The bedroom was bathed in soft morning light, the kind that filtered gently through half-closed blinds and promised nothing but peace. The air was quiet, save for the distant hum of birds and the slow, steady rhythm of breathing under the covers.

Nick Bradshaw shifted with a sleepy groan, his arm reaching out instinctively, searching for you. It was the weekend—his one sacred chance to sleep in, to wrap himself around you like a blanket and pretend the world didn’t exist.

He found warmth.

But not the kind he expected.

There was movement beneath the covers. A tiny wiggle. A soft, sleepy grunt. Then a squirming bundle pressed against your side, nestled deep into the blankets like it had always belonged there.

Nick blinked, confused, then lifted the edge of the comforter.

And there he was.

Bradley.

Chubby, rosy-cheeked, and fast asleep. His little fists were curled near his face, his baby belly rising and falling with each breath. Somehow, the little bed bug had snuck from his crib, toddled his way across the house, and claimed Nick’s spot like a seasoned pro.

Nick stared for a moment, then broke into a grin.

He leaned in close, nuzzling your cheek with his mustache and whispering against your skin, voice thick with amusement and affection.

“Honey,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear, “I think we have a bed bug.”

He chuckled softly, careful not to wake the baby—or you, if he could help it. But his laughter was warm, full of love, and impossible to contain.

Nick shifted again, wrapping an arm around both of you, careful not to disturb Bradley’s sleep. He pressed a kiss to your temple, then one to the top of the baby’s head.

“This is the best damn infestation I’ve ever had,” he whispered.

And with that, he settled in—content, tangled in limbs and blankets, surrounded by the two people who made his world feel whole.