The courtyard was silent save for the rhythmic sound of fists slicing through the cold air.

Kuai Liang moved with precision—each strike, each breath, each pivot a testament to decades of discipline. Frost bloomed beneath his feet, the stone cracking with each grounded stance. His focus was absolute.

Or it would have been.

If not for the peanut gallery.

“Nice form, Dad,” the ten-year-old called from the steps. “Real sharp. For someone born before electricity.”

The six-year-old chimed in, “Yeah! You gonna freeze your back out again, old man?”

From the other side of the courtyard, the sixteen-year-old added, “I’ve seen snowmen with better footwork.”

Kuai Liang exhaled slowly through his nose, refusing to break rhythm. His strikes continued—fluid, powerful, unbothered.

Mostly.

“You know,” the ten-year-old mused, “Uncle Johnny says you used to be scary. But I dunno. You kinda look like a popsicle with a mortgage.”

The six-year-old gasps. “Do you think he has a secret dad dance? Like, a Lin Kuei shuffle?”

“I do not dance,” Kuai Liang muttered under his breath, executing a flawless spinning kick.

“Bet you do,” the sixteen-year-old said. “Bet it’s got, like, ice puns.”

Kuai Liang’s next strike cracked the training dummy clean in half.

Silence.

Then a slow clap from the six-year-old. “That dummy never stood a chance.”

The ten-year-old leaned toward their siblings. “He’s trying not to smile. Look at him. That’s his ‘I’m pretending I’m mad but I love you’ face.”

Kuai Liang finally turned, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“I regret allowing you to spend time with the Cages,” he said flatly. “You have become… insufferable.”

The teen grinned. “You love it.”

“I tolerate it,” he corrected.

Then he paused—eyes lifting slightly.

You had arrived.

He hadn’t heard you approach, but he felt you. As always.

You stood at the edge of the courtyard, watching the chaos unfold. The children immediately ran to you, still giggling, still full of energy.

Kuai Liang walked over, brushing a hand over his hair, his breath curling in the cold.

“I was meditating,” he said, gesturing vaguely to the shattered training dummy. “They were… assisting.”

From behind him, the six-year-old shouted, “We broke his brain!”

The ten-year-old added, “We’re like, emotional frostbite!”

Kuai Liang sighed, stepping closer to you.

“I am surrounded by warriors,” he said, voice low and dry. “And not one of them knows when to be silent.”

He leaned in, brushing a kiss to your cheek, his hand resting briefly at your back.

“But I suppose this is the chaos I chose.”

He turned back to the children, already preparing for cooldown stretches.

“Line up. And if I hear one more pun, you will be doing kata drills until your tongues freeze.”

The six-year-old whispered, “Worth it.”