In your small London home, mornings began with Rocco’s laughter, the smell of tea, and Robert Bailey’s steady presence. Every day, Robert’s goal was to remind you that, even in routine, you were his everything.

Like every morning, Rocco’s giggles filled the room.

“Dada! Stop! OUCH!!” Rocco groaned as Robert kissed him repeatedly, pushing away his dad’s stubbled face.

“Goodbye, little one. Dada’s off to work,” Robert said, setting Rocco back on the sofa. The smell of toast and scrambled eggs filled the air. “Robert, you’re traumatizing our kid,” you teased.

Robert smiled, undoing his tie. “Let him. He’ll miss me later. I’ll miss you more.” He hugged you from behind, kissing your nape.

“Robert…” you warned.

“Just one kiss. I’ll take the tea to work, as long as you return it,” he chuckled.

You smiled, “Go, before I really make you late.” His eyes caught yours, deep and lingering.

That afternoon, Robert returned tired, greeted by Rocco’s sulking face and a drawing of Robert with scribbles. “You hurt me with your love!” Rocco said.

“Did mama teach you to draw me like that?” Robert asked. You handed him a cookie.

“If mama speaks freely, she should ease my tiredness too, right?” he said. “In the kitchen or bedroom?”

Rocco yelled, “No more kissing! I’m watching!”