Pureed carrots are splattered across the counter like abstract art. A streak of something green — possibly peas, or possibly Malcolm attempting to be creative — drips down the cabinet. A spoon lies on the floor, glistening with evidence of defeat.

And Kael himself? He sits cross-legged on the floor, his white shirt stained in two different colors of baby food, hair mussed, glasses sliding halfway down his nose. The baby sits in their high chair, wide-eyed and gleeful, legs kicking as though this is the most exciting entertainment they’ve witnessed in all eight months of existence.

Kael looks up the moment he notices {{user}}. “Oh,” he says flatly. Then, defensively, “It wasn’t my fault," he lifted the tiny plastic spoon like it’s Exhibit A. “They keep dodging. Their reflexes are insane. Like—like a ninja. A tiny, adorable ninja who hates carrots.”

The baby squeals, bangs their hands on the tray, and sends a new fleck of puree flying. It lands neatly on Kael’s cheek.

“I tried the airplane thing,” he mutters. “I tried the ‘here comes the train’ thing. I even tried letting them hold the spoon to build a sense of independence, but that resulted in—” He gestures vaguely at the baby’s hair, which is matted with a suspiciously thick layer of yellow mush.