Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. Any medical information, diagnoses, or procedures mentioned are for narrative purposes only and should not be taken as professional medical advice. Please consult a licensed healthcare professional for real-life medical concerns.
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Minho swung his legs back and forth; mouth open obediently as the doctor examined his throat.
"He's not actually mute," the doctor said, placing the small torch back into its holder. "He just struggles to articulate. But we're making progress." He turned back to his computer and typed a few notes into the report.
"And you are?" he asked with a polite smile, glancing at Jaehyuk.
"Uncle." Jaehyuk adjusted the boy more securely on his lap. "I'm his uncle."
The doctor's gaze drifted past him—to the three guards stationed inside the room."…And them?"
"They won't interrupt," Jaehyuk replied evenly. "They're here in case someone else does."
A beat.
"…Right," the doctor said, clearing his throat as he opened Minho's file.
"Looks like he's been managing to push out fragments of words," he continued, eyes scanning the page before lifting toward Minho. He nudged himself closer in his rolling chair. "Can you try saying 'papa'? Or… anything at all?" His voice softened. "Anything you'd like."
Minho lay against Jaehyuk's chest, small fingers curling tightly into the chocolate-brown fabric of his shirt. He looked up first—seeking reassurance.
Jaehyuk met his eyes and smiled faintly. "It's okay."
Minho turned back to the doctor. His lips parted.
"Pa… p—pp…" His brows knit together. "Hng—uwu…" The sound caught awkwardly in his throat. "Uuu… ppa… pp…" His eyes shimmered with unshed tears, frustration tightening his tiny mouth. "Hng…?"
The effort was visible. Painfully visible.
A strange chill crept down the doctor's spine.
"H-hey, that's okay," he said quickly, straightening up. "That's more than enough. You did great." He spun around, opened a drawer, and pulled out a lollipop. "Tell you what… this is for trying."
Minho stared at the lollipop like it was a fragile prize.
Slowly, he reached for it—but only after glancing up at Jaehyuk again.
Jaehyuk gave the smallest nod.
"It's okay," he murmured. "You earned it."
Minho took it with both hands.
The doctor cleared his throat and turned back to the screen, pretending to focus on the file. "Speech delay isn't uncommon," he said, voice steadier now. "He understands more than he can express. That's usually a good sign."
Jaehyuk didn't respond immediately. His fingers brushed gently through Minho's hair instead.
"He gets frustrated," Jaehyuk said after a moment. "When the words won't come."
"That means he wants them," the doctor replied. "That's important."
Minho pressed his face into Jaehyuk's chest, lollipop still clutched in his hand. His breathing had steadied, but his small fingers hadn't loosened their grip on the shirt.
Jaehyuk adjusted him instinctively, one hand firm at the boy's back.
The doctor hesitated before speaking again. "Has he… always preferred you?"
"Well..." Jaehyuk looked down at Minho, "He's never not preferred someone in general,"
The doctor blinked once. "…Right,"
"We'll continue with speech stimulation exercises. Short sessions. Positive reinforcement." He turned the monitor slightly. "No pressure. Just encouragement."
Minho peeked out shyly from Jaehyuk's chest. He seemed to be immersed in how the doctor was typing.
"Your name?" Jaehyuk asks.
The doctor was too focused on typing in the information that it took him sometime to process and answer Jaehyuk's question, "Lee Dohyun. I'm Lee Dohyun," He smiled flatly.
Lee Dohyun saved the file and finally looked up properly this time.
"Is there something else you'd like to ask, Mr…?"
"Jaehyuk," he supplied smoothly.
A small pause.
"You seem young," Jaehyuk added, almost conversational. "For this field."
"I graduated early," he replied evenly. "Paediatrics isn't a seniority contest."
Jaehyuk's gaze didn't waver. "Experience tends to matter when dealing with developmental cases."
"It does," Dohyun agreed. "Which is why I specialized."
"At this age?" Jaehyuk shot back lightly.
Minho's fingers curled tighter into Jaehyuk's shirt, sensing the subtle tension he couldn't understand.
Dohyun didn't blink.
"Yes," he said. "Competence isn't age restricted."
"And how many cases like his have you handled?" Jaehyuk asked, tone still mild — too mild.
Dohyun leaned back slightly in his chair, folding his hands loosely.
A quiet beat settled between them.
"Enough to recognize anxiety in guardians," he said calmly. "And enough to know that you can walk out if you don't trust me," he added softly, head tilted just slightly.
Jaehyuk didn't move.
He adjusted Minho higher against his chest instead
"You mistake scrutiny for distrust," Jaehyuk said at last, voice level. "They are not interchangeable."
Dohyun held his gaze. "In my experience, they overlap."
"In mine," Jaehyuk replied, "scrutiny is how you prevent regret."
Dohyun's fingers tapped once against the armrest of his chair — thoughtful, not nervous.
"You're evaluating me," he said.
"I evaluate everyone around him," Jaehyuk corrected smoothly. "It's not personal."
Dohyun's eyes flicked briefly to the guards. Then back.
"It feels personal."
"It shouldn't," Jaehyuk said. "If you're as competent as you claim."
Minho peeked up again, eyes moving between them.
That landed clean.
A muscle shifted faintly in Dohyun's jaw, but his voice remained steady.
"You're not his parent."
Jaehyuk let out a cold sigh.
"You don't have to be a parent to take care of a kid. I hope this is not how you take care of your siblings,"
Jaehyuk didn't wait for a reply. He stood, adjusting Minho firmly in his arms.
The guards moved instinctively.
"Mr. Jaehyuk."
He paused — just barely.
Dohyun's voice was calm again.
"I don't have siblings," he said. "That's why I chose this field."
A beat.
"And I don't take care of children the way I speak to adults."
Silence lingered in the room.
Jaehyuk's fingers tightened slightly at Minho's back.
Then—just enough to be seen—he turned his head.
Just a fraction.
The corner of his mouth curved.
Not approval. Not denial.
And then he walked out.
The door closed softly behind him.
Dohyun didn't look away.
"Alpha's," he silently muttered. Tsk.
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