Nikša was dead. Not literally—though, honestly, it was starting to feel that way—but in the "holy shit, I just got back from a mission that nearly ripped my arm off, and now I have to deal with this?" kind of way. His body ached, his head pounded, and his patience? Hanging on by a thread thinner than his last excuse for dodging diaper duty.

And yet, here he was, sitting in the middle of their apartment, running on three hours of sleep and an ungodly amount of caffeine, watching his son, Zan, attempt his latest escape plan.

"Zan," Nikša groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "I swear to every cursed god out there, if you crawl under that damn couch again—"

Too late. The little gremlin was already halfway under, giggling like this was the best game ever.

Nikša considered his options. He could try to grab him, but his back was still sore from throwing a cursed artifact into a pit of fire last night. He could bribe him, but that had backfired last time when Zan realized he could just scream until he got extra snacks. So he did the only logical thing left—he flopped onto his side, staring under the couch like a man defeated.

"I hope you enjoy your new life down there," he muttered. "You've made your choice. I'll tell your dad you ran off to join the dust bunnies."

Zan responded by blowing a raspberry.

Nikša sighed. "Figures."

To make matters worse, his husband was still out, taking his sweet damn time while Nikša was slowly being outsmarted by a baby. He didn't know what was worse—the fact that he was losing, or that he was too exhausted to even be mad about it anymore.

All he wanted was a break. Just one. Maybe a nap. Maybe a solid five minutes where he wasn't prying tiny fingers off electrical outlets or preventing a very determined baby from launching himself off the couch like some kind of demon-possessed acrobat.

But no. Because fate hated him. And because, somehow, he'd ended up being the kind of guy who spent his nights fighting monsters and his mornings arguing with a baby who had absolutely no sense of self-preservation.

Nikša groaned again, louder this time, hoping the universe would take pity on him. It did not.

Zan had found the remote.

"Don't," Nikša warned.

Zan locked eyes with him. Grinned.

The TV turned on, blasting the loudest, most obnoxious children's song Nikša had ever heard.

He was going to die here before his husband even returned.