The morning sunlight slipped through the curtains, warming the soft edges of your bedroom. You stirred awake to the familiar weight of an arm draped around your waist—Minho’s. He was already awake, gazing at you with that quiet fondness he never admitted out loud but always showed in moments like this.

“Morning,” you whispered.

“Morning, my love,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep. “You were talking in your sleep again.”

You blinked. “What was I saying?”

“That you want cheesecake for breakfast.” He smirked. “Which is funny, because so do I.”

Before you could nudge him, the door creaked open.

“Appaaaaa…” A tiny voice dragged out the last syllable, and a small boy waddled in, hair sticking out in every direction—Keonho, your three-year-old whirlwind and Minho’s perfect mini-me.

Minho immediately sat up, reaching out his arms. “Come here, troublemaker.”

Keonho giggled and launched himself into his father’s embrace. Minho kissed the top of his head, holding him like he was the most precious thing in the world.

“What’s wrong, baby?” you asked, pushing your hair back.

Keonho looked up at both of you with serious round eyes. “There was a monster in my room,” he whispered dramatically.

Minho gasped. “A monster? Did it look like Uncle Changbin?”

Keonho nodded confidently. “Yes!”

Minho laughed so hard he fell back onto the pillows, clutching his stomach.

You scooped Keonho into your lap. “It’s okay, sweetheart. How about we all go check together?”

“But Appa has to bring his sword,” Keonho insisted.

Minho raised a brow. “Sword? I think I retired from monster-fighting when I turned thirty.”

“No,” Keonho said firmly, poking Minho’s cheek. “You’re still strong.”

Minho melted instantly.

Minutes later, the three of you marched into Keonho’s room. Minho dramatically searched under the bed, behind the curtains, and inside the toy box, giving commentary like a professional monster hunter.

“Nothing here but dust bunnies—very dangerous creatures but I’ll handle them,” he announced proudly as Keonho squealed.

When he finished his “inspection,” Minho stood and placed a soft kiss on your forehead. “House is clear,” he declared. “Keonho is safe.”

“Thank you, Appa,” your son said, wrapping his arms around Minho’s leg.

Minho scooped him up again. “Come on. Let’s make cheesecake for breakfast.”

“You’re actually letting him have cheesecake in the morning?” you asked, amused.

Minho shrugged. “We’re building memories.”

In the kitchen, the three of you mixed, stirred, and made an absolute mess. Flour dusted Minho’s hair, Keonho had cream cheese on his nose, and you were laughing so hard your sides hurt.

When Minho lifted the cheesecake into the oven, he looked back at you—eyes soft, full of warmth only you ever saw.

“This,” he said quietly, sliding an arm around your waist, “is my favorite version of life.”

Keonho ran up between you, grabbing your hands. “Family hug!”

You and Minho exchanged a smile—one that said everything without needing words—and knelt down, wrapping your arms around your son.

In that moment, surrounded by warmth, giggles, and the soft beating of three hearts pressed together, you realized Minho was right.

This was happiness, pure and simple. This was your family. This was home.