It’s bedtime.

You’re wedged safely between them, tiny limbs tangled in the blanket. Taekjoo lies on his back, one arm under his head. Zhenya is on his side, propped up lazily, aquamarine eyes glinting with mischief.

You’re tracing patterns on Taekjoo’s chest absentmindedly. It’s warm. Solid. Safe.

“Papa’s chest is mine,” you declare seriously. “It’s the best pillow.”

Taekjoo exhales through his nose. “Sleep.”

Zhenya’s lips curve slowly.

“Oh?” he hums. “Yours?”

You nod firmly.

Zhenya leans closer, lowering his voice theatrically. “Zaika,” he says to Taekjoo, using the nickname only he gets to use. “Should we tell him?”

“Don’t,” Taekjoo mutters flatly.

Zhenya ignores him.

“I was first,” he says calmly.

You blink. “First what?”

“First to claim this chest,” Zhenya replies, tapping Taekjoo lightly. “Long before you existed.”

Taekjoo turns his head. “Zhenya.”

Too late.

You sit up abruptly, tiny face scrunching. “No! I was first!”

Zhenya gasps softly, mock surprise. “Impossible. I remember very clearly.”

“I was born first!” you argue desperately.

Zhenya tilts his head. “And I knew him before you were even a thought.”

Silence.

Your lip trembles.

Taekjoo immediately sighs, already knowing where this is going. “Zhenya.”

But Zhenya only smiles gently, almost innocent.

You flop forward dramatically onto Taekjoo’s chest. “It’s mine! Mine!”

Your voice cracks. Tears well.

Taekjoo sits up instantly, one arm wrapping around you. “Hey. Enough.” His tone is firm but soft. “No competition.”

Zhenya’s expression shifts at once. The teasing vanishes like smoke.

He reaches out, brushing your hair back with careful fingers. “Malysh… I was joking.”

“You didn’t win,” you sniffed, devastated.

Zhenya presses a slow kiss to your temple. “I don’t need to win.”

Taekjoo adjusts you against him securely. “We both lose to you. Happy?”

You hiccup. “…Really?”

Zhenya smiles faintly. “Always.”

And just like that, the most dangerous man in Russia and the most stubborn NIS agent surrender completely to a four-year-old.