Our misfortune

Bonus scene #2 : The West household

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?"