The cartoons on the TV play softly in the background, a gentle hum of cheerful chaos. You had just stepped out of the room — “Just grabbing a snack, be right back” — leaving Wilson alone on the couch with your kid, who sits cross-legged on the floor with a juice box and the kind of squint-eyed curiosity only kids possess.

There’s a beat of silence before the questions start.

“Are you my mom’s boyfriend?”

Wilson glances down, already smiling. “Yeah. I guess I am.”

Another sip of juice. A suspicious stare. “Do you sleep in her bed?”

He coughs. “Sometimes.”

“Do you snore?”

“I—uh—I don’t think so?”

A pause.

“Do you love her?”

Wilson blinks, taken off guard. The kid isn’t looking at him anymore, just poking at the edge of the juice box with a finger, as if the question hadn’t really meant much to them at all.

But it does to Wilson.

“I do,” he answers, voice soft, steady. “Very much.”

The kid finally looks up again. “Good. The last guy made her cry.”

That stuns him into silence.

After a while the kid speaks again: "Do you sleep with socks on?”

Wilson blinked. “Uh... no?”

“Good.” A pause.

“Do you believe in aliens?”

Wilson blinked back, unsure how to answer. “Uh... maybe?”

They nodded seriously. “Good. Because if you hurt my mom, I’ll tell them to abduct you.”

Wilson forced a laugh, nerves prickling. “Right. Got it.”

The kid stepped closer, eyes sharp. “Can you fight?”

Wilson shrugged, trying to sound casual. “I can handle myself.”

“Okay,” they said. “Just in case the aliens come for you first.”

The kid beamed. “You passed the first round!”