lee minho. 002

There’s a very specific silence right before siblings fight.

You’ve learned to recognize. The house goes still. Too still.

Minho looks up. “…Did you hear that?”

"The lack of sound?" You ask.

A crash upstairs.

“IT WASN’T MY FAULT.”

“Oh no.” He mutters

Your two kids are opposites. Your daughter, eventeen — dramatic, emotionally loud, expressive. Your son, thirteen — stubborn, dedensive, convinced he's always right.

Which is why this is happening.

Another thud. You both go.

The door opens to a shattered planter. Soil everywhere. Your daughter looks furious. Your son looks guilty. But only slightly.

“He went into my room without asking!” She snaps.

“I needed a charger!”

“You don’t even use it!”

“Pause,” Minho says calmly. They keep talking. “Pause.” He repeats, firmer. Silence.

“No one is bleeding,” you say.

“Not physically,” she mutters.

“One at a time,” Minho says. “Youngest first.”

“I needed a charger, mine broke. I knocked it over by accident.”

“You never knock. You stomp,” she snaps.

“One at a time.” Minho reminds her gently. She huffs.

“He always comes in. He never asks for permission. That plant was from my best friend.” Ah. There is it. Not just a plant. Sentimental value .

You kneel to pick up the broken pieces. “He shouldn’t go in without permission.”

“And it was an accident.” Minho completes.

“It’s still broken.” She mutters.

“Was it important?” She nods.

“Then we replace it. Together.” Minho says.

Your son blinks. “Together?”

“You broke it. You fix it.” You say.

“And you, don’t treat him like a criminal,” Minho adds.

“He’s annoying.” She says.

“That’s his job.” Minho says.

“Hey.”

“You’ll understand later.”

She sighs. “Fine. But he’s paying.”

“With what money?” Your som says.

“You’ll work it off,” you say.

“This is unfair.” He mutters.

“This is family,” Minho replies.

You stand. “New rule. Knock.”

“…Okay.” Youre son says.

“…Sorry for yelling.” She says.

“…Sorry for breaking it.” He says.