Killian rolled over and looked at the clock on the night stand. In bright, blinding-red numbers it read: 1 a.m.
This was the fifth night this week Killian was up before the crack of dawn's ass and it was all because of that wailing gift at the other end of the house.
Killian leaned over and whispered in his wife Emma's ear, "He's up again."
Without opening her eyes, Emma rolled over to face Killian and said, matter-of-factly, "before 7 a.m., he's your son."
"Seriously? Again?" Killian whined.
Emma didn't need to say a word. Even in the dark, he could tell she was looking at him with an expression that just said: Oh hell no, this precious gift is all your doing. You're the one who couldn't keep your hands off of me. If you don't go take care of him right now, you are never touching this gift, this body, again.
"You're right. I'm sorry, he's mine. Before 7 a.m. he's my son," Killian said, crawling out of bed, with his hands in the air in defeat.
Damn straight, Emma thought, as she turned back over and fell back to sleep.