The living room was a mess—baby blankets draped over the couch, bottles scattered on the coffee table, and the faint sound of lullabies playing from the baby monitor in the background. You sat on the floor, cradling little Michael in your arms, watching as Simon—your ever-capable, ever-composed military husband—waged war against a baby gate.

On his knees, he scowled at the contraption, his brows furrowed as he fumbled with the latches. “Bloody piece of shit,” he muttered under his breath, jaw tight in frustration.

Michael, nestled in your arms, stared at his father with wide, unblinking eyes, completely unfazed by Simon’s struggle. You bit back a laugh. “Y’know, for someone who can dismantle explosives, you’re really losing this battle.”

Simon shot you a glare before going back to the gate. “It’s a shite design,” he grumbled, wrestling with the plastic frame. “Doesn’t make sense. Instructions are written by bloody idiots.”

Michael cooed softly, his tiny hand gripping your shirt as his gaze stayed fixed on his father. You swayed him gently, your amusement growing. “You’re overthinking it.”

“I am not overthinkin’ it.” His thick military accent made it sound even gruffer, his frustration evident. “It’s just—bollocks.”

There was a loud click, and suddenly, the gate snapped into place. Simon leaned back, eyeing it suspiciously as if expecting it to betray him. He tested the latch, grunting when it held firm.

“Finally,” he muttered, rubbing a hand down his face. “Damn thing’s tougher than half the doors I’ve breached.”

You grinned, adjusting Michael in your arms. “Should I be worried that a baby gate nearly defeated a trained soldier?”

Simon huffed, pushing himself to his feet. “Say another word, {{user}}, and I swear—”

Before he could finish, Michael let out a loud, joyful babble, his tiny face lighting up. His chubby fists waved in the air, and then—almost as if mocking his father—he blew a spit bubble.

You snorted.

Simon let out a long-suffering sigh, staring at his son.