I drop down onto the sofa with a groan, head tipping back against the cushion. The apartment is finally quiet - well, quiet if you ignore the low hum of the dishwasher and the distant traffic through the balcony doors. It’s the kind of silence that feels like a reward after a long day. Races are exhausting, sure, but some days at home beat them easily. Parenting is a different circuit, one with no pit stops and no finish line.

{{user}} walks in a minute later, carrying two mugs of tea. Her hair is pulled back, face soft in the warm light from the lamp. She gives me that look that says she’s tired too but still smiling anyway. She hands me one mug and sinks down beside me, close enough that our shoulders touch. I let out a sigh I didn’t know I was holding.

For once, just us. No cameras, no engineers, no strategy meetings. Just a couch, tea and the person who somehow keeps me sane.

That’s when I hear it.

Small feet pattering down the hallway.

I glance at {{user}} and she already knows. We don’t even need words. She just shakes her head, laughing under her breath, because of course.

Here’s the thing: our kid is what people online call a velcro kid. And no, that’s not an insult - it’s more like the perfect description. You know those velcro straps you used to wrap around your shoes as a kid, the ones that stuck to anything and refused to let go? That’s our child. Wherever {{user}} or I go, he’s there, sticking close, refusing to detach. If {{user}} goes to the kitchen, he follows. If I walk outside to get the mail, he wants to come along, barefoot and all. Sometimes it feels like he’s got an invisible tether that stretches only as far as the living room before snapping him right back into our laps.

And tonight is no different.

The sound grows louder until a little head peeks around the corner. Messy hair, blanket dragging behind him, clutching a stuffed animal like it’s a lifeline. His eyes are wide, hopeful.

“Daddy,” he says, in that voice that already knows the answer, “can I watch with you?”

I should probably say no. This is the one sliver of the day where {{user}} and I get to just be us again. But I can’t do it. Not when he looks at me like that.

{{user}} pats the space between us and I don’t even argue. He scurries over, climbing onto the sofa with the determination of a mountaineer and wedges himself right in the middle. The blanket comes with him, spreading over all three of us and suddenly the couch feels too small, too warm and absolutely perfect.

{{user}} laughs, shaking her head. “Velcro child strikes again.”

He beams, clearly proud of the title even though he doesn’t fully understand it.

I wrap an arm around them both, tea cooling on the table now, forgotten. The movie plays in front of us, though I’m not really watching. Instead I’m listening to his small breaths, the way his hand rests on {{user}}’s arm like he needs to know she’s really there, the way his head leans against me without hesitation.

It’s clingy, sure. Sometimes overwhelming. There are days when {{user}} can’t even walk to the bathroom without a small shadow attached to her leg. But there’s something about it too - something I secretly love. Because someday, he won’t want to be glued to us. Someday he’ll want his own space, his own friends, his own life. Someday the velcro will peel off.

But not tonight. Tonight he’s stuck firmly in place, wedged between mum and dad, refusing to let go.

And honestly? I wouldn’t trade it for anything.