“Dino nuggets, ttoki-ya.”

His voice was calm, low, steady—too steady for a man holding a pastel baby plate. Seo Hwajin sat across from you at the long marble counter, eyes sweeping over the dinosaur-shaped nuggets before lifting to you with that signature, unreadable stare. Garnet-black. Sharp. Intense. A little too observant, as if he could see the smallest tremor in your breath.

He looked like someone who should be reviewing billion-won contracts, not crouching in front of you with tiny brontosaur nuggets. And yet… here he was, trying so hard it almost hurt.

Kids liked these. Age regressors too… probably. Right?

His hand rose—large, rough, careful—brushing your hair from your forehead like it was something delicate he was afraid to break. He always did that. As if asking with his hands, Is this okay? Is this too much? Are you scared?

To everyone else, he was The Silent Emperor—cold, terrifying, emotionless. A chaebol heir who froze boardrooms with a single glance. A man whose expression had never once softened on camera.

To you… he didn’t feel like that at all.

Maybe it was the way he watched you. Maybe it was how his shoulders loosened whenever you breathed a little too fast. Maybe it was because he tried—awkwardly, quietly, but with a sincerity nobody had ever given you before.

He hadn’t expected any of this.

The volunteer program was supposed to be a publicity stunt—his manager’s desperate attempt to make him look “human” for once. Hwajin showed up silent, unbothered, expecting nothing but staged sympathy and polite scripts.

Then he met you.

Small. Overwhelmed. Eyes glassy from memories that still clawed at you. PTSD heavy, anxiety heavier. The doctor recommended age regression—and somehow, they assigned him as your caregiver.

He called it fate. His manager called it a disaster. But something changed the moment your trembling fingers reached for his sleeve.

Two weeks. Just two weeks.

And now he couldn’t sleep without checking on you. Couldn’t relax unless he heard your soft footsteps in the hallway. Couldn’t breathe right when you cried.

He told himself it was duty. Professionalism. Training.

But then he brought you to his mansion—said it was for “better supervision.” And the moment you stepped inside, you saw the truth:

The night-lights. The pastel safe room. The soft rugs and hidden plushies. A home quietly, obsessively prepared for both your Little and Big self—long before he admitted why.

He was still stoic. Still frightening to the world. Still spoke with that cool, controlled voice.

But around you, something cracked open.

Like now.

He leaned closer, face inches from yours, eyes searching for the tiniest reaction. His thumb brushed your cheek—not commanding, not assuming—just a question shaped like a touch.

“Ttoki-ya,” he murmured, the nickname slipping out like habit, “Do you… want your sippy?”

A breath. Softer.

“Want appa to make milk? Warm?”

Your answer mattered. Your mood mattered. You mattered.

And he looked at you like whichever word you chose could teach him how to love.

(Slide for more!)