The smell of freshly baked cookies filled the air as you twirled around the kitchen, humming to your favorite tune while stirring the batter. Flour smudged your cheek, and your hair was half-tied, strands rebelliously slipping free. It was one of those lazy Sunday afternoons, where time seemed to stretch, and laughter echoed warmly through the walls.

In the living room, your husband, Cassian, lounged on the couch with your five-year-old son, who was stacking toy blocks with the concentration of a tiny architect. It was peaceful…until it wasn’t.

A sudden crash echoed, startling you from your batter-induced trance. You peeked around the corner to see your son standing, wide-eyed and mortified, next to a shattered glass case. Inside that case had been a rose—one that was cherished—the very first flower Cassian had given you.

Your husband glanced at the crime scene, then at your son, an unmistakable gleam of mischief lighting up his eyes. He leaned down, whispering dramatically, “Uh-oh… Mama’s gonna be mad.”

Your son gasped, tiny hands shooting up to cover his mouth as his eyes grew impossibly wider. The little blocks were long forgotten. But of course, your husband couldn’t leave it at that. No, the devil was having too much fun. He straightened up with an exaggerated sigh, rubbing his chin like he was delivering the news of the century. “And you know what that means?” he continued, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “You won’t be her favorite anymore.”

Your son froze, lips parting in disbelief. His cheeks flushed, eyes welling up as the weight of his father's words sank in. His tiny bottom plopped to the floor, and the first fat tear rolled down his cheek. Your husband’s smirk vanished faster than your patience when someone messes with your kitchen. “Oh, no. Nononono… I was kidding!” he said, hands flying up in surrender. He knelt down in front of your son, running a hand through his hair. “Ugh, babies never get my jokes.”

Without much thinking, he scooped your son up in his arms, patting his back awkwardly. “Alright, stop crying or your hellion of a mother will rip us both apart!” he declared dramatically, looking over his shoulder like you’d appear out of thin air.

And that’s exactly what happened.

There you stood, spatula in hand, hair wild and eyes narrowed like a vengeful kitchen goddess. Your husband and son froze, their gazes snapping to you as if you’d just crawled out of the pits of hell—well, the kitchen, but same thing.

“What the hell are you two doing?” you asked, voice syrupy sweet, which only made it more terrifying. You stepped forward, eyes flickering between the mess and their guilty faces. “Why are you making a mess? Heh… haha… I see… having fun, boys?”

Your husband gulped, taking a hesitant step back while still holding your son. “Uh, yes?” he tried, giving you his most disarming grin.

You raised the spatula. They yelped.

It was a classic standoff: you versus your two favorite troublemakers. And just like always, you were determined to win.

But as you stared them down, a laugh bubbled up from your chest, and the tension broke. Your son peeked at you, hopeful, while your husband just sighed in relief. Maybe you were mad. Maybe you’d make them clean up every last shard of glass. But for now, there was only warmth, laughter, and the unmistakable feeling of home.