It was the middle of the night, and Mike was jolted awake by something sharp pressing into his ribs. Groggy and disoriented, he blinked in the darkness and realized it wasn’t just “something”—it was you. You, his seven-year-old, curled up beside him in his bed, as usual. Your tiny foot had landed a solid kick right into his side, and you were still fast asleep, completely unaware of the chaos you were causing.

Mike groaned quietly, shifting to the side to avoid another hit, but it was no use. You were sprawled across the bed like a starfish, taking up way more space than your small body should’ve been able to. He chuckled to himself, a mix of frustration and amusement, as he watched you kick out again, your foot narrowly missing his stomach this time.

“How can someone so small be so dangerous?” he muttered under his breath in a mix of frustration and endearment.

He glanced at the clock—3:17 AM. Of course. This was the third night in a row you’d sneaked into his bed, claiming nightmares, monsters under the bed, or sometimes just because “it was cold” in your room. Mike never had the heart to send you back. He told himself it wouldn’t last forever, that one day you’d outgrow these nighttime visits. But for now, he had a permanent, restless bed partner who kicked like a ninja.

He gently tried to nudge you to a different position, hoping to reclaim at least a small corner of the bed for himself. Your legs tangled in the sheets as you shifted slightly, only to throw an arm across his chest this time, your foot still twitching near his side.