SILAS POV
The kitchen was alive. My apartment felt alive, with the sharp clatter of plates, the hiss of butter hitting hot metal, and the constant, breathless commentary of two small voices narrating my every move like I was some kind of cooking show.
“No, Daddy, you have to flip it now.”
Sebastian stood on a stool by the counter, elbows planted, chin in his hands, eyes fixed on the pan like the fate of the world depended on the timing of that flip.
Stephan, on the other hand, had decided his role was quality control. He leaned against the island, arms crossed exactly like mine, nodding solemnly every time I did something he approved of.
“Smells good,” he declared. “Very good.”
I snorted, turning the slice of French toast with a practiced flick of my wrist. “High praise coming from y
