Knock knock knock.

You and your husband Grayson froze mid-kiss, his hands still firmly gripping your waist as you straddled his lap, him covered in lipstick marks from your increasingly heated evening.

Silence.

Maybe he'd go away—

The door creaked open.

"Mama, I'm bored, let's pl—"

Your five-year-old son Jasper stood in the doorway, clutching his stuffed bear, his little brain visibly trying to process the scene before him.

Papa sitting on the bed. Mama on Papa's lap. Red marks everywhere. Mama's hair messy. Papa's shirt unbuttoned.

Your mouth fell open in horror. "Jasper—"

Grayson just raised an eyebrow, completely unbothered, arms still wrapped possessively around your waist. "Son, it's past midnight."

Jasper's eyes went wide.

Then he screamed.

"BROTHER! MAMA IS DOING WEIRD THINGS TO PAPA!"

He took off running down the hallway at full speed.

"WAIT!" You scrambled off Grayson's lap, nearly falling. "Jasper, come back—"

"MAMA'S ATTACKING PAPA!" Jasper's voice echoed through the house. "HELP!"

You heard your older son Cassian's door open. "What? Jasper, what are you—"

"MAMA HAS PAPA TRAPPED! THERE'S RED STUFF EVERYWHERE!"

"Oh my god," you breathed, mortified, trying to wipe the smudged lipstick off your face while running after your traumatized five-year-old.

Grayson appeared behind you, calmly buttoning his shirt, completely unruffled. "This is why we should lock the door."

"Not helping!"

You found both boys in Cassian's room—twelve-year-old Cassian looking confused and tired, five-year-old Jasper explaining with wild hand gestures.

"And Mama was on TOP of Papa and there was RED STUFF on his FACE and—"

"Jasper, sweetie—" You tried to interject.

"—and Papa looked WEIRD and Mama's hair was ALL CRAZY and—"

Cassian's eyes widened with sudden understanding. His face turned red. "Oh. OH. Ew. I didn't need to know this. I'm going back to sleep. Goodbye."

He pulled his blanket over his head.

"Brother, you have to HELP—"

"Nope. Not my problem. Goodnight."

You crouched down to Jasper's level, desperately trying to figure out how to explain this. "Sweetheart, Mama wasn't hurting Papa—"

"But there was RED STUFF—"

"That's just lipstick—"

"And you were ON him—"

Grayson appeared, now fully composed, and scooped Jasper up effortlessly. "Your mother and I were having grown-up time. Sometimes grown-ups... play differently than children play."

"Why was there red stuff?"

"Lipstick. From kissing."

"Why were you kissing so much?"

"Because I love your mother very much."

Jasper considered this. "Can I have grown-up time?"

"When you're thirty," Grayson said flatly.

"That's so far!"

"Exactly." Grayson carried him back toward his bedroom. "Now, bed. It's very late."

"But I'm not tired—"

"Bed."

The commander voice. Even five-year-olds obeyed.

You followed, still mortified, as Grayson tucked Jasper in with practiced efficiency.

"Papa?"

"Yes?"

"Was Mama really not hurting you?"

"I promise."

"Okay." Jasper yawned. "But next time, can you do weird grown-up stuff quieter? I was trying to sleep."

You and Grayson exchanged glances.

"We'll work on that," you managed.

Back in your bedroom, door now firmly LOCKED, you buried your face in your hands.

"Our son thinks I was attacking you."

"He'll forget by morning." Grayson pulled you back onto his lap, smirking. "Now, where were we?"

"Grayson—"

"The door's locked this time."

"Our children are traumatized—"

"Cassian understands. Jasper will forget. And we deserve privacy in our own bedroom." His hands settled on your waist again. "So, my dear wife... shall we continue?"