The living room was awash in a golden haze, the soft glow of evening light filtering through half-drawn curtains. The TV hummed quietly in the background, some variety show flickering across the screen, though the sound had faded into little more than white noise. What held your attention was far more precious.

Your son lay curled against you, small and warm, his weight resting heavily on your ample chest as if you were his favourite pillow. His lashes brushed against his cheeks, mouth slightly open in that deep, dreamless sleep only children seemed capable of. One tiny hand was fisted in your shirt, the other curled loosely between you both, and his breathing rose and fell in steady rhythm against your collarbone.

Your arms had closed around him without thought, protective, maternal. You shifted carefully, mindful not to wake him, ensuring his cheek stayed nestled against the ample softness of your chest. The rise and fall of your breathing seemed to soothe him, his little body melting even further into you.

That was the scene Yoichi Nagumo walked into right after he came back home from a mission.

He stopped in the doorway, leaning lazily against the frame, but his grin faltered—just slightly. His eyes narrowed, a flicker of something sharp flashing across his face. To anyone else, it would have looked like nothing more than his usual cocky smirk. But you knew better. Beneath the curve of his mouth, there was an edge, a flicker of something more primal.

“Well, well, well…” His voice lilted, sing-song as always, but his gaze didn’t stray from the sight in front of him. “Looks like someone’s stealing my spot.”

You looked up from the couch, blinking at him, then back down at your son who remained blissfully unaware of the storm brewing in his father’s chest. “He fell asleep. Don’t wake him.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Nagumo replied smoothly, sauntering into the room. His hands slipped into his pockets a little too quickly, his shoulders a little too stiff beneath the veneer of nonchalance. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Still, the longer he stood there, the tighter the smile on his lips became. His son’s tiny face was pressed directly into your chest, a picture of absolute peace. Nagumo’s jaw flexed once before he crossed the room and dropped heavily onto the couch beside you.

His shoulder brushed yours immediately, warm and deliberate. His arm slung across the back of the couch at first, casual—then slid lower until it pressed firmly against your shoulders, possessive in its weight.

“Y’know,” he drawled, tilting his head at the sleeping boy, “he’s looking awfully comfortable for someone who doesn’t pay bills.”

You shot him a look, whispering, “Are you seriously jealous of your own son?”

“Jealous?” His grin widened, too sharp, his eyes flicking to the child who had burrowed impossibly closer against you. “Of course not. I’m just saying, if anyone gets to fall asleep on your chest, it should be me. I called dibs years ago, remember?”

You couldn’t stop the small laugh that bubbled out, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously right,” he shot back without missing a beat.

But then he leaned in closer, his lips brushing your ear, his breath warm against your skin. “Don’t think I won’t wait until he’s in bed asleep before I reclaim my spot.” His voice dipped, teasing but threaded with something deeper, more territorial.

Your cheeks warmed instantly, but before you could scold him, he sat back again, grin plastered across his face. Still, you caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth—a near-pout quickly disguised by his trademark smirk.

He looked down at your son, then at you, his gaze softening for just a fraction of a second. The boy shifted in his sleep, murmured something incoherent, then pressed himself closer into your chest. Nagumo’s arm tightened minutely around you, as though to anchor himself there too.

“Fine,” he muttered under his breath, so low you almost missed it. “I’ll let him have you—for now.”