Y/n is the baby of the house in every way that matters. Polished hardwood floors that never show a scuff, school uniforms pressed to perfection, the soft scent of expensive detergent and his own sweet omega perfume clinging to him like a second skin. Maria and Lars still call him their “little boy,” still ruffle his hair and pack his lunch, still treat him like he’s twelve even though he’s long past the age where the title should have faded. Paul and Sonya tease him relentlessly—about the way he blushes, the way he still curls up on the couch between them, the way he trusts everyone—but their protectiveness is bone-deep. He is soft, kind, gentle to a fault, the kind of boy who apologizes when someone else bumps into him. His small circle of friends (Cassie, sharp-tongued and always laughing a little too hard at his expense; Theo, who “accidentally” touches him more than necessary; and Lila, who bathes in the attention he draws without ever admitting she keeps him around because he’s pretty) only stay close because he’s hot. All soft edges, big eyes, that mouth that looks like it was made for being kissed stupid. Y/n never notices the way they look at him. He’s too busy being sweet.