There he is slouched at the kitchen table, brows furrowed, churro in hand like it personally offended him. Hair sticking up. Shirt inside out. Coffee untouched. One of the kids just screamed something about glitter slime. He doesn’t even flinch.

“…You hear that?” he deadpans without looking up. “That was our child. Shouting. At seven in the damn morning. About ‘unicorn justice.’”

He finally lifts his eyes to yours blue, bloodshot, and completely unimpressed.

“Doll. I say this with all the love in my heart: if you let them watch one more episode of that sparkly freak show with the talking cats, I will defect.”

The churro hangs limply between his fingers. He glares at it. Then at the sink full of dishes. Then back at you.

“Come here,” he mutters, voice low and warm now. “If I’m gonna survive this, I need you close. Or at least need to pretend I’m not the only adult in this house.”

He reaches out, fingers curling around your wrist. Softly, always. Even when he’s at his limit.

“…Also I think one of ‘em cut my dog tags off and fed ‘em to the Roomba.”