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“You’re not a tiny pup anymore, Harlem. You’re a big, protective brother now.” I scratched behind his ear. “Let’s keep those teeth to yourself.”
Paolo tapped my leg. “Haalem come?”
Turning towards the other room where Kaz was dressing Emilio, I raised my voice slightly. “Baby, are we bringing Harlem too?”
The sound of Kazimir’s laughter echoed back, before he yelled, “Who else would truly protect us?”
“Good point.” I looked down at Paolo, who was still fascinated with his cobra shirt. “Alright, baby. Go get Harlem’s leash.”
Paolo’s eyes lit up with a new mission. He tapped the cobra on his shirt as if consulting with it first, then looked up at me with determination. “I walk Haalam, mysh.”
“Can you say please?”
“Peez.”
“Sure. You can walk him when we’re outside.”
I shouldn’t have allowed it, but that was my baby. Already, I pictured Harlem getting out of Paolo’s control and us chasing after Paolo as he raced for the dog.
This is going to be a shit show.
Paolo scampered off with a sense of purpose only a child could muster.
Harlem, probably guessing the upcoming adventure, sprinted closely behind Paolo, his tail wagging vigorously.
Alright. Let me check on the Lion and his cub.
Shaking my head, I went off to Emilio’s room. “Have you finally picked something?”
“I did, but I am not happy, mysh.”
Entering Emilio’s room, I found Kazimir in the midst of a mild tirade, his frustration amusingly directed at our wardrobe choices for the day.
Is he still mad about the baby’s clothes?
I sighed.
At least Kaz is dressed.
He wore a tailored, light linen shirt. The crisp white fabric accentuated the breadth of his bulky shoulders and the sculpted form of his torso. The shirt was left casually unbuttoned at the top, allowing a hint of his chest to show.
He’d paired the shirt with perfectly-tailored chinos in a soft khaki color. The fabric was light enough to keep him cool under the sun, yet sharp enough to uphold his polished image.
Now we have the last person to get dressed.
I gazed down at Emilio.
He was a beautiful blend of his father’s Russian heritage and my own African-American roots. His hair—a soft halo of tight curls—was beginning to transform into a blossoming afro. Each curl danced with a life of its own.
In fact, it was a wild, adorable mess.
I often found myself marveling at his hair, unsure of exactly how to tame it, yet reluctant to dim its natural beauty.
You’re getting cornrows as soon as you can walk.
Emilio’s eyes were large and expressive, mirroring my deep brown, yet there was something unmistakably Kazimir in their shape and the way they lit up with mischief and curiosity.
Even as a baby, Emilio had begun to display a blend of Kaz’s masculine features and my softer ones. His jawline, though still baby-soft, hinted at the strong lines it would grow into, reminiscent of his father. Yet, his cheeks, full and pinchable, were all softness and warmth, inviting kisses and caresses. His lips curved into smiles that could brighten the darkest rooms, a gentle feature that Kaz swore he got from me.
