Chapter Text
By the time the house smelled like coffee and cinnamon rolls, the twins were wide awake and broadcasting their opinions at full volume. Sam perched at the kitchen table in one of Jack’s old flannels, spooning oatmeal into Elin’s eager mouth while Nathan discovered the joy of throwing cereal puffs onto the floor for Murphy to inhale like a living vacuum.
Jack leaned against the counter, coffee mug in hand, watching the chaos with a grin that was more fond than exasperated. “That’s teamwork right there,” he muttered as Murphy caught another puff midair.
Sam shot him a look. “If you’re praising their coordination, you’re cleaning the floor.”
Jack smirked. “Not my first mission.”
They ate in the kind of lazy rhythm that only comes the day after Christmas — coffee warming their hands, the kitchen filled with soft light and the distant hum of carols from the living room.
When the twins were finished (or at least covered in more food than they ate), Jack stacked the bowls in the sink and glanced toward the window. Snow glittered across the yard, fresh and untouched, and the air beyond the glass was sharp and clear under a winter-blue sky.
“Perfect day for a walk,” he said casually.
Sam followed his gaze, smiling at the sparkle of sunlight on snow. “You mean all of us?”
“Yeah,” Jack said, already picturing it. “Park’s only a couple blocks. Bundle the kids up, let Murphy terrorize the snowdrifts, tire everybody out before nap time.”
Sam laughed softly, shaking her head. “Sounds like a plan.”
Murphy’s ears perked at the word walk, and he bounded over, tail thumping.
Jack chuckled. “Guess that’s unanimous.”
Ten minutes later, the house was a whirlwind of zippers, tiny mittens, and one spectacular wrestling match with Nathan’s hat. Elin accepted her snowsuit with regal calm, while Nathan fought like he’d been briefed on escape tactics.
“Whose DNA is responsible for this stubborn streak?” Sam asked, breathless as she finally managed to tug the hat over Nathan’s head.
“Clearly yours,” Jack deadpanned.
When the twins were finally bundled like miniature astronauts and Murphy’s leash clipped on, Jack grabbed the stroller and Sam pulled on her gloves. The door swung open to a rush of cold air and the sound of the world wrapped in snow-hushed quiet.
Jack looked over at his wife as they stepped outside, twins secure and Murphy already straining with excitement. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, her eyes bright under the pale winter sun.
“Not a bad view,” he murmured, and he wasn’t talking about the mountains.
Sam smiled, slipping her hand into his free one as they headed toward the park — their footprints trailing behind them in the snow.
The park was almost empty, the wide expanse of snow glittering like crushed glass under the pale winter sun. Their boots crunched in the frost as they made their way to an open stretch near the trees, Murphy bounding ahead like a rocket. He plunged nose-first into a snowbank, sending up a plume of powder before tearing back in dizzying circles.
Jack set the stroller brakes and unzipped the covers, lifting Nathan out first. The little boy blinked at the bright world, cheeks pink above his scarf, before letting out a delighted squeal. Elin followed, quieter but wide-eyed, her tiny gloved hands stretching toward the white sparkle like it was magic.
“They’ve never seen snow like this,” Sam said, kneeling to press a soft mound into Elin’s hand. The baby gurgled, fascinated, as the snow crumbled between her mittens.
Nathan, meanwhile, tried to eat a handful. Jack plucked it away. “Negative, big guy. This isn’t lunch.”
Murphy barreled past, nearly knocking Jack’s old scarf off his neck, and skidded to a stop just in time to shake a spray of snow over everyone. Jack sputtered, wiping his face. Sam laughed so hard she had to brace a hand on his arm.
“Yeah, yeah,” Jack muttered. “Go ahead. Laugh it up.”
She was still laughing when he bent, scooped up a perfect handful of snow, and lobbed it gently at her boots.
Her gaze snapped up, blue eyes narrowing in mock warning. “Jack-”
He smirked. “What?”
The next handful of snow hit his shoulder.
It was on.
For a few minutes, chaos reigned — snow flying in every direction, Murphy darting gleefully between them, the twins squealing from their bundled-up seats like tiny cheerleaders. Jack slipped once, dragging Sam down with him, and they both ended up laughing breathlessly in the snow.
When the truce finally came, Sam brushed a wet glove over her cheek and grinned. “You know, we could actually put all this snow to good use.”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “You mean a snow fort?”
“Snowman,” she countered, already scooping up a handful and shaping it.
Five minutes later, the twins were propped like marshmallows in the snow, Murphy bouncing between them like an overcaffeinated referee, and Jack and Sam were in the middle of what could only be described as an Olympic-level snowman building showdown.
Sam knelt over a nearly flawless base sphere, packing the snow with military precision. Her second ball was already in place, perfectly balanced, her eyes narrowed with the focus of a woman engineering something that could survive deep space.
Jack, on the other hand, had gone for sheer size, muscling two massive snow boulders into position with the stubborn determination of a man who refused to lose. His snowman leaned slightly, but Jack called it “character.”
“Is that supposed to be its head or a satellite dish?” Sam teased, smoothing the curve of her snowman’s head with surgical care.
“It’s called originality,” Jack shot back, sticking a crooked branch into the side like an arm.
Murphy contributed by stealing the twig intended for Jack’s snowman’s nose and galloping away like a victorious thief. Nathan squealed with laughter. Elin clapped her mittened hands.
Finally, both snowmen stood side by side — Sam’s crisp and elegant, Jack’s big and optimistic.
“So,” Jack said, brushing snow off his gloves, “which one do you think the twins like better?”
Nathan crawled over and smacked Jack’s snowman, sending the head rolling. Sam raised a brow. “I think that’s your answer.”
Jack gave her a look, then grinned and tugged her close, their breaths mingling in the cold as he kissed her cheek. “Fine. But next year? Total rematch.”
“Next year,” she murmured, leaning against him as Murphy returned to flop in the snow beside the stroller, panting happily. The twins giggled in their bundled-up world, snowflakes dusting their lashes, and for a moment the whole park felt like theirs — quiet, bright, and threaded through with laughter.