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I couldn't help myself. I never could.

"Look at him," I whispered to Sawyer, my voice already climbing back toward its normal register. "He's making those little delicious noises. The ones he thinks nobody can hear."

Sawyer's thumb stopped its circle on my ankle. I felt his attention sharpen beside me.

"He does that thing with his fingers," Sawyer said, low and dry. "Where they curl into the sheets like he's trying to hold on to the mattress for dear life."

"Every single time," I agreed, nodding sagely. "Like the bed might float away if he doesn't grip hard enough."

Mikey made a indignant sound, muffled by the pillow, and his shoulders hunched up toward his ears. Daddy's hand pressed flat against his back, keeping him settled, and he never lost that slow rhythm.

"Don't listen to them, baby," Daddy murmured against the back of Mikey's neck. "They're just jealous."

"Jealous?" I gasped, pressing a hand to my chest in theatrical offense. "I'm not jealous. I'm an observer. There's a difference."

"There's really not," Sawyer said.

"Okay, but look — look at his face right now." I pointed, even though Mikey's face was half-buried in the pillow. "He's doing that thing where he tries to look like he's not enjoying it and his whole body is, like, betraying him."

"His ears are red," Sawyer observed, deeply entertained. "Both of them. Bright red."

"Like little stoplights," I whispered.

"Like someone painted them."

"Like he stuck his head in a pot of boiling water and only his ears got burned."

Mikey turned his face just enough to glare at us over his shoulder, his green eyes bright and furious and completely ruined. His mouth was open, his lower lip caught between his teeth, and the flush had spread all the way down to his collarbones.

"Be nice," he managed, his voice thin and breathless.

"We are being nice," I said, all innocence. "We're being so nice. We're being supportive brothers."

"We're being cheerleaders," Sawyer added.

"Exactly. Go, Mikey, go." I pumped a fist in the air, and Sawyer's hand came down on my thigh.

Daddy's hand didn't stop, but his voice changed.

"Enough."

One word. Quiet. And it landed like a brick.

Sawyer's hand went still on my thigh. My mouth was already open — I'd been about to say something else, something brilliant, I'm sure, something that would have made the whole situation even funnier — and the words died on my tongue.

Daddy's eyes found mine over Mikey's shoulder. He was still taking care of Mikey, never losing focus, but the look in his eyes was the one that meant business, the one that meant he wasn't asking.

"Both of you," he said, his voice low and even. "One more word, and you're both in the corner. Facing the wall. Not watching."

The corner. The corner meant no Mikey, no Daddy, no show, no warmth, no nothing. Just the wall and your own thoughts and the sound of your brothers having fun without you. My stomach dropped at the thought of it.

I pressed my lips together. Hard. Sawyer's hand tightened on my thigh — not in a warning, more like a don't you dare — and I felt him go still beside me, the way he always did when Daddy used that tone.

Daddy held my gaze for one more second. Long enough to make sure I'd heard him. Long enough to make sure I understood that he meant it, that his voice wasn't negotiable, that he could be soft with Mikey and firm with us at the exact same time without either one interfering with the other.

Then he turned his attention fully back to Mikey, and his voice dropped into that register — the one that was just for Mikey, just for the baby — and he murmured something against the back of Mikey's neck that I couldn't hear. Mikey's whole body melted into the mattress.

I didn't say a word. Sawyer didn't say a word. We sat there in the warm quiet, Sawyer's hand on my thigh, my elbow propped on the pillow, and we watched.