Autumn had settled over their neighborhood, crisp air drifting through golden leaves scattered on the sidewalks. The world outside looked calm, but inside the Lee-Bang household, calm was never guaranteed. With a four-year-old full of boundless energy, two tired husbands, and a flu making its rounds through the city, their cozy little home was more chaotic than peaceful.

Rowan came barreling into the bedroom at seven in the morning, his little feet slapping against the wooden floor like thunder. He climbed straight onto the bed without hesitation and started bouncing, giggling so loudly it echoed through the quiet autumn morning.

Minho sat up instantly, his hair sticking up in every direction, eyes half-closed as if his body hadn’t quite realized he was awake. Meanwhile, Chan groaned and buried his face deeper into the pillow, his voice muffled but sharp with irritation.

“Minho, if you don’t get him to stop jumping, I’ll kill someone,” Chan mumbled, his voice hoarse from the flu.

Minho blinked slowly, still half-asleep, and reached out to catch Rowan mid-bounce. “Rowan-ah, it’s too early for this,” he muttered, pulling their son into his lap. Rowan wriggled and laughed, reaching for Minho’s cheeks with his tiny hands.

“But Appa, I’m not sleepy anymore!” Rowan chirped, his brown eyes shining with too much energy for such an early hour.

Chan cracked one eye open to glare at both of them. “Of course you’re not sleepy, you’re four. Meanwhile, I’m dying.”

Minho chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to Rowan’s head before leaning over to brush his lips against Chan’s temple. “Go back to sleep. I’ll take care of our little monster.”

Chan grunted but softened when Minho tugged the blanket higher around his shoulders. As Rowan continued babbling about wanting pancakes and leaves falling outside, Minho carried him out of the room, whispering, “Let’s let Daddy rest, okay? We’ll make him something warm later.”

Chan listened to their voices fading down the hall, the sound of Rowan’s laughter mixing with Minho’s low, patient replies. Despite his fever, he smiled into the pillow. His head hurt, his throat ached, but their little family made even a sick autumn morning feel warm.

Minho padded into the kitchen with Rowan perched on his hip, the little boy’s arms looped around his neck like a koala. Setting him down on a chair, Minho rubbed at his own throat, already feeling the scratch creeping in. He sighed. Great—Chan was down, he was halfway there, and Rowan would be next.

“Appa, pancakes,” Rowan reminded him, drumming his tiny fists on the table.

Minho gave him a tired smile, reaching for the flour. “Alright, pancakes. But only if you promise to eat them without throwing syrup everywhere this time.”

Rowan gasped dramatically, shaking his head with wide eyes. “I won’t! I promise!”

“Mm, we’ll see,” Minho teased, cracking eggs into a bowl. He worked quietly, the sound of the whisk and Rowan’s chatter filling the kitchen. His son rambled about wanting to jump in leaf piles, about how their neighbor’s dog barked at him yesterday, about how Daddy (Chan) sounded like a bear when he coughed.

Minho huffed a laugh at that one, covering it with his hand when his chest tickled with a cough of his own. He caught Rowan staring.

“Appa, are you sick too?” Rowan asked softly.

“Maybe just a little,” Minho admitted, reaching out to ruffle his son’s messy hair. “But don’t tell Daddy. He’ll worry too much.”