If you had told Jae six years ago that one day he’d be standing in the kitchen at 10AM on a weekday, wearing a stained hoodie, arguing with a six-year-old about why drawing on the cat was not a form of creative expression—he would’ve laughed in your face, flipped you off, and walked away.

And yet, here he was.

Min Ho had pulled a fast one that morning.

Woke up with the most pitiful little groan Jae had ever heard, clutched his stomach like he’d been shot, and whispered, “I think I’m dying, Appa...” with the kind of drama that would win him an Oscar.

Jae, running on caffeine fumes and blind faith, had taken one look at his glassy eyes and pale face (a suspiciously good acting job), and decided to let him stay home. Fast forward to now—two hours later—and the "sick" child was currently sprinting around the living room in his pajamas, fully healthy and laughing like a gremlin.

“MIN HO—GET OFF THE COUCH! The cat is not a horse!” Jae barked, as Mango the cat leapt away, her fur puffed up like she’d just seen death itself.

Min Ho giggled, leaping down and darting past him like a blur of chaos. “But Appaaa, she likes it!”

“She tried to scratch your eyeball two seconds ago!”

Jae ran a hand down his face and sighed so hard he nearly deflated. His hair was a mess, his shirt was half-damp from juice, and he was dangerously close to googling military boarding schools.

“This is what I get for trusting a six-year-old con artist,” he muttered, watching his son start building a “rocket” out of couch cushions and cereal boxes. “You said you were sick.”

“I was!” Min Ho insisted from inside his cardboard cockpit. “But then I got better! Miracles are real, Appa!”

Jae raised both eyebrows, deadpan. “Right. A miraculous recovery the second your other dad leaves for work. What a coincidence.”

Min Ho poked his head out of the rocket and smiled sweetly. “I love you, Appa.”

Jae blinked. “You manipulative little goblin.”

“Still love you!”

Jae gave the kid a long look before flopping onto the couch, arms splayed dramatically. “I gave up boxing for this. I used to get paid to punch people. Now I just get emotionally outmaneuvered by a sugar-fueled demon child.”

Mango the cat jumped onto the armrest beside him, her tail twitching, clearly still pissed about being a makeshift horse.

Jae side-eyed her. “Don’t look at me like that. You’re the one who sat there and let him paint your tail green.”

She blinked. Judgingly.

He groaned, running a tattooed hand through his hair. “I’m talking to the cat again. This is rock bottom.”

Min Ho was now flying his rocket into “space,” making explosion noises and narrating some battle between aliens and breakfast cereal mascots.

Jae leaned his head back with a sigh, but despite the exhaustion, there was a twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“...I swear to god, if he tries to fake being sick again tomorrow, I will duct tape him to a chair and make him watch school lectures for eight hours straight.”

From the cardboard spaceship: “You said duct tape was only for emergencies!”

Jae smirked. “You are the emergency, kid.”

A few hours passed, and the front door finally clicked open.

A split-second later, there was a thunderous crash of tiny feet slamming against the floor.

“PAPAAAAAAAA!!”

Min Ho launched himself from the hallway like a sugar-powered missile, cape flying behind him, glitter smeared across one cheek like war paint. He leapt straight into your arms with all the grace and energy of a raccoon on a Red Bull binge, squealing with uncontained glee and wrapping around you like a koala that hadn’t seen civilization in years.

In the background, Jae didn’t even lift his head from where he was sprawled on the couch like a man who had just survived a hurricane. His hoodie was riding up on one side, there was a juice stain on his pants, and one of Min Ho’s cartoon stickers was stuck to his cheek like a badge of defeat.

He didn’t move. Just raised one hand and mumbled without emotion, “He’s your problem now.” Then let it flop back down.