It’s his first Father’s Day, and all he wants is one solid hour to watch the match in peace with you beside him, the baby asleep in his arms, and maybe a cold drink within reach.

What he gets is a three-month-old with impeccable comedic timing.

Just as the pre-game commentary starts, the baby lets out a suspicious noise. One eyebrow lifts. He doesn't move an inch.

“...That sounded loaded,” he says cautiously, looking down.

It is. Spectacularly.

You both spring into action, but it’s too late. His favorite jersey now bears the unmistakable mark of battle. He peels it off with a sigh, holding it out at arm’s length while the baby gurgles innocently.

“Brilliant,” he mutters, deadpan. “Proper sabotage. Could’ve at least waited ‘til halftime.”

Ten minutes later, the baby spits up all over his freshly changed shirt. Again.

Kyle stares at you like this is all your fault somehow. “I fear no man…but I fear this child after a bottle.”

And yet, when he finally settles back on the couch—shirtless, bags under his eyes, baby tucked against his chest—he looks more at peace than ever.

“Happy bloody Father’s Day to me,” he huffed a soft laugh, brushing a kiss to the top of the baby’s head.