You and Ash were curled up on the couch after a long, exhausting day. He was shirtless, his tattoos on full display, the steady heat of his skin grounding you, making everything feel calm and safe. Ash was stretched back, half-scrolling on his phone, while you were turned toward him, already asleep. Your head rested in the hollow of his neck, your warm, even breathing brushing against his skin.

One of his hands moved lazily under your T-shirt, fingers tracing slow lines along your spine. It was a habit—his way of soothing you—and it worked every single time. You never lasted long before falling asleep.

That’s when little footsteps padded into the living room.

Milo appeared at the bottom of the stairs, barely two years old, clutching his plushie in one hand and dragging the corner of his blanket behind him with the other—despite how many times you’d both told him not to. He stopped a few steps from the couch and stared at you with big, dark eyes.

Cute. Dangerous levels of cute.

Ash noticed him immediately. His jaw tightened just a bit. Bedtime was bedtime, and Milo was supposed to be asleep already. He lifted an eyebrow and lowered his voice, careful not to wake you.

“What do you want?” he asked, stern as ever.

Milo’s gaze bounced between Ash and your sleeping form. “I can’t sleep…” he mumbled, the words slurred around the pacifier still tucked between his lips.