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Her mouth opened.

“Nope. Don’t do it.”

Too late.

She started fussing.

“Girl, I am cooking.”

She did not give a fuck.

I wiped my hands on the dish towel, walked over and lifted her from the seat. She immediately started rooting against my chest.

“Oh, so that’s what we doing?”

More fussing.

“Greedy.”

I shifted her against me, pulled my shirt and nursing bra down enough to latch her, then walked my ass right back over to the stove.

Four babies taught you skills nobody put on a résumé.

I could breastfeed, flip pancakes, tell Michael to get off the back of the couch, hear Zion sneaking snacks from three rooms away, and know Amari was doing something she wasn’t supposed to be doing strictly because the house got too quiet.

At the same damn time.

“You are such a milk queen,” I told Serenity, looking down at her.

Her little hand was pressed against my chest like she owned me.

I chuckled. “Just greedy. That’s all.”

I balanced her with one arm while I started making plates with the other.

Pancakes.

Eggs.

Bacon that wasn’t burnt.

Fruit because apparently putting strawberries beside everything made me feel like a responsible mother.

“Zion!”

“What?”

“Don’t ‘what’ me. Come get these plates.”

He came jogging in.

“Take yours and Amari’s. Tell Michael I’m fixing his.”

“Can I get syrup?”

“There’s syrup on it.”

“More?”