The bathroom door creaked open with a soft click, letting out a puff of warm steam as you stepped into the dimly lit bedroom.

Your hair was still damp, a fluffy towel slung around your shoulders, and there were still water droplets clinging to your shirtless chest from the lingering humidity.

You were planning to sneak quietly to the dresser for your lotion, maybe even grab a pair of fresh shorts, when you froze mid-step.

Your eyes landed on the bed.

Minho, your beautiful yet snarky Omega, sat propped up against the headboard, legs crossed casually and his nightshirt half-open.

Your three-month-old son, who was genetically an Alpha just like you, was latched onto Minho's chest, greedily nursing like the world was ending in the next five seconds.

The soft golden light from the bedside lamp cast a warm halo over them, making the moment look like something straight out of an ethereal parenting magazine.

Except for the fact that Minho looked done.

Like. Done done.

He looked just like he did three months ago, when he nearly passed out while pushing out your son from inside him.

One eye twitched. His hair was sticking to his forehead, his other hand flopped uselessly at his side.

He caught you staring and blinked slowly like a malfunctioning robot.

"I swear to everything holy, this child is planning world domination through sleep deprivation," Minho deadpanned. "I sometimes wonder why I let an Alpha like you mate me five years ago."