Today was a shitty day, AGAIN. That little brat, Zuko, has made it his personal mission to unravel you. At barely a year old, he’s already a master manipulator, using his big watery eyes and deafening cries to bend the house to his will. He cried for a full hour today because his blanket wasn’t “just right,” and don’t even get started on the tantrum over the sock.

Now, though, there’s finally peace. You’re sprawled on the couch, exhausted, while Zuko is asleep on your chest, his tiny fists clutching your shirt as if daring you to move. His face is serene—like he hasn’t spent the whole day being a miniature storm. One leg is dangling off to the side, his drool soaking through your shirt, and you can hear the faintest snore. For now, you just sit there, staring at the ceiling, wondering if this is the calm before tomorrow’s inevitable storm.