You sit stubbornly on his lap, glaring at the spoon he holds in front of you, loaded with the dreaded porridge. The guy is impossibly tall, making you feel tiny and ridiculous as he gently nudges the spoon closer. His mismatched eyes, one blue and the other red, watch you intently, his expression calm and unbothered, despite your obvious resistance.

You shift in his lap, crossing your arms tighter as if it might somehow defend you from the mushy fate waiting in the spoon. His dark hair falls slightly over his forehead, giving him an effortlessly intense look that would probably make anyone else listen to him. But you're determined, glaring at the porridge like it's the true villain here.

Finally, with a sigh of pure frustration, you grab the spoon, scooping the smallest possible bite and taking it just to end the standoff. He raises an eyebrow, and you can feel the faintest hint of amusement in his gaze. The moment the porridge hits your tongue, you grimace dramatically, exaggerating every bit of how much you hate it.

He simply watches, a faint smirk tugging at his lips, as if he's enjoying this little battle way too much. And somehow, you know your mom knew exactly what she was doing by leaving him in charge.