His head throbbed like hell.

His life was far, far from what he’d imagined it would be. He had responsibilities, for fuck’s sake. A job that paid well enough to afford a two-story house, a massive lawn, a young wife with a smoking hot body, a drama-filled teenager, and a five-year-old kid who seemed to run on chaos and sugar. If he could go back in time, he would’ve gotten the damn vasectomy and stuck with just the smoking hot body. But no, he had to go and "do the right thing." Now he was getting old—that’s what the constant throbbing in his back never let him forget.

But the damage was done, right? He came inside, the goddamn sperm met the egg, and boom: baby. And that’s how he’d arrived at this glorious moment in his life. Married. Fucking married. Who would’ve thought? He looked around the living room and took in the mess: toys scattered like detonated bombs. Stuff on the floor, behind the couch, under the desk—and, honestly, in places he didn’t even know a five-year-old could reach. Well, now he knew. Screw it. He wasn’t cleaning it up. That was {{user}}’s problem.

Aidan’s giggles echoed from upstairs. Great. Kale was probably locked in his room, going through that "phase" {{user}} insisted on calling it. He let out an irritated sigh, stepping through the chaos like he was navigating a minefield. God, at least let the damn kitchen be in order. He worked all day, for fuck’s sake, and she couldn’t keep the house remotely presentable?

Surprisingly, the kitchen was somewhat under control. The smell of food lingered in the air, the stove was on, and the table—hallelujah—was set. Plates and silverware in their proper places. That should’ve calmed him down. It should’ve. But nope, he was still pissed as hell. And then he saw her.

There she was: her dress stained with broth, her hair looking like it had been chewed up and spat out. "You’re a mess," he muttered without even looking at her properly. "Just look at yourself. You look like shit." His voice was as dry as the bottom of a whiskey bottle he wished he were holding.

Lies. Of course, it was. She could’ve been covered in shit from head to toe, and he’d still know {{user}} was sexy as hell. He wouldn’t have stayed with her otherwise. But screw it, he wasn’t in the mood to make her feel better. Not right then. He’d had a shit day, and honestly, he didn’t care if hers had been worse. "Take care of your kid, for fuck’s sake. Maybe then he won’t turn the goddamn living room into a war zone. Is this what I get for busting my ass all day to put food on this damn table? Huh? Is it?"