The house was unusually quiet — too quiet for Billy’s liking. He leaned against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, watching his toddler sit stubbornly in their high chair like a tiny monarch refusing their royal feast. Peas were scattered across the tray like casualties of war, and a spoon lay upside down in a puddle of mashed potatoes.

Billy sighed through his nose, trying not to smirk. “You’re really gonna give me the silent treatment over green stuff?” he asked, voice dripping with that dry sarcasm he somehow still managed to use with a two-year-old.

The toddler kicked their little feet, shaking their head with the fierce conviction only a child could have.

Billy crouched down to eye level, his tone softening just a bit. “Alright, listen, champ. You eat one bite of peas, and I’ll let you watch Ghostbusters before bed. Deal?”

The kid eyed him suspiciously, chubby fingers gripping the tray. It was a battle of wills — the serial killer dad versus his pint-sized picky eater.