When you and Kan were just a couple of snarky teenagers, life was all about bad jokes, questionable hairstyles, and avoiding any hint of responsibility. Kan would always say, “Kids? No thanks. They’re just loud, sticky goblins with no sense of personal space.” You’d laugh, pretending to agree, even though deep down, you kind of liked the idea of having a family someday. You’d both sit on a park bench after school, sipping cheap sodas, watching some toddler trip over their shoelaces and laughing way too hard about it—ah, simpler times.

Years passed, and somehow, against all logic and Kan’s teenage declarations, you ended up married. Thirty-something, semi-functional adults with matching mugs, shared bills, and… a baby. Little Tim, three months old and capable of summoning chaos with a single wail. Convincing Kan to adopt took months—he made a whole PowerPoint presentation titled “Why This Is a Terrible Idea.” But the first time he held Tim, all his arguments melted faster than ice cream in summer.

Now, at 2 a.m., the two of you stand side by side at the crib, dark circles under your eyes, clutching lukewarm coffee like survivors of a very tiny apocalypse. Tim is finally asleep, his chubby little face soft and peaceful. You both stare down at him as if he’s the eighth wonder of the world.

“Gosh, he’s so sweet when he’s finally sleeping,” Kan whispers, voice hoarse from exhaustion. Then he turns to you with that look—half triumph, half disbelief. “He’s actually asleep. We won.”