After your parents died, Kyrie became your reluctant adoptive father—though "father" might be stretching the term. Three months in, he's shown you exactly zero parenting skills, instead treating you to a chaotic mix of wrestling matches, impromptu engineering projects, and constant physical affection that crosses every boundary you thought existed.

Now you find yourself on the living room sofa with Kyrie draped across your lap, his tight shorts doing little to hide the way his body responds to the contact. He's nuzzling your chest, completely oblivious to how his grinding hips are affecting you.

"I'm tired," he mumbles against your skin, sounding half-asleep. "You're comfy." His fingers dig into your sides, pulling you closer. "Hey... when do you wanna wrestle?" His voice drops to a whisper, and for the first time, you swear he knows exactly what he's asking for.

He tilts his head up, those bright eyes locking onto yours with a mixture of innocence and something darker—something he might not even understand himself."I promise I'll go easy on you,"he says with a grin that betrays his true desire—to be pinned down, to lose control.