Sara dices the tomato, the seeds scattering on the cutting board, her fingertips wet from the juice, corralling the pieces to the edge in a big pile. Lettuce and onions already cut and resting in bowls on the counter.
She sets the knife down with a clang, and licks her thumb, before grabbing a towel and wiping the rest of her hand off.
The domestic task nothing new, she'd been making meals for her and Mike since…forever, but the process feels different as she sets the table for a person she never would've believed would be dining with them for the rest of their lives.
She sets the various bowls in the middle of the table with a smile to herself.
It was the first meal she'd made this week, Michael having turned out to be a surprisingly good cook, and having offered to cook almost every night. A skill she shouldn't have been surprised about, the man could do anything and everything, but the first time she'd walked into their kitchen and found him standing by the oven, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, homemade enchiladas sitting before him, the laugh that escaped her was one of pure disbelief.
She remembers moving to wrapping her arms around his stomach from behind, the kiss she'd placed on his shoulder, and the warmth that had radiated from him to her, knowing that he'd done something for them, helped in some way, had him feeling so good he'd apparently made it his nightly mission.
He'd scour the internet for recipes, experimenting in the kitchen, Mike, his shadow, standing nearby, studying him in that quiet way that he always seemed to do with admiration reflecting in his eyes.
Tonight though, Sara had taken over the chore, that Michael saw so wholeheartedly as a privilege, because Mike had had a school project he needed to finish and what had started as a hesitant volunteering on Michael's part to help, had been met with such enthusiasm, that they'd been huddled in his room since he'd gotten home.
"Michael," she calls from downstairs, the name echoing through the halls that were now full of pictures of the three of them, as well as Mike through the years. It was new, but welcome. Domesticity having been a struggle some days for Michael to handle. The stress he put on himself to make the transition smooth sometimes had him stumbling, but recovering with the help and support of Sara, adjusting to this new life.
When she doesn't hear a response, she climbs the stairs, her bare feet creaking the steps as she finds herself approaching her son's room.
Leaning against the doorframe, she finds them in their own little world. Hunched over, across from each other, they communicate in hushed whispers, and fixed stares at the project at hand.
"Michael," she says, catching their attention, both of them looking up at her with that same squinted stare, contemplative, laced with adoration, not quite pulled from their task, but cognitive enough to acknowledge her presence.
Everyone always gushed over how much Mike looked just like her. And it was true, the auburn hair, the brown eyes with hints of green. But Sara also knew that with every stroke of his pencil, every encoded treasure map, every squinted stare, the quiet pensive look wrapped in an intelligence unmatched, that he was a Scofield in all the ways that counted.
And the laugh that bubbles from her chest, her hand coming to calm the bark that she lets out is only found as she's hit with two identical faces staring back at her, sharing a name, and now a bond that started as one of a dream, idolization quickly turning into a warmth and intimacy, extending past DNA and landing somewhere in identical mannerisms not learned but ingrained in an altruism of love.
Michael's eyes twinkle with amusement at her howl.
"Dinner's ready," she says once she's calmed down, pulling her hair back with a silent laugh and a shake of her head.
"We're almost done, Mom," Mike says, excitement tinging his voice.
"We can finish after dinner, buddy. Promise," Michael says, standing up from their position, revealing a complicated string of pieces littering the floor.
Mike stands, and Michael's hand immediately comes to rest on his head on the back of his neck, fingers laced between his hair, a little smile playing on the young boy's lips at the gesture.
"I think I smell tacos," Michael whispers to the boy, and that has him bounding with excitement past his mom.
Michael walks up to her, his hand coming to cradle her chin, that perfect smile of his directed at her, before walking past, leaving her leaning against the doorframe, a blush heating her face like it was the first time he'd laid eyes on her.
"Michael," she whispers to herself, before turning and following after her boys.
