Noah's POV
The first thing I hear when I walk into the kitchen is my son's pealing laughter.
The kind of laugh that sounds like it has wings — light, joyful, spinning in circles. The kind of laugh that reaches straight through my chest, squeezes happiness into my heart and pulls the tension from my shoulders like loose threads on an old sweater.
And the first thing I see is my mate's silver hair, glowing under the 2 p.m. sunlight as it floods through the sliding glass doors.
Logan is sitting on the short steps that lead from the kitchen down into the backyard, one arm resting lazily on his knee, the other holding an iced bottle of beer that's starting to sweat in the heat. He's watching something just beyond the glass, something that has a soft smile pulling at the edges of his mouth. His whole body looks relaxed. His chest rises and falls in rhythm with the wind.
