Fitz was a good ninety percent sure he was going to be pulling his hair out by the time the week was over. He loved his children, of course he did, but the girls plus Arturo was a combination designed for migraines. He could only imagine what the girls did to him under normal circumstances.
Eleanor was five and a half, and Rowan was three and a half, and Arturo was right around Eleanor's age. A combination made to give people gray hair. But even as Rowan went running across the restaurant, he wouldn't trade it all for anything.
"Whoa, hey, where do you think you're going?" he said, reaching out to snag his daughter before she tripped and stumbled into someone's table. "I don't think so, little miss."