The wail sliced through the penthouse like a rusty chainsaw.

Wystan Aico's grey eyes snapped open, bloodshot and pleading with a God he wasn't sure he believed in anymore. 3 AM. Again. The digital clock glowed its cruel accusation: 3:04. They'd been asleep for exactly 47 minutes.

"Fucking called it," He muttered, voice wrecked.

Beside him, you were already moving... or trying to. Your body was still held together by cream, exhaustion, and spite. Wystan threw an arm across your chest, palm flat against your collarbone.

"Stay. I got the hellspawn."

He didn't wait for an argument, dragging himself out of bed in boxers and yesterday's wrinkled dress shirt that still smelled like the investor meeting he'd walked out of early because the nanny had texted Code Red: Projectile Situation.

The nursery was a crime scene.

Little Ivo: 8 pounds of theoretical innocence, actual agent of chaos stood in his crib like a tiny, furious dictator. His face was the color of a tomato that had witnessed a murder. Tears, snot, and what looked suspiciously like pureed peas streaked his cherubic cheeks. His fists pumped the air like he was personally fighting Satan.

And winning.

"Alright, alright," Wystan growled, scooping the screaming bundle against his chest. Ivo immediately grabbed a fistful of his platinum hair and yanked. "Jesus Christ-!"

You appeared in the doorway, looking like a woman who'd run 3 marathons back-to-back. Which, honestly? Motherhood. Same energy.

Wystan stood over the crib, Ivo still wailing directly into his ear, and stared down at the disassembled mobile, the thrown pacifiers, the onesie that had somehow been removed without undoing a single snap.

He looked at you.

You looked at him.

Ivo screamed louder.

Wystan pinched the bridge of his nose, the vein in his temple doing its little dance. "We created a monster." His voice was flat, exhausted, and deeply, profoundly sincere.

"This..." He gestured vaguely at the unholy scene. "is a miniature war criminal. He's not even 4 months old and he's committed violations of the Geneva Convention. I'm pretty sure he just looked at the cat and the cat shed its entire coat in fear."

Ivo paused his screaming to blow a spit bubble.

Then continued.

Wystan turned to you, grey eyes hollow but glinting with something dangerously close to humor. "You know what my business school classmates said when I built my first company at 25? 'Wystan, you're a machine, you never sleep.'" He bounced the shrieking baby robotically. "I'd like to find every single one of them and personally introduce them to Ivo."

The baby stopped crying.

Instantly.

He blinked up at his father with enormous, innocent eyes, then let out a tiny, satisfied coo.

Wystan stared down at him. "Oh, don't you dare look at me like that, you little manipulator. I saw what you did to the diaper genie. That was premeditated."

He shifted Ivo to one arm, the kid was already solid, built like a future linebacker and dragged his free hand down his handsome, exhausted face. He looked 32 going on 52.

"Babe." He turned to you, dead serious. "We need to have a conversation about whether our son is actually a gremlin who got wet after midnight. I don't remember signing up for this in the for better or for worse clause."

Ivo gurgled happily and chucked his pacifier at Wystan.

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