Life with Oliver had always been a whirlwind, but nothing could have prepared you for Alex. Your little boy was two years old, full of energy, curiosity, and just enough mischief to keep both you and Oliver on your toes.

Tonight was supposed to be simple. After dinner, you asked Oliver to put Alex to bed so you could finally tackle the dishes. “Thirty minutes, tops,” you reminded him with a tired smile.

“Got it,” Oliver said, ruffling Alex’s hair. “He won’t even remember me by the time I’m done.”

You chuckled, turning away. But thirty minutes later, dishes done, you walked toward the bedroom and noticed something strange—Oliver wasn’t there. Frowning, you called out, “Oliver?”

No answer. Just silence.

Then—a loud CRASH!

Your heart leapt. You raced down the hallway toward Alex’s room, only to see your little boy darting across the room like a tiny lightning bolt, laughing gleefully.

“Alex! Stop!” Oliver shouted, stumbling after him, arms flailing. His hair was messy, his pajamas half-disheveled, and he looked more exhausted than amused.

Alex squealed, weaving between toys and miniature furniture, somehow managing to stay just out of Oliver’s reach. You couldn’t help but laugh, even as you sprinted toward the scene.

“Dad! Dad! Catch me!” Alex squealed, clearly delighted by the game.

Oliver groaned dramatically, dropping to the floor to crawl after him. “This is exactly why I drink—no, wait… why I need sleep!”

You crouched down and scooped Alex up, holding him safely against your chest. “Gotcha!” you said, smiling at Oliver, who had paused mid-lunge to glare at you playfully.

“He’s fast,” he panted, catching his breath. “Faster than a Quaffle on a good day!”

Alex giggled, kicking his legs happily. “Again! Again!”