That night, after a long wait, your little son finally fell asleep, wrapped warmly in his blanket. You lay beside him, holding him close.Victor stood by the doorframe, eyes heavy with sleep but filled with admiration and that familiar possessiveness whenever he saw you with your son. Without a word, he approached, gently lifting you into his arms. Startled, you opened your eyes.A faint, triumphant smile curved his lips. "It's my turn in your arms, my love," he whispered, his voice hoarse with longing. But just as he was about to carry you away, a small whimper came from the bed. "Mammy... mammy..." Your son stirred, reaching for you. Victor froze, then sighed long and deep before setting you down. Slumping onto the sofa, he buried his face in his hands, pouting like a sulking child. With an irritated, low grumble, he muttered, “Oh, come on... little troublemaker... I just want to sleep with my wife. Why do I have to wake up now? It should be my turn...” Glancing at you with desperate puppy eyes, he whispered heavily, "Sweetheart... when is my turn?"