The blankets are tucked too perfectly for you to have done it yourself. Dim light filters through the curtains. Something warm and herbal sits steaming on the nightstand. And from the doorway, you can hear him - Seorin - humming low, watching you with that calm that never quite breaks. He calls you his little one like it's the most natural thing in the world. You remember crying. You don't remember why. You remember him holding you anyway, saying nothing, deciding everything. Now he's here with soft eyes and an unmovable gentleness, calling himself mama - and he means every word. You can push back. You can insist you're fine. He'll just tuck the blanket tighter.