🐻❄️⌇ garden chaos
pairings: dad!vernon x mom!reader
genre: fluff, domestic, soft chaos
word count: ~650
minnie's note: i love them, your honor
there’s something about quiet afternoons that feels earned.
maybe it’s the way the sunlight spills lazily across the backyard—honey-thick and warm, but not overwhelming.
maybe it’s the soft hum of the neighborhood slowing down just enough for you to actually hear yourself think.
or maybe, just maybe, it’s the fact that for the first time in forty-eight hours, no one is screaming for a snack.
just you. your plants. and a rare, golden pocket of peace.
you’re hunched over your favorite monstera, tilting the watering can with the kind of precision usually reserved for heart surgery. you’d raised this thing from a sad, two-leafed clearance rack find into a lush, towering masterpiece. honestly, you were a little too emotionally attached to it.
“you’re doing so well,” you murmur, thumbing a waxy green leaf. “look at you. thriving.”
“you say that to all of them.”
the voice is low, raspy with the remnants of a nap. you glance over your shoulder to find vernon leaning against the sliding door frame. his hair is a mess of static and sleep, his hoodie pulled up slightly at the sleeves, and his phone is gripped loosely in one hand—forgotten. he’s got that lazy, half-lidded smile on his face. the one that says he’s been standing there, just watching you, for longer than he’d care to admit.
“don’t be jealous, hansol,” you shoot back, eyes crinkling. “you get compliments too.”
“not like that,” he hums, stepping onto the grass. the cool blades tickle his bare feet. “you’ve never called me lush and thriving.”
you snort, turning back to your plants. “do you want me to start?”
he actually pauses to consider it, nodding with fake gravity. “yeah. i think it would help my confidence.”
before you can come up with a devastatingly cheesy retort, a much smaller, much higher voice cuts through the air.
“mama!”
the peace doesn’t shatter—it just shifts.
your daughter is standing five feet away, clutching her tiny, neon-pink watering can like it’s a holy relic. her pigtails are coming undone, cheeks flushed pink from the sun, and she has that look of fierce determination that she definitely inherited from her father.
“look!” she beams, pointing a chubby finger downward.
you walk over, your heart doing that weird, soft ache it only does for her. she’s pointing at her tomato plant. it’s a bit scraggly and leaning slightly to the left, but it’s alive.
“wow,” you breathe, crouching down. “did you do this all by yourself?”
she nods so hard her pigtails bounce. “it was thirsty! i gave it a big drink.”
vernon drops into a crouch beside her, resting his chin on his palm. he inspects the damp soil with exaggerated, scholarly seriousness. “hmm. yes. excellent saturation. a very well-hydrated specimen.”
she giggles, leaning into his side. “i told it to grow big and strong. like daddy.”
vernon’s entire face softens—the kind of look he only saves for her. “smart kid,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to her temple.
the moment is perfect. it’s a picture-frame moment.
until you feel it.
splat.
a sudden, cold shock of water hits your forearm. you freeze. slowly, you turn your head to see your daughter standing there, her pink watering can tilted, a look of pure, accidental shock on her face.
a beat of silence passes.
“...did you just water me?” you ask.
her eyes go wide. then, she catches vernon’s stifled grin. she realizes it’s a game. she gasps, dissolving into a fit of belly-clutching giggles.
“that looked pretty intentional to me,” vernon says, his voice full of mischief.
“vernon,” you warn, narrowing your eyes.
he holds up his hands, retreating. “hey, i’m just a witness. i don’t make the rules.”
you look back at your daughter, who is now clutching her watering can like it’s a weapon.
“…okay,” you say slowly, setting your own can down. “if that’s how it is.”
her eyes light up.
you grab the hose—
“mama!” she shrieks, sprinting across the grass as a light mist trails after her. she’s fast, but she’s laughing too hard to make a clean getaway.
“you started it!” you call out, laughing as you track her movement.
“daddy, help!” she screams, beelining straight for vernon’s legs.
vernon barely has time to brace himself before she’s using him as a human shield. “wow,” he grunts as she clings to his knees.
“i’ve been drafted into the infantry.”
“protect me!” she squeals.
vernon looks at you, his eyes sparkling. he’s supposed to be the adult. he’s supposed to be the voice of reason. but this is vernon.
“i don’t know,” he muses, looking down at her. “what’s in it for me?”
“daddy!”
“okay, okay,” he laughs, shielding her with his body. he looks at you with mock-sternness. “i’m afraid i can’t let you proceed, ma’am. this is a protected zone.”
“you’re really picking a side?” you challenge, the hose nozzle twitching in your hand.
“i’m choosing the side with the cutest commander.”
you don't hesitate. you pivot the hose and soak his shins.
“hey!” he shouts, jumping back, his laughter echoing yours. he’s drenched in seconds, his shirt clinging to his chest, hair starting to flatten against his forehead.
it’s a full-blown war now.
vernon abandons his "observer" status and grabs the nearest bucket. your daughter runs back and forth between you, playing double agent—sometimes "helping" you hold the hose, only to turn around and splash your legs with her watering can.
vernon’s laugh is loud and unfiltered, filling the backyard as he dodges a spray of water, nearly tripping over a lawn gnome. he looks younger like this—carefree and glowing.
“okay, okay! truce! white flag!” he yells eventually, breathless and dripping.
you click the hose off, chest heaving, water dripping from your nose. “truce?” you ask, eyeing him suspiciously.
he walks over, his sneakers squelching in the grass, and pulls your daughter into his arms. “truce,” he confirms, tucking her head under his chin.
the garden is a swamp. your clothes are ruined. your hair is a disaster.
your daughter looks between the two of you, a giant, gap-toothed grin on her face. “...again?”
you and vernon answer in perfect unison, “no.”
she pouts.
you laugh, stepping forward to brush a wet strand of hair from her face. “maybe tomorrow, sweetheart.”
vernon wraps his free arm around your waist, pulling you into the damp, messy huddle. he smells like rain and sun-warmed cotton. he leans down, pressing a wet, cold kiss to your cheek.
“you know,” he whispers, looking at the mess of the garden and the shivering, happy child in his arms. “you were right.”
“about what?”
“we really are thriving.”