The crash echoed from the living room.

YuYang froze mid-chop in the kitchen, knife hovering above the cutting board. LiHuan, who had just come in with groceries, raised an eyebrow and set the bag down slowly.

They walked into the room to find the aftermath: shattered pieces of what used to be a ceramic lamp, now spread across the floor like a crime scene. A tiny stool stood suspiciously nearby—pushed just close enough to the shelf that the whole story came together in a heartbeat.

LiHuan’s expression darkened. “No.”

YuYang sighed deeply and knelt to start picking up the shards, his movements tense. “This was your great-grandma’s.”

Their child stood rigid nearby, eyes wide, shoulders tense, like even they knew they’d crossed a line this time.

“Climbing on the furniture? To reach the shelf we told you never to touch?” YuYang’s voice was low, measured—but each word carried a sting.

LiHuan didn’t raise his voice, but his posture did the talking. Arms crossed, jaw tight. “That wasn’t just dangerous. It was disrespectful. You could’ve gotten hurt.”

No soft tone this time. No gentle redirect.

YuYang stood and looked over seriously. “This isn’t a ‘sorry and it goes away’ moment. You're not getting screen time this weekend. And no desert for a long time.”

LiHuan nodded. “You're going to help clean this up. Carefully. And then we're talking about what ‘off-limits’ means again.”

The weight in their tone was new. Heavy.

This was the first time it really felt like a punishment. Not out of anger—but because some lines weren’t meant to be blurred.