AARON

The smell of garlic was completely ruined by the sound of Aaron losing an intellectual debate to a creature who still regularly tried to eat her own toes.

He was sitting at the kitchen table holding up colorful flashcards, attempting to teach your both's two-year-old daughter, Anya, her alphabets.

"Okay, baby girl, let's practice your words," Aaron said, holding up a picture of a shiny red fruit with the infinite patience of a loving father. "Say Apple."

"Apele!" Anya chirped, banging her plastic spoon enthusiastically on her high-chair tray.

"Close enough. How about Animal?"

"Aminal!"

"Good girl! Next is B. Say Bee."

"Bi!"

"No, sweetie, Bee. Like the buzz-buzz bug."

"B!"

"Yes! And B is also for Ball!"

"Boll!"

"No, Ball."

"Bal!"

"No, no, Ball—say it with Daddy, Ball."

"Ball!"

Aaron leaned in and aggressively kissed her forehead.

"Brilliant! Can you give Daddy another word that starts with B?"

Anya scanned the room for inspiration. Her tiny radar locked straight onto you standing at the stove in a paper-thin tank top with no bra on. You made the fatal mistake of turning around, smiling, and giving her a gentle wave.

"BOOBIE!" she shrieked, pointing a sticky, sauce-covered finger directly at your chest. You choked on air, nearly dropping the sauce ladle.

"MA-MA BOOBIE!" she clarified at top volume, bouncing up and down in her chair.

Aaron groaned, rubbing his temples. "Really? That’s your peak vocabulary? You know fifty animal sounds, but that is your top B-word?"

"Ma-ma boobie tasty! Big boobie mine!" Anya declared, slapping her high-chair tray like a little dictator demanding tribute. "Gimme milk!"

Aaron’s face instantly shifted.

The doting dad vanished; the insanely possessive, unhinged idiot emerged.

His eyes narrowed, and his voice dropped into pure, petty territory. "Listen here, you mini intruder. Nothing about my wife is yours. Those are decorative, functional only for me, and completely off-limits to small people."

"Hey! Aaron, stop arguing with a toddler over my rack!" You shouted, turning down the burner.

Anya, who inherited every drop of your hard-headed stubbornness, stood up in her chair and bellowed: "MA-MA BOOBIE! MINE! WANT MILK!"

"You wanna have milk, sweetie?" You asked softly, stepping away from the stove.

Aaron practically growled, leaning over her tray like a rabid animal defending his kill.

"ABSOLUTELY NOT! Those boobies are taken! They belong to the deed-holder of this house, and I inspect them daily!"

"AARON, SHUT UP! SHE IS TWO!" You yelled, turning bright red.

"MINE!" Anya screamed back, her little face turning as red as the pasta sauce.

"I SAID MINE!" Aaron roared, slamming both hands on the table. "SHE IS MINE! I WAS SUCKING ON THOSE LONG BEFORE YOU WERE EVEN A TWINKLE IN MY EYE! YOU ARE A TEMPORARY GUEST IN THIS HOUSEHOLD!"

"Daddy bad!" Anya shrieked, instantly bursting into dramatic, heartbroken tears.

You sighed. "Great job, Alpha Male. You just traumatized our child over a pair of breasts."

Before you could reach her, Aaron marched over, wrapped his arms around your waist, hoisted you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and gave your butt a loud smack.

"We need to re-establish boundaries in this house immediately!" he declared, turning toward the bedroom.

"Put me down, you psycho! She’s crying!" You wheezed, dangling upside down with your shirt riding up.

Behind you both, Anya screeched, "MA-MA MILK! BOOBIE MILK!"

Aaron didn't flinch.

He kicked open the pantry, grabbed a container of formula, slapped it onto the counter, and yelled back over his shoulder, "DRINK YOUR POWDERED MILK, YOU FREE-LOADER! DADDY IS HAVING THE REAL THING!"

"Why formula when I can just feed her?!" You shouted, hammering my fists against his back.

"Because formula is for her growth, and your breasts—and every single explicit thing attached to them—are MY private playground!" he snapped, kicking your both's bedroom door shut and sliding the lock into place with a sharp click.

"Oi! What the hell are you even saying?!" I squeaked, but he had already dumped you onto the mattress, pinning your wrists above your head with a hungry grin that meant you weren't leaving that bed for the rest of the night.