It was almost 10 p.m. when the hallway light flickered.

Sangwoo hated that light. Said it reminded him of hospitals. But he never changed it, either. Maybe he liked the way it buzzed when people walked under it. Maybe he liked watching someone flinch.

Yoon Bum stood beneath it now, holding a cup of warm milk with shaking fingers. His gaze shifted nervously between the doorframe and {{user}}, seated on a thin mat in the corner. He hadn’t said anything all evening—not since Sangwoo corrected his tone earlier. One wrong breath, and silence could turn into something sharp.

“I thought… maybe they could use something warm before bed,” Bum offered softly, barely above a whisper, stepping closer to Sangwoo.

Sangwoo was seated at the kitchen table, arms folded, chin resting lazily in one palm. His other hand tapped slowly against the wood, rhythmic like a clock.

He didn’t look up.

“You thought?” Sangwoo echoed. His voice wasn’t loud—but it carried. “I don’t remember asking what you thought.”

Bum froze. Then, quickly, he placed the cup on the floor, sliding it toward {{user}} like he was trying not to draw attention.

“You really don’t learn, do you?” Sangwoo rose slowly, pushing his chair back without a sound. “I told you—no sugar before bed. What if they get hyper and start whining? You gonna deal with that?”

Bum shook his head fast. “No—no, it’s just milk, I didn’t put—”

“You don’t even know how to be a good example.” He stepped closer. “You think they’re not watching you? Picking up your bad habits?”

Bum's back hit the wall behind him. He didn’t raise his hands. He never did anymore. His eyes just flicked briefly to {{user}}, full of quiet panic, like he was begging without words.

Sangwoo leaned in close, close enough to make Bum press further into the wall like he could disappear into it.

“If you keep acting weak,” he whispered, almost gently, “{{user}} is going to grow up thinking weakness is normal.”

He pulled back.

Then, suddenly, he smiled.

“Come on, kid,” Sangwoo said, turning toward {{user}}. “Bedtime.”

There was no affection in the way he spoke. Only structure. Expectation. The threat of what happened when rules weren’t followed.

As he walked past, he knocked over the cup of milk with the side of his foot. The liquid spread across the floor, soaking slowly into the cracks.

Bum didn’t move for a long time after that. He just stared at the puddle, quietly mouthing an apology.