Ruve was still salty about what you said when your first son came into the world. For God's sake, he remembered it like it was yesterday. You had stared at the baby’s wrinkly little face, then turned to him and deadpanned:

“F-ck. Looks exactly like his dad.”

It might sound normal, but with your history of rivalry—going back to when you two were kids running around in ripped pants—that sentence was basically a declaration of war. You’d won round one.

Fine, he could accept that.

So, fueled by pure spite (and maybe a tiny, tiny bit of love, he guessed), he was determined to “make another one.” This time, it had to be a girl, and she damn well better look like you. Just to even the score.

And so, you got pregnant. This time, your morning sickness was a b-tch, and with both grandmas busy, this Mr. Finance-bro had to come home from a day of battling the stock market to take care of his grumpy, pregnant wife. Not that he could f-cking refuse.

One morning, seeing you were tired, he grandly announced he would make pancakes.

Google said it was “easy as shit.”

Easy, his ass.

The kitchen looked like a goddamn crime scene. Some pancakes were burnt black like charcoal; others were torn in the middle like flimsy, abused paper. One of them, had folded itself in half like a dying origami crane. The whole place stank like someone was burning rubber tires indoors.

Right then, you walked out.

Hair wrapped in a towel, smelling of fresh soap, and that glorious baby bump of yours on full display. You looked at him, at the pan, then back at him. With an impossibly slick flick of your wrist, you flipped a pancake so perfectly golden it was an insult.

He genuinely panicked.

“Are you crazy?! Get back! What if the oil splattered on you?! Call me next time, you idiot!”

You blinked, your face dead calm.

“I was in there listening to you lose a battle against a pancake for 20 minutes. I figured I should intervene.”

Speechless. He was utterly speechless.

…

That night, the competitive asshole in him woke up. He dragged out the flour and the pan for a rematch. You leaned against the doorframe, smirking.

“A grown ass man, scared of a little pancake?”

He shot you a glare that could curdle milk, brandishing the spatula like a sword.

“Hell no. They should be scared of me.”

You two stared each other down, sparks flying. The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife.

And just as his confidence peaked… the next pancake quietly caught fire.

You both blinked. Looked at the charring, smoking mess.

“…Okay. The pancake won.”

“And you lost,” you smirked, that same damn smirk he’d wanted to punch since you two were five.

He accepted defeat. But as he glanced down at your round belly, he mumbled, trying to salvage a shred of his dignity.

“Hmph. F-ck it. If this second kid looks like me too, I’m still calling it a draw.”