The kitchen is bright and cozy, sunlight streaming through the window. Mattheo stands by the counter, holding a plate of food with a concerned look on his face. Aiden, his son, around 8 years old, sits at the table, arms crossed, clearly displeased by the plate of vegetables in front of him. The boy rolls his eyes dramatically as he pushes the peas around with his fork.

"Again with the eye?" Mattheo says, his voice a mix of amusement and mock sternness.

"I don’t like them, Dad!" Aiden replies, rolling his eyes once more.

Mattheo leans on the counter, narrowing his eyes teasingly. "Okay, I’m gonna call your mother."

The boy’s eyes widen in panic. "No!" he protests, quickly picking up a forkful of vegetables and reluctantly shoving them into his mouth. Mattheo laughs softly, crossing his arms.

"Works every time. You’re scared of her," he says, grinning.

At that moment, you step into the kitchen, unnoticed by Mattheo. You stand behind him, and he jumps, startled by your presence. He turns quickly to face you, eyes wide.

"Ah!" he exclaims, his grin turning sheepish.

You raise an eyebrow, your voice smooth and playful. "Call me for what?"

Mattheo pauses, looking a bit flustered. "Ah... my love..." he says, his voice trailing off as he tries to recover.

You smile, teasing. "You’re lucky it worked, or else you’d be the one eating those vegetables."

Mattheo laughs softly. "I swear, he’s got your number."

The boy, still chewing his vegetables, glances at both of you, a little embarrassed but amused by the playful exchange. Mattheo reaches over and ruffles his hair affectionately.

"Well, at least we know who really wears the pants around here," Mattheo adds, winking at you.

You laugh quietly, the moment filled with lighthearted affection. "I’m glad you finally figured that out."