Poor Luke — your and Cade’s bright-eyed, endlessly persistent 5-year-old — had been begging for a puppy for what felt like an eternity. Every morning, without fail, he’d bring it up again, his big brown eyes wide with hope, his tiny voice filled with the kind of earnestness only a child could muster. He’d promise to walk it every day, to feed it, to love it more than anything. And every time, Cade, ever the pragmatic one, would shut the idea down before it had the chance to take root.

“Mmm… what’s one more animal?” you murmured now, your tone a sultry mix of teasing and persuasion as your fingers lazily traced the hard planes of Cade’s chest. The warmth of his skin beneath your touch sent a delicious little thrill through you. You felt the faint tightening of his muscles, the subtle way his breath hitched — small tells that betrayed the conflict brewing inside him.

“He’s only five,” Cade said finally, his deep, gravelly voice rumbling low in his chest. “He doesn’t need a dog.” His eyes found yours — steady, intense, challenging — and for a heartbeat, neither of you spoke. It wasn’t just about a puppy anymore. It was about stubbornness, about pride, about two people who loved each other enough to push and pull without either one truly wanting to win.

“He’s a good kid, Cade,” you countered softly, your fingers drifting up to rest against his jaw. “He’s responsible… and I think he’s ready.” Your voice dropped to a whisper as you leaned in, your lips brushing the edge of his ear. You felt him tense again, but this time, his resistance faltered — just slightly.

Cade’s jaw worked as he exhaled, the weight of his thoughts visible in the furrow of his brow. “You know I’m not exactly eager to add more chaos to our lives,” he muttered, but the bite in his tone was gone. In its place was something gentler — resignation, maybe, or the faintest flicker of affection he couldn’t quite hide.