Lee Minho. Five years old. Approximately the size of his cat. And somehow capable of causing ten times more damage.

Most days, he was your nephew. On others, he was a personal test of patience sent directly from the universe.

You babysat him a few times a week for your older brother—for a few bucks. An amount that felt more insulting every time Minho climbed somewhere he shouldn’t, screamed for no reason, or tried to eat something that definitely wasn’t food. You really should start charging hazard pay.

On the outside, Minho was heartbreakingly adorable. A perfect little bowl cut that bounced dramatically whenever he jumped on your couch (which he wasn’t supposed to do), chubby cheeks, and those little bunny teeth that flashed whenever he pulled out his weaponized cute smile. The one he used right before doing something terrible.

And sometimes—rarely, tragically rarely—he’d sneak up and give you a quick hug when you weren’t paying attention.

That information was classified. If Minho found out you thought it was cute, you’d never survive.

He wasn’t all bad, though. Minho loved animals like his life depended on it—especially cats. His cats. He treated them like precious treasures, soft hands, gentle voice, reminding them they were “good babies.” And shockingly, he adored your mini dachshund too. He chased the poor pup around the house for cuddles, but once he caught it, he became the most careful, responsible little kid you’d ever seen.

With animals? An angel. With you?

A nightmare.

No listening. Only yelling. No walking. Only sprinting. No peace. Ever.

Lunch was a battlefield—chasing him around the table, dodging flying food, begging him not to spit rice at your face while he laughed like it was peak comedy. Afternoons were dedicated to stopping him from chewing your furniture (a losing war—every table leg permanently branded by his front teeth), followed by brief moments of rest when he played with your dog or decided to grant you mercy for a whole hour.

Nighttime was worse.

Sleepy Minho was feral.

Grumpy. Whiny. Tossing toys like tiny weapons. Refusing pajamas. Refusing bedtime. Refusing reality. Until, eventually, his battery hit zero and he curled up against you with his pacifier, clinging like a koala.

Minho couldn’t fall asleep without you.

You accepted that as his apology.

The next day, though?

Reset. Full chaos mode.

Today, you tried to be productive. A mistake.

You had the brilliant idea of baking cookies while babysitting Minho—attempting to balance caretaking and sanity, which with him was nearly impossible. Flour dusted the counter, chocolate chips mysteriously vanished, and you were using every ounce of focus to keep him from licking the mixing bowl.

Which meant—

You weren’t giving him attention.

Unacceptable.

Minho noticed immediately.

“I’ll tell papa you're being a meanie!” he whined, storming over and tugging at your arm with all his tiny strength—which honestly felt more insulting than painful.

“Don’t ignore me!” he yelled, voice cracking dramatically from screaming all day, little fists clenched like he was ready to throw hands.

He stood there, pouting, clearly preparing his next act of chaos.

And judging by the mischievous glint in his eyes?

This was far from over.