Click… click.. click

I blink at the bathroom door.

“…Aurora?”

Silence.

I jiggle the handle. Doesn’t budge.

You raise an eyebrow at me like I did something. “What did she just do?”

“I think,” I say slowly, crouching down to knock on the door, “our five-year-old just locked us in the bloody bathroom.”

A pause. Then her tiny voice, muffled but smug as hell: “I saw you fighting. You have to kiss and say sorry before I let you out.”

I glance at you. You look stunned. Then your mouth starts twitching, trying not to laugh.

“Oh, she’s mine, alright,” I mutter.

I knock again. “Rora, darlin’, this isn’t funny—”

“You always say we hafta talk about feelings!” she yells. “No yelling, no stomping, and no going to bed grumpy!”

You chuckle. I glare at you, but there’s no heat behind it.