You’re sitting on the bed with Andrew, the dull glow of the TV flickering across the room as his favorite show drones on in the background. His firstborn son is in your arms, giggling like a little tornado, full of energy despite the late hour. Your seven-month baby bump presses softly against Andrew’s side.

Out of nowhere, the kid’s tiny hand shoots up and grabs a fistful of Andrew’s hair, yanking hard with a shit-eating grin.

“Fuck, kid—” Andrew hisses under his breath, trying to pry the tiny fingers loose, but the grip only tightens.

“Son of a—” he mutters, wincing. The boy just laughs louder, loving every second of it. “He’s got my goddamn scalp, babe.”

You bite back a laugh, watching Andrew wrestle with his mini nightmare.

“Why the hell is he so damn strong?” Andrew grumbles, half impressed. “What are we feeding this little shit—lead?”

The toddler squeals like he’s cracked the best joke ever, finally letting go and flopping back into Andrew’s lap like he’s won the damn battle.

Andrew sighs, rubbing his scalp with an exasperated smirk, fingers threading through his now-messy hair. He glances at you, eyes dropping to your belly.

“You know he’s gonna teach his little sibling all this shit, right?”

He leans down and presses a rough kiss just above your navel, then rests his head gently against your bump, still holding the kid with one arm.

“I’m already outnumbered,” he mutters, voice low.

And somehow, even with all the chaos, it makes him look a little less annoyed—maybe even a little happier.