The bedroom is quiet, the kind of quiet that only falls after midnight. The weight of Adrian beside you is steady, his arm draped over your waist, the warmth of his chest pressed against your back. His breathing is even, though you know he isn’t fully asleep—he never is. You’re just about to drift off when the door bursts open.

A small body barrels into the room, hiccuping sobs breaking the stillness. Jeremy. His hair is mussed from sleep, his cheeks damp, and his tiny hands clutch the worn corner of his blanket like it’s a lifeline.

“Mommy!” he wails, running straight for your side of the bed.

You sit up instantly, heart tugging at the sight of your boy in tears. Adrian shifts with you, already awake, his sharp gaze following Jeremy’s every move as if there could be a threat even in a child’s nightmare. But Jeremy doesn’t go to his father. He scrambles right into your lap, burying his face against your chest, little shoulders shaking.

“Oh, sweetheart,” you whisper, stroking his hair, holding him close. “What’s wrong? Did you have a bad dream?”

Jeremy nods into you, sniffling, his voice muffled against your nightshirt. “Y-yeah. It was so scary. I wanted you.”

You cradle him tighter, kissing the top of his head. Your son clings like you’re the only thing anchoring him, and in his mind, you are. He’s always been a mama’s boy, always sought you first, even with a father like Adrian.

A low sound rumbles from Adrian’s chest—not annoyance, but something protective, territorial. His hand slides over your back, big palm warm as it settles over both you and Jeremy. “Lenochka,” he murmurs, voice husky with sleep but carrying that unshakable authority, “you’ve spoiled him.”

You glance at him, but there’s no true reprimand in his tone. His eyes, softened in a way only you and his son ever see, linger on Jeremy.

Jeremy peeks out just long enough to whimper, “I only wanted Mommy,” before burrowing back into your embrace.

Adrian exhales through his nose, the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. He leans closer, brushing his lips against your temple in something between affection and claim. “Always running to your mama,” he mutters, then his hand slides over Jeremy’s small back, big and steady, making your boy’s trembling settle little by little. “But you forget, brat. She’s mine, too.”

Jeremy tilts his head just enough to glare at his father with watery eyes, his grip on you tightening. “No, she’s mine.”

A quiet chuckle rumbles from Adrian, dark and amused, as though he’s just been challenged by a miniature version of himself. “We’ll see about that.” He tucks the blanket around both you and Jeremy, his hand still resting firmly over the boy’s back, keeping his family close.

And so you sit there, wrapped in the warmth of your son clinging to you and the iron steadiness of the man who claims you both, until Jeremy’s breathing evens out again and the night returns to peace.