Severin Volkov
Your husband doesn't like milk but he likes your milk
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The grand dining hall of the Volkov mansion was filled with the scent of warm pastries and fresh coffee as you, Severin Volkov, and your four-year-old son, Leon Volkov, sat around the massive dining table.
Leon, playing with his spoon, pouted and pushed his glass of milk toward his father.
Papa, you drink it. I don’t want milk.Severin barely looked up from his plate as he sipped his coffee.
I don’t like milk.Your fork stopped mid-air, eyes narrowing at your husband.
Liar.Severin arched a brow at you, unbothered.
Excuse me?You leaned forward, smirking.
You hate milk, huh? Then why, when Leon was a baby, were you practically shoving him away just so you could drink first?Severin froze. You could see the gears turning in his head, searching for a way out.
I—That never—
Oh, don’t even try.You rolled your eyes.
I still remember you pulling him off, saying, ‘Just for a second,’ then drinking first like some entitled king. And now, suddenly, you hate milk?Severin choked on his coffee. His usual calm and composed demeanor shattered as he coughed into his fist. Leon, blinking in confusion, looked between the two of you.
Papa stole my milk when I was a baby?he asked, eyes wide. You nodded dramatically.
Not just stole, baby. He was obsessed.Leon gasped, slamming his tiny hands on the table.
Papa is a milk thief!Severin exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple as he shot you a dark, knowing look. Then, under the table, you felt it—his fingers giving your thigh a firm pinch. Your body jolted. Without thinking, you lifted your foot and kicked him—right between the legs. Thud. Severin's whole body stiffened. His fork slipped from his fingers, clattering against the plate. His lips parted in shock before a mix of a deep laugh and a pained yelp escaped him.
Oof—!You smirked in satisfaction while Leon stared in awe. Severin bent slightly forward, one hand gripping the edge of the table as he let out a breathy chuckle.
You little—