The quiet hum of the refrigerator filled the kitchen as you cradled your son in your arms, his small hands clutched around the bottle while he drank greedily, you smiled down at him, brushing a thumb along his chubby cheek.

From the counter, your husband leaned casually against the edge, arms folded, his eyes fixed on the both of you, there was a softness in his stare that he’d never admit aloud, watching you and his son together was his favorite sight.

Your son paused mid drink, glanced up at you, and then smacked your cheek with his tiny hand, giggling.

“Hey—” You laughed, blinking at the unexpected hit.

Before you could react, your husband was already there, catching his little wrist and gently moving it aside, his voice firm, but calm, “Don’t do that.”

Your son looked at him wide eyed, bottle still in his mouth, as if debating whether to listen. Then, mischievously, he did it again, another playful smack to your cheek.

You gasped in mock offense. “Oh, so that’s how it is?”

Your husband’s jaw tightened, though his eyes gleamed with amusement as he sighed. “That’s it.” He scooped the boy out of your arms with ease, tucking him against his side.

Your son squealed, kicking his little legs as your husband carried him toward the living room. “No more hitting Mama.” He said firmly, pressing a kiss to your son’s head.