Gracie West

There are two types of mornings in the West household.

The first is peaceful, quiet, and blissfully slow—Logan pressing sleepy kisses along my shoulder, sunlight filtering through the curtains, Dominic snuggled safely between us, his tiny fingers curled around mine.

Then, there's the second type.

The type where I wake up to the sound of something shattering downstairs.

And based on the string of tiny, frantic footsteps currently pounding through our house, today is definitely the latter.

I shoot up in bed, my heart racing as I reach for Logan—who, of course, is still dead asleep beside me, his arm slung over his face, completely unbothered.
Another crash. Followed by a giggling shriek.

I swear I feel actual gray hairs sprouting from my scalp.

"Logan," I shake his shoulder roughly. "Get up. Your son is committing war crimes downstairs."

"Mm," he grunts, shifting onto his stomach, his voice muffled in the pillow. "Too early. Probably just playing."

Another loud bang echoes through the house.

I glare at him. "Right. Just playing. With what? A grenade?"

Logan groans, finally prying one eye open. "Gracie, he's three. How much damage can he really do?"

I level him with a look.

"Logan, the last time you said that, he somehow climbed onto the fridge and tried to ride our robotic vacuum like a damn horse."

Silence.

Then, he mutters, "Alright, fair point," before dragging himself out of bed.

I don't bother putting on a robe, just grab one of Logan's hoodies and tug it over my head before practically sprinting down the stairs.

The sight that greets me in the kitchen almost stops my heart.

Dominic West—my three-year-old son, my entire world, my tiny, mischievous devil of a child—is standing on the counter, covered head to toe in flour, syrup, and what I think is peanut butter.

The kitchen is a crime scene.

The bag of flour has been dumped entirely onto the floor, mixing with a puddle of milk. There's a half-empty syrup bottle lying on its side, dripping onto the counter like some kind of sticky horror movie prop. A dozen eggs have been cracked—not into a bowl, but onto the damn stovetop.

And in the center of it all, my son beams at me with a grin so wide, so completely innocent, I almost forget that he has single-handedly destroyed our kitchen before 7 AM.

"Mommy!" he cheers, waving a wooden spoon like it's a sword. "I made breakfast!"

Oh.

Oh my God.

I press a hand to my forehead. "Dominic—baby—why are you on the counter?"

He puffs out his tiny chest. "Because chefs needa see their food."

I stare at him. Then at the absolute chaos around him.

Then back at him.

Logan strolls into the kitchen, still half-asleep, running a hand through his messy hair. He takes one look at the scene and whistles lowly.

"Wow," he says, rubbing the back of his neck. "He really did make breakfast."

I slowly turn to glare at my husband. "Not helping, Logan."

"Just saying," he shrugs, biting back a smirk. "Dude's got ambition."

Dominic claps his hands excitedly, sending a small puff of flour into the air. "Daddy, I made you coffee too!"

Oh no.

Oh no no no.

Before I can stop him, he turns to grab something from behind him. And then, with zero hesitation, my sweet, chaotic little boy holds out a cup of what can only be described as liquid death.

It's in one of Logan's favorite mugs. Steam is rising from it. The color is... concerning.

I blink. "Dominic, honey, what... what's in this?"

He tilts his head, deep in thought.

"Um. Coffee. And sugar. And... ketchup. And—oh! I put chocolate milk in too!"

Jesus.

Logan looks at the cup. Then at our son.

Then, with all the confidence of a man who has never feared death, he takes the mug and actually drinks from it.

I gasp in horror. "Logan, NO—"

He pauses mid-sip. Blinks. Then, very calmly, sets the mug down.

I stare at him, wide-eyed. "Well?"

His voice is flat. Emotionless. "I think I saw my life flash before my eyes."

Dominic beams. "Yay! Daddy likes it!"

Logan forces a smile. "Yeah, buddy. It's... amazing."

I press a hand to my chest. "Oh my God. You're gonna die from that."

"Probably," he mutters.

Dominic claps his hands. "Mommy, you wanna try?"

"Absolutely not."

Dominic pouts. "But I made it with love."

Oh my God. He is too cute for his own good.

I sigh, walking over to scoop him into my arms, pressing a kiss to his flour-covered cheek.

"Sweetheart," I say gently. "I love that you wanted to make us breakfast. But next time, can you please wake me up first? And maybe not climb on the counter?"

Dominic frowns, thinking hard. Then he grins again.

"Okay! But only if Daddy drinks more coffee!"

Logan groans. "Dude, you're killing me here."

Dominic giggles, hugging my neck tightly. And despite the absolute disaster in front of me, despite the sticky syrup mess I'll have to clean later, despite Logan probably needing a stomach pump after this...

I can't help but feel it.

That overwhelming, all-consuming warmth.

This—this is my family.

The man I love. The little boy we created together.

The heart of my home.

And I wouldn't trade this kind of chaos for the world.

Even if it means Logan barely surviving a three-year-old's coffee experiment.

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FIRSTLY SAW THIS ON TIKTOK AND JUST GASPED

Holy fucking shit - I genuinely wish that I could share my socials with u guys but the socials that i have on insta and TikTok are my private like me socials😭

SECONDLY Started crying when I realised that I would never write about Logan and Gracie again.

Gosh this book changed my life😭😭😭

At least I get to write about their son🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️