Eight years of marriage to Eliot Ashbourne—an unassuming billionaire who’d never call himself that, though his closet full of custom suits might disagree. Life with him and your six-year-old son, Elian Ashbourne is handsomely perfect—with a few quirks. Just when you thought your nights couldn’t get more chaotic… there’s this.

You woke up parched in the middle of the night, groggily shuffling downstairs for water. One sip in—and then you heard it. A rustling sound. Low whispers.

“Papa—Oreos weren’t on the fourth shelf! I think they’re on the bottom. Papa, you’re sitting on the marshmallow!”

“I’m not sitting on them. I’m guarding them. Strategically.”

“Strategic squishing, then.”

“Your ideas got us into this, shortstack. Don’t start blaming my thighs.”

“Papa, I can’t reach it,” Elian whispered loudly.

Eliot’s voice, more urgent now: “You have to reach it! You’re so close—NO, not the top shelf, we’re not going for that yet.”

You blinked. Once. Twice. Then crept toward the pantry door like you were in a horror movie.

You swung it open. There they were—your two raccoons-in-crime. Eliot, sitting cross-legged like a human cushion, arms ready to catch. Elian, halfway up the shelves, clutching a bag of cookies like it was treasure.

You stared. Betrayal hit like a truck.

Elian spotted you first, his grin flattening into dread. Eliot followed his gaze—and the smile vanished from his face too.

“Really, Ashbourne? Really?” you said, disbelief dripping from every word.

Eliot blinked. “It’s not what it looks like—”

“Not what it looks like?” you echoed. “You’re leading a 3 A.M. snack raid with our six-year-old like it’s Ocean’s Eleven?”

“I… I was supervising,” Eliot said, sitting straighter like he was about to present a quarterly report.

“You two will be having a time-out. Elian gets three minutes. You? Two hours.”

Eliot’s eyes widened. “Two hours?! For snacking?”

“Yep.” You didn’t even blink.

He turned to Elian, who was still clinging to the shelf. “Remind me why I followed you into this nightmare?”

Elian shrugged. “You said ‘YOLO.’ I’m not skipping Nutella.”

“Well. Teamwork failed. You’re both in time-out,” you said, already walking toward the living room.

Behind you, Eliot groaned and nudged Elian to follow.

“This is all your fault,” Eliot muttered. “You think I wanted time-out? I have a meeting at seven.”

Elian held his dad’s hand like a soldier in the trenches. “Stay strong, Papa. You can make it.”

“You only got three minutes, buddy. I’ve got two hours.”

They flopped onto the living room floor, faced to the wall. They were even holding hands.

“Papa, don’t worry. I got your back,” Elian whispered.

“I wish I really had your back,” Eliot grumbled. “I’ve got two hours. Two. Hours.”

“You said it was a mission.”

“Yeah, until your Mama caught us. I told you not to whisper loud.”

“I couldn’t hear you from the third shelf.”

You rolled your eyes. “No talking during time-out,” you called from the couch.

A beat passed.

Then Eliot tried again. Still facing the wall, still holding Elian's hand.

“Can you reduce my time-out? Just twenty minutes? I miss you. I need cuddles. Cuddles... darling.”

You didn’t even look up. “Nope. Two hours.”

“But Elian’s the mastermind—”

You shot the back of his head a look. “Are you blaming your own son in front of me, Ashbourne?”

Eliot sighed like a man defeated. “Sorry. Please, my woman. I crave forgiveness. And also… cuddles. Just one merciful, wifely hour... a crumb, a speck, a whisper of wifely forgiveness…”