rin! @ayatoluvr - Tumblr Blog

TIMBER (lee chanyoung) ch. 2

🍃 summary: after one reckless mistake too many, your parents send you away for the summer in hopes that a few months in the countryside with your grandmother might finally straighten you out. you fully intend to count down the days until you’re free again…right up until a bug loving little boy and his father begin making the mountains feel a little more like home.

❀ pairing: single dad!anton x f!reader ❀ genre: single parent au, slow burn, rich kid au, found family ❀ word count: 9.3k

⟶ chapter warnings: family conflict, self-destructive behavior, unhealthy coping mechanisms, profanity, referenced physical abuse (slap from parent).

🌱a/n: reader is a bit insufferable this chapter ngl but i promise there’s some slight character development towards the end! chapters will be posted every friday at 12pm est.

10:14 am | you: i hate it here 10:14 am | harvey💋: good morning to you too sunshine 10:15 am | maya🍸: smth happen? 10:15 am | you: i’d rather be euthanized than stay here for another minute. 10:15 am | harvey💋: that’s a little dramatic… 10:17 am | you: harvey i need you to understand 10:17 am | you: it’s been four days of absolute HELL. 10:17 am | you: there are no other people 10:17 am | you: no prada or hermès within a five mile radius 10:17 am | you: no stables to even go riding. 10:18 am | maya🍸: when was the last time you even went riding? 10:19 am | you: besides the point.

10:19 am | harvey💋: can you at least terrorize the gardener for entertainment? 10:19 am | you: he hasn’t been back since the first night but doesn’t matter anyway bc of his son remember? 10:20 am | maya🍸: forgot he has one of those 10:21 am | maya🍸: have you at least spoken to wonbin 10:21 am | you: sent a boob pic last night but no response 10:21 am | harvey💋: that’s why you’re so cranky 10:21 am | you: i’m not cranky 10:22 am | harvey💋: right 10:22 am | maya🍸: you are a little cranky babe 10:23 am | you: moving on ! 10:23 am | you: how’s greece 10:24 am | maya🍸: we found the cutest little place by the water 10:24 am | maya🍸: wait i took pictures hold on 10:25 am | harvey💋: also there are two brothers in the villa next to ours 10:25 am | harvey💋: one for each of us 10:25 am | harvey💋: gonna try to find a third for u 10:25 am | you: music to my ears 10:26 am | maya🍸: uploading… 10:26 am | maya🍸: uploading… 10:27 am | maya🍸: loading…⟳

The message never loads.

You stare at the little spinning symbol for another ten seconds anyway, as though sheer irritation might somehow coerce the signal into cooperating. It doesn’t budge, Maya’s half-sent photo remains stuck in limbo while the loading icon mocks you from the center of the screen. Somewhere in Greece, your best friends are probably halfway through getting dressed for another day of beach clubs and overpriced drinks while you lay across a couch wearing all black sweats and a hoodie.

Eventually the screen dims. You tap it again immediately only to be met with the same useless loading symbol. With a sigh, you drop your phone onto your stomach and sink further into the living room couch.

Reception in the mountains comes and goes whenever it pleases. Sometimes texts send instantly, other times they arrive thirty minutes late and completely out of order. Facetime is a joke and tiktok refuses to load at all unless you stand in one specific corner of the upstairs hallway with your arm half-raised toward a window. You tried that yesterday for nearly twenty minutes before your grandmother walked by, took one look at you and asked if you were stretching.

The problem however, is not just the reception.

It’s everything. From the quietness of it all to how slowly time moves here. Back home your life had always moved quickly enough to outrun itself. There was always somewhere to be, someone to see, some invitation to accept, some rooftop or restaurant or boy willing to help kill a night. Here there is nothing but trees and mountains.

For four days you have done little besides sleep late, complain to Harvey and Maya whenever the signal allows for it, pick halfheartedly at meals and wander from room to room like a ghost. You’ve already explored the library, the sitting room, the sunroom, the gardens surrounding the house and one very ill-advised trail your grandmother suggested might “clear your head” only for you to turn back twenty minutes in because your sandals were not made for incline.

Your grandmother, thus far, appears unimpressed by your suffering.

Yesterday, when you mentioned maybe having something from Erewhon flown in because the house had no decent coconut yogurt, she looked up from her tea and asked whether stupidity was a hobby of yours or a permanent condition. You’ve disliked her slightly ever since.

Not enough to forget that she is still preferable to your parents but enough that this strange quiet version of tough love is beginning to wear on you. You stare up at the ceiling, already exhausted by the prospect of being conscious for several more hours.

One hundred and nineteen more days of this and you may actually lose your mind.

The sound of socked feet descending from the stairs catches your attention and pulls you from your loathing. You lift your head to find your grandmother standing at the edge of the living room, dressed as neatly as ever in slacks and a blouse that probably hasn’t known a wrinkle a day in its life. Her gaze moves over you where you’re sprawled across the couch, phone still resting on your stomach and the disapproval is immediate enough to make your own irritation rise in response.

“You’re still lying there?”

You stare at her. “Good morning to you too, grams.”

“It is nearly eleven-thirty.”

“Exactly,” you mutter. “Morning.”

Your grandmother ignores that and glances toward the dark television, the discarded throw pillows and your untouched tea gone cold on the side table. You suddenly become very aware of how you must look from where she’s standing. She takes a slow sip of tea before speaking again. “Have you done anything useful today?”

You blink at her. “I’ve been trying to text my friends.”

“That’s not useful.”

“It is to me.”

She hums and takes another sip. “Your grandfather used to say boredom is a privilege only lazy people complain about.”

You stare at her for a second. “How philosophical.”

Your grandmother ignores that. “For four days you have done nothing but sleep and complain. At some point you will need to start helping yourself.”

You let out a short laugh and sit up a little straighter. “Help myself do what exactly? Frolic in the mountains? Take up birdwatching?”

“That attitude is exactly what I mean.”

“My attitude?” You repeat incredulously. “I got dumped in the middle of nowhere against my will. Forgive me for not embracing the situation.”

“You’re here now.”

The simplicity of the response makes your jaw tighten. “Amazing. Thank you oh wise one. That helps a lot.”

Your grandmother remains unmoved. “Sulking on my couch will not improve your circumstances.”

“You don’t get to lecture me on how I am. Your son raised me this way in case you forgot.” You say, the defensiveness arriving faster than you can stop it.

That gives her pause. When she speaks again, her tone is still level. “My son may be responsible for many things but what you choose to do with yourself now is your responsibility.”

You stare at her. It’s the exact wrong thing to say. Of course this is what your pain gets reduced down to. Discipline and action. Never hurt, never grief or the complex messy emotions you’ve been drowning in. “Do you hear yourself? I’ve been here four days and not one person in this family has managed to say anything remotely normal to me.” You say.

Your grandmother’s brows knit slightly. “Normal?”

“Yes, normal.” You’re fully sitting up now, phone forgotten beside you. “Like I don’t know: I’m sorry that happened to you, are you okay, I love you, I’m sorry. Any of those would be great, actually.”

She studies you for a moment, and the silence that follows is somehow worse than if she’d snapped back immediately. When she does answer, her voice is calm. “What happened to you was unfortunate.”

You laugh in disbelief. “Unfortunate?”

“It was.”

“That’s all you have to say? Insane.”

“No. What would be insane is allowing one terrible thing to dictate everything that comes after it.” Your grandmother says.

You can only stare at her. Of course even here it circles back to endurance. Everyone in your family seems pathologically incapable of simply letting pain be pain. It always has to become a lesson or a challenge.

You shake your head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re behaving like a child.”

That does it. You’re on your feet before you realize you’ve moved, the blanket slipping from your legs and pooling onto the floor. “I am so tired,” you say, voice shaking now despite your best efforts to keep it even, “of every person in this family acting like if I would just wake up one morning and decide to be better then everything would magically fix itself. As if none of you had anything to do with how I got here.”

Your grandmother’s expression hardens slightly. “That is not what I said.”

You shrug. “It’s what you mean.”

“No, what I mean is that you are twenty-two years old and at some point you need to grow up enough to decide whether you intend to keep rotting or do something useful with yourself.”

You blink at her dazed from her ability to both validate and invalidate your emotions. “Your son slapped me yet somehow, my actions are the main takeaway?"

“I’m sorry that happened.”

The apology is hollow to your ears. It’s come eight days too late and from the wrong person. Just when you think she’ll end it there and let you go back to your self pitying, she continues. “But lying on this couch waiting for your life to start again will not change it.”

You let out a scoff. “You just had to keep going.”

Your grandmother’s mouth tightens. “Would you rather I lie to you?”

“I would rather one person in this family know how to stop talking for five seconds and just feel something.”

Her gaze sharpens. “Feeling something has never been your problem. Discipline is.”

Without another word you snatch your phone from the couch and brush past her, too furious to trust yourself to keep standing in that room another second. You hear her call your name behind you but don’t stop. By the time you shove through the back doors and step out onto the patio, your hands are shaking.

The air outside is cooler than you expect, though it does nothing to settle your anger. Your pulse is still pounding from the argument, every nerve in your body buzzing leaving you in a blind rage. All you can think about is distance, putting as much of it between yourself and the living room as possible before you say something even uglier.

Which is why you don’t notice the little dark head bent near the stone path or the glass jar sitting beside him. You storm down the walkway to enter the garden but your right foot kicks the glass jar with force. You curse under your breath as pain shoots up your foot.

The jar tips sideways and you stumble, your arms flinging out to try and catch yourself before you go down completely. Your foot comes back down and the sole of your slipper lands on something that crunches under your foot. Behind you, a small voice cracks.

You whip around and find Minyoung on his hands and knees beside the path, eyes huge and horrified as he stares at the jar now rolling uselessly on its side. A few leaves and sticks have spilled out across the stone along with several glossy black beetles, two of which now lie crushed beneath the edge of your sandal.

His whole face crumples. “No! No, no, no!” He cries, dropping fully onto his knees.

He reaches for one of the beetles with both hands as though he might somehow be able to fix it. “I’m sorry,” he says breathlessly, though it isn’t clear whether he’s apologizing to the beetles or to you. “I’m sorry, I was just letting them get air! I was watching them I promise! I didn’t mean–”

One of the live beetles skitters toward your shoe and you jerk back so fast you nearly lose your balance again.

“What the fuck! Why would you keep beetles in a jar in the middle of the fucking walkway!?” You snap, already overstimulated enough that the sight of insects scattering over the stone is sending your skin crawling.

Minyoung freezes. His watery eyes lift to your face and for one awful second he just looks at you, with those big doe eyes of his. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were coming.” He says again, much quieter this time.

“Well obviously.” You scoff.

“Minyoung!”

Anton’s voice cuts across the garden a second before he appears around the side of the house. He must have heard the glass tip over. His gaze lands on Minyoung first. “What happened? Are you okay?”

Minyoung’s mouth wobbles immediately. “I wanted them to have fresh air,” he says, words coming out too fast. He points shakily at the ground. “But then she came and I tried to move it and I couldn’t and now they’re dead and I’m sorry and I didn’t mean to!”

Anton crouches beside him at once. “Hey, hey, slow down.”

Minyoung doesn’t slow down. “I was gonna put them back, Daddy, I was! I just wanted them to see outside first and then–” His voice breaks cleanly in the middle of the sentence when he looks at the crushed beetles again. “They got stepped on.”

Anton’s face tightens at the way his son tries to hold in his tears. He pulls Minyoung into his arms without hesitation and Minyoung cuddles into him immediately. One small fist knots in Anton’s shirt while the other still clutches uselessly at a leaf from the jar.

Anton glances at the tipped container then at you. “It was an accident.”

You let out a disbelieving laugh. “Your son’s weird little science project nearly took me out.”

Anton’s expression hardens. “Hey.” The single word is sharp enough to make you look at him properly. “Don’t speak to him like that.”

The reprimand lands badly, mostly because some part of you knows he’s right but your mood is far too rotten to admit it. You cross your arms. “Then maybe don’t leave him out here with a jar full of beetles in the middle of the walkway.”

Anton rises with Minyoung still in his arms. “He’s six. It was an accident.”

Regardless of the fact that it was indeed an accident and Minyoung has already apologized, you can’t find it in you to care or have any sympathy so you lash out yet again. “Maybe next time leave your sperm at home while you work.”

For a second Anton just stares at you. Like he’s trying to decide whether he actually heard you correctly and if responding would do anything other than make the moment worse for the little boy clinging to his shirt. In his arms, Minyoung’s crying has gone quiet, his small shoulders still shake against Anton’s chest, one fist twisted in the front of his shirt while Anton holds him close with one hand and rubs a slow steady path up and down his back with the other.

It’s that, more than anything, that gets under your skin

The love they both so clearly have for one another. The way Minyoung melts into him without hesitation. The way Anton doesn’t look embarrassed or inconvenienced or impatient to get back to whatever he had been doing before. He doesn’t sigh, he doesn’t tell his son to toughen up. He doesn’t hand the problem off to somebody else and disappear behind work or a phone call or the vague promise of later. He just holds him.

Like his son’s grief, however small or silly it may look to anyone else, actually matters.

Anton meets your gaze again. “Don’t talk about my son that way. He didn’t do this to upset you. He made a mistake and he’s already apologized.”

You say nothing. Anton shifts Minyoung higher against his chest before continuing. “Whatever’s put you in this mood, take it up with them and not my son.”

For one humiliating second, you can’t think of a single smart thing to say back. In Anton’s arms, Minyoung sniffles and curls closer, face tucked against his shoulder. Anton glances down at him immediately, some of the hardness leaving his expression as he smooths a hand over the back of his head. “It’s okay,” he murmurs softly.

The sight causes jealousy to flare in your veins. It’s embarrassing to admit you’re jealous of a six year old so instead you do what you’ve always done best when you feel cornered: you roll your eyes like none of this matters, like you aren’t standing there feeling flayed open by the sight of some stranger loving his child better than your own father ever managed to love you.

“Whatever.”

Anton says nothing to that. He only adjusts Minyoung more securely against him and glances down at the crushed beetles on the stone before looking back at you with an expression you can’t quite read.

You brush past him before the silence can turn any more unbearable and head back toward the house with your pulse hammering in your throat. The second you step through the back doors you nearly collide with your grandmother standing in the doorway.

For a moment neither of you speaks. You can tell immediately from the look on her face that she heard enough.

“Anton and Minyoung are good people,” she says at last.

You stare at her, still breathing too hard, too revved up on adrenaline to speak.

“They did nothing to deserve that.”

“I know.” You finally say.

“Do you?” She pushes back.

Your grandmother folds her hands loosely in front of herself, her voice remaining calm. “Because from where I was standing, it looked very much like you took everything you feel for your father and dropped it onto the nearest people least equipped to defend themselves from it.”

You cross your arms defensively. “What do you want me to say?”

Your grandmother’s gaze doesn’t leave your face. “Minyoung is a child and Anton is not your enemy. Do not drag innocent people into this war you have waged with your father.”

You purse your lips before bitterly laughing. “You all keep saying things like that as if I’m some kind of monster.”

Her expression doesn’t soften. “If I thought you were a monster, I wouldn’t bother correcting you.”

You look away and she takes a step closer. “What happened to you was wrong,” she says, and for a second you hate how much you still need to hear that. “What you do next is still your choice.”

You swallow hard and say nothing. What are you even meant to say to that? That you were jealous of a six-year-old?

Your grandmother studies you for another moment before stepping aside from the doorway. “Go upstairs,” she says. “And when you come back down, decide whether you intend to keep proving everyone’s worst assumptions about you correct.”

That one stings. You press your lips together so tightly they almost ache. Then without another word, you shoulder past her hard enough to make your point and head for the stairs. When you reach your room and shove the door shut behind you, your heart is still racing. Beneath all the anger and humiliation, something worse has started to take root: guilt.

You throw yourself onto the bed without bothering to take off your shoes, your phone still clutched in one hand as you open TikTok out of instinct. For a few seconds the app cooperates, you watch a girl show her haul from White Fox before the screen glitches. You wait but nothing happens.

The video buffers, jumps back three seconds, buffers again and then stops altogether. You stare at it for another moment before scrolling only for the next video to do the same thing. By the third frozen screen you let out a sharp breath through your nose and toss the phone onto the duvet beside you.

You lie there for all of thirty seconds before the restlessness starts creeping in. You roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling then onto your side then back again. Finally you push yourself up and begin pacing. From the bed to the window, from the window to the vanity then back again. You try, with limited success, to convince yourself this isn’t worth the spiral. They were beetles! Minyoung is six, children cry all the time. Anton is a stranger whose opinion of you should not matter in the slightest and yet your brain seems unwilling to accept any of those arguments.

You stop pacing and glance toward the windows. You hear voices drift faintly through the window. You catch Minyoung's soft voice mixed in with sniffing and despite yourself, you move towards the window.

You part the curtain just enough to look out and immediately wish you hadn’t. Down in the garden, not too far from the path where you lost your mind twenty minutes ago, Anton is crouched beside Minyoung in the dirt. The jar with the remaining beetles has been set off to the side and between them, Anton is using one hand to brush back a patch of loose soil while Minyoung kneels close enough that their shoulders almost touch, carefully placing the crushed beetles into the little hole they’ve made.

You can’t hear every word from this distance, only pieces of it carried up through the open crack in the window. Minyoung says something first, voice soft and a little stuffy. Anton answers in that same gentle tone he seems to reserve for his son. Then Minyoung speaks again, louder this time. “Did you know beetles are good for the soil?” He asks.

Anton glances up from where he’s helping him dig. “Yeah?”

Minyoung nods, his lip wobbling slightly as he looks down at the little grave. “When they die they decompose and put nutrients back into the ground.”

For a second Anton says nothing. He just looks at Minyoung then at the beetles resting in the dirt between them. “Then I guess they’re doing one last good thing for the earth. That's a pretty nice legacy for a beetle,” he says softly.

Minyoung goes quiet at that, though the sadness doesn’t leave his face. He swallows once and asks, “Do you think they knew I loved them?”

The question hits you right in the center of your chest. God you’re such a bitch. Anton doesn’t laugh, he doesn’t tell his son to not be silly. He reaches over instead and smooths a hand gently over the back of Minyoung’s head. “Yeah, I think they knew,” he affirms.

You press your forehead lightly against the cool windowpane and close your eyes. A small part of you wants to crawl back into bed and ignore the whole thing until dinner. Another part, quieter and far more annoying, is beginning to understand that your grandmother was right. What happens next is your choice.

You exhale slowly and straighten. You’re going to have to apologize.

You spend the next five hours doing absolutely nothing and yet somehow feeling exhausted by it. By late afternoon the guilt has completely consumed you. Around six, you finally force yourself off the bed.

You rehearse your apology the entire way downstairs, you start and stop scrap and rephrase but none of it sounds right. You don’t know how to do this, how to not hide behind sarcasm or put together a string of words that properly convey your shame and remorse.

By the time you reach the foyer, your stomach is tight enough to make you consider turning around and trying again tomorrow. You’re about to turn around but stop short when you catch sight of Anton.

He stands near the front doors with his keys in one hand and Minyoung’s little jacket draped over the other arm. Minyoung himself stands beside him in tiny sneakers, face washed and his hands scrubbed of dirt clutching the jar of his remaining beetles. Anton looks up first when he hears your steps and for one mortifying second all three of you just stare at one another.

You awkwardly walk the rest of the way over, every instinct in your body screaming at you to abort the mission. Up close, Anton’s expression is unreadable. You stop a few feet away. “I’m sorry,” you say.

Anton blinks once. “For?”

The question makes your face heat immediately because of course he would ask that. You glance down at the floor then back up again. “For earlier.”

Anton says nothing. The silence stretches just long enough that you realize how flimsy that sounds. For earlier could mean anything, for the bugs, for being rude at dinner four nights ago. You let out a short breath and make yourself try again.

“I shouldn’t have spoken to Minyoung like that…none of it was his fault.”

Minyoung presses a little closer to Anton’s leg at the sound of his name but doesn’t look away from you completely. Anton remains still, waiting. “I was angry. That’s not an excuse. I know it isn’t. I just...” You stop and shake your head, frustrated with your own inability to apologize correctly. “He didn’t deserve that and I shouldn’t have said what I said to you either.”

Anton’s gaze stays on your face. You push through the rest before your pride can intervene. “I was upset and I took it out on both of you because you happened to be there. That was shi–sucky of me...I’m sorry.”

Anton nods once. “Okay.”

You blink. “Wait, really?”

He shrugs slightly. “You said sorry, didn’t you?”

Your arms move behind your back almost on instinct, hands clasping together as you nod once. “Right.”

For a moment Anton just studies you as if trying to figure out what to do with this newer, quieter version of you. Anton glances down at Minyoung briefly before looking back at you. “We’re on our way into town.”

You frown a little. “Town?”

“There’s a festival tonight,” he explains. “They do it every year. It has food stalls, games, music, stuff like that. Do you want to come? Might do you some good to get out of the house, make you less cranky.”

Under normal circumstances, you would probably take offense to that.

The invitation catches you off guard enough that your first instinct is to refuse. You can practically hear yourself saying no thanks, I’d rather stay here, as if spending another night sulking in your room is somehow the more dignified option but after the day you’ve had and all the chewing out your grandmother has done, you can recognize how unhealthy that would be.

It’s about time you start doing at least one thing differently so instead of refusing, you nod. “If you really don’t mind.”

Anton shakes his head once. “I don’t.” He glances down at Minyoung, who has thus far remained tucked close to his side in wary silence. “I need to get him home and bathed first but I’ll swing back for you.”

You nod hesitantly, “okay…thank you.”

Anton only nods again, then reaches down to guide Minyoung gently toward the door. The second the front door closes behind them, you exhale. You stretch your arms out in front of you before beelining for the stairs to go and get yourself ready.

An hour later you’re standing in front of your mirror applying your Dior lipgloss while looking over your outfit. You settled on low rise jeans and a baby pink Aritzia henley that buttons low enough to let the edge of your white lace bra peek through at the top. Not the most appropriate choice for what might be some kind of wholesome local festival but modesty has never ranked especially high among your priorities and besides, the shirt looks better this way.

You throw your little Coach bag over your shoulder, smooth your hair down one last time and head downstairs before you can change your mind. Your grandmother is passing through the foyer when you reach the bottom step.

Her eyes flick over your outfit quickly. You expect some comment about your chest or your midriff but instead she only smiles. You return it before you can think too hard about why and continue toward the front door. An unspoken truce neither of you seems interested in ruining just yet.

Outside, the evening air has cooled. You settle onto the front steps to wait, one leg crossed over the other as you scroll uselessly through your phone. No new messages and still terrible reception. You drop it back into your bag and glance up just as headlights sweep across the drive.

An all black Range Rover pulls to a stop in front of the house.

You look away uninterested, the car looks to be one of the latest models, all glossy black paint and dark tinted windows. You assume it must belong to some other wealthy retiree your grandmother has befriended out here. You yawn and stretch out your arms then the passenger window slides down. Anton leans slightly toward it, one hand still on the wheel. “Are you coming?”

You blink, caught so off guard you actually forget how words work for a second. “O-oh? Yeah, sorry.”

You push yourself off the steps and walk toward the car trying not to look as surprised as you feel. What the hell? How many lawns does he mow to make this kind of money? You wonder if he’s taking advantage of your grandmother. The thought is probably unfair yet it follows you all the way to the passenger door.

Your suspicion only deepens once you get inside. The stitching is immaculate, the seats are cream leather, it smells faintly of lavender and body wash. You pull the door shut and fasten your seatbelt, taking in the dashboard while trying not to look too interested.

Anton glances at you briefly as he pulls away from the house. “Everything okay?”

You blink and force your attention away from the interior. “Mhm.”

He doesn’t look convinced, though thankfully he lets it go. In the backseat, Minyoung has apparently recovered enough from earlier to become a chatter-box. He starts talking almost as soon as Anton is out of the driveway. “Daddy, did you know dragonflies can see almost all the way around themself?”

“Themselves,” Anton corrects gently.

“Themselves,” Minyoung repeats. “Almost all the way around themselves.”

Anton nods once. “How much?”

“Three hundred and sixty degrees."

You glance back at him. At dinner and in the garden he had been so quiet you’d almost filed him away in your mind as one of those children who only communicate in nods and shy little half-sentences. In the car, though, he’s a completely different person. Still soft-spoken like his father but a walking mini encyclopedia. Facts keep tumbling out of him one after another, each one more specific than the last.

A few minutes later Minyoung starts again. “Daddy, did you know drosophila taste with their feet?” He asks as he tugs at the zipper of his jacket.

Anton glances at him in the rearview mirror. “No, I didn’t buddy, that’s pretty cool.”

You look out the window before either of them can catch the smile threatening at the corners of your mouth. You’re beginning to understand that his silence earlier had never been a lack of personality. He had simply been unsure of you. Given time, or maybe just the safety of a moving car and his father’s attention, he turns into a child entomologist.

By the time Anton turns into town, the roads have grown busier and warm light spills across the street from lanterns and food stalls. Music drifts through the windows and the whole place glows. Anton parks, climbs out and circles around to unbuckle Minyoung from his booster seat. The little boy hops down and immediately slips his hand into Anton’s without prompting.

You follow them toward the entrance, trying not to look as out of place as you feel. A woman stationed beneath the lantern-strung archway smiles as you approach. “How many?”

“Three,” Anton answers.

Before you can even think to reach for your bag, he’s already pulling out his wallet. The woman takes his payment and tears off three wristbands, sliding them across the table one by one. Anton helps Minyoung with his first, fastening it carefully around his little wrist before taking the other two. He passes one to you and you blink down at it for a second before looking back up at him.

“Thank you.”

Anton shrugs lightly. “No problem.”

You fasten the wristband around your wrist and follow them through the entrance. You fasten the wristband around your wrist and follow them through the entrance. Lanterns hang overhead, music drifts from somewhere deeper in the crowd and every few feet another stall seems to appear selling something fried, skewered, candied or entirely unrecognizable.

Minyoung, for all his earlier chatter in the car, goes a little quiet again once you’re swallowed by the crowd. He stays close to Anton’s side, small hand tucked into his father’s, eyes moving everywhere at once.

A little farther in, a cluster of children around his age are crowded around some kind of water gun game, shrieking every time one of the targets lights up. You notice Minyoung slows down as you get closer.

He just stares as one kid knocks down the last target and throws his hands up like he’s won the lottery. Minyoung’s grip tightens on Anton’s hand for half a second before he looks away. You glance at Anton, who has clearly noticed too but appears content to wait and see if his son says anything. Minyoung, apparently, has no intention of doing that.

Before you can think too hard about it, you point toward the game and ask, “Can we go play that?”

Anton’s attention shifts to you looking mildly surprised. Then something small and unmistakable passes over his face. You think it's gratitude but it's gone as fast as it came. “Sure,” he says.

Minyoung looks up at him. “Really?”

Anton nods once and smiles. That’s all the encouragement he needs. The three of you make your way over and Anton pays for the game before you can argue. The attendant hands out the water guns and when Minyoung realizes he’s apparently going head-to-head with you, he looks delighted and deeply determined.

Once the attendant gives the count down and the game starts, you decide to be a good person and let him win.

You try not to make it obvious and you don’t give in right away. You make enough of an effort to keep it interesting, hit a few targets, even narrow your eyes in pretend concentration so he’ll think he’s genuinely taking you down on skill alone. By the end of it he is practically vibrating with excitement, squealing each time another target lights up under his aim.

When the final buzzer goes off and his side has more points, he gasps like he can’t quite believe it. He whirls around toward Anton. “Daddy, Daddy, I won!”

Anton is already smiling. He crouches just enough to scoop Minyoung up before the words have even fully left his mouth. “I saw,” he says, grinning as Minyoung all but launches himself into his arms. “You crushed her.”

“I did!” Minyoung says, still breathless with joy.

You playfully scoff and shake your head but say nothing as you place down your watergun. Anton tickles his side and Minyoung giggles so hard he nearly folds in on himself. “Okay, okay! Put me down!” He squeals.

Anton does, setting him back on his feet just as one of the boys from the group standing beside the game earlier wanders over. He can’t be more than seven or eight, cheeks pink from running around. “Do you want to come to the bouncy house with us?” he asks Minyoung.

Minyoung immediately turns to Anton, eyes wide and hopeful.

Anton nods once. “You can go but please be safe.”

That’s all it takes. Minyoung gives his fathers leg a quick hug before he looks back at the boy and then the two of them are off, joined by the rest of the little group as they go running toward whatever inflatable nightmare is waiting for them across the festival.

Anton watches Minyoung disappear into the crowd of children, his eyes following the little group until they reach the brightly colored bouncy house at the far end of the field. Only once he’s clearly satisfied that Minyoung has joined without incident does he look back at you. “Thank you,” he says.

You shrug and adjust the strap of your Coach bag higher on your shoulder. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Anton huffs under his breath at that as he shoves his hands into his pockets. The two of you drift away from the water gun stall together, falling into step almost without thinking. Around you the festival keeps moving in every direction at once, children running past in sticky hands and sneakers with their parents calling after them, music blending with the sound of laughter and carnival games.

After a few steps, Anton glances toward the bouncy house again before speaking. “Minyoung is a little…” He pauses, as though searching for the right word and not quite finding one he likes. “Shy.”

You lift a brow. “A little?”

That gets another small laugh out of him. “Okay, very.” His shoulders rise and fall in a little shrug. “He likes people just fine once he knows them. It’s the getting there that takes time. I’m trying to encourage him to be more social. Spend time with kids his age. It’s…a work in progress.” He says as his mouth twitches faintly.

You nod, glancing out toward where Minyoung has already disappeared into a blur of other children and bouncing plastic walls. “I’m sure he’ll get the hang of it. You seem like a good dad.”

Anton looks at you. The compliment seems to catch him more off guard than your apology did. You see a faint dusting of pink over his cheeks and he ducks his head just slightly, the reaction so unguarded it makes your own face heat in response.

“Thanks,” he says quietly.

You hum and let your eyes drift elsewhere because if you keep looking at him right now you might start feeling weird about things you are not prepared to feel weird about. A tanghulu stall appears a little farther ahead and you gesture toward it. “Do you want anything?”

Anton shakes his head. “I’m good.”

You don’t bother arguing, already stepping toward the stall. “One green grape, please.”

By the time Anton reaches for his wallet, you’ve already beaten him to it, passing over your blackcard before he can protest. He glances at you as the vendor hands over the tanghulu.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

You take the skewer from the woman and thank her before turning back toward him. “You’re not paying for everything.”

“I invited you.” He says simply.

“And I was rude earlier.” You take your first careful bite, the sugar shell cracking sharply between your teeth. “If anything, I should be the one paying gor everything.”

Anton waves a hand lightly like he has no intention of taking that argument seriously. The two of you start walking again, slower now weaving through the crowd while you pick at the grapes one at a time.

“I already forgave you. You don’t need to punish yourself.” He says after a moment.

You bite through another grape and say, “That’s all I ever do.”

The sentence hangs there and your steps falter almost immediately. Heat climbs up your neck so fast it makes you want to disappear into the nearest food stall and stay there forever. “Oh my Gosh. Sorry. Just…forget I said that.” You mutter.

Anton doesn’t answer right away. When you finally risk a glance at him, he isn’t looking at you with pity or surprise or even curiosity. He just seems to be thinking. “I used to be like that too,” he says at last.

You blink. “Really?”

He nods once. “Yeah.” His gaze shifts toward the festival lights ahead, unfocused for a second. “At some point though, I had to forgive myself and become better. Not just for me but for Minyoung too. It’s easier when you have a reason outside of yourself.”

His words leave you uncomfortable. Not because they’re preachy. Anton doesn’t sound like he’s trying to teach you anything or fix you or guide you toward some moral revelation. If anything, he sounds like he’s just telling you the truth as he understands it.

Still, it leaves you thinking. About reasons, about why’s. About the fact that for as long as you can remember, self-destruction has always come more naturally to you than self-improvement. You’ve never had a Minyoung, never had someone small and watching and worth rearranging your life around. Even architecture, the one thing you’ve loved enough to work for, never quite managed to become a reason to change everything else.

You stare ahead and say, more to yourself than to him, “I haven’t really found a reason.”

Anton goes quiet beside you. You don’t think it's because he doesn’t hear you but because he seems to take the sentence seriously enough to think before answering. When he finally does, his voice is gentle. “Maybe start with forgiving yourself.”

You don’t respond.You don’t disagree exactly but that particular mountain feels too high to even look at directly. Forgiving yourself sounds nice in theory but what happens after you forgive yourself? Who are you without the guilt sitting in your chest, without the endless list of evidence proving you deserved every disappointed look, every cold shoulder, every headline, every person who decided you were exactly as awful as you seemed?

Forgiving yourself would mean accepting that you were never going to become Maude no matter how hard you tried. It would mean admitting that architecture was not a betrayal, that wanting something for yourself did not make you selfish, that being messy and angry and loud did not make you impossible to love.

More terrifyingly, it would mean accepting there may have never been a version of you capable of earning what you wanted from your parents. No perfect report card, no business degree, no carefully chosen husband, no version of yourself small enough, polished enough or obedient enough to finally make them look at you and decide you were enough.

You’re not sure you know how to live with that. You know how to blame yourself. You know how to laugh first, leave first, hurt first. You know how to become the worst thing people expect from you because at least then no one gets to act surprised.

So instead of touching that at all, you stop and turn your head and ask the question that has been sitting with you ever since the foyer. “Why did you forgive me?”

Anton glances over at you, a little surprised by the sudden shift. He looks back ahead and says, as though it's the most obvious thing in the world, “You apologized.”

You stare at him. The simplicity of it almost irritates you. “That’s it?”

He gives a small shrug. “Isn’t that usually how it works?”

A short laugh escapes you before you can stop it. “Not in my family.”

Anton’s expression shifts slightly, not quite confusion and not quite pity either, more like interest. You roll the stick of your tanghulu between your fingers as you try to put it into words.

“In my family, apologies don’t really mean anything. They’re either forced or said because somebody wanted their ego stroked. Never because anyone genuinely feels bad.”

Anton listens without interrupting. When you finish he shrugs again, unoffended by your inability to understand him. “In mine it means everything.”

You nod once and file it away. For a little while the two of you keep walking in silence, the festival moving around you. It should probably feel strange, opening up like this to someone you met less than a week ago but Anton has a way of making silence feel nonthreatening rather than awkward. Nothing about him seems particularly performative. He just listens and gives you space to be. That’s why the next question slips out before you can reconsider it. “Do you know why I got sent up here?”

Anton glances at you. “No.”

You take a breath. “I called my father a whore.”

Anton chokes on his own spit. You look sideways at him just in time to catch him coughing into his fist, eyes narrowing slightly as he tries and fails to recover with dignity. The reaction is so immediate and so unexpectedly human that for one ridiculous second you smile. Anton clears his throat and gestures lightly with one hand for you to continue.

You look ahead again. “He said it first,” you explain. “Called me an embarrassment too, said I kept degrading myself and the family name amongst other things. I just…snapped. I don’t know. It was early and I hadn’t slept and he was standing there acting like the worst thing about me disappearing all night was the headlines that might come from it.”

Your voice stays even enough but your thoughts don’t. They keep circling back to the foyer, to the bourbon in his hand at eight in the morning, to the way he looked at you like a problem to be managed rather than a daughter who had not come home the night before.

“I can’t remember a time my father showed genuine interest in my life. He knows things about me, obviously. Where I go to school, what I major in, who I’m seen with when it becomes inconvenient for him not to know but as far as actually asking whether I’m okay?” You shake your head. “I think I must’ve lost my mind to expect that. I’d been gone all night and the first thing he wanted to talk about was what investors were saying.”

Anton’s frown deepens but he still says nothing, letting you get through it in your own time.

“I asked him why he was my mother’s whore without even thinking and then he slapped me. Told me he was done. That he’d given me chance after chance and I kept digging myself deeper. Then he sent me here.”

You finished your tanghulu somewhere in the middle of the story. You toss it into the nearest trash can as the two of you pass and immediately feel jarring for how normal the movement looks compared to what you’ve just admitted.

You glance at him then and force out the rest before your pride can stop you. “I don’t mean to trauma dump on you.” You let out a short breath. “I just want you to understand why I’m having a hard time understanding why you forgave me.”

Anton is quiet long enough that you start to regret saying any of it. Then he says, “Minyoung makes mistakes all the time.”

You stare at him. “He’s six.”

Anton shrugs. “And?”

“That is not exactly the same thing.”

“Maybe not but when he messes up, I want him to understand what he did wrong. I don’t need him carrying it around forever.”

Anton glances over at you, taking in your appearance. You already knew you were wrong and you apologized. I don’t take pride in kicking people when they’re clearly already down.

You swallow around the sudden tightness in your throat and nod once because it’s the only thing you can trust yourself to do. The two of you continue walking, even slower than before. You think Anton’s taking his time to give you a breather, so you can compose yours;ef before you come across more people.

“For what it’s worth,” he says after a moment, “he shouldn’t have hit you.”

Your throat tightens all over again. Anton looks straight ahead as he says it, giving you the kindness of not making you meet his eyes. “I’m sorry no one was there to protect you.”

You look away immediately, blinking hard and fast enough that the lights ahead blur. By the time you trust yourself to speak, your voice comes out quieter than usual. “Thank you.”

Anton shrugs slightly, a soft smile touching his mouth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

A few minutes later, Minyoung comes racing back toward the two of you with flushed cheeks and grass stains on one knee. “Daddy,” he says breathlessly, already reaching for Anton’s hand. “Daddy, can I have cotton candy?”

Anton looks down at him and pretends to think about it, his mouth pulling faintly to one side in a way that suggests the answer was always going to be yes. “Hmmm…why not?” he says at last.

Minyoung lights up instantly. Before you can fully process what’s happening, he reaches for your hand with his other and begins dragging the both of you toward a stall further down the row. You blink and let yourself be pulled.

The whole way there, Minyoung talks in one long breathless stream about everything you apparently missed while he was off with his new friends. Something about a boy named Jisoo who could jump really high in the bouncy house, something about another kid cheating at a ring toss game, something about nearly falling and not actually crying which he mentions with great pride.

“And then we all went down the big slide at the same time! Jisoo said maybe next time I can come earlier because his dad brings snacks and–” He looks up at Anton suddenly. “Can I invite them over?”

Anton glances down at him, amused. “Maybe not tonight buddy.”

Minyoung frowns automatically. “But–”

“Another day, if their parents say it’s okay.” Anton says.

Minyoung considers this and then nods, apparently satisfied enough by the possibility of a future yes. You can’t help smiling a little at the exchange.

When you reach the stall Minyoung rises onto the balls of his feet to stare at the options arranged behind the glass. There are flowers and hearts and one shaped vaguely like a bear, but his eyes land immediately on the yellow and black one near the center. “The bee! Can I have the bee?”

Anton nods and reaches for his wallet but you place a hand over his. “I’ve got it,” you say.

He glances over. “You don’t have to.”

“I know…Please?”

Anton hesitates for half a second before relenting with a small nod and stepping back. The woman takes your payment and a moment later hands over a giant cotton candy bee balanced on a paper stick.

You bend down and hold it out to him. “Here.”

He reaches for it carefully. Before he can pull it fully into his arms, you clear your throat and say, “I’m sorry about your beetles.”

Minyoung pauses. For a second you wonder if he’s going to retreat into Anton’s leg again or stare at you blankly or say nothing at all. Instead he just looks at your face…really looks almost as if he’s trying to decide whether you mean it.

To your surprise, he smiles. “It’s okay! It was an accident.”

You smile back at him, touched by his willingness to forgive you so easily. “Thank you.”

Minyoung nods as if to say of course, then immediately turns his full attention back to the cotton candy bee in his hands.

The three of you wander through the festival for another hour, stopping wherever Minyoung’s attention lands long enough for him to beg Anton to let him try something. Ring toss, a fishing game with little magnetic poles, some booth involving darts that Anton firmly refuses on the grounds that six-year-olds and sharp objects should never share the space. You end up playing more than you expect to, mostly because once Minyoung decides you are tolerable, he starts looking at you whenever he wants to do something slightly ridiculous he knows his father will say no to.

You let him drag you from stall to stall without too much complaint. At one point Anton wins him some cheap plastic bug-shaped keychain that Minyoung immediately clips to one of his belt loops. Later, at another game involving throwing bean bags through painted holes, you win him a plush dog with floppy ears and a ridiculous tongue lolling out of its stitched mouth.

Eventually, the excitement starts catching up with him. His words come a little slower and his steps drag just slightly. The cotton candy bee is long gone and the plush dog keeps slipping lower in his grip each time he readjusts it. Halfway through whatever story he’s telling the two of you about one of the boys from the bouncy house, his sentence just sort of trails off.

Anton notices and slows his speed before glancing down and asks, “You tired?”

Minyoung shakes his head automatically then nearly walks into Anton’s leg because he isn’t looking where he’s going. You laugh before you can stop yourself.

Minyoung glares halfheartedly up at you. Anton crouches in front of him without a word and Minyoung climbs onto his back with all the practiced ease of someone who has done this a hundred times before. Anton stands again with him settled against his back, arms hooking securely beneath his legs while Minyoung drops his head onto Anton’s shoulder and hands his father his plush dog.

The walk back to the car is quieter after that. By the time Anton buckles him into the booster seat, Minyoung is already blinking slowly enough that it seems unlikely he’ll make it through the drive awake.

You slide into the passenger seat and Anton starts the car and pulls away from the festival. The radio is playing softly in the background while the two of you talk about whatever comes to mind. You interrogate him on his music taste and he returns the line of questioning before you move on to ask him about living in a small town. He shrugs and says he likes it, he likes the community before he switches the topic to ask you about your life in Cali. You tell him about Stanford and Maya and Hravey, how they’re both in Greece living it up without you.

By the time the house comes back into view at the end of the drive, Minyoung is fully asleep in the backseat, plush dog still tucked beneath his chin.

He puts the car in park while you gather your things. You turn to face him. “Thanks for tonight, I really needed it.”

He nods his head. “Anytime.”

You smile and hesitate before adding, “goodnight.”

“Night.”

You unlock the door and step outside. When you make it to the door you glance back and find Anton is still there, waiting to make sure you’ve gotten in safely. You smile to yourself before pressing in the code for the door. You look through the peephole and see him drive off once you’re inside. You stand in the foyer for a moment longer than necessary, watching him drive away.

Maybe the next one hundred and nineteen days won’t be so bad after all.

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