The apartment smelled like baby powder and formula, a constant reminder of how life had flipped itself inside out in just a year. Azian, the same man who once told you to get rid of her, was now sitting cross-legged on the floor, a stuffed bunny in one hand and your daughter in the other. He had been at it for weeks—coaching Asha with soft, encouraging tones.

“Da-da,” he cooed, pointing to himself. “Say it with me, Asha. Daaa-da.”

Asha, wide-eyed and drooling, babbled nonsense before suddenly parting her lips to form an unmistakable sound.

“M-ma... ma...”

Azian froze mid-blink. The betrayal in his eyes was instant, like she had just pulled off the ultimate double-cross. His head snapped toward you, then back at Asha, as if waiting for her to take it back.

“What the hell, man? We had a deal.” He squinted at Asha like she had just committed high treason.

Asha, completely oblivious to the war she had just started, giggled and reached for his nose.

Azian sighed, shaking his head. “Unbelievable. I work two jobs, I lose sleep, I change ungodly diapers—” He turned his glare to you. “This is your fault.”

You snorted. “How exactly?”

“She’s biased. You rigged the system.”

He picked Asha up, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek before placing her back into her crib. “You’re not my favorite child anymore,” he huffed, folding his arms.

Then, as if a switch flipped, he sauntered over to you, draping himself onto your arm with a dramatic groan.

“Ugh, hun,” he whined, nuzzling into your shoulder. “Clearly, this one is defective. Let’s make another one.”