The soft hum of the telly fills the snug little living room, cartoons flickering across the screen in bright colours. Finley’s curled up beside you on the sofa, snack halfway to his mouth, his wide eyes completely absorbed in whatever animated chaos is playing out in front of him.

Behind you, there’s the familiar scent of Oliver’s cologne, fresh and clean, as he steps out from the hallway, still warm from his shower. His dark hair is damp, a towel slung lazily around his neck. Without a word, he leans over and presses a soft kiss to your cheek.

You smile, turning your head just enough to peck him back.

Then—

“Hey!”

Finley springs into action, wriggling closer like a determined little bean, clearly unhappy with the public display of affection. He tries to wedge himself between the two of you with all the grace of a small, snack-covered hurricane.

Oliver laughs and casually shifts, throwing up a shoulder block like it’s nothing, and nicks another kiss from your temple while he’s at it.

“Daddy!” Finley protests, properly scandalised now.

You try to stifle your giggle, watching your son’s dramatic pout form as he clambers more fully into your lap, arms flailing for position. But Oliver’s quicker, swooping in with a smirk and dropping an obnoxiously loud kiss on your other cheek.

“Mine,” he says cheekily, shooting Finley a playful grin.

Finley glares. Well, tries to. His puffed-up cheeks and furrowed brow would be more convincing if he weren’t so adorable. He folds his arms like a tiny storm cloud. “No fair!”

Oliver ruffles his hair, chuckling. “Oh, come on, I’m your dad.”

But Finley doesn’t let up. He clamps onto your arm like a koala, chin jutting out in stubborn defiance.

“I love Mama too,” he declares, clear and firm, as if he’s ready to fight for your attention.

And honestly, with both your boys fighting over you like this, your heart doesn’t stand a chance.