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He's standing at the counter in gray sweatpants, holding our three-month-old daughter against his bare chest.

"Something wrong, sweetheart?"

I hold up the sock.

"New organizational system?"

He frowns.

"Where'd you find that?"

"Next to the measuring spoons."

"Shouldn't be there."

"Maybe Lila wants to learn to cook."

"Funny."

"I thought so."

He takes the sock, opens another drawer, then closes it.

Oh, this is wonderful.

"You don't know where to put it, do you?"

"Got a place for it."

"Of course you do."

He sets it on the counter instead.

I burst out laughing.

Two years ago, Vex's cabin looked like a museum dedicated to putting things exactly where they belonged.

Now there's a stuffed giraffe on the couch, baby blankets everywhere, and a man who once couldn't tolerate a crooked picture frame walking around with spit-up on his shoulder.

I couldn't love him more.

Lila makes a little noise against his chest.

Vex looks down immediately.

"What is it, princess?"

"She's probably wondering why her daddy's mad at a sock."

He ignores me and kisses the top of her head.

Hopeless.

The big, scary biker is completely wrapped around one tiny finger.

My phone buzzes on the kitchen table.

I glance at the screen.