hated it. Too loud. Too messy. Too uncontrolled.
But this?
This is the only thing I've ever built that matters.
Damon stumbles, nearly face-planting into the dirt, and I push off the post without thinking. But Paige's hand shoots out, gripping my wrist.
"It's fine," she murmurs, her thumb brushing over my pulse. "They got him."
I exhale through my nose, watching as Damon picks himself up, grinning like it's the funniest thing that's ever happened to him. Jasper claps him on the back, and Sienna waves her "wand" in triumph, declaring him "unbreakable."
My mouth breaks into a grin.
I spent my life believing strength was something you carved into yourself—through discipline, through control, through never letting anyone see you bleed. But these kids? They don't know the meaning of the word. They fall. They get back up. They laugh while they do it.
Paige's fingers lace with mine, her wedding ring glinting in the sunlight. "See, you coddle them too much," she teases, her voice soft.
"It's not that."
"What are you thinking about?"
I glance at her, at the way the years have only deepened the warmth in her topaz eyes. "I'm thinking about how none of this was supposed to happen."
She smiles, slow and knowing. "No. But it did."
And it did.
Elliott shouts something about a "fortress of doom," and the younger three immediately abandon their game to join him, their voices rising in a chorus of excited chatter. Sienna starts delegating tasks—"You, carry the sticks. You, guard the treasure. You, stop crying?—"
Paige snorts. "She's going to be a CEO one day."
"Or a dictator."
She elbows me lightly, but her smile doesn't fade. "She got that from you."
"I know. And I love it."
I love the way the house smells like cookies and sweat and the lavender soap Paige insists on buying in bulk.
I love the way Damon's tiny hands clutch at my pant leg when he's tired, the way Iris demands bedtime stories about "brave knights and clever princesses," the way Shawn's eyes light up when I show him how to fix something instead of just doing it for him.
I love that this—them—is the legacy I never saw coming.
Paige leans into me, her head resting against my shoulder. "You have that look again."
"What look?"
"That I'm the luckiest bastard alive look."
I huff a laugh, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Because I am."
She hums, satisfied, and for a moment, we just watch them. The kids. Our kids. Our chaos. Our life.
The sun dips lower, painting the vineyard in shades of amber and rose, and I realize, this is the only inheritance that ever mattered.
Not the land.
Not the money.
Just this.
Just them.
The kids finally slow down as the sun dips lower, their energy spent in that perfect way that only comes from a day of running wild under open sky. Shawn flops onto the blanket beside Paige, his cheeks flushed, while Sienna curls into my lap like she's still five instead of nine.
Jasper and Elliott argue over who gets to hold Damon—because apparently, the toddler is now a "precious artifact" that must be "protected at all costs." Iris rolls her eyes but scoops him up anyway, settling him against her chest with a sigh.
Paige leans into me, her shoulder warm against mine. "They're going to crash hard tonight," she murmurs, watching as Tamara and Elliott collapse into a giggling heap in the grass.
I grunt in agreement, my fingers tracing idle patterns along her arm. The vineyard stretches out before us, bathed in gold and amber, the rows of grapes heavy with the last of the season's harvest. The air smells like earth and sun-warmed fruit, like home.
My home.
Not the estate. Not the land or the legacy my father spent his life building. Them.
Paige tilts her head back, her hazel eyes catching the light. I can't help but notice the way the sunset paints her skin in warm tones, the way her lips curve when Sienna lets out a dramatic yawn.
Ten years ago, I stood in this same spot and thought I knew what my life was supposed to be. A marriage of convenience. A wife I respected but never loved. A future built on duty, not desire.
And then she changed it.
I remember the first time I saw Paige—really saw her. Not as her mother's daughter.But as something else entirely. Something that made my chest ache in a way I didn't understand.
She was wearing one of those thin white tank top, the kind that left nothing to the imagination, and I was forcing myself to turn away before I did something reckless. But then she gave me permission, her voice sharp and unafraid, and I realized—she wasn't just beautiful. She was dangerous.
Because she made me want things I had no right to want.
A real marriage. A real family. A life that wasn't just about control, but about her.
I tighten my arm around her, pulling her closer. "I hate your mother."
Paige blinks, then bursts out laughing, the sound bright and unexpected. "Excuse me?"
"She should've warned me," I mutter, my thumb brushing over the soft skin of her wrist. "Should've told me what I was getting when I agreed to marry her."
Paige's smile softens. "And what were you getting, Paxton?"
I look at her, really look at her. The way her hair falls in loose waves over her shoulders. The way her lips part when she's about to argue with me. The way her body fits against mine like she was made for it.
"Everything," I say simply.
Her breath catches.
Around us, the kids are still chattering, their voices a blur of noise and laughter. Shawn is trying to teach Jasper how to make a "sunset shadow puppet," while Sienna insists she can "see fairies" in the vines. Damon, half-asleep in Iris's arms, lets out a contented sigh.
Paige turns her head, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. "You're getting sentimental in your old age."
I snort. "I'm not old."
"Mmm. You're in your fifties. Practically ancient."
I flip her onto her back before she can react, pinning her beneath me as the kids dissolve into giggles. "Careful, Mrs. Miller," I growl, low enough that only she can hear. "Or I'll remind you exactly how not old I am."
Her cheeks flush, but her eyes darken. "You always do, every waking minute you can."
I lean down, my mouth brushing the shell of her ear. "And even when you're asleep. You have no idea what I'm going to do to you before and after you sleep tonight."
She shivers.
And just like that, the world narrows down to this, her breath against my skin, her body arching into mine, the way her fingers dig into my arms like she's already bracing for it.
The kids are still laughing. The sun is still setting. And I?
I've never been more certain of anything in my life.
And I'll spend the rest of my days making sure she knows it.
Thanks for reading!