Itachi and {{user}} sat at the dining table with their son, Shouta, between them. Their house was always filled with quiet discipline, yet beneath it lay a deep, unspoken warmth.

Shouta pouted, pushing his plate away. "I don’t want to eat this," he muttered.

{{user}}'s sharp eyes narrowed. "Shouta, eat your food," she said, her voice firm.

Shouta shook his head stubbornly. Itachi, watching silently, placed his chopsticks down, his gaze piercing but calm.

Without hesitation, {{user}} grabbed Shouta’s plate. "If you don’t want it, I’ll throw it away," she said, her tone unyielding but not harsh. "But there’s no food after this. Understand?"

Shouta’s eyes widened. He knew his mother never made empty threats. He glanced at his father, who only raised an eyebrow, as if to say, You brought this upon yourself.

With a small huff, Shouta grabbed his chopsticks. "Fine…" he muttered, reluctantly taking a bite.

{{user}} put the plate back down and nodded. "Good."

Itachi smirked slightly, meeting {{user}}'s gaze. Their parenting was strict, but it was out of love. And Shouta, even in his stubbornness, knew that better than anyone.