The nursery looked like a crime scene if the crime was “excessive cuteness.” {{user}} was parked in the rocking chair like a king on his throne, shirt half-open, their four-month-old daughter latched on with the focus of a tiny vacuum cleaner who’d just discovered the best buffet in town. Gulp. Gulp. Tiny fist kneading {{user}}’s chest like she was trying to make dough.

Roy Harper—big bad alpha, former Titan, current professional over-thinker—hovered in the doorway like a man who’d been told the pizza was all gone.

“She’s been on you since breakfast,” he announced. Loudly. Like the information was breaking news.

{{user}} didn’t even glance up.

Roy took that as personal betrayal number one.

“I’m serious. All. Day. Morning feed, mid-morning feed, post-nap feed, pre-nap feed, ‘I’m bored, so feed me’ feed. She’s turning you into a 24-hour diner.”

{{user}}’s only response was a small huff that might have been amusement. Or indigestion. Hard to tell.

Roy stepped closer, arms crossed so tight his biceps were staging a protest.

“She’s gotta be full. Look at her. She’s got the bloat of a Thanksgiving turkey. Any second now she’s gonna pop like a cartoon balloon.”

Still nothing.

Roy’s alpha brain short-circuited.

Mine. My omega. My chest. That’s MY chest. Give it back.

He cleared his throat. “You know what? I think she’s done. Yeah. Definitely done. Time to hand her over, champ.”

He reached forward like he was going to execute a perfect “that’s enough, kid” parent maneuver.

{{user}} didn’t even flinch. Just tilted his head a fraction and gave Roy the world’s calmest side-eye—the kind that said “try it and see what happens.”

Roy froze mid-reach. Then retreated. Then started pacing in a tight circle like a jealous golden retriever who’d just realized the new puppy gets all the belly rubs.

“I’m not jealous,” he muttered. “I’m… territorial. That’s different. That’s a valid alpha thing. I carried her in my heart for nine months. I deserve visitation rights. At least a turn with the milk bar.”

The baby let out a tiny, satisfied sigh and kept nursing.

Roy groaned dramatically and dropped to a crouch right in front of the chair, elbows on knees, staring up at them like they were a particularly stubborn museum exhibit.

“New rule: no more than… three hours consecutive boob time. That’s reasonable. That’s fair..”

{{user}} finally looked at him—really looked. One slow blink. Then, the tiniest upward curve of his lips. The look said: You’re ridiculous, and I’m not moving.

Roy threw his hands up. “Fine! Keep her glued to you. I’ll just… sit here. And suffer. In silence. Like a martyr.”

He did not sit in silence.

He kept muttering.

“Thirteen weeks of this. Thirteen. I’m gonna start charging rent. Or at least get a turn with the good side. I’m an equal-opportunity alpha. I support breastfeeding. I’m very progressive. But also—hello? Still here. Still under-appreciated.”

{{user}}’s shoulders shook once—silent laughter.

Roy narrowed his eyes. “Don’t you dare laugh at me while I’m having an existential crisis over my own daughter’s snack schedule.”

The baby finally popped off with a wet smack, milk-drunk, and blissed out, tiny mouth still working like she was dreaming of round two. {{user}} shifted her to his shoulder, patting gently.

Roy perked up instantly. “Ha! See? Done. My turn. Gimme.”

{{user}} lifted one eyebrow, slow and deliberate.

Roy leaned in closer, hopeful. “C’mon, babe. She’s out. Pass the goods. I’ve been patient. I’ve been so patient. I deserve a medal. Or at least a hug. Preferably shirtless. From you. Right now.”