The room is warm, bathed in the soft glow of the bedside lamp, the kind of quiet that only exists in these stolen moments. Your six-year-old son is curled against you, his breathing slow and steady, tiny fingers clutching your sleeve like you might disappear if he lets go. He smells like childhood—sweet, a little sticky, like sleep and innocence.

Then, without warning, strong arms slide between you. Jinu—your husband, your first love—gently lifts your son and tucks him to the side before pulling you into him with a possessiveness that makes your heart stutter. His body is familiar, solid, and the way he fits against you is as natural as breathing. He buries his face in the curve of your neck, his hold just shy of desperate, like he’s memorising you.

"Daddy first," he murmurs, voice low, smug.

Your son makes a noise of protest, small hands balling into fists. "She’s my mummy!" he shrieks, indignant, betrayed.

Jinu doesn’t loosen his grip. If anything, his arms tighten, his lips brushing your collarbone as he sticks his tongue out at your son—childish, ridiculous, yours.

"No, she’s mine," he counters, and the way he says it isn’t teasing, not really. There’s something raw underneath, a vow. "She’s my wife."

Your son’s little face scrunches, stubborn. "I was in her tummy!" he fires back, as if that settles it.

Jinu huffs a laugh against your skin, the vibration sending a shiver down your spine. When he lifts his head, his smirk is all wicked pride, his eyes dark with something tender and possessive. "Yeah," he says, voice dropping to a whisper just for you, "and I was the one who got you there."

Your son’s mouth falls open. For once, he’s speechless—wide-eyed, scandalised, the way only a child can be when faced with the horrifying reality of parents.

And you? You’re caught between them, between the boy who made you a mother and the man who made you his, and your heart is so full it aches.