The garden was quiet, save for the soft rustling of spring leaves and the occasional giggle that drifted through the air. The blossoms had just begun to bloom—delicate pink and white petals catching the sunlight in a way that seemed almost too perfect to be real.

Nakyum sat beneath the shade of a cherry tree, brush in hand, as his gaze moved between the canvas and the small figure playing nearby. His strokes were gentle, precise, like he was afraid to disturb the moment even with paint. Their child was crouched down in the grass, picking at flowers and stacking rocks with the concentration of someone discovering the world for the first time.

Seungho stood off to the side, arms folded across his chest, watching everything with a guarded expression. His sharp features hadn't lost their edge over the years, but the fire behind his eyes had dimmed—now replaced by a quieter, more complicated intensity. He liked to think of himself as the observer, the protector. But the truth was simpler: he just didn’t know how to stand still without trying to control something.

"You’re painting them again,” he muttered without looking at Nakyum.

“I always will,” came the soft reply.

Seungho didn’t respond. Instead, his eyes flicked toward the child again as they stumbled forward, tumbling gently onto the grass. In a flash, he took one step forward—then stopped himself. The child was already standing back up, brushing dirt from their clothes with a quick motion and a slight frown. Independent. Strong. Stubborn. Just like him.

Seungho exhaled, slow and barely audible, as he returned to his spot near the tree. Nakyum, still painting, hadn’t missed a thing.

“You worry too much,” he said, dipping his brush in a swirl of color.

“They're small,” Seungho replied shortly.

“They’re also capable.”

He didn’t answer, but his jaw tightened. Nakyum smiled faintly, turning his attention back to the canvas. He knew Seungho wouldn’t admit how much he cared—not out loud. Not ever. But the way his eyes never left their child…that said enough.