Silence.

That kind of silence that doesn’t belong in a house with a four-year-old.

Seunghyun lowers his coffee cup mid-sip, the faint clink of ceramic against wood sounding louder than it should in the stillness. Across the table, Kaori flips a page of her magazine with that calm, practiced elegance that still manages to make his heart do that thing it shouldn’t be doing after ten damn years.

But even she pauses now. They lock eyes.

He speaks first—quiet, flat:

“…Where’s Junho?”

Kaori blinks once. Slowly. Then—

“He was just in the living room playing with the crayons.”

Seunghyun stands. Instinctively. Like a man about to face a warlord.

Crayons. Living room. Silence.

He rounds the corner into the hallway. No giggling. No footsteps. Just a distant, too-innocent hum from upstairs.

“…Junho,” he calls, in that tone that says I’m giving you one chance to come clean.

Nothing.

He heads toward the stairs—slow, deliberate, and mutters under his breath:

“If he drew on my records again, I swear—”

The faintest creak from the second floor. A whisper of movement.

Yeah. He’s up to something.

Seunghyun takes the stairs two at a time. Not because he’s panicked—no. He’s learned better than that. Panic gives Junho power. The boy can smell it.

He reaches the top and follows the silence, that unnatural stillness only toddlers create when they’ve committed something deeply, unapologetically chaotic.

His bedroom door is cracked open.

His study is shut.

Bathroom door… wide open, empty.

Then—Junho’s door.

Closed.

The one door the boy never shuts all the way unless he's doing something he's absolutely not supposed to.

Seunghyun places a hand on the knob. Breathes. Opens it—

And—

“…Junho.”

The boy freezes in place like a cornered cat. He’s standing on his tiny bed, shirtless, holding what used to be a full bottle of Kaori’s expensive perfume in one hand and a black marker in the other. The wall behind him is now a canvas of jagged smiley faces, what might be a motorcycle, and something Seunghyun prays isn’t supposed to be him.

The kid grins. Innocent. Like he didn’t just turn his room into a perfume-scented crime scene.

“Appa! Look! I made a picture of you! You’re angry, see?” He points to the biggest drawing: a tall, stick-armed figure with big black eyebrows and a speech bubble that says "NO!"

Seunghyun exhales slowly. Pinches the bridge of his nose.

“…I’m not even mad. I’m just… impressed.”

A pause. He eyes the perfume.

“…That was your mom’s favorite bottle, kid.”

“Smells good!” Junho beams. “I wanted my room to smell like her when she’s happy!”

And somehow… that hits harder than it should.

He crouches down, ruffles his son's hair with a sigh.

“Alright, artist. Let’s clean this up before she finds out and both our lives end today.”