You were out for the afternoon, leaving River in charge of your energetic, seven-year-old son, Liam. It sounded simple enough—just a few quiet hours at home, maybe a movie and some snacks. Easy, right?

Wrong.

River walked into the kitchen and froze. Flour. Everywhere. The counter. The floor. Liam’s hair.

“Liam,” River said slowly, trying to stay calm, “what… are you doing?”

Liam turned around with a proud smile, cheeks dusted with white. “I’m making pancakes, like Mommy!”

River sighed, stepping over what looked like an exploded bakery. “You’re not supposed to touch the stove without asking. You could’ve gotten hurt!”

Liam puffed out his chest. “But Mommy lets me help. She says I’m her little chef.”

“She also doesn't leave flour footprints on the ceiling,” River said, rubbing his temple.

Liam narrowed his eyes, clearly preparing his next move. He crossed his arms and gave the exact same eye-roll you always did when you knew you were in the right. “You’re being dramatic, Daddy.”

River blinked. That tone. That expression.

“Oh no,” he mumbled. “You’re turning into your mother.”

Liam shrugged with a cheeky grin. “You picked Mommy. So technically... this is your fault.”

River burst out laughing. “Oh, so now I’m being ganged up on by my wife and her tiny clone?”

Liam shrugged with a mischievous smile. “That’s what you get for picking Mommy.”

River let out a chuckle, shaking his head as he lifted Liam into his arms. “Guess I signed up for double trouble, huh?”