a house for three (and a little love on the side)

🏠

The doorbell chimes through the house. Taiga slides his socked feet across the polished floor, relishing the smooth glide. Behind him, Yugo and Juri’s laughter echoes from the living room, a sound that should feel intrusive in his carefully curated space but somehow doesn’t.

“Coming!” He reaches for his wallet, already counting the bills.

The door swings open to reveal a delivery boy, barely out of his teens, juggling three pizza boxes and a six-pack that threatens to slip from his grip.

“That’ll be—” the boy starts, but Taiga cuts him off.

“Here, let me get some help.” He turns back toward the living room. “Yugo! Juri! A little help?”

Yugo appears first. “Got it!” He swoops in, relieving the delivery boy of the pizza boxes with practiced ease. The scent of melted cheese and pepperoni wafts through the air.

Juri follows at a more leisurely pace, hands in his pockets. “I’ll take the drinks.” He grabs the six-pack, the glass bottles clinking together.

Taiga hands over the money. This place better be worth the premium delivery zone charges.

The delivery boy counts the bills. “Just moved in?” He gestures at the empty boxes still stacked by the entrance, remnants of Taiga’s afternoon unpacking session that he hasn’t gotten around to breaking down yet.

“Yeah.” Taiga shifts his weight, unused to small talk with strangers. “Housewarming celebration with friends.”

“Oh, congratulations!” The delivery boy’s enthusiasm seems genuine, if a bit rehearsed. “Nice place. Those smart lights are pretty cool.”

“Thanks.” Taiga glances at the sensor. If only you knew how many apps it takes to keep this place running.

The delivery boy tucks the money into the pouch. “Well, enjoy your evening!”

Taiga strolls into the kitchen, where Yugo has already arranged the pizzas in a neat row on the granite countertop. The aroma of garlic and herbs mingles with the fresh paint smell that still lingers in the air. His smart refrigerator hums to life as he approaches, its display showing the current temperature and ice level.

“Ice maker’s fully stocked,” he says, pressing the dispenser button. Cubes tumble into the crystal bucket he splurged on during his houseware shopping spree.

Juri leans against the counter, examining one of the beer bottles. “Your kitchen’s like something out of a sci-fi movie, man. What’s next, a robot chef?”

“Don’t tempt me.” Taiga sets three glasses on the counter with a soft clink. “The smart fridge already suggests recipes based on what’s inside. Though right now, it’s suggesting I buy groceries.”

“Because pizza delivery is clearly the superior option.” Yugo opens the first box, releasing a fresh wave of cheese-scented steam. “Perfect timing, too. Still hot.”

Juri pours the beer with practiced precision, the amber liquid foaming just right. The glasses catch the light from the recessed fixtures overhead, which had adjusted automatically to the perfect dinner ambiance the moment they’d entered.

“To Taiga’s new beginning”—Yugo raises his glass—“and to finally escaping that shoebox apartment.”

“And to Taiga finally getting his shit together and bought a house at the ripe old age of thirty,” Juri adds with a smirk.

Taiga rolls his eyes but can’t suppress a smile. “To turning thirty with my sanity almost intact.” He lifts his glass, the ice clinking against the sides.

And to never having to deal with unreliable people again.

Their glasses meet with a satisfying chime. The beer is cold and crisp, washing away the dusty taste of an afternoon spent unpacking. Taiga savors the moment—his first real meal in his new house, surrounded by the two people he trusts most in the world.

“Can’t believe you actually bought a house,” Yugo says between bites of pizza. “Remember when we used to dream about this stuff in college?”

“While sharing that cramped dorm room,” Juri adds. “With the broken AC.”

“And now look at this place.” Yugo gestures with his pizza slice. “Smart everything, clean lines, and not a single dirty dish in sight.”

“That’s because I haven’t used any dishes yet.” Taiga takes another sip of beer.

“So,” Juri says, tracing the rim of his glass with his finger, “what happens when your fancy tech decides to go on strike? You going to learn actual housework at some point?”

Taiga snorts. “If anything breaks, that’s what warranties are for.” He takes another bite of pizza, savoring the blend of cheese and spices. “Between the office and commute, I’m already pushing fourteen-hour days. When I get home, I just want to crash on the couch and maybe play that new RPG I bought.”

“The one with the dragons?” Yugo asks.

“Yeah. Haven’t opened it yet.” Taiga glances at his gaming console, still wrapped in bubble wrap. “Besides, this place is perfect for testing EaseWorks’ app suite. Minagawa-buchou’s been pushing for more real-world experiences in our marketing.”

“Ah, there it is.” Juri exchanges a knowing look with Yugo. “Always the workaholic.”

“It’s called being efficient.” Taiga taps his pizza crust against the plate. “Why waste time on chores when I can automate everything?”

“Because machines break?” Yugo wipes his hands with a napkin. “Look, I get the convenience thing, but you should at least learn to cook. I can’t keep bringing you leftovers from the restaurant.”

Here we go again. Taiga’s heard this lecture before. Ever since Yugo opened Golden Hour Bistro, he’s been on a mission to convert everyone into amateur chefs.

“The delivery apps work fine,” Taiga says. “And there’s always convenience store food.”

Yugo’s face scrunches up like he’s just bitten into something sour. “Those sodium-packed monstrosities? No way. I’m not letting my best friend survive on that garbage.”

“I’ll get to it eventually.” Taiga waves his hand dismissively. “Once things settle down at work.”

“You said that three promotions ago.” Juri picks up another slice of pizza. “Face it, you’re allergic to domestic tasks.”

“I’m not allergic. I’m practical.” Taiga gestures at his smart fridge. “Look, the app even tracks expiration dates. No more wondering if that milk in the back is still good.”

“Because heaven forbid you actually open the carton and smell it,” Yugo mutters.

“Exactly.” Taiga grins. “Technology is beautiful.”

Juri leans back in his chair. “Until your Wi-Fi goes down.”

“That’s what backup systems are for.” Taiga reaches for his beer. “I’ve got redundancies for everything.”

“Except actual life skills,” Yugo says. “Come on, at least let me teach you some basics. Simple stuff, like not burning rice.”

That was one time. Taiga still remembers the charred mess from their college days, when he’d tried to impress a date. The fire alarm had gone off, and the entire dorm had to evacuate. Not his finest moment.

“I’ll get to it,” Taiga repeats, knowing he probably won’t. Between the marketing campaigns for EaseWorks’ new features and the upcoming product launch, his schedule is packed for months.

“When?” Yugo presses. “After your robot vacuum achieves sentience and demands workers’ rights?”

“Don’t give him ideas,” Juri says. “He’ll probably try to ask their developers to watch out for that into the next app update.”

“Actually, how’s that new singer doing at Golden Hour?” Taiga seizes the chance to redirect the conversation. “The one with the jazzy covers.”

Yugo’s eyes light up, and thank god, the cooking lecture is forgotten. “Misa? She’s amazing. Packed house every Thursday night. You should come by sometime.”

“When she’s not making eyes at the bartender,” Juri adds with a smirk.

The conversation flows easily now, drifting from workplace gossip to Juri’s latest art installation to EaseWorks’ brand ambassador’s over-the-top commercials. Taiga settles deeper into his chair, letting their familiar voices wash over him.

When did scheduling these nights become so complicated? He remembers when they could spontaneously meet up any evening, crashing into each other’s places without a second thought. Now, Yugo juggles restaurant management, Juri bounces between art projects, and Taiga… well, he’s married to his marketing reports.

“Speaking of our brand ambassador,” Taiga says, “you should have seen Jesse at the office last Friday. Showed up in what he called ‘casual wear’ — looked like he raided a fashion magazine.”

“That guy’s living in his own reality show,” Yugo chuckles, checking his phone. His smile fades slightly. “Ah, shit. Time really flew.”

Juri stretches, his chair scraping against the floor. “Yeah, I should head out too. That commission isn’t going to paint himself.”

Already? Taiga glances at his smart display — 10:47 PM glows in gentle blue light. The evening has slipped away faster than he’d like.

“Thanks for helping me with the move,” he says, standing. “Seriously, I know you both had to shuffle things around.”

“Hey, that’s what friends are for.” Yugo pulls him into a tight hug. “Just don’t become a hermit, okay?”

“Message us,” Juri adds, joining the embrace. His voice carries its usual lazy drawl, but there’s warmth underneath. “Even if it's just to complain about your fancy coffee maker breaking down.”

“It won’t break down,” Taiga protests automatically, but he’s smiling. “It’s got a five-year warranty.”

“Of course it does.” Yugo rolls his eyes, heading for the door. “I’ve got prep work tomorrow morning, but let’s grab dinner next week? When you’re settled in?”

“Sure, just not Tuesday. Got a presentation for Minagawa-buchou.”

“Wednesday?” Juri suggests, shrugging on his jacket. “I can do Wednesday evening.”

“Wednesday’s inventory night,” Yugo groans. “Thursday?”

They spend another five minutes in the doorway, phones out, trying to align their schedules like some complex puzzle.

We’re getting old, Taiga thinks, remembering when their biggest scheduling conflict was deciding which party to hit first.

Finally, with promises to keep their group chat active and tentative plans for next Friday, Yugo and Juri head out into the night. Taiga watches until their figures disappear down the street, then closes the door with a soft click.

The silence settles around Taiga like a comfortable blanket. He gathers the empty bottles, the glass clinking softly as he drops them into the recycling bin. Trust Yugo to label everything — neat block letters marking which items go where, with collection dates scrawled underneath.

At least he didn’t try to reorganize my entire kitchen this time.

The smart dishwasher hums to life as Taiga loads the last glass. Its display shows a gentle blue glow: 45 minutes until completion, with a drying cycle included. He swipes through the settings on his tablet, double-checking that he’s selected the eco-friendly mode. The marketing team has been pushing that feature hard lately.

Pizza boxes folded and flattened, Taiga slides them into their designated bin. The cardboard edges are still warm, carrying traces of oregano and melted cheese. His fingers brush against Yugo’s precise handwriting: “CARDBOARD — EVERY OTHER TUESDAY.”

A smile tugs at his lips. Some things never change — Yugo’s been mothering him since college.

The tablet chirps softly as Taiga pulls up the security interface. Each green checkmark brings a small satisfaction: front door locked, back door secured, windows latched. The garage sensor blinks steadily, confirming no movement. Even the motion detectors in the yard show all clear.

Everything in its place. Everything controlled.

The living room lights dim automatically as he approaches the stairs, responding to his programmed evening routine. Shadows stretch across the walls, but they’re gentle, carefully calculated by the smart lighting system. No harsh transitions, no sudden darkness. Just a smooth fade that guides him toward his bedroom.

His footsteps echo slightly on the stairs. The house feels bigger now, emptier without Yugo’s laugh and Juri’s drawling commentary. But it’s not lonely — it’s peaceful. Exactly what he wanted.

What he planned for.

Finally. My space. My rules. My perfectly ordered life.

Taiga’s bedroom door opens with a soft click. The smart lighting system bathes the room in a gentle amber glow, perfect for winding down. He taps the bath controls on his tablet, and the tub begins to fill, water cascading at precisely 37 degrees Celsius.

Steam rises as he brushes his teeth, the electric toothbrush humming against his gums. In the mirror, his reflection looks tired but content. The bathroom fan whirs quietly, keeping the humidity at bay — another small luxury he’d insisted on during the renovation.

The tub chirps when it reaches the perfect level. Taiga slips into the water, a slow sigh escaping his lips as warmth envelops his muscles. This is what peace feels like.

His mind drifts to that night in his father’s apartment, six months ago. The cramped space had reeked of instant ramen and stale beer. Masaki’s guitar case lay open on the floor, sheet music scattered around it like fallen leaves.

“You can’t leave,” Masaki had said, his voice carrying that familiar whine. “Who’s going to help me with the bills? And my new song needs—”

“I’m not your personal ATM.” The words had burst from Taiga’s throat, sharp and bitter. “Or your sound engineer.”

“But you’re good at it! And Shuichiro said—”

“Don’t.” Taiga had cut him off. “Don’t bring him into this.”

The bathwater ripples as Taiga shifts, the memory of Shuichiro’s manipulative smile rising unbidden. His ex had always known exactly which buttons to push, especially when it came to Masaki.

“Your father needs you,” he’d say, “and I need you too.”

Thank god for Minagawa’s real estate contact. The thought of house-hunting through Shuichiro’s agency had turned Taiga’s stomach. Those casual touches that lingered too long, the way Shuichiro would lean in close while pointing out property features — all carefully calculated to make Taiga doubt his decision to leave.

The argument with Masaki had been the final straw. Taiga remembers standing in that cluttered apartment, watching his father cradle his guitar like a shield.

“I’m almost thirty years old,” Taiga had said, his voice steady despite the trembling in his hands. “I can’t keep being your safety net.”

“But we’re family,” Masaki had protested. “Family takes care of each other.”

Family doesn’t guilt-trip each other into codependency.

Water drips from the faucet, each drop echoing in the quiet bathroom. Taiga sinks deeper into the tub, letting the heat seep into his bones. His tablet rests on the nearby shelf, its screen showing the temperature holding steady. No fluctuations, no surprises. Just perfect, controlled warmth.

He’d found this house two weeks after that argument. The location was ideal — close enough to work but far from both Masaki’s apartment and Shuichiro’s usual haunts. The previous owners had already installed smart home basics, giving Taiga the perfect excuse to upgrade everything.

A fresh start. A place where no one can demand pieces of me.

The memory of Shuichiro’s last text message floats through his mind: “You’re making a mistake. You need me.”

Delete. Block. Gone.

Taiga emerges from the tub, water cascading off his skin. His fingers brush the towel rack, and he wraps himself in the plush cotton robe he’d splurged on during his bathroom shopping spree. The fabric feels impossibly soft against his skin, still warm from the bath.

The smart lights shift to a cooler tone as he pads across the bedroom carpet, responding to his nighttime routine settings. His bare feet sink into the plush fibers with each step. The dresser drawer slides open with a satisfying whisper, revealing neatly folded stacks of sleepwear.

He pulls out simple black cotton pants and a worn t-shirt from some tech conference three years ago. The fabric is soft from countless washes, familiar against his skin as he slips them on. His damp hair leaves a dark patch on the collar, but he can’t bring himself to care.

The bed welcomes him with memory foam perfection, conforming to his body as he settles against the headboard. No squeaky springs, no lumpy mattress like his old apartment. Just engineered comfort, calibrated to his preferences.

His Nintendo Switch sits on the nightstand. The console powers up with a satisfying chime, its screen casting a blue glow across his bedroom.

Finally, some proper me-time.

The Legend of Zelda: Tears of the Kingdom’s title screen fills the display, all epic music and swirling flames. He’d been eyeing this game for weeks, saving it as a reward for getting through the move.

Taiga adjusts his position, sinking deeper into his pillows as he picks up his last saved spot. His fingers move across the controls, directing Link around the world of Hyrule for some side quests.

The bedroom’s ambient temperature adjusts slightly, the smart thermostat compensating for his lowered activity. Outside, a car passes by, its headlights briefly painting shadows across his ceiling. But inside his room, inside his perfectly controlled space, Taiga focuses solely on the game world unfolding before him.

The game autosaves as Taiga clears his first side quest of the night. Link stands victorious, a satisfying conclusion to his first gaming session in the new house.

His phone buzzes against the nightstand. Without checking the caller ID, Taiga swipes to answer, mind still half-lost in the game’s world.

“Hello?”

“Taiga!” Masaki’s voice blares through the speaker. “How’s the new place? Did you get everything unpacked?”

Shit. Taiga’s stomach clenches. He should have checked the caller ID.

“Dad, it’s almost midnight.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, the pleasant fog of gaming evaporating. “I was about to go to sleep.”

“Already? But we haven’t talked in weeks! The apartment’s so quiet without you.” Masaki’s tone shifts into that familiar wheedling note. “I’ve been working on this new song, and I really need your opinion on the bridge—”

“Not tonight.” Taiga’s jaw tightens. “I’ve got work tomorrow.”

“Just five minutes! You know how much I value your input.” A pause, then: “Actually, I’ve been thinking. Your new place probably has plenty of room, right? Maybe I could—”

“No.” The words shoot out before Masaki can finish. “Absolutely not.”

“But think about it! We could split the bills, and I could use one of the rooms as a studio. It would be just like old times, when you helped with my recordings.”

Old times. Like when Masaki’s “temporary stays” stretched into months. When every surface disappeared under scattered sheet music and empty beer cans. When Taiga’s savings account drained to cover “emergency expenses” that somehow always coincided with new guitar accessories.

“Those times are over.” Taiga’s fingers grip his phone tighter. “I bought this house for myself. To have my own space.”

“You’re being selfish.” Masaki’s voice takes that wounded tone that used to make Taiga cave instantly. “After everything I’ve done—”

“Everything you’ve done?” Heat rises in Taiga’s chest. “You mean like using my rent money for guitar strings? Or telling Shuichiro about my promotion so he could calculate exactly how much more he could squeeze out of me?”

“That’s not fair! Shuichiro was just trying to help—”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“Wait, Taiga—”

Taiga jabs the end call button. His hands shake as he switches his phone to airplane mode. The screen goes dark, his reflection a ghostly outline against the black glass.

A scream builds in his throat, raw and burning. He grabs his pillow, presses it against his face, and lets out a muffled howl of frustration. The sound disappears into the expensive memory foam, leaving only the rapid thud of his heartbeat in his ears.

“Lights off,” he barks.

The room plunges into darkness, his smart home system responding to the anger in his voice.

🏠

The spreadsheet numbers blur together, and Taiga blinks hard, trying to refocus. His third attempt at the engagement metrics reveals the same patterns—users dropping off after the third notification.

There has to be a better way to present this to Matsumoto-buchou.

He rolls his shoulders back, vertebrae popping as he stretches. The office lights feel too bright, and the afternoon slump hits him like a weighted blanket.

“Coffee?” Noel’s voice drifts from the next desk. “You look like you could use some.”

Taiga glances at his empty mug, a ring of dried coffee staining the bottom. “Yeah, probably should.”

They stand, and Taiga’s knees crack in protest. The walk to Minagawa’s desk feels longer than usual, his feet dragging slightly.

“Heading to the break room,” Noel says, and Minagawa waves them off without looking up from his phone, probably lost in another mobile game.

The hallway stretches before them, sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Despite the clear winter sky, the sun hangs low, a reminder of how short the days have become. Taiga’s watch reads 2:48 PM.

“Fair warning,” Noel says as they approach the break room. “The Chaos Trio’s been camped out there for the last twenty minutes. Chaka claims he’s ‘testing user engagement scenarios,’ but I’m pretty sure they’re just trading gossip.”

Taiga’s shoulders tense. “Great.”

Noel’s lips quirk up. “Brave man.”

The sound of laughter echoes from the pantry, Chaka’s distinctive voice rising above the others. Just get in, make coffee, get out, Taiga tells himself. No need to engage.

The pantry doors slide open, revealing the Chaos Trio huddled around their usual spot. Machu perches on a stool while Chaka and Shime lean against the high table, phones in hand. Their laughter cuts off as Taiga and Noel enter.

“Speaking of the devil!” Chaka’s eyes light up. “How was your date with Jesse?”

Damn. Taiga heads straight for the coffee machine, pressing buttons with more force than necessary. “Not a date. Just a business lunch.”

“At that fancy new Italian place?” Shime whistles. “Seems pretty date-like to me.”

The coffee machine whirs to life, and Taiga focuses on the steady drip of dark liquid into his cup. “He wanted to discuss the upcoming commercial shoot. That’s all.”

“But why not meet here?” Machu asks, genuine curiosity in his voice. “We have perfectly good meeting rooms.”

“Jesse offered to buy lunch.” The words taste bitter in Taiga’s mouth. “Couldn’t exactly say no when he’s our biggest endorsement deal this year.”

Noel hums in agreement, coming to stand beside him at the coffee station. “Smart move. Keep the talent happy.”

“Oh, he’s happy alright.” Chaka grins. “Did you see how he practically sprinted to Kyomo’s desk last week? Even though he was supposedly ‘too busy’ for the marketing brief meeting that morning?”

Heat creeps up Taiga’s neck. The coffee machine beeps, and he grabs his cup, avoiding eye contact.

Jesse’s visits have become more frequent lately—stopping by with coffee, asking about Taiga’s weekend plans, finding excuses to lean over his desk. The attention makes Taiga’s skin crawl, reminds him too much of how Shuichiro used to corner him at work before they started dating.

“You should go for it,” Shime says, waggling his eyebrows. “How often do you get the chance to date a celebrity?”

“Not interested.” Taiga adds a splash of milk to his coffee, watching it swirl into cloudy patterns. Dating is the last thing he needs right now, especially with someone as high-maintenance as Jesse. The drama, the public attention, the constant need for validation—he’s had enough of that to last a lifetime.

“But he’s so into you!” Machu protests. “And he seems nice. Unlike…” He trails off, clearly thinking better of mentioning Taiga’s ex-boyfriend.

“Drop it.” Taiga’s voice comes out sharper than intended.

The Chaos Trio exchange glances, and even Noel shifts uncomfortably beside him.

Just tell Jesse directly, a voice in his head suggests. But every time Taiga considers it, he remembers the endorsement contract sitting on Minagawa’s desk. One wrong move, one awkward rejection, and Jesse could walk away—taking their biggest marketing campaign of the year with him.

“Well,” Chaka says, breaking the tension. “At least tell us if the food was good. I’ve been dying to try that place.”

“It was decent. Overpriced for what you get.” Taiga shifts his weight, ready to escape back to his desk, when the pantry door slides open again.

Matsumoto Wakana, head of the Development Team, strides in, Matsumura Hokuto trailing behind her with his laptop. They’re deep in conversation about something technical—fragments of “user interface” and “beta testing” drift across the space.

“And then we could implement the—" Wakana cuts off, noticing the crowd. Her sharp eyes scan the group, lingering on Machu. “Don’t you have that bug fix due by four?”

Machu straightens on his stool. “Almost done with it, buchou.”

“Almost isn’t done.” She raises an eyebrow. “The testing team needs time to review it before the end of day.”

The Chaos Trio exchange glances.

Chaka clears his throat. “We were just heading back anyway.” He grabs his empty cup, nudging Shime with his elbow. “Right?”

“Right, right.” Shime hops off his perch. “Later, Kyomo.”

Taiga watches them file out, Machu throwing an apologetic look over his shoulder. The pantry feels bigger without their energy filling it, though not necessarily quieter—the coffee machine whirs to life as Wakana starts making her drink.

Hokuto moves to stand beside Taiga at the second machine, laptop tucked under one arm. Up close, Taiga notices the shadows under his eyes, the slight wrinkle in his otherwise crisp shirt. Their arms almost brush as Hokuto reaches for a cup.

“Sorry,” Taiga mutters, stepping aside to give him space. The coffee machine counter isn’t particularly wide, and they do this awkward dance of elbows and mugs until Taiga manages to grab the milk.

Hokuto’s lips curve in a small smile. “Thanks.” His voice is soft, barely audible over the machine’s grinding.

Taiga nods, focusing on stirring his coffee rather than the way Hokuto’s presence seems to fill the small space between them. He’s worked with Hokuto for over a year now, but their interactions have always been limited to polite greetings and the occasional project meeting. The development team keeps to themselves mostly, and Hokuto especially seems content with that arrangement.

Noel sidles closer to the window, gesturing for Taiga to follow. The afternoon sun warms their backs as they lean against the sill, keeping a respectful distance from Wakana and Hokuto’s hushed conversation by the coffee machines.

“How’s the new place treating you?” Noel’s voice is low, matching the quiet atmosphere.

Taiga takes a sip of his coffee, letting the bitter warmth spread through him. Of all his coworkers, Noel is the easiest to talk to—no prying questions or excessive enthusiasm like the Chaos Trio, just calm interest and the occasional dry observation.

“It’s peaceful.” When my father isn’t calling, he adds silently. “The smart home setup is working better than expected.”

“No regrets about the location?”

“None. The commute’s reasonable and—”

“I understand the deadline pressure,” Wakana’s voice carries across the pantry, “but we need those features thoroughly tested before—”

“I can’t stay late tonight,” Hokuto interrupts, his usual soft tone firm. “Or this week actually.”

Wakana sighs. “Right, of course. Ema-chan’s preschool schedule. I should have remembered.”

Taiga’s ears prick at the unfamiliar name. He pretends to study his coffee cup as Wakana and Hokuto gather their things and head out, their footsteps fading down the hallway.

That explains it.

Hokuto’s clockwork departures at 5 PM sharp, regardless of project deadlines or team meetings. Taiga had noticed it before—hard not to when everyone else was pulling late hours during crunch time. He vaguely remembers Machu mentioning something about Hokuto having a kid, though he hadn’t paid much attention at the time.

“You’re thinking awfully hard about something,” Noel observes.

“Just…” Taiga swirls his coffee. “Matsumura can’t be much older than us, right? And he already has a kid.”

Noel’s laugh is quiet but genuine. “Now you sound like the Chaos Trio. Should I expect gossip theories next?”

“Shut up.” Heat creeps up Taiga’s neck. “I was just surprised.”

“Anyway, we should head back.” Noel pushes off from the window. “These reports won’t analyze themselves.”

Noel leads the way back, weaving between desks and cubicles. The afternoon sun slants through the windows, casting long shadows across the office floor. Taiga’s mind drifts to the engagement metrics waiting on his screen, already planning which variables to adjust—

“Kyomoto-san!”

Fuck.

Jesse Lewis stands by Taiga’s desk, his million-dollar smile gleaming under the fluorescent lights. He’s dressed casually today—or what passes for casual when you’re the face of multiple luxury brands. The sleeves of his designer hoodie are pushed up to reveal a watch that probably costs more than what Taiga paid for his new house.

Noel shoots Taiga a sympathetic look before retreating to his own desk.

Traitor.

“Hey.” Taiga clutches his coffee cup tighter. “How are you?”

“Missing you already.” Jesse’s eyes sparkle with mischief. “Can’t believe it’s been a whole day since lunch.”

A blush crawls along Taiga’s throat. “Right. Yesterday.” He moves to his desk, hoping the physical barrier will help maintain some professional distance. “I don’t think we have any marketing meetings scheduled today?”

“Oh, no meetings.” Jesse follows, perching on the edge of Taiga’s desk like he belongs there. His cologne—something expensive and woody—drifts between them. “I’m here to see you, actually.”

Of course you are. Taiga takes a long sip of coffee, buying time.

Through the glass walls of Minagawa’s office, he can see his boss watching with undisguised interest. Great. Just what he needs—more office gossip fodder.

“Listen.” Jesse leans in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “There’s this amazing winter exhibit opening at Tokyo Skytree on Friday. Very exclusive, very romantic.” He winks. “I’ve got two tickets, and I’d love for you to join me.”

The invitation hangs in the air between them. Taiga’s stomach twists. Jesse’s attention feels suffocating, like being trapped in an elevator with too much perfume.

“I’m sure you’ve got plenty of celebrity friends who’d enjoy that more than me.”

“But I want to go with you.” Jesse’s smile turns softer, almost vulnerable.

The sincerity in his voice makes it worse somehow. It would be easier if he was just another entitled celebrity throwing his weight around.

Taiga's mind races through his options, each one worse than the last. Declining outright could jeopardize the endorsement deal—Jesse’s the type to take rejection personally. Lying about dating someone would spread through the office faster than a computer virus, and he’s already used every excuse in his calendar.

Jesse shifts closer, his thigh now pressing against Taiga’s mouse pad. The wood of the desk creaks slightly. “Come on, what do you say? I promise it’ll be fun.”

Like a root canal would be fun. Taiga opens his mouth, still unsure what will come out—

“Kyomoto.” Hokuto’s quiet voice cuts through the tension. “Do you have a moment? There’s something I wanted to ask about the user engagement data.”

Taiga’s head snaps up. Hokuto stands a few feet away, laptop tucked under his arm, expression neutral. The fluorescent lights catch the shadows under his eyes.

Jesse straightens, his smile dimming slightly. “Oh, work stuff? I can wait.”

“Actually,” Hokuto says, “it’s rather urgent. The development team needs this information for our next sprint planning.”

Relief floods through Taiga's system. “Right, of course.” He turns to Jesse, trying to keep his voice professional. “Sorry, but this sounds important.”

“No worries, no worries.” Jesse’s laugh is a bit too loud, a bit too forced. He pulls out his phone, tapping quickly. “Here, let me give you my personal number. For the exhibit, you know? Think about it?”

Taiga’s phone buzzes with the incoming contact.

Jesse finally steps away from the desk, his cologne lingering in the air. “I’ll see you around, Kyomoto-san.” His smile returns to its usual wattage. “Nice meeting you...” He trails off, looking at Hokuto expectantly.

“Matsumura.” Hokuto supplies quietly.

“Right, right. Later!” Jesse waves as he heads toward the elevator, several heads turning to watch him go.

Taiga slumps in his chair. “Thanks. You’re a lifesaver.”

Hokuto blinks. “Sorry?”

“For the interruption. Perfect timing.”

“Oh.” Hokuto shifts his weight, adjusting his grip on his laptop. “I actually do need to discuss the engagement metrics. For the new feature rollout?”

Of course he wasn’t trying to help. “Right, yeah. What did you want to know?”

“The drop-off rate after the third notification—is that consistent across all user segments?”

Taiga pulls up the spreadsheet, grateful for the chance to focus on something concrete. Numbers don’t try to ask him out or corner him at his desk. “Let me show you the breakdown.”

As their conversation progresses, Hokuto leans over Taiga’s desk, his brow furrowed as he studies the data on the screen. The warmth of his presence feels oddly intrusive in Taiga’s carefully maintained personal space. Jesse’s cologne still lingers in the air, mixing uncomfortably with the scent of fresh coffee and whatever subtle soap Hokuto uses.

“So if we look at the age demographics”—Taiga points to a specific cell, trying to focus on the task at hand,—“you’ll see the drop-off is most significant in the 35-50 range.”

Hokuto nods, but his fingers drum against his laptop. His eyes keep darting to his watch, the motion subtle but unmistakable. The afternoon sun has shifted, casting longer shadows across their faces.

Taiga glances at his screen: 4:47 PM. Right. The preschool schedule. The conversation from the pantry echoes in his mind—Hokuto’s firm tone when telling Wakana he couldn’t stay late.

“Listen”—Taiga minimizes the spreadsheet—“I can put this data in an email. Make it easier to reference during your sprint planning.”

Relief flashes across Hokuto’s face, quick but unmistakable. “Are you sure? I don’t want to impose.”

“It’s fine.” Taiga waves off the concern. “I need to clean up these numbers anyway before presenting them to Matsumoto-buchou.”

“Thank you.” Hokuto straightens, already reaching for his bag. “I’ll send you some follow-up questions tonight, if that’s okay?”

“Sure, whenever.”

Hokuto returns to his desk with quick, efficient movements. His monitor goes dark, his laptop disappears into his messenger bag, and his desk transforms from organized to pristine in under two minutes. The practiced routine of someone who’s mastered the art of the swift exit.

A chorus of “Good work today!” rises from the development team as Hokuto waves goodbye. He bows slightly, offering quiet thanks before heading to the elevator.

Taiga turns back to his screen, but his eyes keep drifting to the empty desk across the floor.

The coffee in his mug has gone cold.

🏠

The sharp winter wind bites at Hokuto’s cheeks as he hurries down the sidewalk. His breath comes out in visible puffs, matching his rapid footsteps. The setting sun casts long shadows across the pavements, a reminder that he’s cutting it close.

His phone buzzes in his pocket—probably Wakana with more questions about the latest app update.

He ignores it. Work can wait. Ema comes first.

The familiar sight of First Steps Academy’s cheerful exterior comes into view. Hokuto slows his pace, relief washing over him as he spots other parents still collecting their children. Through the lobby windows, warm light spills onto the darkening street.

His muscles relax slightly as he pushes through the entrance, the heated air inside a welcome reprieve. The usual scents of crayons and finger paint greet him, mixed with the lingering aroma of afternoon snacks.

Hokuto approaches Ema’s classroom, his footsteps quieting on the polished floor. He pauses at the doorway, not wanting to interrupt.

Ema sits at a small table, her dark hair falling forward as she concentrates on her coloring book. Her tongue pokes out slightly—a habit she inherited from her mother that makes his heart clench every time he sees it.

Her teacher, Morimoto Shintaro, leans over her shoulder, pointing at something on the page.

“That’s beautiful, Ema-chan! Your butterfly looks so happy.”

“It’s for Papa,” she declares, pressing harder with her purple crayon.

My little artist. Pride and love surge through Hokuto’s chest, nearly overwhelming him. These moments—seeing her lost in creative joy, safe and content—make every rushed meeting and late-night coding session worth it.

“The wings are perfect,” Shintaro says, his enthusiasm genuine. “You’re getting really good at staying inside the lines.”

Hokuto watches as Ema beams at the praise. She’s flourished under Shintaro’s care these past months, growing more confident in her artistic abilities. The young teacher has a natural way with children that Hokuto admires, even if Shintaro’s obvious attempts to engage him in conversation sometimes make him uncomfortable.

The cold from outside still clings to Hokuto’s coat, but he remains in the doorway, savoring this snapshot of his daughter’s day. These precious minutes between work and home feel sacred somehow.

“Look, there’s your papa now!” Shintaro’s voice breaks through Hokuto’s reverie.

Ema’s head snaps up, her face lighting up. “Papa!” She scrambles off her chair, coloring book clutched tightly in her small hands.

Hokuto drops to his knees, bracing for impact as Ema crashes into him. Her small arms wrap around his neck with surprising strength, and the familiar scent of grape juice and crayons envelops him. He pulls her close, savoring the warmth of her tiny body against his chest.

“Ready to go home, princess?” He brushes a strand of hair from her face, noting the smudge of purple crayon on her cheek.

“Wait! I need my backpack.” Ema pulls away, darting back to her table with determined focus.

Shintaro approaches, his ever-present smile somehow both genuine and slightly nervous. “Matsumura-san, do you have a moment?” His voice drops lower, meant just for Hokuto’s ears. “I wanted to update you on Ema-chan’s progress.”

Hokuto nods. He rises, brushing off his knees as he watches Ema carefully pack her crayons into her box.

“She’s doing wonderfully with art activities,” Shintaro continues. “Her fine motor skills have improved significantly, and she’s particularly creative during pretend play. Yesterday, she turned our reading corner into a spaceship.”

Pride swells in Hokuto’s chest. He remembers how Rui used to transform their living room into magical worlds, draping blankets over chairs to make castles and caves.

Shintaro shifts his weight, his cheerful expression faltering slightly. “There was something else... During circle time today, Yuki-chan was talking about making cookies with her mother.”

The words hit Hokuto like a physical blow. His throat tightens.

“Ema-chan got very quiet,” Shintaro says softly. “She didn’t cry or act out—she just sat there, listening. When Yuki-chan asked about her mama...” He trails off, watching Hokuto’s face carefully.

I should have prepared her better for moments like this. Guilt gnaws at Hokuto’s insides. He’s avoided talking about Rui, afraid his own grief would overwhelm him. But his silence has left Ema to navigate these situations alone.

“How did she respond?” His voice comes out rougher than intended.

“She just said, ‘My papa makes really good cookies too,’ and smiled.” Shintaro’s eyes are kind, free of judgment. “She’s remarkably resilient, Matsumura-san. But if you ever need resources about helping children process loss—”

“I’m ready!” Ema announces, her backpack slightly crooked on her shoulders. She brandishes her latest artwork proudly. “Can we hang my butterfly on the fridge?”

Hokuto swallows hard, forcing a smile. “Of course we can, princess.” He reaches for her hand, its smallness in his palm a reminder of everything he needs to protect, everything he might be failing at. “Thank you, Morimoto-sensei. I’ll think about it.”

“The butterfly needs orange too,” Ema declares as they walk down the hallway.

Hokuto kneels by the shoe cubby, helping Ema slip off her indoor shoes. Her sock-clad feet wiggle with impatience as he reaches for her outdoor sneakers.

“Left foot first, princess.” He holds the shoe steady while she balances on one leg, tongue poking out in concentration.

"You know what happened today, Papa? Yuki-chan’s robot crashed into mine, but it was okay because we built a hospital.” Ema chatters as Hokuto helps her into her puffy winter coat. Her arms disappear into the sleeves, and she giggles when he pretends to search for her hands.

The zipper catches halfway up. Hokuto gently works it free, noting how the coat is getting snug. She’s growing so fast. Each milestone, each tiny change, feels like something precious he should be sharing with someone.

“Papa, are you listening?” Ema tugs at his sleeve.

“Of course.” He secures her scarf, making sure it covers her neck. “You and Yuki-chan were playing robots.”

“And then we had circle time,” she continues, but her voice drops slightly. Her eyes drift to the floor, small fingers fidgeting with the hem of her coat.

Hokuto’s heart clenches. He waits, giving her space to continue, but she’s already moving on to describing the afternoon snack—apple slices cut into star shapes.

The cold air hits them as they step outside. Ema’s hand finds his, warm and trusting. Street lights flicker on, casting pools of yellow light on the darkening sidewalk.

“Can we have curry for dinner?” Ema swings their joined hands, her earlier quietness masked by renewed energy.

“We had curry yesterday,” Hokuto reminds her, though he’d probably give her curry every night if she asked. The way her face lights up at her favorite meal—it’s another echo of Rui he can’t resist.

Should I ask about circle time? But what would he say? How can he explain something he barely understands himself? Some days, the loss feels raw enough to steal his breath.

Ema hops over a crack in the sidewalk, tugging him along. “But curry is the best! Mama said—” She stops abruptly, her small body tensing.

Hokuto’s steps falter. The memory hangs between them, fragile as frost. “What did Mama say?” His voice comes out gentler than he expects.

Ema’s grip on his hand tightens. “I don’t remember,” she whispers, but the slight quiver in her lip suggests otherwise.

Take up Morimoto-sensei’s offer, a voice in his head urges. She needs more than your silence. But the thought of sitting in an office, discussing Rui with a stranger while maintaining his composure—it seems impossible.

They pass a convenience store, its bright lights spilling onto the street. Ema’s reflection in the window shows her usual smile, but something in her eyes reminds him of how she probably looked during circle time. Lost. Uncertain.

She shouldn’t have to carry this alone, he thinks.

Neither should you, another voice whispers, sounding suspiciously like Rui’s.

“How about omurice?” Hokuto squeezes Ema’s hand gently. “We can draw a face with ketchup.”

Her eyes widen. “With a smiley face?”

“Any face you want.” The memory of their last attempt at omurice surfaces—Ema had insisted on giving it cat whiskers, and they’d spent ten minutes perfecting the curves with ketchup.

The grocery store’s automatic doors slide open as they approach. Warm air and the scent of fried foods wash over them. Ema bounces on her toes, already eyeing the colorful displays.

“We need eggs,” Hokuto says, mentally cataloging their kitchen supplies. “And I think we’re low on rice.”

“Can I hold the basket?” Ema releases his hand, reaching for a small shopping basket with determination.

He helps her grip it properly. “Remember what we said about basket duty?”

“Walk slowly and tell Papa if it gets too heavy.” She recites the rules with pride, taking careful steps toward the produce section.

The fluorescent lights cast a harsh glow over the vegetables. Hokuto selects a few onions, noting how Ema mirrors his movements, studying each item with exaggerated seriousness.

“These ones look good?” She points to a bundle of carrots.

“Perfect choice.” He adds them to her basket, watching her adjust her grip. Her face scrunches with concentration, reminding him of how she looks when working on a particularly challenging puzzle.

They move through the aisles methodically. Ema insists on counting the eggs before they place them in the basket, her finger tapping each one through the clear plastic.

“One, two, three…”

A display of chocolate catches her eye. Her steps are slow, but she doesn’t ask.

Something in her restraint makes his chest ache. She’s too young to be this mindful of boundaries.

“Would you like to pick out a treat?”

Her face brightens. “Really?”

“You were very helpful with your basket duties.” He watches as she carefully sets the basket down, her excitement barely contained as she examines the candy selection.

A young mother passes by with her cart, her own daughter trailing behind. Their casual chatter about dinner plans and homework feels like a glimpse into another world—one where such conversations flow naturally, unmarked by careful silences.

“Papa, look!” Ema holds up a package of animal-shaped chocolates. “They’re like the ones from the zoo!”

“Would you like those?” Hokuto gestures to the animal chocolates in Ema’s hands.

The way her eyes light up at his question makes his heart swell. “Yes, please!” She bounces on her toes, already moving to place them in the basket with exaggerated care.

Hokuto watches her arrange the items, making sure nothing crushes the eggs. Such a thoughtful child. Sometimes her maturity catches him off guard, making him wonder if he’s pushed her to grow up too fast.

They wind through the remaining aisles, Ema pointing out items with increasing enthusiasm. Her earlier melancholy seems forgotten, though Hokuto knows better. Like him, she’s learned to tuck away harder feelings, masking them with smiles and distractions.

At the checkout line, Ema stands close to his leg, one hand gripping his pants while the other clutches her prized chocolates. The fluorescent lights cast shadows under her eyes, reminding him how late it’s getting.

The cashier starts scanning their items. Hokuto notices how Ema’s gaze follows each beep, her head nodding slightly as if keeping count.

Just like her mother, he thinks. Rui used to do the same thing, tracking expenses with unconscious precision.

“Your daughter is so well-behaved,” the elderly cashier comments, smiling warmly at Ema.

Pride mingles with a familiar ache in Hokuto’s chest. He places a hand on Ema’s head, feeling the soft strands of her hair beneath his palm. “Thank you. She’s my best helper.”

Ema preens at the praise, standing a little straighter.

The total appears on the display, and Hokuto pulls out his wallet, trying not to wince at the amount. Groceries keep getting more expensive, but he’d rather skip lunch at work than see Ema go without her favorite foods.

“Ready to go home?” He gathers the bags in one hand, reaching for Ema with the other.

Her small fingers intertwine with his. “Can we eat the chocolates after dinner?”

“One piece after you finish your omurice.” He squeezes her hand gently as they step into the cold evening air.

They walk home together, Ema swinging their joined hands, chattering about which animal-shaped chocolate she wants to try first.

🏠

“We’re home!” Ema’s voice rings through the apartment as she slips off her shoes, placing them neatly in the small, pink shoe rack by the door. Her movements are precise, each shoe aligned just so—a ritual she’s perfected over countless afternoons.

Hokuto follows, his arms laden with grocery bags. The familiar scent of their apartment—a mix of fresh laundry and the lavender air freshener Rui always loved—wraps around him. He watches as Ema pads across the living room in her bunny socks, making a beeline for the small altar in the corner.

“Mama!” She kneels in front of the framed photographed. “Today at school, we learned about butterflies. Did you know they drink with their feet?”

The photograph shows Rui in profile, her head turned slightly toward the camera, that gentle half-smile playing on her lips. It was taken during their last summer together, before the doctors found—

Hokuto forces the thought away, moving to set the grocery bags on the kitchen island. The plastic handles have left red marks on his palms, but he barely notices. Ema’s voice carries from the living room, filling the space with animated descriptions of her day.

“And then during snack time, Yuki-chan shared her strawberries with me. They were really sweet!” She rocks back on her heels, hands clasped in her lap. “Oh, and Papa bought chocolate! Animal shapes, just like at the zoo. Remember when we saw the penguins?”

The ache in Hokuto’s chest deepens. Ema had been barely three during that zoo visit, yet somehow, she speaks about it as if it happened yesterday. He wonders how much she actually remembers and how much comes from the stories he’s told her, trying to keep Rui alive in their daily lives.

He moves toward the altar, his sock-clad feet silent on the wooden floor. The incense holder still bears traces of this morning’s offering—a habit he can’t bring himself to break, even on the busiest days.

“Hi,” he says softly, standing behind Ema.

In the photograph, Rui’s eyes seem to meet his, full of warmth and understanding.

I’m doing my best, he wants to tell her. But some days, I wonder if it’s enough.

Ema leans back against his legs, still chattering about her day. “And Mori-sensei said my drawing was really good! I made a family of cats. The mama cat had spots, just like that cat we saw last week, Papa!”

Hokuto gives the photograph one last glance before squeezing Ema’s shoulder. “Time to make dinner, princess.”

“Can I help?” Ema bounces up, her bunny socks sliding a bit on the wooden floor. “Please, Papa?”

He reaches for the blue step stool tucked beside the refrigerator—the one Rui had insisted on buying when Ema first showed interest in cooking. “Of course. But remember our kitchen rules?”

“No touching knives or hot things!” Ema recites, climbing onto the stool. Her small hands grip the counter’s edge as she watches him gather ingredients.

Hokuto sets a bag of carrots next to her. “Perfect. Can you wash these for me?”

“My favorite!” She accepts the vegetables with careful hands, exactly the way he taught her. Water splashes against the sink as she works, humming a tune he recognizes from her preschool songs.

He begins chopping onions, the rhythmic sound of his knife against the cutting board mixing with Ema’s melody. The routine soothes him—these quiet moments when they work together, just the two of them.

“Papa?” Ema’s voice pipes up over the running water. “Mori-sensei said we’re having a Christmas party at school.”

“Oh?” He pauses mid-chop. “When is it?”

“Next week! Everyone’s bringing something.” She holds up a dripping carrot for his inspection. “Is this clean enough?”

He leans over to check. “Perfect job, princess. When exactly is the party? I’ll need to ask my boss about taking time off.”

“December 20! Mori-sensei said parents can come.” She moves on to the next carrot, her tongue poking out in concentration. “Yuki-chan’s mama is bringing cupcakes.”

Another event to juggle, Hokuto thinks, but he pushes the stress aside. These moments matter—he knows how much Ema lights up when he attends school functions. “Would you like to bring something special too?”

“Can we?” Her eyes widen in excitement.

“How about cookies?” He suggests, remembering how Rui used to let Ema help with the decorating, never minding the mess. “We could bake them together.”

“Yes!” Ema nearly drops the carrot with her enthusiasm. “Can we make Christmas trees? And stars? And—and reindeers?”

“We have those cookie cutters somewhere,” he says, though he's not entirely sure. They haven’t used them since... He swallows hard. “We can make whatever shapes you want.”

“And sprinkles?” She gives him her best pleading look, the one that reminds him so much of Rui it makes his chest tight.

“And sprinkles,” he agrees, turning back to the onions. His eyes sting, and he tells himself it’s just the vegetables. “But first, let’s focus on dinner. Are those carrots ready?”

Ema holds out the dripping carrots, beaming with pride. “All clean!”

Hokuto accepts them with a nod, arranging them on the cutting board. The familiar motion of chopping grounds him—precise squares, each one uniform.

“Now for the fun part,” he says. “Can you wash the peas and get the chicken from yesterday?”

“The green ones in the bag?” Ema stretches on her tiptoes, pointing to the refrigerator shelf.

“That’s right.” He watches her carefully maneuver the containers, her small face scrunched in concentration.

The knife moves steadily through the carrots while Ema rinses the peas in her special colander—the one with tiny rabbits etched around the rim. She hums softly, swaying on her step stool.

“Ready!” She presents the bowl of peas and the container of chicken-like treasures.

Hokuto heats the pan, letting the familiar sizzle of oil fill the kitchen. The onions go in first, their sharp scent making his eyes water. He adds the chicken, stirring as the pieces turn golden brown.

“Is it magic time?” Ema asks, bouncing on her heels.

He reaches for the ketchup. “Almost.” The red sauce hits the pan with a satisfying hiss. The sweet-tangy aroma rises, mixing with the savory notes of chicken and onion.

Ema presses close to his side, watching the transformation. Her eyes widen as the sauce bubbles and caramelizes around the edges. “It’s dancing!”

He lets the moisture cook off, stirring occasionally. The rhythmic scrape of the spatula against the pan mingles with Ema’s quiet humming. These moments in the kitchen feel sacred somehow—just the two of them, creating something together.

When the sauce thickens just right, he adds the steamed rice. The grains separate and coat with sauce, turning a warm golden-red. Each fold of the spatula reveals new colors, like autumn leaves catching sunlight.

“Look how pretty!” Ema stands on her tiptoes, hands gripping the counter’s edge.

Hokuto steps back, letting the rice rest. Steam curls up from the pan. He glances down at Ema, taking in her rapt expression, the way her eyes follow every movement of his hands.

Her wonder makes even this simple meal feel special. Like he’s performing magic instead of just making dinner. It’s moments like these when he feels most capable as a father—when he can create something that brings such joy to her face.

 “Would you like to help me with the eggs?” Hokuto asks, reaching for the carton in the refrigerator.

“Yes!” Ema bounces on her step stool, nearly tipping it over.

He steadies her with one hand. “Careful, princess.”

“Sorry, Papa!” She grips the counter’s edge, finding her center.

Hokuto sets two brown eggs on the counter. “Watch first.” He demonstrates, tapping one egg against the edge of a small bowl with precise pressure. The shell cracks in a clean line. “Not too hard, not too soft. Like this.” His fingers separate the halves, letting the yolk and white slide into the bowl.

Ema’s eyes widen with concentration. She picks up the second egg, her small fingers wrapping around it carefully. The first tap is too gentle—barely a whisper against the bowl’s rim.

“A little harder,” he encourages. “Remember how I did it?”

She tries again. The shell cracks, jagged but workable. Her tongue pokes out as she attempts to pull it apart.

“Here.” Hokuto guides her hands, showing her how to use her thumbs.

The egg splits, contents dropping into the bowl. A few pieces of shell follow.

“I did it!” She beams up at him.

“You did great.” He hands her a pair of chopsticks. “Now we need to fish out those shell pieces.”

Ema leans over the bowl, wielding the chopsticks like tiny tongs. Her determination reminds him of how she approaches her coloring books—each stroke deliberate, careful.

“Now for the fun part.” He passes her a whisk. “Beat them until they’re all mixed together.”

She attacks the task with enthusiasm, yellow and white swirling together. Bits of egg splash onto the counter, but Hokuto doesn’t mind. These messes are worth the joy on her face.

“Salt and pepper?” she asks, already reaching for the shakers.

“Just a pinch.” He watches as she adds the seasonings with surprising restraint. He holds a fine-mesh strainer over a clear bowl. “Pour it through here, nice and slow.”

Ema tilts the bowl, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. The egg mixture streams through the mesh, leaving behind any remaining bits of shell or chalazae.

“Thank you for being such a good helper.” He ruffles her hair, earning a giggle.

The butter melts in the frying pan with a soft sizzle. Hokuto pours in the strained eggs, keeping the heat low. His chopsticks move in small, constant circles, breaking up the curds as they form.

“It’s like magic!” Ema watches, transfixed, as he shakes the pan gently.

The eggs begin to set, forming delicate, creamy folds. Steam rises with the rich scent of butter and salt. Hokuto continues stirring, muscle memory guiding his movements.

“Can I set the table?” Ema slides off her step stool, already heading for the cabinet where they keep the plates.

Hokuto’s heart skips. “Be careful with—”

“I know, Papa. No dropping!” She climbs her pink mini-ladder by the cabinet, the one they bought specifically for helping around the kitchen. Her movements are deliberate as she takes out two plates, holding them close to her chest.

He keeps one eye on her while working the eggs, his chopsticks creating gentle ripples in the custard-like surface. When the center still glistens with moisture, he scoops a generous portion of the golden-red rice onto one side. The weight of it creates a natural fold in the eggs.

Hokuto moves the pan to a damp kitchen towel, letting the residual heat finish cooking the eggs. With practiced motions, he guides the edges of the omelet over the rice, shaping it into a perfect oval. The surface gleams like silk, promising the creamy texture he knows Ema loves.

“Plates ready!” Ema announces from the table.

He nods, carefully inverting the first omurice onto a plate. A quick adjustment with a paper towel smooths any imperfections. The second one follows, just as golden and plump as the first.

The familiar weight of the plates in his hands grounds him as he carries them to the table. Ema bounces in her chair, eyes bright with anticipation. He hands her the ketchup bottle, remembering how Rui used to help steady her tiny hands as she squeezed out wobbly designs.

“Look, Papa!” Ema draws a heart, then adds what might be a star—or possibly a cat—beside it. Her tongue pokes out as she works.

Hokuto takes his turn with the ketchup, drawing a simple spiral on his omurice.

His eyes drift to the empty chair across from him. Rui would sit there, somehow managing to eat her own dinner while helping a much younger Ema navigate her spoon. She’d laugh when more food ended up on their daughter’s bib than in her mouth, saying it was all part of the learning process.

“Papa, you’re not eating,” Ema points out, her own spoon already halfway to her mouth.

He blinks, focusing on the steam rising from his plate. “Just waiting for it to cool a bit, princess.”

The first bite melts on his tongue—soft eggs wrapping around the savory-sweet rice. Across the table, Ema hums happily, her ketchup art already half-destroyed by her enthusiastic eating.

The weight of Rui’s absence settles around them like dust. Hokuto watches Ema scoop up another bite, her movements growing more controlled with each passing month. She’s learning, just as Rui said she would.

His own plate sits half-finished, the spiral of ketchup now an abstract pattern. The familiar tightness creeps into his chest—the one that comes when memories of Rui overlap with their present moments.

“Can I have milk?” Ema pushes her empty plate forward.

He nods, grateful for the distraction. “Good job finishing everything.”

The refrigerator light casts long shadows across the kitchen floor. Hokuto pours the milk carefully, making sure not to fill it too high. Ema’s been adamant about carrying her own cup lately.

“Thank you." She wraps both hands around the cup, just like he taught her.

The kitchen feels smaller somehow, more confined than usual. Bills are piling up on the counter—rent, utilities, Ema’s preschool tuition. His salary at EaseWorks covers the essentials, but the rising costs in Tokyo keep him awake at night.

“Papa, look!” Ema holds up her empty cup, a white mustache decorating her upper lip.

He manages a smile. “Very stylish.”

Her giggles echo off the walls as she wipes her mouth with her sleeve. The sound should lift his spirits, but tonight it only emphasizes the hollow spaces in their home—spaces where Rui’s laughter used to be.

“Bath time?” Ema’s already sliding off her chair.

“Let’s clean up first.” He starts gathering the plates, muscle memory taking over. Rui would dry while he washed, turning even this simple chore into a moment of connection.

Now the dish rack fills up in silence, save for the gentle splash of water and Ema’s quiet humming.

The clock on the microwave blinks 7:43.

Another evening routine nearly complete, another day managed.

But the knot in his stomach grows tighter. Something has to change—he just doesn’t know what, or how.

🏠

Steam rises from the sink as Hokuto scrubs the last bowl, his fingers pruned from the water. The motions are automatic, letting his mind drift to the looming work deadline.

Soft footsteps pad behind him. The scent of strawberry shampoo wafts through the air as Ema emerges from the bathroom, her damp hair curling at the edges. She’s wearing her favorite bunny pajamas—the ones with a tiny hole in the sleeve that he keeps meaning to mend.

“Ready for bed?” He dries his hands on a dish towel, noting the dark circles under his eyes in the kitchen window’s reflection.

“Mm-hmm.” She raises her arms, a silent request to be carried.

Hokuto scoops her up, her warm weight settling against his chest. The familiar path to their bedroom feels longer tonight, his muscles heavy with exhaustion. Their futons lie rolled in the corner, waiting to transform the space from day to night.

Together, they unfold the bedding. Ema “helps” by spreading her stuffed animals across her pillow—Mr. Bunny, her constant companion, claims the prime spot near her head.

“Papa?” She crawls under the covers, eyes wide and questioning. “Are you going to sleep too?”

Hokuto tucks the blanket around her shoulders, smoothing out invisible wrinkles. “Not yet, sweetheart. I need to finish some work first.”

“But you’re always so sleepy in the morning.” Her small hand reaches up to touch the dark shadows under his eyes. “Like a sleepy panda.”

Like mother, like daughter, he thinks, remembering how Rui used to say the same thing. “I’ll try not to stay up too late.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” He leans down to kiss her forehead, breathing in the sweet scent of her shampoo. Her hair is still slightly damp, and he makes a mental note to blow-dry it properly tomorrow.

“Night-night, Papa.” She burrows deeper into her blanket, clutching Mr. Bunny close.

Hokuto rises, his knees protesting the movement. He flicks off the light, leaving only the soft glow of her nightlight casting star patterns across the ceiling. The door closes with a gentle click.

The living room awaits, his laptop sitting on the low table like a silent accusation. Just a few more hours, he tells himself, even as his body yearns for rest.

The laptop’s glow bathes Hokuto's face in a harsh blue light as he settles onto the cushion. His joints ache from sitting cross-legged on the low table, but moving to the bedroom might wake Ema. The familiar ping of new emails fills the quiet room.

He scrolls through the Development Team’s latest updates, his stomach tightening at the mounting tasks. The current build needs testing, and Machu’s comments suggest several critical bugs require immediate attention.

A message from Wakana stands out—another gentle reminder about Monday’s early meeting.

At least I can work from here, he thinks, remembering the tense negotiations with HR six months ago. The conversation replays in his mind: explaining his situation, the careful way he’d emphasized his commitment while requesting flexibility. Their faces had been understanding but hesitant, corporate policies warring with compassion.

Wakana had stepped in then, her voice steady as she vouched for his capabilities. “Matsumura’s one of our strongest developers. We can make this work.”

But even her support couldn’t completely mask the strain it put on the team’s dynamics.

He opens another email from Machu, detailing the latest bug report. Between the lines of technical jargon, Hokuto reads the unspoken frustration.

“When you have a chance” really means “We needed this yesterday.” The timestamp shows Machu’s still at the office, along with half the team.

His fingers hover over the keyboard as he crafts his response. Each word feels inadequate—too apologetic, too defensive, or not professional enough. The backspace key gets more use than any other as he rewrites, trying to strike the right balance.

A message from Shime pops up, asking if he can join tomorrow’s debug session. The casual “No pressure if you can’t make it” carries the weight of accumulated absences.

Hokuto’s stomach churns as he remembers the last time he’d missed a crucial meeting because Ema had a fever.

His colleagues never complain directly. They smile and nod when he explains his situation, their words supportive even as their eyes betray their thoughts.

“Of course, family comes first,” they say, while silently calculating how his schedule affects their deadlines.

Wakana’s faith in him feels heavier with each passing day. She’d fought for this arrangement, put her reputation on the line. The least he can do is prove her right, even if it means pushing through exhaustion.

The code on his screen blurs slightly. Hokuto blinks hard, forcing his eyes to focus. The bug tracker shows three critical issues assigned to him, all marked high priority. He should have tackled them hours ago, when his mind was sharper.

Another email arrives—this time from HR, requesting his monthly schedule adjustment form. The template feels like a puzzle he can never quite solve, trying to fit his parental duties into neat little boxes marked “work hours” and “personal time.”

His shoulders tense as he types, the quiet clicking of keys punctuated by occasional sighs. The living room feels smaller somehow, the walls pressing in with expectations he’s not sure he can meet.

A photo of Ema sits on the shelf, her smile bright and unworried. This is why, he reminds himself, all of this is for her.

A soft glow from Rui's memorial photo catches his eye. Her gentle smile, frozen in time, seems to watch over them both. The black frame stands pristine—he’d wiped it clean just this morning, the same way he does every day.

“Did I make a mistake?” His whisper barely disturbs the quiet room. “Taking all of this on myself?”

The photo offers no answer, just that same serene expression that used to calm his worries. Now it only amplifies the doubts crowding his mind.

His mother’s words echo in his thoughts: “Let us help raise Ema. You can focus on your career, visit on weekends.” The offer had come with tears and good intentions, their family home in Shizuoka ready to welcome its youngest member.

Rui’s parents had made similar pleas. Their house in Niigata sits empty most days, waiting for grandchildren’s laughter to fill its rooms. “She’d have so much space here,” they’d said. “The fresh air would do her good.”

Hokuto's chest tightens at the memory of those conversations. Each suggestion had felt like a knife twisting deeper. The thought of Ema’s empty bedroom, of coming home to silence instead of her chattering voice—it makes his hands tremble on the keyboard.

He minimizes his work emails, pulling up the train schedule instead. The times blur together: two hours to Shizuoka, three and a half to Niigata. Weekly visits would eat up his weekends. Monthly ones would mean too much time apart.

What if she forgets my face? The thought slices through him.

From the bedroom, he hears Ema’s soft breathing through the thin walls. The sound grounds him, reminds him why he chose this path. Every morning when she crawls into his futon, every time she reaches for his hand—these moments are worth more than any amount of sleep or career advancement.

His eyes drift back to Rui’s photo. She’d been so certain about everything, even at the end. “She needs you,” she’d whispered in the hospital, her hand weak in his. “More than anyone else.”

The memory of those final days hits him like a physical weight. The sterile hospital room, the steady beep of monitors, Ema too young to understand why Mama wasn’t coming home. He’d made his choice then, holding their daughter close as Rui’s hand grew cold.

His parents mean well. So do Rui’s. But they don’t understand that being Ema’s father isn’t a part-time role he can schedule around convenience. It’s in the small moments—kissing scraped knees, celebrating wobbly artwork, chasing away nightmares with silly songs.

Hokuto glances at his cluttered calendar, at the impossible juggling act of meetings and preschool pickups. His body aches for rest, for an easier path.

But the thought of Ema growing up without him there to witness every triumph and tear—it’s unbearable.

“I can’t let her go,” he tells Rui’s smiling face. “Even if it means doing everything wrong, even if I’m not enough—I have to try.”

An unread email catches his eye—Kyomoto Taiga from Marketing, sent last Monday. Hokuto’s finger hovers over the trackpad, remembering their brief interaction last Monday.

He’d approached Taiga’s desk, his questions about the report ready. Jesse, their brand ambassador, had been there, leaning against Taiga’s desk with that movie-star smile of his. Taiga’s shoulders were tense, and his responses clipped as Jesse asked him about something that Hokuto couldn’t catch.

When they were discussing the report, Hokuto was conscious of the time ticking away. Ema’s preschool pickup window loomed, and he wanted to leave the office on time.

Taiga’s offer to email him the data had surprised him. Most colleagues didn’t notice—or chose not to notice—his constant race against the clock. But Taiga had picked up on his restlessness, offered a solution without making it feel like charity.

Hokuto opens the email now, scanning Taiga’s precise bullet points. Each section is clear, methodical—no wasted words or unnecessary flourishes. It’s refreshing, especially compared to the rambling messages that fill his inbox.

We barely speak, he thinks, scrolling through Taiga’s careful analysis. Their interactions are limited to polite nods in the hallway, brief exchanges about deadlines and data.

Yet something about that moment at Taiga's desk lingers in his mind—the quiet efficiency, the lack of judgment.

The cursor blinks at the bottom of the email. Hokuto should have sent a thank-you reply days ago, but time slips through his fingers like water lately. Between Ema’s needs and work demands, basic courtesies often fall by the wayside.

His fingers type out “Thank you for” before pausing. The words feel inadequate, too formal for the consideration Taiga showed. But anything more might seem presumptuous. They’re not friends, after all. Just coworkers who occasionally orbit each other’s spaces.

The draft sits unfinished as Hokuto’s mind drifts to Taiga's desk, to the way he’d seemed almost grateful for the interruption. Jesse’s attention, while coveted by many in the office, had clearly made him uncomfortable. Yet Taiga had maintained his composure, his responses measured and professional.

He’s good at maintaining boundaries, Hokuto realizes. Unlike himself, constantly torn between roles, always feeling like he’s failing at one or the other. Taiga seems to navigate his space with precision, keeping the chaos at arm’s length.

The laptop screen dims, reminding Hokuto of the late hour. He should finish this email, tackle the bug reports, prepare for meetings. Instead, he finds himself wondering about Taiga’s carefully ordered world, about what it might be like to have that kind of control over one’s environment.

Suddenly, a sharp, acrid smell cuts through Hokuto’s thoughts. His nostrils flare.

Smoke. Not cigarette smoke or cooking smoke, but something more sinister.

He rises from the cushion, laptop forgotten. The scent grows stronger as he moves toward the front door. His heart pounds against his ribs as he slides the door open, peering into the dimly lit hallway.

Gray wisps curl from beneath the door of apartment 403, three units down. The smoke detector’s shrill beep pierces the silence.

Ema.

His body moves before his mind can catch up, rushing back inside. The familiar layout of their small apartment becomes a maze of obstacles as adrenaline floods his system.

“Ema, wake up.” He kneels beside her futon, gently shaking her shoulder. Her eyes flutter open, confusion clouding her features. “We need to go outside for a bit.”

She clutches Mr. Bunny closer. “Why?”

“There’s a fire drill.” The lie tastes bitter, but panic won’t help either of them. He wraps her in the blanket, lifting her into his arms. “Let’s take some things with us, just in case.”

His mind races through their belongings. What matters most? What can't be replaced?

The memorial photo of Rui goes into his backpack first, followed by their passports and important documents from the kitchen drawer. Ema’s baby album. His laptop. All their photos. Her favorite stuffed animals.

“Papa?” Ema’s voice trembles slightly.

The alarm’s wailing grows louder, and smoke seeps under their front door.

“It’s okay, princess.” He keeps his voice steady as he grabs her preschool bag, shoving in a change of clothes. “We’re going on a little adventure.”

The hallway fills with voices now—neighbors emerging. Hokuto holds Ema closer, her face pressed against his shoulder to shield her from the thickening smoke.

He takes one last look at their apartment. The dishes in the drying rank. The unfolded laundry. Rui’s old music box on the shelf. All the small pieces of their life together, suddenly precious and precarious.

Please, he thinks, stepping into the smoky hallway, let us have a home to come back to.

🏠

Taiga adjusts his silk shirt for the tenth time, frowning at his reflection in the office bathroom mirror. Too fancy for work. But changing now would mean going home, and he’d rather get this over with. His fingers trace the delicate collar, smooth and cool against his skin.

His phone buzzes. Another message from Jesse: “Can’t wait to show you the winter exhibit! You’ll love it 😊”

Taiga’s stomach churns. The stream of messages hasn’t stopped since he added Jesse to his contacts, the past ones enthusiastic, peppered with emojis and exclamation marks that make Taiga’s head hurt.

“Looking good, Kyomo!”

Taiga jumps at Chaka’s voice. In the mirror’s reflection, he catches the customer service rep’s knowing grin. “Don’t you have calls to answer?” He smooths his shirt again, hoping the flush in his cheeks isn’t visible.

“Break time. So… got a hot date?”

“No.” The denial comes too quick, too sharp.

“That shirt says otherwise.” Chaka leans against the sink, crossing his arms. “Come on, spill. Is it with our charming celebrity endorser?”

Taiga checks his watch. Jesse should be picking him up soon. “Don’t you have better things to do than interrogate me about my personal life?”

“Nope!” Chaka’s grin widens. “The whole office has been taking bets on when you’d finally cave to Jesse’s advances.”

Great. More office gossip. “It’s just one date. To get him to stop asking.”

“Sure, sure.” Chaka pushes off from the sink. “That’s why you’re wearing a fancy shirt and checking your reflection.”

“Look,” Taiga says, “it’s not a big deal. He’ll realize I’m boring, and that’ll be the end of it.”

“Boring? You?” Chaka laughs. “Trust me. Jesse knows exactly what he’s getting into.”

Does he? Taiga thinks of Jesse’s bright smiles and endless energy. The way he lights up every room he enters. The persistent charm that wore down Taiga’s defenses until he found himself typing “okay, one date” at 2 AM.

Taiga checks his reflection one last time. The silk shirt shimmers under the fluorescent lights, making him look softer than he feels. He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up slightly.

Better. Less try-hard.

His phone shows 6:55 PM. Jesse will be waiting in the lobby, probably with that movie-star smile and another enthusiastic greeting.

Taiga’s stomach tightens. Just get through tonight, he tells himself. One date, and then things can go back to normal.

“Have fun!” Chaka calls after him as he heads for the door. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

“That leaves a terrifyingly wide range of possibilities,” Taiga mutters, but he’s already walking toward the elevator, each step bringing him closer to what promises to be either the most awkward or most exhausting evening of his life.

🏠

The EaseWorks lobby gleams with polished marble and soft lighting, but Jesse’s smile outshines it all. He stands beneath his own larger-than-life image—the new billboard featuring him demonstrating the app’s meal planning feature. The juxtaposition of real and photographed Jesse makes Taiga’s head spin.

Like one isn’t enough.

“Kyomoto-san!” Jesse’s face lights up, and several heads turn their way. A group of office workers whisper and point, phones already out. “You look... wow. That shirt is incredible.”

Heat creeps up Taiga’s neck. He focuses on a spot just past Jesse’s shoulder, avoiding both the attention of onlookers and the intensity of Jesse’s gaze. The silk suddenly feels too tight, too conspicuous.

“Thanks,” Taiga manages, shoving his hands in his pockets. More people are staring now, probably wondering why Japan’s rising star is grinning at a random marketing analyst like he’s discovered buried treasure.

Jesse doesn’t seem to notice—or mind—the attention. “Shall we?” He gestures toward the entrance with a flourish that belongs in a period drama. “Our chariot awaits.”

Chariot? Taiga follows Jesse outside, where a sleek black car idles at the curb. A uniformed chauffeur stands at attention beside it.

“I thought you were driving,” he says before he can stop himself.

Jesse’s laugh rings out, drawing more stares from passersby. “Ah, about that. I never got around to getting my license. Too busy with shoots and endorsements.” He says it casually, like forgetting to pick up dry cleaning. “After you.”

The chauffeur opens the door, and Jesse guides Taiga forward with a gentle hand on his back. The touch, though brief, sends an unexpected shiver down Taiga’s spine.

This is surreal, Taiga thinks as he slides into the leather interior. The car smells of pine and expensive cologne—Jesse’s signature scent from his recent perfume campaign. What am I doing here?

Jesse slides in beside him, his thigh brushing against Taiga’s. The contact sends another unwanted shiver through Taiga’s body. The car purrs to life, and they merge into Tokyo’s evening traffic.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I made some special arrangements at the exhibit.” Jesse’s eyes dance with excitement. “They’re setting up a private viewing and dining area for us.”

Of course he did. Taiga shifts in his seat, putting an inch more space between them. “That wasn’t necessary.”

“I wanted tonight to be perfect.” Jesse’s hand moves toward Taiga’s but stops midway, settling on the leather between them instead. “You’ve been so hard to convince.”

Taiga watches the city lights blur past his window. The silence stretches, filled only by the soft lo-fi music playing through the car’s speakers. He should say something—thank Jesse for the effort, maybe—but the words stick in his throat.

His phone vibrates. Another message from Chaka: “Details tomorrow or you’re buying lunch for a week!”

“Everything okay?” Jesse leans closer, his cologne wrapping around Taiga like an expensive fog.

“Just work stuff.” Taiga pockets his phone, trying not to think about tomorrow’s inevitable interrogation. The whole office will want to know how their resident ice prince ended up in a chauffeured car with EaseWorks’ golden boy.

The Tokyo Skytree looms ahead, its illuminated form piercing the night sky. Projected snowflakes dance across its surface, transforming the tower into a glittering ice sculpture. Under different circumstances, Taiga might have appreciated the view.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Jesse’s voice drops lower, more intimate. “Wait until you see it up close.”

The car pulls into a private entrance, away from the crowds lined up at the main gate. A staff member in a crisp uniform hurries to open their door. Jesse steps out first, extending his hand to Taiga with that movie-star smile.

This isn’t a fairy tale, Taiga wants to say. Instead, he ignores the offered hand and exits on his own, straightening his silk shirt.

“The staff will escort us to our private viewing area.” Jesse gestures to the staff member, unfazed by Taiga’s rejection. “I requested something special for dinner too.”

The employee leads them through a service entrance, past curious looks from other staff members. Taiga’s skin prickles with each stare. He focuses on the sound of their footsteps echoing through the corridor, trying to ground himself in something familiar.

The elevator ride feels endless. Jesse fills the silence with stories about his recent commercial shoot, his energy seemingly inexhaustible. Taiga nods at appropriate intervals, watching the floor numbers tick upward.

“And here we are!” Jesse announces as the doors open to a transformed observation deck.

Taiga’s breath catches despite himself. The space has been transformed into a winter wonderland, with crystalline decorations catching and splitting light into rainbow fragments. A single table sits near the window, draped in white linen and set with fine china.

Too much, Taiga thinks. All of this is too much.

“What do you think?” Jesse’s hand finds the small of Taiga’s back again, guiding him toward the window.

The menu card trembles slightly in Taiga’s hands as Jesse pulls out his chair. Gilt letters catch the light—a seven-course tasting menu that probably costs more than Taiga’s monthly grocery budget. At least there’s wine.

“I know it’s a bit much.” Jesse settles into his own chair, his usual confidence wavering. “I tend to get carried away when I’m excited about something. Or someone.”

Taiga studies the menu harder than necessary, using it as a shield. The first course description blurs before his eyes: “Hokkaido scallop with yuzu foam and winter truffle.”

“Look, Kyomoto-san.” Jesse’s voice softens. “I’m worried I came on too strong these past few weeks. The constant messages, showing up at your desk...” He runs a hand through his perfectly styled hair, messing it up in a way that probably took hours to achieve. “I just couldn’t help myself.”

The genuine note in Jesse’s voice makes Taiga's chest tighten with guilt. He lowers the menu card, meeting Jesse’s eyes for the first time since they arrived. The usual movie-star sparkle has dimmed, replaced by something more vulnerable.

“Thank you,” Jesse says, “for giving me a chance tonight.”

Damn it. Taiga’s carefully constructed wall of annoyance crumbles slightly. He thinks of all those messages he’d dismissed as attention-seeking, the visits to his desk he’d written off as shallow flirtation. The way he’d complained about Jesse’s persistence to anyone who would listen.

A server appears with wine, breaking the moment. The rich burgundy liquid swirls in Taiga’s glass, and he takes a grateful sip. The vintage is excellent—of course it is.

“I didn’t mean to be…” Taiga searches for the right word. “… difficult.”

Jesse’s laugh rings out, genuine and warm. “You weren’t difficult. Reserved, maybe. Fascinating, definitely.” He leans forward, his cologne mingling with the wine’s bouquet. “I like that you don’t make things easy. It makes every small victory feel earned.”

Heat creeps up Taiga’s neck again. He takes another sip of wine, larger this time.

“The thing is,” Jesse continues, swirling his own wine, “I’ve gotten used to people saying yes right away. To everything. It’s refreshing to meet someone who makes me work for it.”

Someone who makes me work for it. The words echo in Taiga’s head, stirring something uncomfortable. How many times had he heard similar phrases? From Shuichiro, from others before him. Always framing his boundaries as a challenge to overcome.

But Jesse’s eyes hold no calculation, no hidden agenda. Just earnest hope and a hint of nervousness that seems out of place on his perfect features.

The first course arrives—scallops arranged like snowflakes on black slate. Jesse watches Taiga’s reaction with barely contained excitement, like a child showing off a treasured possession.

The scallops sit untouched on Taiga’s plate. The guilt churns in his stomach, making it impossible to eat. Jesse’s earnest expression only makes it worse.

“I should be honest with you,” Taiga says, setting down his wine glass. The crystal makes a soft clink against the white tablecloth. “I recently got out of a relationship.”

Jesse’s smile falters for a moment, but he recovers quickly. “How recently?”

“Three months ago.” Taiga traces the rim of his glass, avoiding Jesse’s gaze. The memory of Shuichiro’s last text message flashes through his mind.

“That’s why you kept turning me down?” Jesse leans back, understanding dawning on his features. “I had no idea. I wouldn’t have pushed so hard if—”

“It’s fine.” Taiga cuts him off, not wanting Jesse’s pity. “I should have said something sooner instead of just ignoring your advances.”

“What changed your mind?” Jesse asks. His voice holds genuine curiosity, free from judgment. “About tonight, I mean.”

Taiga’s first instinct is to tell the truth: that he’d agreed just to stop the constant attention, the workplace whispers, the knowing looks from coworkers.

But looking at Jesse’s hopeful expression, the words die in his throat.

“I thought...” Taiga takes another sip of wine, buying time. “I thought maybe it was time to stop hiding.” The half-truth tastes bitter on his tongue, but it’s kinder than honesty.

Jesse’s face lights up. “Well, I’m honored to be part of your return to the dating world.” He raises his glass in a small toast. “To new beginnings?”

The wine suddenly feels too warm, too sweet. Taiga sets his glass down, watching the liquid catch the light.

New beginnings. As if it were that simple.

Taiga lifts a delicate morsel of scallop to his mouth, desperate for something to fill the silence.

The shellfish melts on his tongue—sweet and briny, with subtle notes of citrus from the yuzu foam. Each element balances perfectly, creating a harmony that reminds him of Yugo’s creative dishes.

“The scallop has this interesting mix of ocean and citrus,” he says, focusing on the flavors rather than Jesse’s intense gaze. “The truffle adds an earthy undertone that grounds it all.”

Jesse’s eyebrows rise, a pleased smile playing on his lips. “You’re pretty good at describing food. Most people just say ‘delicious’ and move on.”

“One of my best friends runs this restaurant called Golden Hour Bistro.” Taiga takes another bite, savoring the familiar comfort of analyzing flavors. “I’ve picked up some food knowledge from him over the years.” He sets down his fork with a self-deprecating smile. “Just not the actual cooking part.”

Jesse’s laugh echoes across the private viewing area, genuine and warm. “That makes two of us. I can’t cook to save my life.” He gestures at the EaseWorks billboard visible through the window, his own face grinning back at them. “That’s why I jumped at this endorsement. The app’s been a lifesaver—ordering meals, scheduling cleaners, managing all that housework I’m hopeless at.”

“I’ve fully automated my new house,” Taiga admits, warming to the topic. Work-related discussions feel safer than personal ones. “Smart lights, robot vacuum, automated grocery delivery—the whole system runs itself.”

“Your friends must be impressed.”

“More like horrified.” Taiga thinks of Yugo’s exasperated face when he’d shown off his automated coffee maker. “They think I’m avoiding basic life skills.”

“But you’re just being efficient.” Jesse leans forward, eyes bright with interest. “Why spend time on chores when you could be doing something else after work?”

“Exactly.” The word comes out more emphatically than Taiga intends. He takes another sip of wine to cover his enthusiasm.

Jesse’s eyes crinkle with genuine amusement. “Hey, there’s nothing wrong with letting robots handle the boring stuff. More time for the important things in life.”

“Like what?” The question slips out before Taiga can stop it.

“Like this.” Jesse gestures at their surroundings. “Good food, interesting conversation, no dishes to wash afterward.”

A surprised laugh escapes Taiga. The wine has loosened something in his chest, making it easier to relax into the moment. He hasn’t felt this... comfortable on a date in years. With Shuichiro, every conversation felt like a chess match, with each word carefully chosen to avoid triggering his mood swings.

Their conversation flows easily, that Taiga is surprised that it was time for dessert—a delicate construction of dark chocolate and winter berries, arranged like a miniature forest scene.

Jesse’s eyes light up with childlike delight. “Oh, this is too pretty to eat,” he says, then immediately contradicts himself by diving in with his spoon. “Actually, scratch that. It’s exactly pretty enough to eat.”

Taiga watches Jesse’s enthusiasm with a mix of amusement and envy. How does he make everything seem so simple?

“You know what this reminds me of?” Jesse asks between bites. “That scene in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory where they eat the chocolate flowers. Except,” he pauses for dramatic effect, “this is berry much better.”

“That was terrible,” Taiga says, but he’s fighting back a smile.

“I know. I’ve got a whole bunch of them. Wanna hear my coffee puns? They’re brew-tiful.”

“Please stop.”

“What? They’re grounds for conversation!”

The laugh bubbles up before Taiga can suppress it.

Jesse beams, clearly proud of himself for breaking through Taiga’s reserve.

Tokyo spreads out beneath them, a tapestry of lights and shadows. The winter exhibit’s projections cast moving patterns across the observation deck, creating an ethereal atmosphere that makes everything feel slightly unreal. Like they’re suspended in a moment outside of normal time.

“Can I ask you something?” Jesse’s voice turns serious, though his eyes maintain their warmth. “Would you like to do this again? Maybe somewhere less... elaborate next time?”

Taiga’s first instinct is to say no. To retreat behind his walls, cite his recent breakup, make excuses about being too busy with work. The words are there, ready on his tongue.

But Jesse waits patiently, without pressure or expectation. Just an honest question, leaving room for an honest answer.

“Yes,” Taiga says, surprising himself. “I think I would.”

🏠

The purr of Jesse’s car fills the silence between them. Taiga watches the lights of Tokyo Skytree recede in the side mirror, each glimmer fading like the warmth of their dinner conversation. His wine-soaked brain tries to process the evening—the easy laughter, Jesse’s respectful distance, the complete absence of manipulation that had defined his past relationship.

It can’t be this simple, Taiga thinks, sneaking a glance at Jesse’s profile. The streetlights paint shadows across his features, making him look almost unreal.

The car glides to a stop in front of the station. Taiga’s hand reaches for the door handle, but Jesse’s touch on his arm stops him.

“Text me when you get home?” Jesse’s voice is soft, free from demands or expectations.

Taiga nods. “Thanks for tonight.” He manages the words past the tightness in his throat, then steps out into the cool night air.

Inside the station, fluorescent lights buzz overhead as Taiga makes his way to the convenience store. He grabs a bottle of water, desperate to clear his head. The cashier’s bored expression grounds him in reality after the dreamlike quality of the evening.

Leaning against a pillar, Taiga pulls out his phone. The group chat with Yugo and Juri shows fifteen unread messages, mostly variations of “ARE YOU ALIVE?” and “DETAILS NOW!”

He types: Still breathing. Date wasn’t terrible.

The response is immediate.

Yugo: WHAT DO YOU MEAN NOT TERRIBLE???

Juri: Translation: Yugo’s about to combust from curiosity

Taiga takes another sip of water, considering his words carefully. He was… nice. Funny.

Juri: And how do you feel?

Taiga’s fingers hover over the keyboard. The evening replays in his mind—Jesse’s silly puns, his genuine interest in Taiga’s opinions, the way he maintained distance after Taiga mentioned coming out of a relationship. No guilt trips, no subtle digs, no attempts to push past Taiga’s boundaries.

I feel good, he types. It’s good. Different. Maybe too different.

Yugo: Too different = better than that asshole

Juri: What Yugo means is: it’s ok to be surprised when someone treats you with respect

The words hit Taiga like a physical blow. He takes another long drink of water, letting the cold shock his system. Maybe, he replies. Going home now. Need to process.

Yugo: Text when you’re home! And remember – you deserve nice things!

Juri: What he said. Get some rest

Taiga crumples the empty water bottle and tosses it into the bin. His hand instinctively reaches for his wallet, fingers searching for the familiar shape of his Suica card.

Shit. The memory flashes—his card sitting on his desk at work, abandoned in his rush to meet Jesse.

He stares at the ticket machine, calculating. Fifteen minutes on foot versus the hassle of buying a single ticket. His feet already ache from the dress shoes he chose for the date, but the thought of dealing with more decisions tonight makes his head throb.

Fuck it.

The cool air hits his face as he exits the station. The walk will give him time to sort through the mess in his head.

The streets are quieter now, most shops closed except for the occasional convenience store casting pools of harsh light onto the sidewalk. Taiga loosens his tie, letting it hang like a defeated flag. Each step brings clarity, washing away the wine-induced haze.

A cat darts across his path, startling him from his thoughts. Taiga watches it disappear into an alley, envying its simple escape. His own situation feels far more complicated. Jesse is the company’s endorser, their golden boy. Dating him would mean visibility, attention, everything Taiga has carefully avoided.

It was just one date, he reminds himself.

Yet he knows it’s not that simple. At work, every interaction will carry new weight. Each time Jesse visits the marketing department, eyes will follow. Whispers will spread. The careful distance Taiga maintains from office drama will collapse.

His feet slow as he passes the local park, now empty and silent. The swing set creaks softly in the breeze, a lonely sound that echoes his uncertainty. Dating Jesse would mean opening himself to possibilities—and vulnerabilities—he’s not sure he’s ready for.

Sirens pierce the quiet night, followed by shouts and the sound of running feet. Taiga looks up from his phone to see people rushing past him, their faces lit by an orange glow in the distance. Smoke rises above the rooftops, thick and black against the starless sky.

Just keep walking, he tells himself.

But his feet carry him toward the commotion, drawn by a mix of morbid curiosity.

The crowd grows denser as he approaches. Heat hits his face before he rounds the corner, and then he sees it—flames licking up the side of an apartment building, painting the night in hellish colors. A fire truck’s cherry lights strobe across panicked faces as firefighters rush to connect their hoses.

Taiga’s throat tightens at the acrid smell of burning plastic. Around him, people clutch whatever they managed to grab—photo albums, laptops, crying pets in carriers. A woman in pajamas holds a potted plant to her chest like a child. The randomness of their saved possessions strikes him as both tragic and absurd.

“Fourth floor,” someone whispers. “Started in unit 404.”

“No, 403,” another voice argues. “Poor family, they just moved in last year.”

Taiga edges closer, dodging elbows and shoulders. His designer shoes now slip on water pooling from the fire hoses. The heat intensifies, making his dress shirt cling to his back with sweat.

A group huddles near the building’s entrance, illuminated by the emergency lights. Some sob quietly while others stare at their burning home with vacant expressions. Taiga recognizes that look—the same one he wore years ago when his mother left, taking half their belongings and leaving only silence behind.

His phone buzzes again. Probably Yugo checking on him.

But before he can check, movement catches his eye. A figure emerges from the crowd, tall and familiar in the artificial light. Dark hair, broad shoulders, and—

Matsumura?

Taiga blinks, certain his wine-addled brain is playing tricks. But no—it’s definitely Matsumura Hokuto from work, looking nothing like his usual composed self. Soot streaks his face and his clothes that he wore at the office. In his arms, a child clings to him like a koala, her face buried in his neck. She clutches something pink and fuzzy—a stuffed rabbit, Taiga realizes.

Hokuto’s eyes are wide, almost vacant as he speaks to a firefighter. His lips move, but Taiga can’t hear the words over the chaos. The girl’s small body shakes with sobs.

The sight hits Taiga like a physical blow. He’s never seen Hokuto look so... lost. At work, he’s always collected, efficient, somehow managing single parenthood while coding complex algorithms. Now, he stands barefoot on wet pavement, holding his daughter and what looks like a hastily grabbed large backpack.

Taiga’s feet move before his brain catches up. He weaves through the crowd, barely registering the elbows that bump him or the voices that blur together. The smell of smoke grows stronger with each step.

“Matsumura!” The shout rips from Taiga’s throat before he can stop himself. Heads turn, but he ignores them, pushing through the last few bodies between them.

Hokuto’s eyes meet his, widening with recognition. The vacancy in his expression shifts to confusion, then something raw and vulnerable that makes Taiga’s chest tighten.

“Kyomoto?” Hokuto’s voice cracks. His arms tighten around the girl—Ema, Taiga remembers from Hokuto’s recent conversation with Wakana. She peeks out from her father’s neck, face streaked with tears and soot.

Up close, Hokuto looks worse. His feet are bare and reddened, probably from running down hot stairs. Taiga notices goosebumps rising on his arms despite the fire’s heat.

Shit. What do you even say to a coworker whose home is burning? ‘Sorry’ feels inadequate. ‘Are you okay’ is clearly stupid—they’re standing in front of their burning apartment building in the middle of the night. Of course they’re not okay.

Hokuto sways slightly, and Taiga realizes he’s probably in shock. The backpack slips from his shoulder, threatening to spill its contents onto the wet pavement.

“Here.” Taiga grabs the bag before it can fall. It’s heavier than he expected—laptop, maybe some documents. The kind of things you grab when your brain is running on pure survival instinct.

“Thanks,” Hokuto mumbles. His professional mask has completely crumbled, leaving something raw and lost in its place. “I... we...” He trails off, looking back at the burning building like he can’t quite process what he’s seeing.

A firefighter approaches them, asking questions about the apartment’s layout. Hokuto answers mechanically, his voice flat and distant. Ema burrows deeper into his neck, her small body trembling.

Taiga stands awkwardly to the side, still holding the backpack. He should probably leave them to deal with this. They’re coworkers, nothing more. But his feet stay rooted to the spot, watching as Hokuto’s composure cracks further with each question.

What would I want, if this were me?

The answer comes with surprising clarity: To not be alone.

The wine from dinner has completely worn off now, replaced by a sharp awareness of every detail—the way Hokuto’s hands shake as he shifts Ema’s weight, the singed edges of her pajama sleeve, the lost look in both their eyes.

“Do you…” Taiga swallows hard, forcing the words past his hesitation. “Do you have somewhere to go?”

“My parents are in Shizuoka.” Hokuto’s voice cracks. “And my in-laws... they’re up in Niigata.” His arms tighten around Ema, who whimpers softly into his neck. “At this hour...”

Shit. Taiga shifts the weight of the backpack, his mind racing. “What about a hotel? There’s that one near—”

“Can’t.” Hokuto’s laugh comes out hollow. “Not the ones around here. Not on such short notice.”

The backpack strap digs into Taiga's shoulder. He watches Hokuto’s bare feet shift on the wet pavement, toes curling against the cold. “What about friends? Someone from work?”

“I could… maybe…” Hokuto trails off, exhaustion etched into every line of his face.

Don’t do it, Taiga's brain screams. His house is his sanctuary, his carefully crafted escape from the world’s chaos. The only people who’ve crossed that threshold are Yugo and Juri, and even they need explicit invitations.

But Ema’s small body trembles against Hokuto’s chest. Her stuffed rabbit dangles precariously from one hand, its pink fur now gray with soot. Behind them, flames still lick at their home, consuming everything they couldn’t grab in those frantic moments.

Fuck.

“My place.” The words escape before Taiga can stop them. “Just… for tonight.”

Hokuto’s head snaps up, eyes wide. “Kyomoto, I couldn’t—”

“At least until you figure something out.” Taiga cuts him off, already regretting the offer but unable to take it back. Not with Ema’s tear-stained face peeking out at him. “It’s better than calling around at midnight.”

Hokuto looks down at Ema, then back at the burning building. Something shifts in his expression—pride giving way to necessity.

He nods once, sharp and quick, like he needs to commit before he can change his mind. “Thank you.”

🏠

The taxi glides to a stop in front of Taiga’s house. The meter’s blue glow illuminates Hokuto’s exhausted face as he shifts in his seat, reaching for his pocket.

“I’ll pay you back for my share—”

“Don’t.” Taiga pulls out his wallet, avoiding eye contact. He hands his credit card to the driver before Hokuto can protest further. The last thing they need right now is to worry about a taxi fare.

“At least let me—”

“Just get inside.” Taiga’s voice comes out sharper than intended. He softens it. “Please.”

Hokuto hesitates, then nods. He maneuvers carefully out of the taxi, still cradling Ema against his chest. Her pink bunny dangles precariously from one hand, its ears nearly brushing the ground.

Taiga follows them out, shouldering the rescued backpack. The night air feels thick after the taxi's air conditioning. He pulls out his phone, tapping the home automation app as they approach his front door. The outdoor lights flicker to life, bathing the path in a warm glow.

“Wow!” Ema lifts her head from Hokuto’s shoulder, eyes wide. “How did you do that?”

“Magic,” Taiga mutters, fishing his keys. He catches himself and adds, “Well, smart home magic.”

“Like in Frozen?” Ema’s voice still trembles, but curiosity breaks through the fear.

Great. Now I’m getting compared to Disney princesses. “Not exactly. More like—”

“Different kind of magic,” Hokuto interrupts softly, giving Taiga a look that clearly says don’t shatter her wonder right now.

Taiga swallows his technical explanation about wireless protocols and automation schedules. He focuses on unlocking the door instead, very aware of how Hokuto sways slightly beside him. The man’s bare feet must be killing him after standing on hot pavement.

The keys jangle in Taiga’s trembling fingers. When my hands start shaking? He forces them steady, sliding the key home.

“Your house has stars!” Ema points at the subtle landscape lighting along the garden path.

“Those are…” Taiga pauses, remembering Hokuto’s look. “Yeah, those are stars. Special ones that like to live in gardens.”

What the hell am I saying?

But Ema’s small smile makes the ridiculous statement worth it. She clutches her singed bunny closer, watching the lights with something like wonder replacing the terror in her eyes.

Taiga pushes the door open, fumbling for his phone again. Another tap, and the interior lights fade up slowly—a feature he’d programmed specifically to avoid harsh transitions at night. Now he’s oddly grateful for it, seeing how Ema’s eyes are still red from crying.

“You can do phone magic too?” She watches the lights brighten with fascination.

“He’s very good at magic,” Hokuto says quietly, his voice rough with exhaustion. He shifts Ema’s weight, and Taiga notices how his arms tremble slightly.

They’re both dead on their feet.

Taiga steps aside, gesturing them in. “Come on. Let’s get you two settled.”

He steps inside first, toeing off his shoes and placing them precisely in their designated spot by the door. “You can put your shoes—” He cuts himself off, catching sight of Hokuto’s bare feet again. A pang of something uncomfortable twists in his chest.

Taiga moves to the hallway closet, grabbing the guest slippers. They’re still fairly new, since only Yugo and Juri have used them.

“Here.” He thrusts the slippers toward Hokuto, who accepts them with a small nod of thanks.

Ema wiggles in Hokuto’s arms until he sets her down. Her tiny feet peek out beneath her pajama pants, and Taiga realizes he doesn’t have anything in her size.

Not that I’d expect to keep children’s slippers around.

“Should I…?” She looks uncertainly at the neat row of shoes.

“You can go barefoot,” Taiga says, then adds awkwardly, “Just this once.”

Her face brightens slightly. “Like a princess?”

“Sure.”

Taiga catches Hokuto hiding a tired smile.

Ema takes a few tentative steps into the house, then stops abruptly. She turns back to Taiga, clutching her singed bunny closer. “I don’t know your name yet,” she announces with four-year-old solemnity.

“Oh.” Taiga blinks. He’s been so caught up in the chaos that introductions completely slipped his mind. “I’m Kyomoto Taiga.”

“Taiga?” Her eyes widen. “Like a tiger.”

“Not exactly—”

“Tiger-san!” She bounces slightly, the first real enthusiasm she’s shown since the fire. “You’re a tiger who does magic!”

Taiga opens his mouth to correct her, to explain that his name uses  kanji, that it’s not proper to call him that. But exhaustion weighs heavy on his tongue, and Ema’s small smile feels too fragile to risk.

He lets it slide, pretending not to notice Hokuto’s surprised glance.

“Would you like some tea?” Taiga’s voice sounds strained even to his own ears. Why am I offering tea at this hour? They probably just want to sleep.

“Yes, please.” Hokuto’s quiet response carries such genuine gratitude that Taiga has to look away.

Taiga escapes to the kitchen, grateful for the excuse to move. His hands shake slightly as he fills the electric kettle.

What else do people need in emergencies? Food? Blankets? He hasn’t thought this through.

The kettle whirs to life. Taiga opens his cupboard, staring at his modest collection of teas. Most are gifts from Yugo, who insists Taiga needs more variety than just coffee. Now he’s oddly grateful for his friend’s persistence.

Speaking of food… Shit. Taiga’s meal plan consists entirely of Yugo’s restaurant leftovers and convenience store bentos. Neither option will work for a family of three.

Family of three? He shakes his head sharply. Temporary guests. That’s all.

Movement catches his eye. Through the kitchen doorway, he spots Hokuto pulling out his phone, fingers hovering over the screen.

Of course. He’s probably calling Matsumoto-buchou to arrange emergency leave.

The thought sends an inexplicable wave of relief through Taiga. At least someone competent will know what to do.

Soft footsteps draw his attention. Ema wanders the living room, her singed bunny clutched tight against her chest. She moves with careful precision, observing everything but touching nothing. Her behavior is so unlike what Taiga expects from a four-year-old that it makes his chest tight.

She pauses at his entertainment center, studying the neat row of gaming consoles. Her free hand lifts slightly, then drops back to her side. She moves on, maintaining that careful distance from everything she passes.

The kettle clicks off. Taiga realizes he’s been standing motionless, watching her explore. He forces himself to focus on preparing the tea, measuring leaves into the strainer with mechanical precision. The familiar routine steadies his hands.

I should check the guest room. The thought hits him like a punch. He hasn’t opened that room since moving in. Does it even have proper bedding? What about towels? Do children need special towels?

He sets three cups on a tray, then reconsiders and removes one. Ema probably doesn’t drink tea at this hour. Does she? Should I offer her something else? What do kids drink before bed?

His phone buzzes. A reminder from his home automation app about tomorrow’s scheduled cleaning routine.

The robot vacuum. He’ll need to adjust its schedule. And the air purifier settings. And the automatic lighting sequences. And—

“Can I help?”

Taiga startles. Hokuto stands in the kitchen doorway, phone tucked away. His borrowed slippers make no sound on the floor.

“I’ve got it.” Taiga’s voice comes out clipped. He forces himself to add, “Thanks.”

Hokuto nods, but doesn’t leave. His presence fills the kitchen doorway, steady and unexpectedly grounding. Behind him, Ema continues her careful exploration, her small face serious as she studies each new discovery.

Taiga’s hands move automatically, arranging cups on the tray. His mind races through logistics. Breakfast. They’ll need breakfast. The closest grocery store opens at six. If I leave early enough...

“Thank you.” Hokuto’s quiet voice breaks through Taiga's mental grocery calculations. “For taking us in like this. We won’t impose for long—just until I can find a place to stay.”

The words snap Taiga back to the present. Steam rises from the cups, curling in the kitchen’s fluorescent light. He realizes he’s been mechanically stirring the same cup for far too long.

“Minagawa-buchou.” The name slips out before Taiga can properly frame his thought. He sets down the spoon with a soft clink. “I mean, I can give you the contact details of the real estate agent who sold me this house. She works with Minagawa-buchou’s wife.”

“That would be helpful, thank you.” Hokuto’s shoulders relax slightly. “I already talked with Matsumoto-buchou already. She’s asking the development team to gather some spare clothes for us.”

Of course she is. Taiga's not surprised. Wakana’s efficiency is legendary at EaseWorks. She probably has a crisis management flowchart somewhere on her perfectly organized desk.

A small yawn draws their attention. Ema stands in the living room, swaying slightly as she clutches her bunny. The initial excitement of exploration has given way to obvious exhaustion.

“It’s Saturday tomorrow,” Taiga says, more to fill the silence than anything else. “At least you’ll have time to...” He trails off, unsure how to phrase it. Time to what? Process losing everything?

“Yes,” Hokuto agrees softly. “Time to get our bearings.”

The phrase sounds inadequate for the magnitude of their situation, but Taiga latches onto its practicality. Bearings. Steps. Tasks. These are things he understands.

He lifts the tea tray, careful not to slosh the liquid. “The guest room is this way.” His feet move automatically, leading them down the hallway.

Behind him, Hokuto murmurs something to Ema. Her tiny footsteps follow, punctuated by another yawn.

Taiga’s hand finds the light switch, illuminating the barely used space. The room holds a Western-style bed, a small desk, and absolutely nothing suitable for a child.

“We can figure out proper arrangements tomorrow,” Hokuto says, reading something in Taiga’s expression. “This is more than enough for tonight.”

“Papa?” Ema’s voice carries a tremor. “Can Mr. Bunny have tea too?”

The question pierces through Taiga’s racing thoughts. He turns to find her holding up the singed stuffed rabbit, its floppy ears dark with smoke damage.

“Mr. Bunny might prefer a bath first,” Hokuto says gently. He kneels beside her, brushing a finger over the toy’s discolored fur. “Just like we need to get clean before bed.”

Bath. Right. Another item for Taiga’s mental checklist. “The bathroom’s across the hall. There should be fresh towels in the cabinet.”

“Thank you.” Hokuto stands, lifting Ema into his arms. She settles against his shoulder, eyes already drooping. “For everything.”

The simple phrase carries too much weight. Taiga busies himself with the tea tray, adjusting cups that don't need adjusting. “You should drink this before it gets cold.”

“Tiger-san?” Ema’s sleepy voice makes him look up. “Will your house stars still be here tomorrow?”

It takes Taiga to remember the garden lights. “Yes,” he says, then adds impulsively, “They like it here.”

“Good.” She yawns again, burrowing closer to Hokuto. “They’re pretty.”

Taiga retreats to the doorway, desperate to escape the sudden tightness in his chest. “I’ll be in the living room if you need anything.”

As Taiga returns to the living room, he collapses onto his couch, the silence of the living room pressing against his ears. His phone displays 11:47 PM.

Shit. He’d completely forgotten about messaging anyone after his date.

His fingers hover over Jesse’s name in his notifications. Three unread messages.

“Had a great time tonight! 😊“

“Let me know when you get home safe!”

“Everything okay?”

Taiga’s thumb taps out a quick response. “Sorry for the late reply. Made it home. Thanks for dinner.”

The sound of running water echoes from down the hall. Taiga’s mind conjures an image of smoke-stained clothes and bare feet. Yugo should still be closing up.

He opens their group chat:

“You still at the restaurant?”

Yugo’s reply comes instantly: “Just finishing cleanup. What’s up?”

“Need a favor. Got any leftovers to spare?”

“Always! 🍜 But since when do you want extras? Your meal plan’s set for the week.”

Taiga’s fingers pause over the keyboard. How to explain this? He settles for brutal simplicity: “Coworker’s apartment burned down. He and his kid are staying here tonight. Could use the food.”

The typing indicator appears and disappears several times. Finally:

“WHAT?? 😱”

“Which coworker?”

“Since when do you take in strays??”

“You okay?”

Am I? Taiga runs a hand through his hair, grimacing at the lingering smell of smoke. “I’m fine. Just need food for tomorrow. They lost everything, and I don’t have enough food for three.”

“On it!” Yugo replies. “I’ll bring breakfast tomorrow. I’ll come back at 8. With coffee.”

A message from Juri appears: “Want me to come too? I can bring some of my old art supplies. Kids like drawing, right?”

Why are they like this? But relief seeps through Taiga’s irritation. Trust his friends to handle the practical stuff.

“Fine. But please don’t make a big deal out of it. They’re just staying until they find a place.”

He closes the chat before Juri and Yugo can spam emoji-laden responses.

The water stops running down the hall. Taiga stares at his ceiling, pristine white and totally unchanged despite his life tilting sideways.

Just temporary. He repeats the words in his head like a mantra. They’ll find a new place soon. Everything will go back to normal.

His phone buzzes with another message from Jesse: “Sweet dreams! Let's do this again soon! 💫”

Taiga closes his eyes, too drained to reply. The date feels like it happened days ago, not hours. He should probably care more about that.

The soft pad of feet makes him look up. Hokuto passes the living room entrance, carrying a sleeping Ema. Her damp hair curls against her father’s shoulder, Mr. Bunny dangling from one small hand. They disappear into the guest room without a word.

Just temporary, Taiga thinks again.

But the mantra rings hollow as he listens to the quiet sounds of them settling in for the night.

🏠

The unfamiliar ceiling swims into focus as Hokuto blinks away sleep. Sunlight streams through curtains he doesn’t recognize, and for a moment, panic grips his chest.

Then Ema shifts against him, her warm little body curled up tight, and the events of last night crash back.

The fire. The smoke. Taiga’s unexpected kindness.

Hokuto glances down at Ema, still deep in slumber. Her fingers clutch Mr. Bunny’s singed ear, and his heart aches at the sight. The stuffed rabbit survived, but little else did.

At least she’s safe. At least they both are.

His phone buzzes on the nightstand—another notification joining what looks like dozens of others. Eight twenty-three glares at him from the screen, and his stomach drops. He’s never been this up late, even on Saturdays.

Messages flood his lock screen:

Matsumoto-buchou: Take all the time you need. The team’s got your back.

Machu: My place is tiny but you’re welcome to crash here!

HR: Note that you have exhausted your PTOs. Remote work arrangement available if needed.

Hokuto’s thumb hovers over the messages, guilt and gratitude warring in his chest. The development team needs him for the upcoming release, but Ema needs him more. He can’t just drop her off at the preschool like nothing happened—not when everything they own smells of smoke and uncertainty.

His daughter stirs, mumbling something about pancakes in her sleep. The simple domesticity of her request twists in his gut. How can he provide any semblance of normalcy when they’re essentially homeless, imposing on a coworker who clearly values his solitude?

The ceiling fan whirs overhead, a steady rhythm that reminds him this isn’t their space. This isn’t their home. Taiga’s house breathes efficiency and order—everything Hokuto’s life isn’t right now. The pristine guest room, with its minimalist décor, feels like a museum piece he’s afraid to disturb.

Hokuto shifts carefully, trying not to wake Ema as he sits up against the headboard. His laptop survived the fire, tucked safely in his work bag. He could start catching up on code reviews, prove he’s not falling behind, show everyone he can handle this.

But his fingers tremble slightly as he reaches for the phone, and exhaustion weighs heavy in his bones. Everything they own fits in two hastily packed bags now.

Muffled voices drift through the door, pulling Hokuto from his spiraling thoughts. He recognizes Taiga’s tone but two unfamiliar voices join in—one animated and cheerful, the other more laid-back.

The rich aroma of coffee teases his nose. Hokuto glances at Ema, still peacefully clutching Mr. Bunny. She needs the rest after everything.

Carefully, he extracts himself from the bed, tucking the blanket around her small form.

His reflection in the hallway mirror makes him wince. His clothes are rumpled from sleeping in them, and dark circles shadow his eyes. Not exactly how I wanted to meet Taiga’s friends.

The voices grow clearer as he approaches the kitchen. A warm laugh rings out, followed by the sizzle of something on a stove. The domesticity of it all feels jarring against the rawness of their situation.

“Come on, Yugo, you’re going to burn them if you keep talking.” Taiga’s voice carries that dry tone Hokuto recognizes from work.

“I never burn pancakes. It’s literally my job not to burn food.”

Hokuto hesitates at the kitchen entrance. Through the doorway, he spots Taiga perched on a stool at the kitchen island. A man with an easy smile leans next to him, while another stands at the stove wielding a spatula with professional grace.

His sock catches on the polished floor, making a soft, scuffing sound. Taiga’s head turns, and their eyes meet.

“Matsumura.” Taiga straightens slightly. “How are you holding up?”

The casual concern in his voice catches Hokuto off-guard. At work, Taiga’s always been cordial but distant. This version of him, relaxed in sweatpants with bedhead, feels like glimpsing another person entirely.

“I’m…” Hokuto’s voice comes out rough. He clears his throat. “We’re managing. Thank you again for—”

“This is Kochi Yugo,” Taiga cuts off his gratitude with a gesture toward the man at the stove. “He owns Golden Hour Bistro downtown. And that’s Juri,” he nods to the man beside him. “They brought breakfast.”

“And coffee,” Juri adds, lifting his mug in greeting. “Lots of coffee.”

“Please, sit.” Yugo waves the spatula. “These pancakes are almost ready, and I refuse to serve them cold.”

The kitchen island has another empty stool. Hokuto’s legs carry him there automatically, his body craving the normalcy of a morning routine even as his mind struggles to process this surreal moment.

“Is Ema-chan still sleeping?” Taiga asks, sliding a steaming mug of coffee toward him.

This is strange, Hokuto thinks, wrapping his fingers around the warm ceramic. How did we go from polite nods in the office to drinking coffee in his kitchen?

“Yes, she’s—”

“Papa?”

Hokuto turns at the small sound. Ema stands in the doorway, her fingers twisted in Mr. Bunny’s ear. Her eyes dart between the strangers, and she shuffles closer to the doorframe.

His heart clenches. After everything she’s been through, of course, unfamiliar faces would make her nervous.

Hokuto slides off the stool and crouches, opening his arms. “Good morning, sweetheart.”

Ema dashes into his embrace, burying her face in his neck. Her small body trembles slightly, and he rubs soothing circles on her back. The weight of her trust settles heavy in his chest—he’s all she has right now.

“Hey,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Would you like some breakfast? Kyomoto’s friends brought pancakes.”

She peeks out, one eye visible past Mr. Bunny’s head. Hokuto lifts her gently, settling her on the stool he just vacated. Her legs dangle, not quite reaching the footrest, but she sits up straighter when Yugo slides a fresh pancake onto a plate.

“Hello, Ema-chan,” Yugo’s voice softens, losing its boisterous edge. “I’m Kochi Yugo. I make pancakes for a living.”

Her eyes widen. “Really?”

“Mhm. And this one’s special—see the ears?” Yugo points with his spatula at two round bumps on the pancake’s edges. “It’s a bunny, just like your friend there.”

A smile tugs at Ema's lips. She hugs Mr. Bunny closer but keeps her eyes on the pancake.

“I’m Tanaka Juri.” The other man waves, his gentle demeanor seeming to put Ema more at ease. “Your dad works with Taiga at the fancy app company, right?”

Ema nods, then looks at Hokuto for confirmation. He smooths her bedhead, heart warming at how she’s already less tense.

“That’s right. These are Kyomoto’s good friends,” Hokuto explains. “They came to welcome us.”

“You can call me Uncle Yugo.” Yugo winks, adding a swirl of syrup to the pancake.

“Me too,” Juri chimes in. “Uncle Juri has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

Ema giggles, the sound pure and bright in the morning light. “Uncle Yugo makes bunny pancakes?”

“Only for very special guests,” Yugo confirms. He leans in conspiratorially. “Would you like to see me make a cat one next?”

“Yes, please!” Ema bounces in her seat, then pauses. She turns to Hokuto. “Can I, Papa?”

“Of course,” Hokuto manages past the tightness in his throat. After the chaos of last night, seeing her smile feels like a sunrise breaking through storm clouds.

Hokuto lifts Ema into his arms, her small body still warm from sleep. She clutches Mr. Bunny as they move toward the stove, where Yugo stands ready with a fresh ladle of batter.

“Watch this magic trick,” Yugo winks at Ema. His hands move with practiced grace as he pours the batter in a circular motion. Two triangular ears take shape at the top, and Ema gasps in delight.

“That’s going to be a kitty?” She leans forward in Hokuto’s arms, fascination overriding her earlier shyness.

The scent of butter and vanilla wraps around them like a comfort blanket. For a moment, Hokuto can almost forget the acrid smell of smoke that still clings to their clothes.

“Just wait.” Yugo grins, wielding his spatula like a conductor’s baton. “The secret is in the timing.”

Ema squirms with anticipation, and Hokuto adjusts his grip. Her excitement bleeds into him, warming something that’s been cold since the fire alarm first blared.

The pancake sizzles, golden brown spreading from the edges inward. With expert precision, Yugo flips it, revealing a perfect cat face complete with whiskers drawn in batter.

“Wow!” Ema claps, nearly dropping Mr. Bunny in her enthusiasm.

Yugo plates the cat pancake with a theatrical flourish, adding whiskers made of whipped cream. “For the princess,” he announces, carrying it to the island.

They settle around the kitchen island, Ema perched on Hokuto’s lap since there aren’t enough stools. She attacks her pancake with gleeful abandon, getting whipped cream on her nose.

Hokuto reaches for a napkin automatically, but Yugo beats him to it, sliding a stack their way with an understanding smile. The simple gesture of preparedness, of someone else thinking ahead, hits harder than expected.

“These are amazing,” Juri mumbles around a mouthful of pancakes. “I swear they get better every time.”

“Practice makes purr-fect,” Yugo quips, and Ema dissolves into giggles.

Hokuto cuts into his own pancake—a regular circle, but somehow still special. The first bite melts on his tongue, rich and comforting.

When was the last time someone cooked for them? Since Rui...

“Papa, look!” Ema points to her plate where she’s arranged the whipped cream whiskers into a smile. “The kitty’s happy!”

“Just like you,” he says softly, brushing crumbs from her cheek.

The morning sun streams through Taiga’s pristine windows, catching dust motes in its beam. Five people share breakfast in comfortable chaos—plates passing, coffee being poured, conversation flowing.

It feels surreal, like a dream Hokuto might wake from at any moment.

“I have some art supplies in my car,” Juri says, gathering the last empty plates. “Would Ema-chan like to see them?”

Ema perks up, syrup still glistening on her chin. “Can I draw, Papa?”

Hokuto hesitates. They’ve already imposed enough, but Ema’s eyes shine. “If Tanaka-san doesn’t mind...”

“Not at all.” Juri grins. “I’ve got these cool markers that change color when you blend them.”

“Really?” Ema slides off Hokuto’s lap, bouncing on her toes. “Like magic?”

“Exactly like magic. Wanna try them out?”

She nods enthusiastically, then pauses to look at Hokuto again. The mix of excitement and uncertainty in her expression tugs at his heart.

“Go ahead, sweetheart.” He smooths her hair. “I’ll clean up here first.”

Ema beams, taking Juri’s offered hand. Mr. Bunny dangles from her other arm as they head toward the living room.

Hokuto stands, gathering plates. “Let me handle the dishes—”

“Don’t bother.” Taiga waves him off. “The dishwasher handles everything in one cycle. Washing and drying.”

“Of course it does.” Yugo snorts into his coffee. “Heaven forbid Taiga actually touch a dirty dish. That’s why he automated his entire house—he’s hopeless at housework and refuses to learn.”

“I prefer the term ‘efficiently delegating,’” Taiga retorts, but there’s no heat in his voice.

“At least let me load it,” Hokuto offers, already stacking plates. The need to be useful, to contribute something, itches under his skin.

Taiga considers him for a moment, then shrugs. “Fine. But there’s a system.”

He leads Hokuto to the sleek dishwasher panel that blends seamlessly with the cabinets. The interface glows with more buttons than Hokuto’s seen on any appliance.

“Plates go on the bottom rack,” Taiga demonstrates, sliding out a rack that moves with silent precision. “But don’t put anything with gold trim or wooden handles in there. It’ll ruin them.”

Hokuto nods, carefully arranging plates according to Taiga’s instructions. The methodical task helps ground him, even as his mind whirls with everything they need to figure out—insurance claims, temporary housing, Ema’s routines...

“Cups go up top,” Taiga continues, pointing to specific slots. “And these attachments adjust for wine glasses, but I doubt you’ll need those.”

“Unless you’re hiding a secret wine cellar somewhere,” Yugo pipes up from his perch on the island.

“That would require actually collecting wine instead of letting an app handle my shopping,” Taiga deadpans.

Their easy banter washes over Hokuto as he focuses on loading dishes correctly. Each item has its place in Taiga’s system, precise and orderly. It’s oddly comforting, this small piece of control when everything else feels chaotic.

“The soap goes here,” Taiga points to a compartment. “Only use the ones marked ‘smart wash’ or it throws off the sensors. There’s a spare box under the sink.”

Hokuto reaches for the soap, but his hand brushes Taiga’s reaching for the same spot.

The brief contact sends an unexpected jolt through him, and he pulls back quickly.

“Sorry,” they say in unison.

Hokuto closes the dishwasher with a soft click, its quiet hum a stark contrast to the chaos of last night. He straightens, catching Taiga studying him with an unreadable expression.

“Would you like to see the backyard?” Taiga gestures toward the sliding glass doors. “It’s not much, but...”

The invitation hangs between them, weighted with unspoken questions about what happens next.

Hokuto nods, grateful for the chance to talk without an audience.

They pass through the living room where Ema sprawls on her stomach, legs kicking in the air as she works intently with Juri’s markers. Her tongue pokes out in concentration while she blends colors on the page. The sight of her so absorbed, so normal, makes his chest tight.

“Sweetheart,” he calls softly. "Kyomoto is just showing me the backyard. I’ll be right back, okay?”

“‘Kay, Papa!” She barely looks up, too focused on her artwork. “Look, Uncle Juri! The blue and yellow made green!”

Warmth spreads through Hokuto’s chest at how quickly she’s taken to calling Juri’ uncle.’ After everything she’s been through, her resilience amazes him.

The morning air hits his face as Taiga slides the door open. It’s cooler than expected. Three lounge chairs face a small fire pit, and Hokuto sinks into one gratefully, his body finally registering its exhaustion. Yugo follows, settling into another chair with his coffee.

Hokuto lets his eyes close for a moment. The gentle rustle of leaves and distant traffic create a peaceful backdrop so different from the sirens and chaos of hours ago. His clothes still carry the acrid smell of smoke, but the fresh air helps clear his head.

The fire pit’s dark stones remind him of the charred remains of their apartment. His throat tightens. Everything they owned, every trace of the life they’d built...

“Hey.” Yugo’s voice breaks through his spiraling thoughts. “You’re allowed to breathe, you know.”

Hokuto opens his eyes, catching the genuine concern in Yugo’s expression. It’s strange how these people—Taiga’s friends—already feel less like strangers and more like a lifeline he didn’t know he needed.

“I keep thinking about what we lost,” he admits, the words spilling out before he can stop them. “Photos, clothes, Ema’s baby blanket...” His voice catches. “Things I can’t replace.”

The morning sun warms his face as birds chirp overhead, completely indifferent to how his world has shifted. Through the glass doors, he can hear Ema’s delighted gasp as she discovers another color combination.

“It’s the memories that hurt most.” Hokuto touches the singed edge of his sleeve. “All those little pieces of our life together, just... gone.” The words taste like ash in his mouth.

A gentle breeze stirs his hair, carrying the sweet scent of someone’s flowering garden. The normalcy of it feels almost cruel against the rawness of their loss.

“Insurance can replace things,” Taiga says, his voice unusually gentle. “But I get it. Some things are irreplaceable.”

Hokuto thinks of the box of Rui’s letters he kept on his nightstand, the ones she wrote during her pregnancy. The last tangible pieces of her, reduced to ashes. Ema will never get to read them now, never know her mother’s hopes and dreams written in her own hand.

“I should be grateful,” he manages. “We got out. We’re safe. That’s what matters.” The words sound hollow even to his own ears.

“Bullshit,” Yugo says firmly. “You can be grateful and devastated. They’re not mutually exclusive.”

The unexpected bluntness startles a laugh from Hokuto. It comes out shaky, almost like a sob.

Through the glass doors, he watches Ema show Juri her drawing. Her small face glows with pride as she points out different colors. She seems so resilient, adapting to their new reality with a child’s flexibility.

But how long before she starts asking for her favorite stuffed penguin? The one that burned with everything else?

“I keep thinking about work,” Hokuto admits, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “The release deadline, the meetings I’m missing...” His stomach churns with anxiety. “I can't afford to lose this job. Not now.”

“Matsumoto-buchou isn’t heartless,” Taiga points out.

“But the team needs—”

“The team needs you to take care of yourself and Ema-chan first,” Taiga cuts him off. “Code reviews can wait.”

Heat pricks behind Hokuto’s eyes. The simple permission to prioritize his daughter, to not have to be perfectly composed and capable, hits harder than expected.

“I don’t even know where to start,” he whispers. The magnitude of everything they need to handle looms like a mountain he has to climb while carrying Ema.

Yugo leans forward, his expression serious. “Start with today. Just today. What do you and Ema need right now?”

Hokuto’s throat tightens as he considers the question. Clean clothes. Toothbrushes. Basic toiletries. Things so mundane yet suddenly precious in their absence.

“We need...” His voice cracks. He swallows hard. “Everything. We need everything.”

“Let’s start with the basics,” Yugo says, his tone shifting to something more practical. “You and Ema-chan need clothes, right? There’s a good thrift store about ten minutes from here.”

The suggestion pierces through Hokuto’s overwhelm like a lifeline. Something concrete he can actually do.

“I can drive us,” Yugo continues. “And there’s a pharmacy next door for toiletries.” He glances at Taiga. “You coming?”

Taiga nods, and the simple gesture of support makes Hokuto’s chest tight. These near-strangers organizing their lives when everything feels scattered to ash.

“I should discuss rent,” Hokuto straightens, forcing his voice steady. “Until we find another place—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Taiga cuts him off.

“Please,” Hokuto insists. The words stick in his throat, pride warring with necessity. “I can’t just—at least let me contribute to bills and groceries.”

Taiga considers this, his expression unreadable. “Fine. We can work something out for utilities.”

A laugh bursts from Yugo. “Groceries might be tricky. This guy wouldn’t know his way around a kitchen if his life depended on it.” He grins at Taiga’s scowl. “He survives on Golden Hour leftovers and whatever his delivery apps bring him.”

“The apps are efficient,” Taiga defends, but there’s a hint of color in his cheeks.

Hokuto blinks, trying to reconcile this new information with Taiga’s otherwise meticulous nature. The contrast feels oddly endearing.

“Speaking of groceries,” Yugo stands, stretching. “We should get moving before the stores get busy. Is Ema-chan coming with us?”

The question catches Hokuto off-guard. He glances through the glass doors where Ema still sits absorbed in her artwork, chattering happily to Juri about color combinations.

“Yeah,” he says carefully. “I’d love to give her some semblance of normalcy.”

“Okay. I’ll grab my keys,” Taiga says, standing. “And a jacket.”

The mention of jackets hits Hokuto like a physical blow. They have nothing warm to wear. Nothing at all except—

“Hey.” Yugo’s hand lands gently on his shoulder. “One thing at a time, remember? We’ll start with the basics.”

Hokuto nods, swallowing past the lump in his throat. One thing at a time. They can do this.

They have to.

🏠

Hokuto winces as Taiga’s borrowed shoes pinch his toes with each step. The leather strains against his wider feet. His grip on Ema’s small hand tightens instinctively as they follow Yugo through the thrift store’s entrance.

“Once Upon a Time,” Ema reads the store sign slowly, her face lighting up. “Like in stories!”

The corners of Hokuto’s mouth lift despite his discomfort. Trust his daughter to find magic even here.

“This way.” Yugo gestures toward an elevator tucked into the corner. “Clothing’s upstairs, but let’s get you some proper shoes first. Those can’t be comfortable.”

Hokuto tries not to limp as they cross the polished floor. The store smells of laundered fabric and wood polish, surprisingly pleasant. Ema’s head swivels left and right, taking in the eclectic displays of furniture and home goods.

“Look, Daddy! A princess chair!” She points to an ornate chair with faded velvet upholstery.

“I see it, sweetheart.” His chest tightens at her enthusiasm.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft ding. Inside, mirrors line three walls, multiplying their reflections infinitely. Ema waves at herself, giggling as dozens of little hands wave back.

“What’s your size?” Yugo asks as they ascend.

“Twenty-seven point five,” Hokuto answers, shifting his weight to ease the pressure on his pinched toes.

The second floor opens to racks of neatly organized clothing. Sunlight streams through large windows, catching dust motes in golden beams. A sitting area with cushioned benches occupies one corner.

“Perfect. You two wait here.” Yugo points to the benches. “We’ll find you something that fits.” He glances at Taiga. “Come on, let’s check the men’s section.”

As their footsteps fade, Hokuto sinks onto a bench with relief. Ema climbs into his lap without hesitation, her small body warm and solid against his chest.

For the first time since the fire, his arms wrap around her without that desperate, protective tension. Here, surrounded by quiet and soft light, the immediate danger feels distant enough to breathe.

“Look at all the pretty clothes,” Ema whispers, leaning back against him. “Like a big dress-up box.”

Hokuto rests his chin on top of her head, breathing in the familiar scent of her hair. Even that smells slightly different now, of Taiga’s borrowed shampoo instead of their usual strawberry blend. But she’s here, safe in his arms, and that’s what matters.

Through the windows, he can see Yugo and Taiga moving between shoe racks, heads bent in discussion. Their silhouettes blur slightly in the morning light, like figures in a dream.

Except this isn’t a dream—this is their new reality. Shopping for basic necessities in a thrift store, accepting help from near-strangers, starting over from nothing.

“Daddy?” Ema’s voice pulls him back. “Can we get something sparkly?”

His arms tighten fractionally around her middle. “We’ll see what they have, princess.” The nickname catches in his throat. All her princess dresses, the plastic tiara she loved, her royal tea party set—gone in the flames.

But Ema just nods, content with his answer, her fingers playing with the button on his borrowed shirt. Her simple trust steadies him. They’re together, and somehow, they’ll rebuild their life one small piece at a time.

“Found some options!” Yugo’s voice carries across the floor. He and Taiga approach, arms laden with several pairs of shoes.

“For the office.” Yugo places a pair of polished brown leather oxfords on the bench. “And these”—He adds black sneakers next to them—“For everything else.”

Hokuto runs his fingers over the oxfords’ smooth surface. The leather feels supple, barely worn. His throat tightens at their quality—these would have cost a fortune new.

“They look about right for your size,” Taiga says, his voice neutral. He leans against a nearby rack, hands in his pockets.

“Daddy, look!” Ema tugs at his sleeve, pointing toward a display of children’s formal wear. A red velvet dress with white trim catches the sunlight. “It’s perfect for the Christmas party!”

The Christmas party. Hokuto’s stomach drops as he remembers his promise last night—to make cookies for her preschool. Now their kitchen is gone, along with the cookie cutters Rui picked out specially.

“Can we try it on?” Ema bounces on her toes, eyes shining. “Please?”

“I’ll take her,” Yugo offers, already extending his hand. “You focus on finding comfortable shoes first.”

Ema slips her small hand into Yugo’s without hesitation. “The red one, Uncle Yugo! With the sparkly buttons!”

Their chatter fades as they weave between the racks, leaving Hokuto alone with Taiga. The silence stretches, broken only by the rustle of fabric as Hokuto unties the borrowed shoes.

His sock has a small hole near the big toe. Heat creeps up his neck as he quickly slides his foot into the oxford, hoping Taiga hasn’t noticed. The leather molds perfectly around his heel, no pinching or strain.

“How do they feel?” Taiga asks, still maintaining that careful distance.

“Good.” Hokuto stands, taking a few experimental steps. The shoes move with him naturally, like they were made for his feet. “Really good, actually.”

He tries the other oxford, equally perfect. The price tag dangles from the heel—reasonable, especially for their quality. But combined with clothes for both him and Ema, toiletries, and everything else they need...

His mental calculations must show on his face because Taiga shifts, uncrossing his arms. “You should get both pairs.”

“I—” Hokuto starts to protest, but Taiga cuts him off.

“The sneakers too. You can’t wear dress shoes when you’re taking out your daughter on a random weekend.”

Weekends. Such a normal, everyday thing—occasionally taking Ema to the park, watching her chase bubbles across the grass. Now, it feels like a luxury he has to budget for.

“Papa!” Ema’s voice rings out. “Come see! I’m a princess!”

Hokuto turns at Ema’s voice, and his heart clenches. She twirls in the red velvet dress, the fabric swishing around her ankles. The white trim catches the light, making her look like she stepped out of a Christmas card.

For a moment, he sees Rui in her smile, that same radiant joy that could light up a room.

His eyes catch the price tag dangling from the sleeve. The amount isn’t outrageous for such a well-made dress, but combined with everything else they need... He can’t justify the expense, not when Ema needs practical things like winter coats and school clothes.

“What do you think?” Ema spins again, the skirt billowing out. “It’s just like the one in the window at the mall!”

The one she’d pointed to last week, pressing her nose against the glass. Hokuto swallows hard. “It’s beautiful, sweetheart, but—”

“It’s perfect,” Taiga cuts in, stepping forward. “Consider it an early Christmas gift from me.”

Hokuto’s head snaps up, but Taiga’s already crouching beside Ema.

“What do you say, Ema-chan? Would you like this as your Christmas present?”

“Really?” Ema’s eyes grow wide. She looks to Hokuto for confirmation, bouncing on her toes.

“I’ll take her to change back,” Yugo says quickly, extending his hand. “Come on, Ema-chan. Let’s get you back into your clothes so we can keep shopping.”

As they disappear behind a rack of winter coats, Hokuto turns to Taiga. “You didn’t have to do that.” The words come out rougher than intended, his throat tight with an emotion he can’t quite name.

“It’s not charity.” Taiga shoves his hands in his pockets, gaze fixed somewhere past Hokuto’s shoulder. “She needs clothes anyway.”

“You’re already letting us stay with you.” Hokuto’s fingers curl against his palms. The new oxfords suddenly feel heavy on his feet, a reminder of everything they’ve lost, everything they need. “That’s more than generous.”

“Look.” Taiga shifts his weight, still avoiding direct eye contact. “I saw you hesitate. And it’s kind of impossible to say no to her happiness, especially after...”

He trails off, but the unspoken words hang between them. After watching your home burn. After losing everything.

Something in Taiga’s expression softens, the careful mask slipping just enough to reveal a glimpse of genuine concern. “The dress won’t even make a dent in my expenses. It’s fine.”

The simple kindness of it—not just the dress, but the careful way Taiga tries to make it seem insignificant—hits Hokuto like a physical blow. His vision blurs suddenly, and he feels the first tear spill over before he can stop it. Then another. And another.

Shit. He tries to turn away, to hide this breakdown, but his body won’t cooperate. The tears keep coming, silent but unstoppable, carrying all the fear and grief he’s been holding back since the fire.

“Oh god.” Taiga’s voice rises in panic. “Are you—I didn’t mean to—Should I get Yugo?”

Hokuto shakes his head, unable to form words. His shoulders shake with the effort of keeping quiet, of not letting Ema hear. She can’t see him like this. He needs to be strong for her, needs to—

“Daddy!” Ema’s voice rings out from somewhere behind the racks. “Can I show Uncle Yugo the sparkly shoes too?”

“Go ahead, princess!” His voice comes out steady somehow, even as tears streak down his face. He swipes at them roughly with his sleeve.

Taiga makes a strangled sound, his hands hovering uncertainly in the air between them. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“No,” Hokuto manages, drawing in a shaky breath. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I just…” Another tear escapes, and he watches it darken a spot on his shirt. “Everything you’re doing for us…”

Hokuto’s throat constricts around unsaid words. Fresh tears blur his vision as Taiga’s figure shifts awkwardly before him.

“Here.” Taiga thrusts a handful of tissues at him, still avoiding eye contact.

Hokuto accepts them with trembling fingers. The paper feels rough against his face as he wipes away the evidence of his breakdown. His chest aches with the effort of keeping his breathing steady, of maintaining some semblance of control.

“Tiger-san!” Ema’s voice carries from somewhere in the store. “Look what I found!”

“You should check on her,” Hokuto manages, his voice hoarse. He needs a moment to collect himself, to rebuild the façade of strength he’s maintained since the fire.

But Taiga doesn’t move. He stands there, hands shoved deep in his pocket. “She’s fine with Yugo.” He voice comes out gruff. “Just… take your time.”

The kindness in those words threatens to undo him again. Hokuto focuses on his breathing, on the solid feel of the bench beneath him, on the perfect fit of these secondhand shoes that Taiga helped choose.

The clatter of wheels against hardwood makes Hokuto quickly dab at his face one final time. Ema bounds around the corner, her borrowed clothes slightly askew from changing.

“Papa, they have so many sparkly things!” She races toward him, arms outstretched. “And Uncle Yugo says we can look at all of them!”

Hokuto catches her in a hug, grateful that his voice has steadied. Her warmth against his chest helps ground him, pushing back the lingering rawness in his throat. “That sounds wonderful, princess.”

Yugo follows at a more sedate pace, pushing a cart with the red dress draped carefully across the top. His expression is carefully neutral, but his eyes flick between Hokuto and Taiga with quiet understanding.

“Tiger-san!” Ema wriggles free from Hokuto’s embrace and grabs Taiga’s hand. “Can you help me pick shoes to match my new dress?”

Something flickers across Taiga’s face—surprise, maybe, or discomfort at the sudden contact. But his voice remains steady. “Actually, why don’t we look for some everyday clothes first? You’ll need those more often than the dress.”

“Like school clothes?” Ema’s nose wrinkles slightly.

“Exactly.” Taiga gestures toward a section filled with children’s clothing. “I think I saw some shirts with bunnies over there.”

“Bunnies?” Ema’s eyes light up. She tugs at Taiga’s hand. “Show me!”

Relief washes over Hokuto as Ema’s attention shifts completely to the promise of bunny-themed clothing. She doesn’t seem to notice his reddened eyes or the slight tremor still in his hands. Her excitement fills the space, pushing back the heaviness of moments before.

“The children’s section has some great winter items too,” Yugo says, moving to follow them. “Lots of warm sweaters and coats.”

Hokuto rises from the bench, testing his balance. The oxfords still fit perfectly, a small mercy in this moment. He watches as Ema leads Taiga between the racks, her chatter about bunnies and sparkles filling the quiet store.

🏠

Hokuto gently lowers Ema onto the guest bed, her small form barely making a dent in the crisp sheets. She stirs slightly, and he freezes, but her eyes remain closed. The shopping trip at the thrift store and grocery store had worn her out—between trying on clothes and the excitement over cookie ingredients, she’d fallen asleep in the car before they’d even left the parking lot.

He tucks Mr. Bunny under her arm, noting how the singed ear catches the light. She clutches the stuffed rabbit closer, mumbling something in her sleep.

The familiar gesture makes his chest tight. Even after losing everything else, she still has this one comfort from their old life.

Hokuto lingers by the bed, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest. The room feels stark and impersonal—nothing like her pink-walled paradise at home. But she’s safe here, warm and dry, with a roof over her head. It’s more than he could have hoped for yesterday.

The sound of bags rustling in the kitchen draws his attention. He should help with the groceries, earn his keep somehow.

With one last glance at Ema’s peaceful face, he quietly slips out of the room.

He finds Taiga and Yugo in the kitchen, surrounded by grocery bags. The sight is almost comical—Taiga’s pristine counters now covered in produce, his smart fridge probably having an existential crisis over the sudden influx of actual food.

“We could just order in,” Taiga says, holding up a bunch of carrots like they might bite him. “There’s this new place that delivers—”

“You have a four-year-old living with you now.” Yugo snatches the carrots from Taiga’s hand. “She needs real food, not takeout. When was the last time you ate something that didn’t come in a delivery bag?”

“This morning,” Taiga retorts. “I had—”

“My pancakes don’t count.”

Hokuto steps fully into the kitchen, drawn by their easy banter. It reminds him of quieter days, of Rui teasing him about his own cooking attempts during their early stages of marriage. The memory doesn’t hurt as much as it usually does.

“I can cook,” he offers, moving to help unpack the bags. His fingers brush against fresh vegetables, ingredients that will become something warm and nourishing. “It’s the least I can do, after...” He trails off, the weight of their situation settling back on his shoulders.

“See?” Yugo grins triumphantly at Taiga. “Someone in this house knows how to use a stove for more than boiling water.”

Taiga rolls his eyes, but there’s no real annoyance in the gesture. “The stove works perfectly fine. I just choose not to use it.”

“Because you can’t,” Yugo stage-whispers to Hokuto, earning him a wadded-up receipt thrown at his head.

Hokuto’s hands tremble slightly as he unpacks the groceries. The simple domesticity of organizing vegetables and dry goods steadies him, gives him purpose. He needs this—needs to feel useful, to have some control in a situation where he has so little.

“I can handle all the cooking and shopping,” he says, careful to keep his voice even. “And I’ll pay for the groceries, of course. It’s only fair.” The words taste bitter, like admitting defeat, but he pushes on. “I have some savings set aside, and my salary should cover—”

“Dude, no way.” Yugo’s eyes widen. “You just lost everything in a fire. You can’t—”

“I can.” Hokuto straightens his spine, channeling the same determination he uses during difficult meetings at work. “I need to.”

For Ema. For my own sanity.

Yugo turns to Taiga with a pointed look, eyebrows raised in silent communication. The gesture reminds Hokuto of how new he is here, how he’s stumbled into an established friendship with its own language of looks and subtle cues.

Taiga shifts his weight, crossing his arms. “You don’t have to—”

“Please.” Hokuto’s fingers curl around a bag of rice, anchoring himself. “Let me do this. I can’t just...” He swallows hard. “I can’t just take without giving something back.”

The kitchen falls quiet except for the soft hum of Taiga’s smart fridge. Hokuto focuses on unpacking, letting his hands stay busy while his heart pounds. He’s asking for too much, or maybe too little. He doesn’t know the rules here.

Yugo nudges Taiga with his elbow, that same meaningful look on his face. Hokuto pretends not to notice their silent exchange, methodically arranging cans in the cupboard.

“Fine,” Taiga finally mumbles, uncrossing his arms. “If you want to cook, whatever. Just don’t expect me to help. I have better things to do than chop vegetables.”

Relief floods through Hokuto’s chest. He nods, not trusting his voice. This small victory feels enormous—a foothold in the chaos, a way to repay even a fraction of this kindness.

“Oh, this is perfect.” Yugo claps his hands together. “Now I won’t have to worry about Taiga surviving on delivery food and spite.”

“I was doing fine before,” Taiga protests.

“Your fridge had three energy drinks and expired takeout.”

“It was not expired.”

“It was growing things, Taiga. New things.”

Hokuto’s lips twitch despite himself. Their bickering washes over him like a warm wave, familiar yet foreign. He continues organizing, letting their voices fill the space where his anxiety lurks.

“Okay, out.” Yugo waves his hands at Taiga. “Go do whatever it is you do when you’re avoiding the kitchen.”

“I have work to catch up on,” Taiga mutters, already backing away. “And I need a bath.”

“Perfect. Go be productive elsewhere while I handle dinner.”

Relief flashes across Taiga’s face as he retreats, leaving Hokuto alone with Yugo in the pristine kitchen. The space feels less intimidating with Taiga gone, though Hokuto’s shoulders remain tense.

Yugo pulls out a pot for the udon, moving with the confidence of someone familiar with professional kitchens. “You mentioned you cook?”

“Yes.” Hokuto reaches for the vegetables, falling into the familiar rhythm of prep work. His knife slides through green onions with practiced ease.

They work in companionable silence, moving around each other as if they’ve done this before. Yugo handles the broth while Hokuto prepares the toppings. The kitchen fills with steam and the rich aroma of dashi.

“So,” Yugo says, stirring the broth. “What kind of food does Ema-chan like? Besides pancakes, obviously?”

Hokuto’s knife stills for a moment. “Curry is her favorite. She...” His throat tightens. “Her mother had a special recipe. I’ve tried to recreate it, but it’s never quite the same.”

“Your wife’s recipe?” Yugo’s voice is gentle, free of pity.

“Late wife.” Hokuto nods, focusing on the steady rhythm of his knife against the cutting board. “She used to make it every Sunday. The whole apartment would smell like spices.” His chest aches with the memory. “Ema doesn’t remember most of it, of course. She was too young. But somehow, curry still makes her happiest.”

The broth bubbles softly, filling the silence. Hokuto slides the chopped vegetables into neat piles, trying to order his thoughts like ingredients waiting to be used.

“Thank you,” he says finally, “for offering to go shopping with us.”

“Hey, it’s no problem.” Yugo tests the broth, adjusts the seasoning. “Ema-chan looked like she had fun.”

Hokuto’s hands still over the cutting board. “She hasn’t had many chances for things like that lately. Between work and...” He gestures vaguely, encompassing everything—the fire, their displacement, his constant struggle to be enough.

“Well, now she has three more uncles at her disposal.” Yugo grins, ladling broth over the noodles. “Though maybe don’t let Taiga near the oven. I’m pretty sure he only knows how to turn it on because of the smart home app.”

A small laugh escapes before Hokuto can catch it. The sound surprises him—he can’t remember the last time he laughed.

“I mean it about Taiga and cooking.” Yugo shakes his head, adjusting the heat under the pot. “The man’s a genius with data and marketing strategies, but put him near actual housework and he short-circuits. You should see his face when the robot vacuum gets stuck under the couch.”

Hokuto glances at the sleek device charging in its dock. “The automation is... impressive.” He thinks of his own apartment, where every chore required hands-on attention. Where he’d spend evenings catching up on laundry while helping Ema with her coloring books.

“It’s ridiculous, if you ask me.” Yugo stirs the broth with a practiced hand. “But I get why he does it. After everything with his dad and Shu—” He cuts himself off, pressing his lips together. “Well, let’s just say he earned his need for space.”

Questions burn on Hokuto’s tongue. He’s seen glimpses of Taiga at work – efficient, distant, always in control. But there’s clearly more beneath that polished surface.

Still, it’s not his place to pry. He focuses instead on arranging the green onions into neat piles.

“The noodles look ready,” he says, reaching for the strainer. Steam rises as he drains them, carrying the rich scent of dashi through the kitchen.

Yugo hands him four bowls, their weight solid and reassuring in his hands. “You’re good at this,” he observes. “The whole cooking thing.”

“Practice.” Hokuto ladles the steaming broth over the noodles, muscle memory guiding his movements. “When Rui passed, I had to learn fast. Ema was so young, and takeout every night wasn’t…” He trails off, carefully placing sliced pork in each bowl.

The kitchen fills with quiet sounds – chopsticks against ceramic, broth simmering, the soft whir of the ventilation system. Hokuto adds the final touches to each bowl, arranging the toppings with care. It’s a simple meal, but his chest swells with a small pride. He can still do this, at least.

Footsteps approach, and Taiga appears in the doorway. His hair is damp from the shower, dark strands curling slightly at his temples. He’s traded his work clothes for loose pants and a faded t-shirt, looking softer somehow, less guarded.

“I’ll set the table.” Taiga hovers near the counter, hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. “Since you two did all the cooking.”

“Ema should be waking up soon.” Hokuto sets the last bowl down. “I’ll go get her.”

The guest room is dim and quiet as he pushes the door open. Ema sits up in bed, Mr. Bunny clutched to her chest, her hair sticking up in wild tufts. His heart squeezes at the sight—she looks so small in this unfamiliar space.

“Hey, sweetheart.” He crosses to the bed and scoops her up, breathing in her warm, sleepy scent. Her arms wrap around his neck, Mr. Bunny's singed ear tickling his cheek. “Uncle Yugo and I made dinner. Are you hungry?”

She nods against his shoulder, then pulls back with a puzzled frown. “Where’s Uncle Juri?”

“Uncle Juri had to work.” Hokuto adjusts her on his hip, smoothing down her rumpled hair. The title ‘uncle’ catches in his chest—how quickly she's adopted these men into her world. “But guess what? He left something special for you.”

“What is it?” Her eyes brighten, sleep forgotten.

“His art supplies.” Yugo appears in the doorway, grinning. “So you can do some coloring after dinner.”

“Really?” Ema bounces in Hokuto’s arms, nearly dislodging Mr. Bunny. “Can I color now?”

“Dinner first.” Hokuto presses a kiss to her temple. “We made udon.”

“With the green things?” She scrunches her nose.

“With the green things.” He carries her toward the kitchen, where steam rises from four bowls arranged on Taiga’s pristine dining table. “They’re good for you, remember?”

“Come on, dinner’s getting cold.” Yugo waves them toward the kitchen, where steam rises from the bowls arranged on Taiga’s sleek dining table.

Hokuto sets Ema down in one of the modern chairs, but her chin barely reaches the table’s edge.

His heart sinks—he should have thought of this. At home, they had her special booster seat, the one with the cartoon animals she loved so much. Now it’s probably nothing but ashes.

Before he can figure out a solution, Taiga disappears down the hallway. The sound of a closet door opening echoes through the house. Moments later, he returns with a stack of throw pillows.

“Here.” Taiga arranges the items on the chair, building a makeshift booster seat. His movements are quick and efficient, as if he’s trying not to draw attention to his thoughtfulness. “This should work.”

Hokuto lifts Ema onto the newly elevated seat. She wiggles, testing its stability, then beams up at Taiga. “Thank you, Tiger-san!”

Something transforms in Taiga’s face—the careful mask of indifference melting into a genuine smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. It’s like watching ice thaw, revealing warmth underneath that Hokuto never suspected existed.

The expression catches him off guard. At work, Taiga’s smiles are measured things, diplomatic curves of his lips that never reach his eyes.

But this—this is different. Real.

“Let’s eat before it gets cold,” Yugo says, breaking the moment. He slides into the chair across from Ema, who’s already reaching for her chopsticks with determined concentration.

Hokuto settles into his own seat, watching as Ema manages to capture a noodle. Pride swells in his chest—she’s getting better with the chopsticks, even if more broth ends up on her chin than in her mouth.

Steam rises from the bowls, carrying the rich scent of dashi. The table feels strange yet familiar—four bowls instead of two, different chairs, different walls.

But Ema’s here, safe and happy, Mr. Bunny propped in her lap as she slurps her noodles with enthusiasm.

This is our life now, he thinks, watching Taiga absently pass Ema a napkin without being asked. No more quiet dinners in their small apartment, no more familiar routines.

Instead, they have this—borrowed space, borrowed kindness, an uncertain future stretched out before them.

But as Ema chatters about her plans for tomorrow, using Uncle Juri's art supplies, her eyes bright with excitement, Hokuto feels something loosen in his chest.

They’ve lost almost everything, yes. But maybe, just maybe, this won’t be so bad.

🏠

Someone tickles Ema’s toes. She giggles and squirms, trying to escape the gentle fingers dancing across her feet.

Through sleepy eyes, she sees Papa leaning over her, his warm smile making the room feel brighter even though it’s still a little dark outside.

“Good morning, Princess Ema,” Papa whispers, his voice soft like the blanket wrapped around her.

She notices the dark circles under his eyes again. Papa looks tired, just like when he stays up late working on his computer. But his smile is still there, big and loving, even if his eyes are a bit droopy.

“Papa!” She throws her arms around his neck, breathing in his familiar scent. His stubble scratches her cheek as she hugs him tight.

The room feels different from her old one. The walls are plain white instead of the pale yellow she’s used to, Mr. Bunny sits on an unfamiliar dresser, with Mama’s photo next to it.

But Papa is here, and that makes it feel more like home.

“Shh,” Papa puts a finger to his lips, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Tiger-san is still sleeping.”

Ema covers her mouth with both hands, eyes wide. She remembers Tiger-san from two days ago — how he helped them find new clothes and bought her the dress she likes for the Christmas party. She doesn’t want to wake him up.

“Time to get dressed for school,” Papa whispers, lifting her out of bed.

His arms are strong and safe, just like always. She wraps her legs around his waist, clinging to him like a little monkey while he carries her to where their new clothes are stored.

Papa pulls out a pink dress they found at the thrift store yesterday. It has tiny white flowers all over it, and the skirt twirls when she spins. Just like a princess dress, she thinks.

“Arms up,” Papa instructs quietly, and Ema obeys, letting him slip her nightgown off.

The morning air feels cool on her skin. She shivers a little until Papa quickly pulls the new dress over her head.

“Cold?” he asks, rubbing her arms to warm her up.

Ema shakes her head bravely, but snuggles closer to Papa anyway. He smells like he hasn’t slept much — that mixture of coffee and tiredness she’s starting to recognize. She wishes Papa would sleep more, like how he always tells her she needs lots of rest to grow big and strong.

“Let’s find your socks,” Papa murmurs, rummaging through their shopping bags. He pulls out white socks with little bows on them.

Ema wiggles her toes in excitement — these are one of her favorite from yesterday’s shopping trip.

Papa helps her sit on the edge of the bed, carefully rolling each sock up her feet. His fingers find her ticklish spots again, making her giggle into her hands. She remembers to stay quiet, though. Tiger-san’s room is just down the hall.

Ema follows Papa into the kitchen, her socked feet making soft padding sounds on the floor. She stops and gasps when the lights suddenly flicker on, bright and magical, without anyone touching them.

Tiger-san must be like a real magician, she thinks, remembering how everything in his house works with special words or by itself.

The kitchen looks different in the early morning light. Everything is shiny and clean, not like their old apartment where the counters were always a bit messy with Papa’s cooking. Here, even the air smells different — like lemons and something else she can’t name.

Papa lifts her onto the chair, and she settles into the new booster seat Uncle Juri brought yesterday. It’s blue with little stars on it, making her feel tall enough to reach the table properly. The seat is still stiff and unfamiliar, not like her old one that had the perfect dip where she always sat.

“Here you go, Princess,” Papa says, placing a plate with two rice balls in front of her.

Steam rises from the bowl of miso soup next to it, and her tummy rumbles at the sight. The orange juice comes in a special cup with a lid — one of their new things from yesterday’s shopping.

Ema picks up one of the rice balls, admiring how Papa made it into a perfect triangle. She takes a big bite, rice sticking to her cheeks. The salmon inside is just the way she likes it. Papa always remembers her favorites, even when everything else is different.

“I’ll go change for work,” Papa tells her, running his hand over her hair. “Will you be okay here for a minute?”

She nods, mouth full of rice.

Papa disappears down the hall toward their new room, his footsteps quiet like he’s still trying not to wake Tiger-san.

Ema swings her legs under the table, sipping her soup carefully like Papa taught her. The kitchen feels bigger without Papa here, but not scary. The magical lights make everything bright and safe.

She wonders if Tiger-san has other magic tricks in his house, like maybe a table that cleans itself or chairs that can dance.

A sound catches her attention — a door opening somewhere down the hall. Ema freezes mid-bite, wondering if Tiger-san is awake. She remembers Papa saying to be quiet, so she holds her breath and listens.

Footsteps approach the kitchen, but they’re not Papa’s. These are slower, hesitant.

Tiger-san appears in the doorway, his dark hair sticking up funny on one side. His eyes look small and sleepy, like he’s not quite awake yet.

“Oh,” he says, stopping when he sees her. He’s wearing soft-looking pants and a big t-shirt, not the nice clothes she saw him in when he saw them last Friday.

Ema waves with her free hand, rice still stuck to her cheeks.

Tiger-san blinks at her, like he forgot she was living here now. Grown-ups do that sometimes — forget things when they first wake up.

“Good morning,” she whispers, remembering to be quiet even though Tiger-san is already awake. The kitchen feels different with him in it, like when she visits someone else’s house and doesn’t know if it’s okay to touch things.

Tiger-san nods and moves to the coffee maker. It starts making noise all by itself when he gets close, like it knows what he wants.

Magic, Ema thinks, watching him with wide eyes.

The coffee smell reminds her of Papa, but different. Papa’s coffee always has cream and sugar. Tiger-san drinks his black, she notices, wrinkling her nose at how bitter it must taste.

He leans against the counter, holding his cup with both hands. His eyes keep moving between her and the hallway, like he’s waiting for Papa to come back. The silence feels heavy, like a thick blanket.

“Your house is magic,” Ema tells him, because silence makes her squirmy. She points at the lights. “They know when we want them on.”

Tiger-san’s mouth twitches, almost like a smile but not quite. “It’s technology,” he says, his voice rough from sleep. “Not magic.”

But Ema knows better. She’s seen how things move and light up by themselves, how the vacuum cleaner dances across the floor without anyone pushing it. That’s definitely magic, even if Tiger-san doesn’t want to admit it.

Papa returns, dressed in his work clothes now. He stops when he sees Tiger-san, surprise crossing his face.

“Morning,” Papa says, sounding unsure.

Ema doesn’t understand why grown-ups get weird around each other sometimes. It’s like they forget how to talk, even though talking is easy.

Tiger-san just nods again, taking another sip of his coffee. The kitchen feels smaller with both of them in it, like the air is getting squished.

Ema finishes her rice ball, the silence making her food taste different. She wants to tell Tiger-san about the dress she’s wearing, how it twirls when she spins, but his face looks all serious like when Papa has important work to do.

“We should leave soon,” Papa says, checking his phone. “The train will be crowded if we wait too long.”

Tiger-san looks at the clock on his magic wall, his eyebrows going up like when Ema shows him her drawings. “It’s only six-thirty.”

“I need to drop Ema at preschool before work,” Papa explains, packing up the leftover rice ball in her bento box. His movements are quick and practiced, like when he’s running late for a meeting. “I have some reports to finish before the morning standup.”

Ema perks up, an idea popping into her head like a bubble. “Can Tiger-san come with us?” She bounces in her star-covered booster seat. “You work together, right?”

The kitchen feels funny after she asks, like when she accidentally spills juice and everyone freezes. Tiger-san’s coffee cup stops halfway to his mouth, and Papa’s hands pause over her bento box.

“If we wait for Tiger-san, we’ll all be late,” Papa says gently, wiping a stray grain of rice from her cheek. His touch is soft, but his voice sounds different — like when he’s trying to explain something complicated.

Ema’s tummy feels wobbly. She doesn’t want anyone to be late because of her. At preschool, being late means missing morning circle time with Mori-sensei, and that’s the best part of the day.

Papa picks up their backpacks — his big black one and her pink one with the bunny patch. The bento boxes disappear into his bag like magic, but not the same kind as Tiger-san’s house magic. This is just Papa-magic, the everyday kind that makes everything fit where it needs to go.

“We’ll see you later,” Papa tells Tiger-san, who’s still holding his coffee cup with both hands like it might run away if he lets go. “I made extra rice balls. They’re in the fridge.”

Tiger-san nods, and Ema notices how his hair is still sticking up funny on one side. She wants to tell him, but Papa’s already helping her down from her chair, and grown-ups get weird about things like messy hair sometimes.

“Wait.” Tiger-san’s voice makes Papa stop with his hand on the door.

Ema watches Tiger-san hurry down the hall, his funny bed hair bouncing with each step.

Tiger-san holds a card.

But these look different — all silver and new, without the cute bunny keychain Papa got her to match his.

“Spare keycard to the house. You might get home before me,” Tiger-san says, not quite looking at Papa’s face. His words come out quick and jumbled, like when Ema tries to explain a dream before it fades away. “And I don’t want... at the office...”

Papa’s shoulders get stiff, the way they do when Mori-sensei asks too many questions about Mama.

Ema looks between them, confused. Why wouldn’t Tiger-san want people to know they’re staying in his magical house? Maybe it’s a secret, like how Santa brings presents, or how the tooth fairy takes teeth.

The keys make a soft jingling sound as Papa takes them, his fingers barely touching Tiger-san’s palm. “Thank you,” Papa says, his voice quiet like when he’s trying not to wake her during naptime.

Tiger-san nods, stepping back. His t-shirt is all wrinkled, and Ema notices a coffee stain near the bottom that wasn’t there before. She wants to tell him about it, but Papa’s already opening the door, the cool morning air rushing in.

“We should hurry,” Papa says, helping Ema with her shoes. The new pink ones from yesterday’s shopping still feel stiff around her toes. “The trains will be crowded soon.”

Ema’s mind bubbles with questions. Why can’t they tell people about Tiger-san’s magical house? Is it like in her storybooks, where the magic has to stay secret or it stops working?

She opens her mouth to ask, but Papa’s face has that serious look again, the one that means not now.

The keys disappear into Papa’s pocket, hidden away like a special treasure. Or maybe a secret that needs keeping, though Ema isn’t sure why.

Grown-ups are strange sometimes, making simple things complicated. Like how Papa pretends not to be tired when she can see it in his eyes, or how Tiger-san’s house is clearly magical even though he calls it technology.

Papa takes her hand, and they step out into the morning sunshine.

Behind them, Tiger-san stands in the doorway, still in his wrinkled pajamas with his messy hair, looking lost in his own magical house.

🏠

“Look, Papa! Yuki-chan’s here!” Ema tugs at Papa’s sleeve as they enter the bright classroom. The morning sun streams through the windows, making the colorful art on the walls glow like magic — not Tiger-san’s kind of magic, but the special preschool kind that makes everything feel warm and happy.

Papa helps her change into her indoor shoes, his fingers quick and gentle as he undoes the straps. “Remember to put your backpack in your cubby,” he reminds her, but Ema’s already bouncing on her toes, eager to join Yuki at the craft table.

“Ema-chan!” Yuki waves, her pigtails swishing like happy puppy tails. Her fingers are covered in glitter, sparkling under the fluorescent lights.

“Yuki-chan!” Ema rushes over, nearly tripping in her excitement. She plops down in the tiny chair next to her best friend, the plastic seat squeaking against the floor.

“Mori-sensei told me about the fire at your house,” Yuki whispers, her eyes wide with concern. “Were you scared? Did you see any dragons?”

“No dragons.” Ema shakes her head, disappointed that real fires aren't as exciting as the ones in their storybooks. “But guess what? We’re staying at Papa’s friend’s house now! His name is Tiger-san, and his house is magic!”

“Magic?” Yuki leans closer, glitter falling from her fingers onto the table like fairy dust.

“Uh-huh! The lights turn on by themselves, and there’s a robot that cleans the floor!” Ema spreads her arms wide, nearly knocking over the glue bottle. “And Tiger-san has this wall that talks and tells you what the weather is!”

“Really?” Yuki’s mouth forms a perfect O. “Like in the movies?”

“Even better!” Ema nods enthusiastically. “And Tiger-san works with Papa, but he pretends to be grumpy. He’s like the beast in our storybook, but not scary at all!”

“Does he have a magic rose too?” Yuki asks, completely invested in the tale.

“No, but he has magic coffee that makes him less grumpy in the morning,” Ema giggles, remembering Tiger-san’s messy bed hair. “And he bought me a new dress for the Christmas party!”

“Wow!” Yuki gasps. “Does Tiger-san have a princess already? In the story, the beast needs a princess to break the spell.”

Ema ponders this, her forehead wrinkling in thought. “I don’t think so. Maybe Papa’s the princess?”

Mori-sensei enters the classroom. His cheeks look pink, like when they play outside in the cold, even though they’re inside. He’s wearing his sparkly blue tie today — the one that makes him look like he’s going to a party.

“Good morning, Matsumura-san!” Mori-sensei’s voice sounds different, higher than usual, like when Yuki tries to sing the princess songs. He keeps fixing his tie and running his fingers through his hair, the way Papa does when he’s nervous about a big meeting at work.

Papa smiles and bows politely. “Good morning, Morimoto-sensei.”

Ema watches as Mori-sensei talks to Papa, his hands moving around a lot like excited butterflies. He keeps looking at his shoes and then back at Papa’s face, then at his shoes again.

“I’m sorry about the fire,” Mori-sensei says, his voice all soft and worried. “If there’s anything you need…” He reaches out like he wants to touch Papa’s arm but pulls back quickly.

Papa’s smile stays polite, the kind he uses when talking to strangers. Not his real smile, the one that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners when he reads bedtime stories. “We’re managing well, thank you for your concern.”

Mori-sensei nods too many times, like one of those bobbing toys in his Grandpa’s car. “Of course, of course. And you’ve found a place to stay?”

“Yes, with a friend from work,” Papa says, and Ema notices how his voice gets quieter, like when he’s telling a secret.

Yuki tugs at Ema’s sleeve, whispering, “Mori-sensei likes your Papa!” She giggles behind her glittery hands.

Ema tilts her head, watching Mori-sensei laugh too loudly at something Papa says. It’s true — Mori-sensei does look at Papa the way Princess Ariel looks at Prince Eric in their storybook.

But Papa’s smile stays the same, not reaching his eyes.

Papa heads to Ema now, kneeling down to her level. “Have fun today, princess. I’ll pick you up later, okay?”

“Okay, Papa!” Ema hugs him tight, breathing in the familiar scent of his coffee and clean shirts. She feels him press a kiss to the top of her head before standing up.

Mori-sensei follows Papa to the door, still talking and fixing his sparkly tie. Papa gives one last wave before disappearing into the hallway, leaving Mori-sensei staring after him for a moment too long.

“Your Papa is so nice,” Yuki says, returning to her glitter project. “Mori-sensei thinks so too!”

Mori-sensei walks over to their table, his sparkly tie catching the light like the glitter on Yuki’s fingers. He crouches down beside Ema’s chair, his smile warm and gentle.

“Ema-chan, I want you to know that if you ever need anything — maybe someone to talk to, or if you’re feeling sad — you can always come to me, okay?”

Ema nods, though she doesn’t feel sad at all. Tiger-san’s house is much more fun than their old apartment, even if Mr. Bunny’s ear got a bit burned in the fire.

“Oh! You can borrow my toys!” Yuki bounces in her seat, sending more glitter cascading onto the table. “I have a new princess castle, and lots of dolls!”

“Your Papa told me something important this morning,” Mori-sensei continues, his voice taking on that grown-up serious tone. “He gave me three names of people who can pick you up from preschool if he can’t make it. Do you know who they are?”

Ema sits up straighter, proud to know the answer. “Uncle Yugo! He makes magic pancakes that look like bunnies!” The memory of breakfast at the new house makes her tummy rumble. “And Uncle Juri! He gave me the best markers — look!” She points to her backpack where her new markers wait.

“And Tiger-san,” she adds with a giggle. “His house talks to him, and sometimes he forgets to brush his hair in the morning.”

Mori-sensei’s eyebrows go up a little, but he nods. “That’s right. Those are the three people who—”

A rush of voices and squealing interrupts him as more kids pour into the classroom. Kosuke is crying because his shoelace came undone, and the twins are arguing over who gets to use the blue chair.

Mori-sensei straightens up, his tie swishing like a sparkly flag. “Excuse me, girls,” he says, already moving toward the growing chaos by the door.

“Ema-chan, look!” Yuki waves her pink notebook in front of Ema’s face. The plastic sleeve on the cover sparkles under the classroom lights, but what catches Ema’s eye is the photo inside — a smiling man with pretty eyes and shiny hair.

“Who’s that?” Ema points at the picture, admiring how his teeth look perfect, like the princes in her storybooks.

Yuki hugs the notebook to her chest, her cheeks turning pink like the strawberry milk Papa sometimes buys. “That’s Jesse! He’s in the drama Mama and I watch together every Tuesday night.” She traces the edge of the photo with her glittery finger. “He’s so handsome — Mama says he’s gonna be a big star soon. He’s my oshi now!”

Ema’s tummy feels funny, like when she eats too much ice cream. She watches Yuki bounce in her seat, talking about how she and her mama make special snacks for their drama nights. They wear matching pajamas and sit on the big couch together, and sometimes they paint each other’s nails during the commercials.

Would Mama and I do that too? The thought sneaks into her head like a shy kitten. Would they watch dramas together? Would Mama fix her hair the way Yuki’s mama does, making pretty patterns that look like crowns?

“Mama says Jesse is the best actor ever,” Yuki continues, her pigtails swaying as she nods importantly. “We’re going to his fan meeting next month! Mama already bought matching t-shirts for us to wear!”

The funny feeling in Ema’s tummy grows bigger. She looks down at her hands, still clean and free of glitter, and tries to imagine what Mama’s hands would look like next to hers. Would they be soft? Would they smell like flowers, like the ones Papa puts on the little table in their old apartment?

“Does your mama like dramas too?” Yuki asks, still clutching her notebook.

Ema’s throat feels tight, like when she tries not to cry after a bad dream. She shakes her head, not trusting her voice. Papa told her it was okay to talk about Mama, that Mama was watching over them from somewhere far away, but sometimes the words got stuck like they were hiding behind her heart.

Papa once showed Ema a photo of Mama. She wore a pretty white dress and had long black hair that looked soft like the blankets Tiger-san keeps on his couch. In the picture, Mama smiled at the camera, her hand resting on her round tummy where baby Ema was still growing.

Sometimes, when Papa thinks Ema is sleeping, she peeks through the doorway and watches him stare at Mama’s photo. His shoulders get all droopy, like when he’s very tired after work, and sometimes he touches the frame with his fingertips, so gentle like he’s afraid it might break.

Those times make Ema’s chest feel tight and achy. She doesn’t like seeing Papa sad. It’s worse than when Mr. Bunny got his ear burned in the fire, or when she drops her ice cream on the sidewalk.

The classroom buzzes around them — Kosuke still sniffling over his shoelace, the twins now fighting over crayons instead of chairs, Mori-sensei’s voice gentle as he helps someone wash paint off their hands. But at their table, the silence feels heavy, like the big blanket Papa wraps around her during thunderstorms.

Sometimes Ema tries very hard to remember her Mama, squeezing her eyes shut tight and thinking until her head hurts. But all she can picture is Mama in photos — the white dress, the long hair, the smile that looks a bit like her own when she catches her reflection in Tiger-san’s talking wall.

Ema keeps her Mama thoughts quiet, tucked away. When she sees other mamas at the park, braiding their daughters’ hair or wiping ice cream from sticky chins, she holds those thoughts extra tight. When Yuki talks about her mama, Ema adds those thoughts to her collection too.

Because Papa tries so hard to be both Papa and Mama. He ties her hair (even if it’s not as pretty as the other mamas do), he kisses her scrapes better, he reads stories with different voices for each character. His hands might be bigger and rougher than mama hands, but they’re just as gentle when they wipe away her tears.

And now there’s Tiger-san too, who pretends to be grumpy but bought her a dress for the Christmas party. Who doesn’t mind when she names the robots in his magic house.

The tight feeling in Ema’s chest loosens a little when she thinks about them — Papa and Tiger-san, Uncle Yugo and Uncle Juri. Maybe they can’t braid hair like mamas can, but they give the best hugs, and that’s almost the same thing.

🏠

The pink marker squeaks against paper as Ema draws another heart on her crown. Uncle Juri gave her these markers two days ago — they smell like strawberries when you use them, which makes coloring even more fun.

“Your castle needs more sparkles,” Yuki declares, reaching across the table with her gold marker. “Princesses always need sparkles.”

“Can I have a dragon too?” Ema asks, sliding her paper closer to Yuki. “A friendly one that brings us cake for tea parties.”

“Of course! All the best princesses have dragon friends.” Yuki’s tongue pokes out as she concentrates on drawing what looks more like a bumpy cat with wings. “And we’ll have a magical garden where the flowers sing...”

Ema nods, adding more hearts to her crown. In their pretend kingdom, the castle would have talking walls like Tiger-san’s house, but instead of saying boring things like “front door locked” or “temperature adjusted,” they’d tell stories about brave knights and lost treasures.

A familiar tick-tick makes Ema look up at the big clock above the cubbies. The long hand points to twelve, and the short one to five. Papa should be coming to pick her up anytime soon.

“Mama’s making watermelon Christmas trees for the party on Friday,” Yuki says, still focused on her dragon-cat. “She cuts them into triangles and adds tiny fruit stars on top. What are you bringing?”

Ema feels a wobbling feeling in her tummy. She remembers washing carrots for their dinner in their old apartment when Papa agreed to make cookies.

But then the fire happened.

“I wanted to make cookies with Papa,” Ema says quietly, putting down her marker. The strawberry smell doesn’t seem as nice anymore. “But our kitchen got all black and smoky.”

“Oh.” Yuki’s marker pauses mid-sparkle. “But you’re staying at Tiger-san’s magical house now, right?”

Ema perks up. Tiger-san’s kitchen is magical. It has a fancy silver oven that beeps happy tunes when it’s done cooking, and a refrigerator that makes ice cubes.

“Maybe…” Ema chews her lip, thinking hard. “Maybe Papa and Tiger-san can help me make cookies there?”

The classroom door swings open with a soft whoosh. Mori-sensei pokes his head in, his smile extra big.

“Ema-chan, look who’s here!”

Papa stands in the doorway, holding a big brown box. His tie is crooked, like when he’s been rushing, but his eyes are bright and warm.

“Papa!” Ema jumps up so fast she almost fell down. She doesn’t care — Papa is here!

The box makes a thump as Papa sets it down, kneeling just in time to catch her running hug. His arms wrap around her tight, and she breathes in the familiar smell of his work shirt.

“Sorry I’m late, Princess,” Papa whispers into her hair. His voice sounds funny, like it does when he reads sad parts in storybooks.

“Look what we have here!” Mori-sensei’s voice is bouncy as he pats the box. “I talked to some of the other parents and teachers, and everyone wanted to help. There are clothes and toys you can take home.”

Ema peeks inside the box, still holding onto Papa’s sleeve. She spots a pink sweater with butterflies, some picture books, and what looks like a stuffed penguin wearing a bowtie.

“That’s Waddles,” Mori-sensei explains, picking up the penguin. “He was living in our reading corner, but he told me he’d love to come home with you.”

Papa’s hand trembles a little as he reaches for Waddles. “Morimoto-sensei, this is...” He stops, clearing his throat. His eyes look shiny, like when he watched Ema perform in last year’s play. “Thank you. This means...”

Mori-sensei’s cheeks turn pink. “It’s nothing, really! Everyone just wanted to help. There’s more in the teacher’s room too — some winter clothes and school supplies.”

The box has so many treasures. Ema spots colorful hair clips, a purple skirt that twirls, and even a pack of those special markers that don’t stain when you accidentally color on your hands.

“Can we show Tiger-san?” Ema asks, hugging Waddles close. The penguin’s bowtie tickles her chin.

Papa makes that weird laugh that sounds like he’s trying not to cry. “Of course we can, Princess.” He turns to Mori-sensei and bows deeply. “Thank you. Really, I...”

“Please,” Mori-sensei waves his hands, his smile wobbling a bit. “It’s what friends do.”

Papa looks at Mori-sensei funny. His ears turn a little pink, and he squeezes Ema’s hand extra tight.

“Time to go home, Princess.” Papa reaches for her coat with his free hand, the big box balanced against his hip.

“I can do it!” Ema declares, puffing up her chest like the brave knight in her storybook. “You have the treasure box to carry.”

Papa’s smile gets softer. “Are you sure?”

Ema nods, marching to her cubby. Her indoor shoes line up neatly next to her pink backpack – she’s gotten really good at keeping them straight since Mori-sensei showed her how to make everything look “organized.” That’s his favorite word.

The coat feels heavier than usual as she pulls it off the hook, but she remembers how Papa does it: one arm first, then the other, then pull it up over her shoulders. Her tongue sticks out a little as she concentrates on the zipper. It gets stuck halfway, but she wiggles it free.

“Look, Papa! All by myself!”

“That’s my girl.” Papa’s voice sounds proud, but also a bit sad, like when he looks at old pictures of Mama.

The outdoor shoes are trickier. The laces never want to stay tied, flopping around like silly spaghetti strings. But she remembers the trick Papa showed her: make two bunny ears, cross them over, and pull them through the hole.

“First try!” she announces, standing up straight. Her shoes might not be as neat as when Papa ties them, but they’ll stay on for the walk home.

Mori-sensei waves goodbye from the doorway, his smile still wobbly. Ema waves back with both hands, making Waddles’ flipper wave too.

🏠

The front door makes a happy beep as Papa turns the key inside the lock. Ema bounces on her toes, loving the way the lights inside wake up one by one, like tiny stars coming out at night.

Her new slippers wait by the door, purple with little cats on them. They’re not as pretty as her old bunny ones that got burned up, but Tiger-san helped her pick them himself at the store.

“Remember to line them up neatly,” Papa reminds her as he struggles with the big box.

Ema carefully places her slippers straight, just like at preschool. The floor feels different here – smooth and cool, not like the old scratchy carpet at their apartment. Sometimes when no one’s looking, she slides around in her socks like an ice skater.

Papa sets the box down in the living room with a soft grunt. Waddles peeks out from where Ema tucked him in her coat, his bowtie a little crooked now. The room smells like the special wood cleaner Papa used this morning – the one that makes Tiger-san scrunch his nose funny but never say anything about.

“Why don’t you look through your new things while I start dinner?” Papa suggests, rolling up his sleeves. “I’m thinking tempura tonight. Would you like that?”

“Yes!” Ema hugs Waddles tight. “Can I show him the kitchen later? He’s never seen one that talks before.”

Papa’s eyes get that soft, crinkly look. “Of course. Just remember—”

“Don’t touch the hot stuff or the sharp stuff,” Ema recites. She’s heard this one lots of times too.

The box looks even bigger now that it’s on the floor. Ema kneels beside it, carefully setting Waddles on the couch where he can watch. The purple skirt is right on top, all swishy and perfect for twirling. Under that, she finds the butterfly sweater, some warm tights, and – oh! – a pack of glittery stickers shaped like stars.

“Look, Waddles!” She holds up a sticker sheet. “We can decorate your bowtie!”

From the kitchen comes the familiar sound of Papa washing vegetables. The fancy sink makes different noises than their old one – more musical, like it’s singing while it works.

Ema pulls out more treasures: books with bright pictures, soft socks in rainbow colors, and even a little bag with hair ties that have plastic strawberries on them. Everything smells new-but-not-new, like the thrift store where they got her slippers.

The kitchen starts to smell like tempura batter. Papa hums while he cooks, just like he always did in their old kitchen. But here, the stove talks back, telling him when things are hot enough.

“Papa?” Ema calls out, holding up the butterfly sweater. “Can I wear this for dinner?”

“Of course, Princess. Do you need help changing?”

“I can do it!” She stands up proudly. "I’m a big girl now. Like how I did my shoes at school!”

Papa’s voice is warm like a hug. “That’s my smart girl.” His footsteps fade back to the kitchen.

Ema gathers her new clothes in her arms, careful not to wrinkle them too much. The butterfly sweater is the softest thing she’s ever touched – even softer than Mr. Bunny’s ear before it got a little burned. The stairs to their room feel higher than usual with her arms so full, but she takes them one at a time, just like Papa taught her.

Their room looks different in the evening light. The big bed takes up most of the space, its white sheets neat and crisp the way Papa always makes them. Mr. Bunny sits in his special spot on the pillow, watching over Mama’s silver picture frame.

“Look what we got, Mr. Bunny!” Ema deposits her bundle onto the bed, creating a colorful mountain of clothes and toys. “And guess what? I brought someone to meet you!”

She pulls Waddles from where she tucked him into her shirt. His bowtie is even more crooked now, but that just makes him look friendlier. “This is Waddles. He’s new here too, just like us.”

The clothes make a bigger pile than she expected. Back home – old home, she corrects herself – everything had its own drawer or shelf.

Here, she’s not sure where anything goes. Maybe Tiger-san has a special box somewhere, like the one he keeps his important papers in.

Ema climbs onto the bed, careful not to disturb her treasures. She positions Waddles next to Mr. Bunny, adjusting them until they face each other just right.

“Mr. Bunny, you have to be extra nice to Waddles,” she explains. “He’s never lived in a talking house before.”

Her eyes drift to Mama’s photo. Mama looks pretty, her smile bright and kind. Papa says Ema has the same smile, though she can’t really tell. Sometimes when she squints really hard at the picture, she thinks she remembers Mama’s voice, but Papa says that’s probably from the videos they watch together.

“Mama,” she whispers, picking up the frame. “We got new things today. Mori-sensei helped me get them.” The glass is cool against her fingers as she traces the edge. “Tiger-san helped me pick sparkly slippers. Just like how you used to get me pretty things sometimes.”

The kitchen timer chimes downstairs – not the regular beeping kind, but a gentle melody that reminds Ema of wind chimes. She can hear Papa moving around, probably getting plates ready. The house feels different than their apartment did, bigger and full of strange noises, but Papa’s cooking smell is exactly the same.

She hugs Waddles close, breathing in his new-toy smell. “What do you think, Mama? Should we ask Tiger-san about a box later?"

The smell of tempura grows stronger, making Ema’s tummy rumble. She places Mama’s photo back in its special spot, propped against the headboard where the silver frame catches the light just right.

A loud sizzle echoes from downstairs, followed by Papa’s humming. The sound feels different here – bouncy against the smooth walls instead of getting lost in their old apartment’s carpet.

Ema wiggles out of her school clothes, letting them fall in a heap beside the bed. The butterfly sweater slips over her head like a warm hug, its sleeves a little too long but perfect for playing peek-a-boo with her hands. She twirls once, twice, watching the purple skirt float around her legs like fairy wings.

“How do I look?” she asks Mr. Bunny and Waddles.

They sit side by side on the pillow, watching her with their button eyes. Mr. Bunny’s burned ear makes him tilt a bit to one side, but that just means he’s listening extra carefully.

The house makes a whirring sound – probably Tiger-san's robot vacuum that she calls Zoomie. Ema peeks out the door just in time to see it glide past, its little red light blinking like a friendly hello.

At their old apartment, they had to use a big noisy vacuum that scared her sometimes. But Zoomie is different, more like a pet that cleans up after them.

“Ema?” Papa’s voice drifts up the stairs. “Dinner’s almost ready!”

Her tummy does another happy flip. She gives Mama’s photo one last smile before heading to the door.

The stairs look steeper going down, especially with her new skirt trying to tangle around her legs. She takes them carefully, one hand on the rail just like Papa taught her.

The kitchen glows golden in the evening light. Papa stands at the stove, his back straight as he carefully lifts tempura from the oil. The fancy hood above him hums softly, making the kitchen smell less like cooking and more like their favorite restaurant.

Tiger-san’s refrigerator — the one that talks and shows pictures on its door — displays today’s weather in bright colors. Ema still can't read all the words, but she recognizes the snowflake icon and the numbers that tell how cold it is outside.

“Look, Papa!” She twirls again, letting her skirt swish around her. “I dressed all by myself!”

Papa turns, his eyes doing that crinkly thing she loves. “Very nice, Princess! The butterfly sweater looks perfect on you.”

“Can I help set the table?” She bounces on her toes, eager to show how grown-up she can be.

“Of course. The plates are in the lower cabinet.”

Ema nods, padding over to the cabinet. The plates here are different from their old ones — white and smooth like clouds, without any of the little chips or scratches she used to trace with her finger during breakfast. She carries them carefully to the table, one at a time, just like at preschool when it’s her turn to be helper.

The house makes another beeping sound – this time from the front door. That means Tiger-san is home early.

Ema’s heart does a little dance. Maybe he’ll let her show him her new clothes before dinner.

The front door whooshes open, and Ema’s heart leaps at the sight of Tiger-san’s tall figure in the doorway. She drops the last plate onto the table with a clatter and runs over, her new skirt twirling around her legs.

“Tiger-san! Look at my butterfly sweater!” She spins in front of him, arms spread wide.

Tiger-san freezes for a moment, his eyes going wide like they always do when she gets too close. His shoulders tense up, reminding her of the cats at the shelter — the ones that need extra time to get used to people.

But then his face softens, just a tiny bit.

“Very... nice,” he says, taking off his shoes. He lines them up perfectly straight, just like Papa does.

Ema bounces alongside him as he walks to the kitchen, her words tumbling out fast and excited. “And guess what? Today at preschool, Yuki-chan and I made a castle out of blocks, and it was this big!” She stretches her arms as wide as they’ll go. “And then Mori-sensei said we could paint it, but then Koji-kun knocked it over by accident, but that’s okay because we built an even bigger one!”

The kitchen smells amazing now, all golden and crispy. Papa stands at the stove, carefully lowering a piece of tempura into the oil. He glances over his shoulder, giving Tiger-san one of his quiet smiles.

“Welcome home, Kyomoto. Dinner’s almost ready.”

“Ah... thanks,” Tiger-san mumbles, his cheeks going a little pink like they sometimes do when Papa talks to him.

“And then,” Ema continues, tugging at Tiger-san’s sleeve, “Mori-sensei taught us a new song about—”

A sharp hiss cuts through her words. Papa jerks his hand back from the stove, his face going all scrunched up. Little drops of oil have splattered across his fingers, making angry red spots on his skin.

Tiger-san moves faster than Ema’s ever seen him move before. His eyes go wide and scared as he looks at Papa’s hand. “Cold water,” he blurts out. “Quick—”

But then he stops, like he’s not sure what to do next. His hands hover in the air, not quite touching Papa’s arm.

Papa tries to smile, but Ema can tell it hurts – his eyes are all tight around the edges, the way they get when he’s trying to be brave.

“First aid kit,” Tiger-san says suddenly, more to himself than anyone else. He spins around, almost knocking into Ema in his rush to reach one of the higher cabinets. “I keep it up here, for emergencies—”

The cabinet door bangs open a little too hard. Tiger-san stretches up on his toes, fumbling with a white box with a red cross on it. His hands shake a little as he sets it on the counter.

“Papa?” Ema whispers, her chest feeling tight. She doesn’t like the way Papa’s holding his hand, or how Tiger-san’s voice has gone all wobbly.

“It’s okay, Princess,” Papa says, but his smile is still not quite right. “Just a little burn. Nothing to worry about.”

Tiger-san finally gets the first aid kit open, his movements jerky and rushed. “Here,” he says, pulling out some packets. “Burn cream. And bandages. We should... do you need...?”

He trails off, still not quite looking at Papa’s face.

Papa’s good hand reaches out, gentle like always, and touches Tiger-san’s wrist. “Thank you,” he says softly. “I can manage.”

Ema watches as Papa runs his burned fingers under the cold water, the fancy faucet singing its usual song. Tiger-san hovers nearby, the first aid supplies clutched tight in his hands, like he’s not sure whether to step closer or back away.

Papa shakes the water from his fingers, but Ema can see how red and puffy they still look. He reaches for the burn cream with his good hand, but the little packet keeps slipping through his fingers.

Tiger-san shifts from foot to foot, still holding the band-aids. His face does that scrunchy thing it does when he wants to say something but can’t find the words.

“Here,” Tiger-san finally mumbles, stepping closer. “Let me...”

Papa goes very still as Tiger-san takes the burn cream packet. His shoulders look tight, like when he’s trying not to show that something hurts.

Tiger-san’s hands shake a little as he tears open the packet, but they steady when he starts spreading the cream over Papa’s burned fingers.

Ema watches Papa’s face change – his eyes go all soft and round, like when he looks at Mama’s pictures sometimes. Tiger-san doesn’t look up from Papa’s hand, but his cheeks turn pink again.

The band-aid wrapper makes tiny crinkly noises as Tiger-san struggles with it. His fingers keep slipping on the paper bits at the ends.

“You have to pull the white part first,” Ema offers helpfully. She knows all about band-aids from watching Mori-sensei in the nurse’s office.

Tiger-san’s mouth twitches up at one corner as he finally gets the wrapper open. He wraps the band-aid around Papa’s finger so carefully, like he’s handling one of Ema’s craft projects.

They both just stand there after it’s done, Tiger-san still holding Papa’s hand. The kitchen feels different – all quiet and warm, like when Ema’s about to fall asleep.

“Tiger-san,” she pipes up, “aren’t you supposed to kiss it better? That’s what Papa always does for my boo-boos.”

Papa makes a funny choking sound, and Tiger-san drops his hand like it’s suddenly turned into a hot potato. They jump apart so fast that Tiger-san bumps into the counter.

“I should... bathroom,” Tiger-san mutters, his whole face going red now. He practically runs out of the kitchen.

Papa turns back to the stove, his ears pink as he starts putting tempura on plates. He’s moving extra slow, like his brain got stuck somewhere else.

Ema sighs, shaking her head. Grown-ups are so weird sometimes.

🏠

The scent of chocolate hits Taiga’s nostrils before he even reaches the kitchen. Rich, warm, and entirely too domestic for seven-thirty in the morning.

He adjusts his tie, hovering at the kitchen entrance. Hokuto stands at the counter, sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he guides Ema’s small hands around a whisk. Their matching dark heads bent together over a mixing bowl, completely absorbed in their task.

“No, sweetie, slower or it’ll splash everywhere.”

“Like this, Papa?”

“Perfect.”

Flour dusts the counter, and measuring cups lie scattered about like casualties of their baking endeavor. The sight makes Taiga’s fingers twitch. His perfectly organized kitchen has transformed into what looks like a cooking show gone wrong.

This is temporary, he reminds himself.

“Tiger-san!” Ema spots him, her face lighting up with that unguarded joy only children seem capable of. “We’re making cookies for my class! Want to help?”

“I have work,” Taiga says, wincing at how cold it sounds.

Hokuto wipes his hands on a dish towel. “We won’t keep you. I know you need to head out soon.”

Taiga notices the absence of Hokuto’s usual work attire—the crisp button-downs and slacks replaced by a comfortable sweater and jeans. Something’s off.

“Don’t you usually leave early?” The question slips out before he can stop himself.

“Ah, I requested to work remotely today.” Hokuto’s hands guide Ema’s as she carefully folds chocolate chips into the cookie dough. “It’s the preschool Christmas party. Parents are supposed to bring homemade treats.”

Of course it is. Taiga shifts his weight, uncomfortable with how domestic this all feels.

“I made breakfast.” Hokuto adds, nodding toward the dining table. “Ema and I already ate, but yours is still warm.”

Sure enough, a bowl of oyakodon sits on the table, steam rising invitingly. The sight of it makes Taiga’s stomach growl again, louder this time.

He edges around Hokuto and Ema’s baking station, careful not to brush against them as he reaches for the coffee machine. The familiar whir of grinding beans offers a moment of normalcy in this surreal morning scene.

Coffee secured, he retreats to the dining table. The first bite of oyakodon hits his tongue—perfectly seasoned, the egg silky and the chicken tender. He’s still not used to having Hokuto and Ema in his house — it’s only been a week since, after all — but he does appreciate a homecooked meal.

From his seat, Taiga has a clear view of Hokuto and Ema’s baking operation. Hokuto’s movements are precise but slower than usual, his shoulders slightly slumped. The usual healthy glow of his skin seems muted, making the dark circles under his eyes more pronounced.

He looks exhausted.

Taiga opens his mouth, a question about Hokuto’s health forming on his tongue, but Ema’s sudden burst of giggles interrupts him.

“Papa, you have flour on your nose!” She reaches up with flour-covered fingers, leaving more white smudges on Hokuto’s face.

“Do I?” Hokuto’s voice carries a warmth that contrasts sharply with his pallor. “I think you have some too.” He dabs a spot of flour on Ema's nose, making her squeal with delight.

Taiga’s phone buzzes against the table. Jesse’s name lights up the screen:

Can’t wait to see you tonight! 7 PM still good? 😊

The message pulls Taiga back to reality, away from the domestic scene unfolding in his kitchen. He focuses on typing a reply, grateful for the distraction. His stomach does a small flip at the thought of another date with Jesse—not unpleasant, just... anticipatory.

7 PM works. See you then.

The nervous energy coursing through him feels different from his usual reluctance about dating. Jesse’s forward nature and obvious interest should set off warning bells—they usually do. But something about Jesse’s straightforward approach and lack of emotional demands makes this feel safer, more manageable.

Another giggle from Ema draws his attention back to the kitchen. Hokuto leans against the counter now, his movements more careful, deliberate.

Something’s definitely off with him.

Taiga glances at his watch and nearly chokes on his coffee. Shit. Almost eight already? He’ll never make it to the office in time for his nine o’clock meeting at this rate.

He shovels the last few bites of oyakodon into his mouth, the flavors barely registering in his haste. His chair scrapes against the floor as he stands, drawing Ema’s attention.

“You’re leaving already?” Her lower lip trembles slightly.

“Work,” he manages while chewing, avoiding those big eyes.

Hokuto pushes himself off the counter, movements oddly stiff. “I’ll take care of the dishes.”

“You don't have to—” Taiga starts, but Hokuto waves him off.

“It’s the least I can do.” Hokuto’s smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. His complexion looks almost gray in the morning light, and there’s a slight tremor in his hands as he reaches for Taiga’s empty bowl.

Taiga hesitates, torn between his pressing schedule and the nagging concern about Hokuto’s state.

Not my problem, he reminds himself. I’m already late.

“Thanks for the breakfast,” he says, grabbing his bag. “I’ll see you both later.”

The crisp morning air hits his face as he steps outside, quickening his pace toward the station. But his mind keeps drifting back to his kitchen—to Hokuto’s pallor, the careful way he moved, how he leaned against the counter for support.

Stop it, he scolds himself. He’s a grown man. He can take care of himself.

The station comes into view, commuters streaming through the gates like a choreographed dance. Taiga joins the flow, swiping his pass without breaking stride.

But even as he settles into his usual spot on the platform, the image of Hokuto’s exhausted face lingers.

🏠

Taiga bursts through the office doors with two minutes to spare, his tie still crooked from the morning rush. The usual buzz of activity fills the marketing and development team floor—keyboards clacking, phones ringing, Noel’s exasperated sigh just as he picks up his laptop.

He drops his bag at his desk and grabs his laptop, making it to the conference room just as Minagawa starts speaking.

“Ah, Kyomoto! Perfect timing.” Minagawa’s booming voice fills the room. “We were just about to dive into last month’s engagement metrics.”

Taiga slides into an empty chair, pulling up the data he’d prepared. The familiar rhythm of numbers and analytics washes over him, clearing his mind of... whatever else he was worried about this morning.

The presentation flows smoothly. He points out the spike in user engagement following their latest app update, the increased retention rates among new users, the promising click-through rates on their—

“Speaking of click-throughs,” Minagawa interrupts, grinning broadly, “have you seen the numbers on Jesse’s latest campaign?”

Heat creeps up Taiga’s neck as several heads turn his way. He keeps his expression neutral, focusing on the screen. “Yes, the data shows a significant increase in brand awareness and—”

He dives deeper into the analysis, drowning out the subtle elbow nudges and whispered comments with a flood of statistics and projections. His phone buzzes twice more during the presentation, but he maintains his focus.

Back at his desk, he finally checks his messages:

Found the perfect spot for tonight! You’ll love the view.

[Photo] Their dessert menu looks amazing too.

No pressure to respond! Just excited. 😊

Something loosens in Taiga’s chest. Jesse’s enthusiasm should feel overwhelming, but there’s an ease to it—no hidden expectations, no emotional manipulation. Just simple, straightforward interest.

He turns his attention to the engagement reports, losing himself in the familiar comfort of data analysis. The morning slides by in a blur of spreadsheets and metric adjustments.

“Earth to Kyomoto?” Noel’s voice cuts through Taiga’s concentration. “Lunch?”

Taiga blinks at his screen, the numbers swimming before his eyes. He hadn’t realized how long he’d been staring at spreadsheets. His shoulders crack as he stretches, muscles protesting the hours hunched over his laptop.

“What time is it?”

“Almost one. You’ve been in spreadsheet heaven all morning.”

Thank god for Noel’s impeccable timing. His stomach growls on cue.

The cafeteria bustles with the usual lunch crowd—marketing teams huddled over campaign ideas, developers arguing about code optimization, Jesse’s latest promotional posters plastered on every wall. Taiga follows Noel to the bento display, grabbing a simple salmon set.

Their usual corner table sits empty, a small mercy in the crowded space. Taiga settles into his seat, already plotting how to maximize his afternoon productivity.

He’s mid-bite when three shadows fall across the table.

“Well, well, well.” Chaka’s sing-song voice makes Taiga’s chopsticks freeze halfway to his mouth. “If it isn’t our favorite workaholic.”

Machu and Shime flank him, wearing identical grins that set off warning bells in Taiga’s head.

“Whatever it is, no.” Taiga takes a bite and starts chewing.

“We haven’t even said anything yet!” Shime protests, sliding into the seat beside him. His grin widens. “Though now I’m curious what you think we’re going to ask.”

“Nothing good, clearly.” Noel sighs, but Taiga catches the slight upturn of his lips.

Traitor.

Chaka leans forward, eyes sparkling with mischief. “So... a little bird from HR told us something interesting.”

Taiga picks up another morsel of salmon. “What interesting thing?”

“Well...” Shime rocks back in his chair, drawing out the moment. “I happened to pass by HR earlier to submit my leave request, and I couldn’t help but overhear the most fascinating tidbit about you and Matsumura.”

Heat floods Taiga’s face before he can control it. Shit. He struggles to keep his expression neutral, but his burning cheeks betray him.

“Oh?” Machu leans in closer. “That blush says there’s definitely something going on.”

“It’s not—” Taiga’s voice cracks. He clears his throat. “It’s not what you think. His apartment burned down. I ran into him and his daughter that night. They needed a place to stay.”

“And you just... offered your house?” Chaka’s eyebrows shoot up. “Mr. ‘Don’t-Touch-My-Things’ himself?”

“What was I supposed to do? Leave them on the street?” The words come out sharper than intended. Taiga stabs at his croquette, avoiding their eager stares.

“Does Jesse know about this little arrangement?” Machu’s grin turns sly. “Because last I checked, you two were getting pretty cozy.”

“That’s none of his business.” Taiga’s grip tightens on his chopsticks. “It’s temporary. Just until Matsumura finds a new place.”

“Ooh, defensive are we?” Shime waggles his eyebrows.

“I swear to god—”

“That’s enough.” Noel’s stern voice cuts through their teasing. He fixes each member of the Chaos Trio with a steely glare. “Unless you want me to mention to Matsumoto-buchou how you three were the ones who replaced her green tea with instant coffee last month?"

The color drains from their faces. Chaka scrambles to his feet, nearly knocking over his chair. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

They retreat in record time, leaving behind the echo of their hurried footsteps.

Taiga slumps in his chair, the tension draining from his shoulders. “Thanks,” he mutters.

Noel shrugs, returning to his bento. “They mean well, but they don’t always know when to stop.” He pauses, chopsticks hovering over his rice. “Though I have to admit, I’m surprised you’d open your home like that.”

So am I, Taiga thinks, but keeps that to himself.

A shadow falls across the table just as they are packing up, and Taiga looks up to find Wakana standing there, her usual composed expression tinged with concern.

“Kyomoto, do you have a moment?”

Something in her tone makes his stomach twist. He nods, pushing back from the table. “Of course, buchou.”

He follows her past the busy cafeteria tables, through the glass doors, and into a quiet corner of the hallway. His mind races through possible scenarios—a problem with his latest metrics? An issue with Jesse’s campaign?

Wakana turns to face him, her dark eyes serious. “I just received a call from First Steps Academy.”

Ema. His heart stutters.

“Apparently, Matsumura has been running a high fever. He collapsed during the Christmas party.”

The cookie-baking scene from this morning flashes through Taiga’s mind—Hokuto’s flushed face, the slight tremor in his hands as he measured ingredients.

Shit. He should have said something.

“He’s resting in the preschool’s infirmary now,” Wakana continues, “but they need someone to take him and Ema home.”

Heat creeps up Taiga’s neck. “I…”

“I know about your living arrangement.” Wakana’s voice softens slightly. “HR informed me when Matsumura updated his temporary address. Would you be able to bring them home?”

Taiga’s throat tightens. He thinks of Hokuto—always pushing himself too hard. The idiot probably dragged himself to the Christmas party just so Ema wouldn’t be disappointed.

“Of course,” he manages. “I’ll head there now.”

Wakana nods, relief flickering across her features. “Take the rest of the day. I’ll explain to Minagawa. Make sure he gets some proper rest.”

His phone buzzes in his pocket—probably another message from Jesse about their date. But right now, all Taiga can think about is Hokuto burning up with fever, trying to smile through it for Ema’s sake.

“Thank you, Matsumoto-buchou.” He’s already turning to pick up his belongings, phone out to calculate the fastest route to First Steps Academy.

“And Kyomoto?”

He pauses.

“Take care of him.”

The words follow him down the hallway, settling somewhere beneath his ribs like a weight—or maybe a warmth.

He’s not sure which is more terrifying.

🏠

The taxi lurches to a stop, and Taiga nearly opens the door before the driver could. “Wait here, please. Keep the meter running.”

His shoes click against the polished hallway floors as he follows the receptionist’s directions. The infirmary’s sterile scent hits his nose before he reaches the door—antiseptic and something vaguely medicinal.

He hesitates at the threshold. Through the gap, he spots a small figure in a red dress, perched on a plastic chair beside one of the cots.

The dress from the thrift store, his mind supplies unhelpfully. The sight of Ema’s slumped shoulders makes something twist in his chest.

A man in a polo shirt notices him first. “Ah, you must be Kyomoto Taiga-san.” His smile is warm but concerned. “I’m Morimoto Shintaro, Ema-chan’s teacher.” He extends his hand, and Taiga shakes it automatically.

Ema’s head snaps up at the sound of his name. Her eyes are puffy and red-rimmed, tear tracks still visible on her cheeks. “Tiger-san,” she whispers, her voice wobbly.

Taiga shifts his weight, unsure what to do with his hands or where to look. On the cot, Hokuto lies still, his face flushed with fever. His usually neat hair sticks to his forehead with sweat.

“The fever spiked during our Christmas party,” Shintaro explains softly. “He insisted on staying for Ema-chan’s performance, but...” He trails off, glancing at Ema with gentle concern.

“Papa fell down,” Ema says, her lower lip trembling. She clutches Mr. Bunny tighter, the stuffed rabbit’s singed ear poking out from her embrace. “After my song.”

Shit. Taiga takes an awkward step forward, then stops. What’s the protocol here?

“The nurse gave him some fever reducers,” Shintaro continues. “But he needs proper rest. I understand you’ll be taking them home?”

“Yes, I…” Taiga clears his throat. “There’s a taxi waiting.”

Shintaro nods, then crouches beside Ema. “Remember what we talked about? Tiger-san is going to help take care of your papa, okay?”

Ema nods solemnly, her tiny fingers reaching for Hokuto’s hand. The gesture makes Taiga’s throat tight.

“I’ll get his things,” Shintaro offers, moving toward a pile of bags in the corner. “He brought cookies for the class party.” A shadow crosses his face. “Should have known something was wrong when he nearly dropped the container this morning.”

Taiga remembers Hokuto’s shaking hands in the kitchen, the way he’d brushed off Taiga’s concerned glance. Stubborn idiot.

“Tiger-san?” Ema’s small voice pulls him from his thoughts. “Will Papa be okay?”

She looks up at him with those big brown eyes, so much like Hokuto’s, and Taiga feels completely out of his depth. He’s not good at this—at comfort, at reassurance, at whatever it is kids need when they’re scared.

But Ema is waiting for an answer, and Hokuto is burning up with fever, and somehow they’ve both ended up being his responsibility.

“He’ll be fine.” Taiga’s voice comes out rougher than intended. “Your papa just needs rest and medicine.” The words feel hollow, inadequate for the weight of Ema’s worry, but they’re all he has.

Shintaro returns with Hokuto’s bags—the familiar black backpack and a festive tote decorated with cartoon reindeer. “The cookies were a hit,” he says, attempting a smile. “The kids loved them.”

Taiga nods absently, his attention on Hokuto’s flushed face. “Hey,” he says, touching Hokuto’s shoulder. “We need to get you home.”

Hokuto’s eyes flutter open, glassy with fever. “The performance—”

“Is over.” Taiga’s chest tightens at Hokuto’s obvious disorientation. “Come on.”

Between them, they manage to get Hokuto upright. He sways dangerously, and Taiga instinctively wraps an arm around his waist.

Too warm, Taiga thinks. Hokuto’s skin radiates heat even through his dress shirt.

“Careful,” Shintaro murmurs, steadying Hokuto’s other side.

They navigate the hallway slowly, Ema trailing behind with Mr. Bunny clutched to her chest.

The December air hits them like a slap. Hokuto shivers violently, and Taiga tightens his grip. The taxi idles at the curb, exhaust mixing with the winter chill.

“I’ve got him,” Shintaro says, helping Taiga maneuver Hokuto into the backseat.

Hokuto slumps against the leather, his eyes already closing again.

Taiga turns to Ema, who stands uncertainly on the sidewalk. “Come on, Ema-chan. You can sit next to your papa.”

She climbs in carefully, settling against Hokuto’s side. Her small hand finds his larger one, and something in Taiga’s chest aches.

“Thank you,” he tells Shintaro. The words feel insufficient for the hours the teacher spent watching over them both.

“Of course.” Shintaro’s eyes linger on Hokuto with obvious concern. “Please let me know if you need anything else.”

Taiga slides into the front seat, pulling out his phone as the taxi merges into traffic. His thumbs hover over the screen before typing:

SOS. Matsumura’s sick. Need supplies. And maybe actual adulting skills.

He sends it to both Yugo and Juri, then glances in the rearview mirror. Ema watches the city blur past, her chin quivering slightly.

“Hey,” he says, softer than he knew he could be. “Your papa always takes care of you, right?”

She nods, not looking away from the window.

“Now it’s our turn to take care of him. Can you help me with that?”

This time she meets his eyes in the mirror. “Like a mission?”

“Exactly like a mission.” His phone buzzes with rapid responses from Yugo and Juri. “And we’re going to have backup.”

🏠

The taxi slows to a stop, and Taiga spots Juri’s familiar silhouette through the window. His friend stands at the gate, juggling plastic bags from the pharmacy and what looks like enough groceries to feed an army.

Thank god for competent friends.

“Got everything you asked for,” Juri says as Taiga climbs out. “Yugo’s tied up at Golden Hour, but he sent his magic porridge recipe.”

Taiga nods, his attention split between Juri and the backseat where Hokuto has slumped further against the window. “Help me with him?”

Juri sets the bags down and moves to the car door. “Of course. Careful with his head.”

They maneuver Hokuto out of the taxi while Taiga tries not to focus on how hot Hokuto’s skin feels, or how his usually sharp eyes are unfocused and distant. Getting him upright is a challenge—Hokuto’s legs seem unwilling to cooperate, and he mumbles something about cookies that makes no sense.

“Ema-chan,” Taiga calls, keeping his voice steady despite the strain of supporting Hokuto’s weight. “Can you carry Mr. Bunny and your papa’s Christmas bag?”

She nods solemnly, clutching her stuffed rabbit with one hand while dragging the reindeer tote with the other. The sight twists something in Taiga’s chest.

“I’m not great in the kitchen,” Juri says as they navigate through the gate. “But I can manage Yugo’s recipe. You focus on getting him settled.”

Taiga fumbles with the keycard while trying to keep Hokuto upright. Juri takes more of Hokuto’s weight, allowing Taiga to unlock the door.

“Go make the porridge now,” he tells Juri once they’ve managed to get Hokuto inside. “I’ll handle...” He gestures vaguely at Hokuto, who chooses that moment to lean more heavily against him.

“Got it.” Juri’s eyes are knowing, almost amused despite the situation. “Come on, Ema-chan. Want to help me make something special for your papa?"

Ema hesitates, looking between Hokuto and Juri with obvious concern.

“Tiger-san will take good care of him,” Juri promises. “And we need to make sure the porridge is perfect, right?”

She nods, though her lower lip still trembles slightly. Taiga watches them disappear into the kitchen, Juri already asking Ema about her favorite foods in that gentle way of his.

Taiga adjusts his grip on Hokuto, who seems to be drifting in and out of awareness. “Hey. Few more steps, okay?”

The stairs prove challenging. Hokuto’s feet drag, and his breath comes in short, warm puffs against Taiga’s neck. Each step requires careful maneuvering to keep them both balanced.

“Should’ve installed an elevator,” Taiga mutters, more to distract himself from Hokuto’s proximity than anything else. “Or maybe just lived in a normal house without stairs like a reasonable person.”

Hokuto makes a sound that might be a laugh or a cough. “Sorry,” he whispers, the word barely audible.

“Shut up.” Taiga’s voice comes out rougher than intended. “Save your energy for walking.”

They finally reach the guest room—Hokuto and Ema’s room, his mind supplies unhelpfully. The bed is still unmade from this morning, sheets tangled like Hokuto had rushed to get ready for the Christmas party.

Getting Hokuto onto the mattress is an awkward dance of limbs and mumbled instructions. When he finally settles against the pillows, his eyes are already closing again.

“You’re an idiot,” Taiga tells him. “Who goes to a Christmas party with a fever?”

Hokuto’s eyes flutter open, glazed with fever but somehow still earnest. “Ema was excited,” he whispers. “She’s been looking forward to this since...” His voice cracks. “Since the fire. She lost so much already.”

The words hit Taiga like a physical blow. He stands beside the bed, hands clenched at his sides. “And what happens to her if you make yourself worse? Who takes care of her then?”

Hokuto’s face darkens, a flash of something fierce breaking through his feverish haze. “You don’t know,” he says, each word deliberate despite his weakness. “You have no idea what I feel, what I’ve gone through.”

Heat rises in Taiga’s chest, sharp and sudden. Don’t know?

Images flash through his mind—years of watching his father stumble home drunk, crying about failed gigs. Endless nights spent budgeting their meager savings while Masaki chased his dreams. Shuichiro’s manipulative texts, the constant drain of emotional labor, the suffocating weight of being someone’s entire support system.

His jaw clenches so tight it hurts. “You’re right,” he says, the words coming out clipped and cold. “I’ll get your medicine from Juri.”

He turns sharply, nearly knocking over the bedside lamp in his haste to escape. His feet carry him to the door in quick, angry strides.

“Kyomoto—”

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t look back. Just pulls the door shut behind him with more force than necessary and stomps down the hallway.

Who the hell does he think he is? The thought pounds in his head with each step. Acting like he has a monopoly on suffering. Like no one else knows what it’s like to—

The sound of Ema’s laughter drifts up from the kitchen, followed by Juri’s gentle voice explaining something about stirring carefully. Taiga freezes mid-step, his anger colliding with something else—something complicated and uncomfortable that he doesn’t want to examine too closely.

He forces himself to keep moving. To focus on the practical. Get the medicine. Check the porridge. Make sure Ema’s okay.

Don’t think about the way Hokuto’s words felt like a door slamming shut. Don’t think about how familiar that feeling is.

His feet hit each stair with unnecessary force as he descends toward the kitchen. Just get the damn medicine and be done with it.

Taiga storms into the kitchen, the sharp bite of ginger and garlic hitting his nose. Juri stands at the stove, stirring a pot while Ema perches on a stepstool beside him, clutching Mr. Bunny to her chest.

“Is Papa better now?” Ema asks, her eyes wide and hopeful.

The question stops him cold, draining some of his anger. Shit. He can’t snap at a four-year-old worried about her father. “He needs medicine first,” he manages, forcing his voice into something resembling calm.

Juri shoots him a look over Ema’s head. “The bags are on the counter.”

Taiga rummages through the plastic bags, focusing on the rustle of packaging rather than the mess of emotions churning in his gut. His fingers close around a box of fever reducers, and he reads the dosage instructions three times, letting the clinical text steady him.

“Tiger-san?” Ema’s small voice breaks through his concentration. “Can I help make Papa feel better?”

Like father, like daughter. Both of them so eager to help, to fix things, to—

He cuts the thought off sharply. “The best thing you can do is let him rest,” he says, pouring water into a glass.

“But—”

“No buts.” The words come out harsher than intended, and he sees Ema’s shoulders droop.

Great job, asshole. Snapping at a kid because you’re mad at her father.

Juri clears his throat. “Hey, Ema-chan, want to help me check if the rice is soft enough?"

She nods, though her enthusiasm seems dimmed. Taiga watches her lean forward, carefully blowing on the spoon Juri offers her, and something twists in his chest.

He grabs the medicine and water, needing to escape before the feeling can take root. His feet carry him back upstairs, each step echoing with Hokuto’s words.

You don’t know. You have no idea.

The guest room door looms before him. He considers knocking, then decides against it. It’s my house, dammit. He pushes the door open, ready to drop the medicine and leave.

Hokuto lies exactly where Taiga left him, but his eyes are open, fixed on the ceiling. Even in the dim light, Taiga can see the flush of fever across his cheeks.

“Here.” Taiga sets the glass and pills on the nightstand with more force than necessary. “Take these.”

Hokuto struggles to sit up, his movements sluggish and uncoordinated. Something in Taiga’s chest clenches at the sight, warring with his lingering anger.

Don’t help him. Don’t get involved. Just leave the medicine and go.

But his hands are already moving, adjusting pillows behind Hokuto’s back. The heat radiating from Hokuto’s skin seems worse than before.

“I’m sorry,” Hokuto whispers, his voice rough. “What I said… it wasn’t fair.”

Taiga’s jaw tightens. He focuses on opening the medicine packet, refusing to look at Hokuto’s face. “Doesn’t matter. Just take these.”

“It does matter.” Hokuto accepts the pills with trembling fingers. “I shouldn’t have assumed—”

“Stop talking and take the medicine.”

Hokuto complies, swallowing the pills with careful sips of water. His hand shakes as he tries to set the glass down, and Taiga catches it before it can spill.

Their fingers brush. Hokuto’s skin burns against his, and Taiga yanks his hand back as if scalded.

“Ema—” Hokuto starts.

“Is fine,” Taiga cuts him off. “Juri’s got her helping with the porridge. She’s worried about you, so go get some rest and stop being an idiot.”

He turns to leave, needing to escape the suffocating mix of fever-heat and guilt and something else he refuses to name.

“Thank you,” Hokuto says quietly. “For taking care of her. For everything.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut. Taiga’s feet freeze mid-step, his hand clenched around the doorframe.

Don’t turn around. Don’t engage. Don’t—

A harsh cough breaks the silence, followed by the rustle of sheets as Hokuto sinks back against the pillows. The sound travels straight to that complicated, uncomfortable place in Taiga’s chest.

🏠

“It’s not fair,” Ema says, crossing his arms. “I want to sleep with Papa.”

“You can’t, sweetheart,” Juri explains, crouching to her level. “We don’t want you getting sick too.”

Taiga stands in the doorway, watching this exchange with growing dread. The evening has settled into a deceptive calm—dishes done, Hokuto’s fever finally down, Ema bathed and changed into her bunny-print pajamas.

But now comes the part he’s been avoiding thinking about.

“You can take my room,” he says, the words feeling strange in his mouth. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

Juri shoots him a look that’s equal parts amusement and sympathy. “That’s very kind of you, Taiga.”

“It’s not kind, it’s practical.” He shifts, uncomfortable with Juri’s knowing expression. “She needs proper rest.”

“But Tiger-san—” Ema clutches Mr. Bunny tighter.

“No buts.” Christ, I’m starting to sound like a parent. The thought sends an uncomfortable jolt through him.

Juri straightens up, gathering his coat. “Remember what we talked about, Ema-chan. The sooner your papa gets better, the sooner you can cuddle with him again.”

Ema’s lower lip trembles, but she nods. Taiga feels a flash of envy at how easily Juri handles her emotions.

“Thanks for today,” Taiga mutters as he walks Juri to the door.

“Text me if you need anything.” Juri pauses, hand on the doorknob. “And Taiga? Try not to overthink this."

“I’m not—”

But Juri’s already stepping out, leaving Taiga with the unfinished protest and a four-year-old staring up at him expectantly.

The silence feels oppressive. Ema stands in the middle of his pristine living room, looking impossibly small in her pastel pajamas. Mr. Bunny dangles from one hand.

What the hell am I supposed to do now?

“Is it bedtime?” Ema asks, her voice smaller than usual.

Taiga checks his watch. 7:05 PM. “Yeah, I guess it is.” He hesitates. “Do you... need anything?”

“Papa always reads me a story.”

Of course he does. Taiga resists the urge to check on Hokuto again. “Right. Well, I can…” The words stick in his throat. Reading bedtime stories isn’t exactly in his skill set.

“Can we check on Papa first?”

“He needs rest.” The response is automatic now, worn smooth from repetition. “Come on, I’ll show you my room.”

Ema follows him up the stairs, each step accompanied by the soft pat of her feet and the drag of Mr. Bunny against the wall. Taiga’s bedroom door looms ahead, and he realizes he’s never had a child — or anyone else for that matter — in this space before. The thought makes him oddly self-conscious.

He pushes the door open, grateful that he at least keeps things tidy. The room feels different through Ema’s eyes—too stark, too adult, lacking the warmth of her usual space.

“The bed’s big,”

“Yeah.” Taiga hovers awkwardly by the door. “The bathroom’s right there if you need it. And I’ll be downstairs if...” He trails off, unsure how to finish that sentence.

Ema climbs onto the bed, looking impossibly tiny against his dark sheets. “Tiger-san?”

“What?”

“Can you leave the door open? Just a little?”

“Sure,” he says, softer than intended. “Want me to turn on the hall light too?”

Something in her voice makes his chest tight. He remembers being four, remembers the vastness of unfamiliar rooms at night.

Ema nods, her fingers twisting into the sheets. Something about the gesture reminds Taiga of Hokuto—the same quiet acceptance of help, even when it hurts their pride.

“Where’s Waddles?” he asks.

Taiga blinks. “Who?”

“My penguin. From Mori-sensei.” Her eyes dart around the room as if the stuffed toy might materialize.

Great. Another thing to track down. “I’ll check downstairs.”

The living room feels colder now, the silence broken only by the hum of his smart devices. Taiga spots the penguin peeking out from one of the Christmas bag. He grabs it, noting how worn the fabric feels.

Back upstairs, Ema’s eyes light up at the sight of Waddles. She arranges him next to Mr. Bunny with careful precision, creating a little fortress of plush at the head of his bed.

“Tiger-san?” Her voice is small again. “Can you tell me a story?””

“I don’t really…” He shifts his weight, uncomfortable with the naked hope in her expression. “I don’t know any stories.”

“Papa makes them up sometimes.” She settles against his pillows, expectant. “About princesses and dragons and—”

“I’m not your papa.” The words come out sharper than intended, and he sees her flinch. Shit. “I mean… I’m not good at that stuff.”

Silence stretches between them. Taiga’s throat feels tight, like he’s swallowed something bitter. He should leave—she’s settled, she has her toys, what more could she need?

But his feet won’t move.

“What if…” Ema’s voice breaks through his spiral. “What if you tell me about the house?”

“The house?”

“Yeah. Like...” She pets Mr. Bunny’s ear. “Like why does the vacuum move by itself?”

Taiga latches onto this lifeline. Tech, he can handle. “That’s Zoomie,” he says, remembering her nickname for the robot. “He’s programmed to clean at specific times, following a map of the house.”

“But how does he know where to go?”

“Well…” Taiga finds himself sitting on the edge of the bed. “He has sensors that help him see walls and furniture. Like having really good eyes.”

Ema scoots closer, dragging her stuffed animals with her. “Does he get scared of the dark?”

“No, he...” Taiga pauses, considering. “Actually, the dark helps him sometimes. His sensors work better without too much light getting in the way.”

“Like a superhero?”

When did this become a superhero story? But he finds himself nodding. “Sort of. He’s brave and smart, keeping the house clean while everyone sleeps.”

“Even when he’s alone?”

The question hits differently than intended. Taiga thinks about his pristine, empty house before Hokuto and Ema arrived. All his smart devices running their programmed routines, perfect and predictable and utterly lifeless.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Even then.”

Ema yawns, snuggling deeper into his pillows. “I like Zoomie,” she mumbles. “He’s like you.”

“How’s that?”

But her eyes are already closing, breath evening out.

Taiga sits there, watching her curl around her stuffed animals, feeling something uncomfortably warm in his chest.

He should move. He has a whole list of things to do—check Hokuto's temperature again, grab spare blankets for the couch, maybe even tackle some of the work emails piling up. But his legs won’t cooperate.

Ema’s chest rises and falls in the gentle rhythm of deep sleep, her small fingers still curled around Mr. Bunny’s ear. The sight stirs something uncomfortable in Taiga’s chest.

Like Zoomie, she’d said. What did that even mean? He’s nothing like a robot vacuum—predictable, reliable, designed to serve others.

His phone vibrates in his pocket, shattering the quiet moment. Taiga pulls it out, careful not to disturb Ema.

Jesse: Just wrapped the shoot! Omw to pick you up. Hope you're hungry 😘

Shit. Taiga’s stomach drops. Between Hokuto’s fever and Ema’s bedtime crisis, he completely forgot about texting Jesse. The timestamp shows two missed messages from earlier.

Jesse: Can’t wait to see you tonight

Jesse: Hello? You there?

The sound of Ema shifting makes him freeze. She mumbles something in her sleep, hugging Waddles closer. Taiga holds his breath until she settles again.

His fingers hover over the keyboard. How does he even explain this? Sorry, can't make it. My sick coworker and his daughter are staying at my place sounds ridiculous even in his head.

But Jesse’s probably already in his car, expecting...what? A romantic late-night dinner?

Taiga: Can’t tonight. Something came up.

The reply comes instantly.

Jesse: Already on my way! What’s wrong?

Taiga glances at Ema’s sleeping form, then toward the hallway where Hokuto rests in the guest room. His carefully compartmentalized life is crumbling, and he doesn’t know how to stop it.

Taiga: Family emergency

He winces at the words. Since when did he start thinking of this as family anything?

Jesse: Can I call?

Taiga stares at Jesse’s text, the words blurring on his screen. He glances at Ema, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest.

Hokuto's earlier words echo in his mind: “You don’t know. You have no idea.” The raw pain in Hokuto’s voice had caught him off guard, making him feel small and ignorant.

He rises from the bed with practiced stealth, years of avoiding his father’s drunken ramblings coming in handy. His sock-clad feet make no sound on the hardwood as he backs toward the door.

Ema stirs. Taiga freezes, but she only hugs Waddles closer, mumbling something about cookies. He waits another moment before slipping out, leaving the door cracked just as promised.

In the living room, his phone screen glows with another message.

Jesse: Starting to worry here 😟

Taiga sinks onto his couch, rubbing his temples. The smart lights dim automatically, sensing his movement. He types out a quick response.

Taiga: Fine. Call if you want.

The phone rings immediately. Taiga answers, keeping his voice low.

“Hey.” Jesse’s warm tone fills his ear. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

The genuine concern throws Taiga off balance. He’s used to Yugo’s mother-hen tendencies and Juri's quiet support, but this feels different. When his father called, it was always about his own problems. When Shuichiro checked in during rough patches, his sympathy came with strings attached.

“I’m fine,” Taiga says automatically. “Just dealing with some stuff.”

“Must be serious if you’re canceling last minute.” A pause. “Want to talk about it?”

Taiga’s throat tightens. The truth sits heavy on his tongue—about Hokuto’s fever, about Ema’s stuffed animals on his bed, about how his carefully ordered life has turned into something he barely recognizes.

“Not really,” he manages.

“That’s okay.” Jesse’s voice softens. “I just want you to know I’m here if you need anything. Even if it’s just takeout delivery or a distraction.”

A distraction. That’s what Jesse had been, wasn’t it?

“Thanks,” Taiga says, the word feeling inadequate. “I appreciate it.”

“You sound tired.”

“It’s been a long day.”

Jesse hums sympathetically. “Want me to sing you a lullaby? I’ve been practicing for that children’s show commercial—”

“God, no.” But Taiga finds himself almost smiling. Jesse’s earnest attempts at humor remind him of Yugo, minus the years of shared history.

“At least I made you laugh.”

“I didn’t laugh.”

“You were close.” Jesse’s smile is audible. “Seriously though, are you sure you’re okay?”

The question hits differently this time. Taiga glances toward the stairs, thinking of Ema curled up in his bed and Hokuto fighting fever dreams down the hall.

“I...” Taiga rubs his face, the weight of the day pressing down on him. “Remember our first date?”

“Yeah, how could I forget?” Jesse chuckles.

Taiga blushes at that. “On my way home, I ran into my coworker’s apartment burning down.” The words tumble out before he can stop them. “He’s got this four-year-old daughter, and they had nowhere to go, so I just... offered my house.”

A pause. “Wait, what?”

“I know it’s insane.” Taiga’s fingers twist into the fabric of his pants. “I barely know him outside work. But there they were, standing outside their burning building, and his kid was clutching this singed stuffed rabbit, and I just—” He cuts himself off, the memory too raw.

“That’s actually really sweet of you.”

“It’s not sweet, it’s stupid.” Taiga’s voice comes out harsher than intended. “I finally got away from my dad’s constant neediness, finally broke things off with my ex and his emotional manipulation, finally had my own space. And now...”

“Now you’re taking care of a coworker and his daughter?”

“He got sick.” Taiga closes his eyes, remembering Hokuto’s flushed face at the preschool. “Had to pick them up early from his daughter’s Christmas party. And I thought, hey, I’ve dealt with my dad's hangovers and my ex’s drama for years. How hard can this be?”

Jesse stays quiet, letting him continue.

“But it’s different. Everything about this is different. I couldn’t carry him without help, and his daughter was scared, and I had no idea what to do. Then he said—” Taiga’s throat tightens. “He said I didn’t know. That I had no idea why he pushes himself so hard for her.”

“And that hurt you?”

“It pissed me off.” Taiga’s free hand clenches. “Like what, the years I spent holding my dad together don’t count? The times I had to be the responsible one, had to clean up his messes, had to—” He stops, catching his breath. “But Matsumura was right. I don’t know. Not about this.”

“About being a parent?”

“About any of it. About choosing to care for someone instead of being forced into it. About… About loving someone more than your own comfort.”

The silence stretches between them. Taiga listens to the soft hum of his house, to the distant sound of cars passing outside. Somewhere upstairs, a child sleeps in his bed, trusting him to keep her safe while her father recovers.

“I’m sorry,” Jesse says finally. “This is a lot to handle alone.”

“I’m not alone. My friends have been helping.”

“Still. It’s not what you signed up for.”

What did I sign up for? Taiga wonders. A life of perfect solitude? Running from anything that might need him?

“You know what this reminds me of?” Jesse’s voice brightens. “My first commercial shoot. I was supposed to be this cool, sophisticated guy selling watches. But halfway through, this stray cat wandered onto set and wouldn’t stop rubbing against my legs.”

Taiga shifts on the couch, wondering where this is going.

“The director was furious, but I couldn’t shake the cat. Every time we reset, there it was. Finally, I suggested we include it in the shot. Turned out to be the company’s most successful campaign—the cat stealing the show, teaching me that sometimes the best things happen when life interrupts your perfect plan.”

A small laugh escapes Taiga before he can stop it. “Are you seriously comparing my situation to a cat crashing your commercial?”

“Hey, that cat changed my whole career trajectory. Now I’m known as the guy who’s good with animals. Got me the EaseWorks gig, actually.” Jesse pauses. “Sometimes the mess is the message, you know?”

“That’s terrible.” But Taiga’s smiling now, really smiling. “Listen, about tonight—I’m sorry for canceling last minute.”

“Don’t worry about it. Rain check?”

“Yeah. My treat next time.”

“I’ll hold you to that, Kyomoto-san.”

The formality suddenly feels wrong. “Taiga,” he says. “Just... call me Taiga.”

A sharp intake of breath on the other end. “Really?” Jesse’s excitement is palpable, like a puppy given a treat. “Taiga. Taiga. Has a nice ring to it.”

“Don’t make me regret this.”

“Too late. We’re on a first-name basis now. No taking it back.” Jesse’s voice softens. “And hey, I meant what I said. I’m here if you need anything. Good days, bad days, stray cat days—all of it.”

Something warm unfurls in Taiga’s chest. It’s different from Yugo’s protective concern or Juri’s quiet support. Lighter, somehow. Easier.

“Thanks.” Taiga rubs his neck. “I’m keeping you. You should head home.”

“Yeah, probably should. Text me when you can?”

“Sure.”

“Goodnight, Taiga.”

“Night, Jesse.”

The call ends, and Taiga stares at his phone, a small smile lingering. For the first time since meeting Jesse, he feels something—a flutter of genuine fondness, warm and unexpected.

Silence hangs over the house like a weighted blanket. Taiga tilts his head, listening for any sound from upstairs. Nothing. His gaze drifts to the second floor landing, barely visible in the dimmed lights.

They’re probably already asleep. The thought brings an odd mix of relief and something else he can’t quite name. His perfectly ordered life had shattered the moment he saw them standing outside that burning building. No more peaceful mornings with just the hum of his smart devices. No more quiet evenings spent answering emails without interruption.

And yet...

The memory of Ema’s small voice talking about Zoomie tugs at something in his chest. Even Hokuto’s fever-bright eyes and stubborn determination to attend the Christmas party had stirred feelings Taiga thought he’d buried deep.

Stop it. He pushes off the couch, needing to move. The storage room beckons—he needs blankets if he’s camping out on the couch tonight. His feet carry him up the stairs, each step carefully placed to avoid creaking.

The storage room door slides open with a soft whisper. Inside, boxes line the shelves in perfect order, labeled with his precise handwriting. He’d organized everything when he moved in, determined to start fresh. A clean slate. No chaos, no dependency, no messy emotions.

So much for that plan.

His fingers brush against a soft fleece blanket, still sealed in its original packaging. He’d bought extras, of course—his need for preparation extending even to guest supplies he never intended to use.

His laptop bag is on the couch. He took a half day off today, so he needs to catch up on work. Work will help. Work always helps, providing structure when everything else feels uncertain.

His couch isn’t uncomfortable, but it’s not meant for sleeping. Taiga arranges the blanket, creating a semblance of order in this disrupted space. The laptop whirs to life, its blue glow casting shadows across his makeshift bed.

Emails flood his inbox—marketing reports, campaign updates, meeting requests. Normal things. Safe things. He clicks through them mechanically, trying to lose himself in the familiar rhythm of work.

A notification pops up: Monthly User Engagement Analysis Due.

Right. The report he’d planned to finish tonight, before everything went sideways. Before fever-glazed eyes and stuffed penguins and bedtime stories about robot vacuums.

His fingers move across the keyboard, the gentle tapping a poor substitute for the silence he once cherished. Above him, the house creaks gently, settling into its nighttime rhythm. Somewhere in that darkness, two people sleep, trusting him to keep watch.

🏠

The code on Hokuto’s screen blurs. He blinks, forcing his eyes to focus on the endless string of functions he needs to review before the holiday break. His throat still feels scratchy from the lingering effects of his fever, and the office’s dry air isn’t helping.

“Hey, Matsumura!” Machu spins his chair around, his excitement making the wheels squeak. “We’re hitting up that new izakaya near the station after work. You should come! They have these amazing chicken wings that—”

“Sorry, I can’t.” Hokuto’s fingers hover over his keyboard. “I promised Ema we’d go shopping for her Christmas gift.”

“You’re such a good dad.” Machu slouches in his chair, his eyes drifting to the festive decorations adorning their floor. “Maybe we can grab lunch next week instead?”

A notification pops up on Hokuto’s screen — another bug report needs his attention.

He nods absently, already scanning the details. The sooner he finishes, the sooner he can leave. Ema had drawn a detailed map of all the toy stores she wanted to visit, complete with stick figures holding hands.

The dev team’s chatter fills the background — discussions of party plans, gift exchanges, and holiday destinations. Hokuto’s fingers move faster across the keyboard. Just three more tickets to close.

“Did you hear about the winter illuminations at Keyakizaka?” Wakana’s voice carries from her desk. “They have a new display this year.”

Hokuto pauses mid-type. Ema loves lights. She’d been mesmerized by the Christmas decorations at her preschool, pressing her face against the window every morning to watch them twinkle. Maybe after shopping...

A familiar voice cuts through the office chatter. “Machu, about that report you sent…”

Hokuto’s heart skips. Without looking up, he knows it’s Taiga. He keeps typing, though the words on his screen blur together.

“Oh, right!” Machu’s chair squeaks as he turns. “I added those user engagement metrics you wanted. Did you need anything else?”

Hokuto’s fingers still over his keyboard. The urge to look up proves too strong, and he catches Taiga’s gaze for a brief moment.

Taiga’s eyes widen slightly before darting away, his shoulders tensing as he shifts his attention back to Machu.

The sting of rejection hits harder than Hokuto expects. You did this to yourself, he thinks, remembering his fever-induced outburst four days ago. The words still echo in his mind — harsh accusations about Taiga not knowing what it’s like to push himself for his child. He’d been delirious with fever, but that’s no excuse.

“These numbers look good,” Taiga says to Machu, his voice carefully neutral. “Just check the formatting in section three.”

Hokuto forces his attention back to his code, but the functions swim before his eyes. His throat feels tight again, though this time it has nothing to do with being sick. He’s apologized countless times since that night, but the awkward tension lingers like a wall between them.

At least Taiga hasn’t let it affect how he treats Ema. Just yesterday, he’d left her favorite strawberry milk in the fridge with a post-it note bearing a simple drawing of a bunny.

Ema had been delighted, showing it to Hokuto with bright eyes. “Look, Papa! Tiger-san drew Mr. Bunny!”

The memory softens the edge of pain in Hokuto’s chest. Taiga might be avoiding him, might barely speak two words to him now, but he still makes sure Ema feels welcome. It’s more than Hokuto deserves after letting his fears and insecurities spill out in such an ugly way.

“Thanks, Kyomo!” Machu’s enthusiastic voice cuts through Hokuto’s guilt-laden thoughts. “Hey, you should join us tonight! I promise Chaka and Shime won’t interrogate you about your love life.”

Hokuto’s fingers freeze over his keyboard. His shoulders tense as he waits for Taiga’s response, though he keeps his eyes fixed on his screen.

“Can’t.” Taiga’s reply is clipped. “I have plans.”

“Ooh, with Jesse?” Machu’s chair squeaks as he leans forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that still carries across the quiet office. “Come on, you can tell me. He rarely comes over now except for work, so I thought there wasn’t any development.”

The silence that follows speaks volumes.

Hokuto’s throat tightens, and the code on his screen becomes an incomprehensible mess of characters. He shouldn’t feel like this when Taiga has plans. Of course, he should have plans. It doesn’t mean that he would spend it with them when they’re sharing a roof.

“I knew it!” Machu’s excited squeal pierces through the office. “You two look so good together.”

Hokuto’s fingers slam against the keys harder than necessary, drowning out Machu’s words with aggressive typing. His chest feels hollow, each breath a conscious effort.

Focus on the code. Debug the function. Check the parameters.

The sound of Taiga’s retreating footsteps echoes in Hokuto’s ears, each one driving home just how far they’ve drifted apart since his fever-induced outburst. His lack of denial about Jesse feels like a confirmation, settling cold and heavy in Hokuto’s stomach.

“Earth to Matsumura!” Machu waves a hand in front of Hokuto’s screen. “You’re typing the same line over and over.”

Hokuto blinks at the monitor. Sure enough, he’s filled three lines with the same string of code.

He deletes them quickly, heat rising to his cheeks. “Sorry, I was thinking about what to get Ema for Christmas.”

🏠

“Merry Christmas, Matsumura-san!”

The greeting startles Hokuto from his thoughts as he hurries up the steps to First Steps Academy. His chest tightens at the sight of parents gathered near the entrance, their cheerful faces a stark contrast to the hollow feeling that’s followed him since the office.

He manages a polite nod to Yuki’s mother, who waves as she guides her daughter past him. His shoes click against the polished floor, echoing in the hallway adorned with paper snowflakes and tinsel. The clock on the wall shows 5:17 PM — later than he’d planned, thanks to that last debugging session.

Through the glass doors, he spots Shintaro’s familiar figure by the entrance, his festive sweater standing out against the evening sky. Ema sits on the steps beside him, her small hands gesturing animatedly as she talks.

“Papa!” Ema’s face lights up as she spots him. She leaps to her feet, her backpack bouncing as she runs toward him with outstretched arms.

The weight of the day lifts slightly as Hokuto catches her, breathing in the familiar scent of crayons and strawberry shampoo. Her arms wrap tight around his neck, and he holds her close, grateful for this simple comfort.

“Were you good today?” He pulls back to look at her face, noting the traces of glitter on her cheek.

“We made angels!” Ema beams, pointing to her backpack. “And Yuki-chan shared her cookies with me!”

“That’s wonderful.” Hokuto stands, keeping Ema’s hand in his as they face Shintaro. The teacher’s smile is warm, though it makes Hokuto’s stomach twist with guilt. He’d been less than coherent the last time they’d interacted, when Taiga had picked up him and Ema.

“Matsumura-san!” Shintaro’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “How are you feeling?”

Heat creeps up Hokuto’s neck at the memory of collapsing during the Christmas party. He forces a smile, grateful that Ema’s busy showing him a paper snowflake she’s pulled from her bag. “I’m much better now, thank you. The rest helped.”

“I’m so glad you’re feeling better.” Shintaro’s voice carries a gentleness that makes Hokuto’s chest tightened.

“Ema-chan told me you’re going Christmas shopping.” Shintaro’s eyes light up with interest. His hand fidgets with the sleeve of his festive sweater, a nervous gesture that draws Hokuto’s attention. “That sounds fun.”

The evening air grows cooler, and Hokuto adjusts Ema’s scarf, buying time before responding. “Yes, I’m making it up to her for missing half of her Christmas party.”

Shintaro shifts his weight, his usual confidence wavering. “I... actually...” He takes a deep breath, and something in his expression makes Hokuto’s stomach flip. “Would you like to grab dinner? With me?”

The question hangs in the air. Hokuto blinks, his mind racing to process the implications. “I’m not sure if—”

“Please understand,” Shintaro hurries to add, his cheeks flushing pink. “I’m not asking as Ema-chan’s teacher. I’m asking as… well, as Morimoto Shintaro.”

Oh.

Hokuto glances down at Ema, who’s now looking between them with bright, curious eyes.

“Can we, Papa? Can we have dinner with Mori-sensei?” She tugs at his sleeve, her excitement palpable. “Please?”

“I...” Hokuto swallows, watching Ema’s hopeful expression. He thinks of the empty evening ahead, of returning to that awkward silence that’s settled over the house. Of Taiga’s closed door and avoided glances.

“Yes, that would be nice.”

“Really?” Shintaro’s smile brightens the dimming evening. “There’s a Gusto just around the corner.”

“Yay!” Ema claps her hands. “Papa, can I have a hamburger?”

The genuine joy in her voice eases some of the tension on Hokuto’s shoulders. He nods, even as his mind wanders to another kitchen, where he’d learned exactly how Taiga likes his eggs — never runny, slightly browned on the edges.

“Of course you can, sweetheart.” He manages a smile, watching Shintaro gather his things. The teacher’s movements are careful, deliberate, as if he’s afraid Hokuto might change his mind.

Is this wrong? Hokuto wonders, helping Ema zip up her coat. The question echoes in his mind as Shintaro falls into step beside them, chatting easily about the day’s activities.

But then, what right does he have to feel guilty?

🏠

The warmth of Gusto envelops them as they step inside, the scent of grilled meat and fresh bread filling the air. Hokuto’s stomach growls, reminding him that he’d skipped lunch to finish debugging that last module.

“Welcome!” A cheerful server greets them, her eyes brightening at the sight of Ema. “Would you like a kiddy chair for the little one?”

“Yes, please!” Ema bounces on her toes, still clutching Hokuto’s hand.

They follow the server to a booth near the window, where Christmas lights twinkle outside. Hokuto helps Ema into the raised chair, his fingers automatically checking the safety straps.

“Here you go.” Shintaro slides a colorful menu toward Ema, his voice taking on that gentle teacher tone Hokuto’s heard during pickup time. “Look…” He points to a picture that makes Ema’s eyes widen. “I think I see your favorite.”

“Cheese hamburger!” Ema claps her hands. “Papa, can I have that one?”

“Of course.” Hokuto smooths her hair, noticing a bit of glitter still clinging to her cheek.

“They make the cheese extra melty here,” Shintaro says.

“Do you come here often, Morimoto-sensei?” The question slips out before Hokuto can stop it. He shifts in his seat, suddenly aware of how this might look – a teacher taking special interest in one student’s family.

A pink flush creeps up Shintaro’s neck. “Ah, well...” He fidgets with his menu, his earlier confidence wavering. “I bring my nephew here sometimes. But I should probably...” He glances at Ema, who’s busy looking around the restaurant. “About this... I know it might seem like favoritism.”

“It does cross my mind.” Hokuto keeps his voice low, careful not to disturb Ema’s concentrated scribbling.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” Shintaro’s words come out in a rush, his usual cheerful demeanor cracking slightly. “I just… after seeing you at the Christmas party, I was worried.” He trails off, running a hand through his hair. “I should have thought it through better.”

“Look, Papa!” Ema holds up her sketchbook, now decorated with swirls of blue and purple. “I made a sparkly hamburger!”

“It’s beautiful, sweetheart.” Hokuto feels a genuine smile tug at his lips, grateful for the interruption. He turns back to Shintaro, whose expression has shifted from embarrassed to something softer, more uncertain. “Thank you for your concern. Really. But maybe we should—”

“Of course.” Shintaro straightens in his seat, professional mask sliding back into place. “You’re absolutely right. I apologize if I’ve made things awkward.”

The server returns, notepad ready. “Have you decided what you’d like to order?”

“Cheese hamburger!” Ema announces before anyone can speak.

“And for you, sir?” The server turns to Hokuto, pen poised.

“The chicken combination set, please.”

“I’ll have the adult kids’ plate.” Shintaro grins, a boyish charm lighting up his features. “The one with the bear-shaped rice.”

The laugh escapes before Hokuto can stop it. “Really?”

“What?” Shintaro’s eyes dance with mischief as the server walks away. “The portions are perfect, and they make the cutest faces with the seaweed.” He leans forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Plus, they give you a toy.”

Ema perks up, momentarily distracted from her coloring. “A toy?”

“Maybe we can trade if we get different ones?” Shintaro winks at her, and she beams.

Hokuto watches their interaction, a familiar ache settling in his chest. Shintaro’s ease with children is obvious — natural, unforced. It reminds him of Rui, how she could turn any moment into something magical for their daughter.

“That’s why I became a teacher, you know.” Shintaro’s voice softens. “I never quite grew up myself. My mother used to say I had the soul of a kindergartener trapped in an adult body.” He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “What about you, Matsumura-san? How did you end up in software engineering?”

The question catches Hokuto off guard. He glances at Ema, who’s returned to her artistic endeavors, tongue stuck out in concentration.

“It wasn’t planned, actually. I started learning to code in high school because...” He pauses, memories of late nights hunched over textbooks flooding back. “Because I wanted to make games for my little sister. She was sick a lot, and I thought if I could create something just for her...”

He trails off, realizing he’s sharing more than intended. But Shintaro’s expression remains open, interested, without the usual pity these stories tend to evoke.

“Did you? Make the games?”

“Simple ones.” Hokuto fiddles with his napkin. “Nothing special. Just basic platformers where she could collect stars and jump over obstacles. But she loved them. Said they were better than any store-bought game because they were made just for her.”

“That’s amazing,” Shintaro says, and his sincerity makes Hokuto’s cheeks warm. “You should be making games, Matsumura-san. I mean, EaseWorks is great, but it’s different from what you originally wanted to do, isn’t it?”

The server interrupts them as she places the drinks on their table, reminding them of the unlimited use of the drink bar before walking away.

The ice cubes clink in Hokuto’s glass as he stirs the water in it. His throat tightens at the memory of those early dreams — late nights coding passion projects, imagining a future filled with creative freedom.

“Game companies have brutal hours.” He watches Ema carefully sip her juice through a twisty straw. “Sixty, sometimes seventy-hour weeks. No real weekends.” His fingers drum against the table. “When Rui got pregnant... well, we weren’t exactly planning it. We were young, barely established in our careers.”

The words feel strange on his tongue, admitting these things to someone who’s essentially a stranger. But Shintaro’s presence has an odd way of drawing out honesty.

“Everything happened so fast. The wedding, the apartment, finding a stable job because I didn’t want Rui to work in an office while pregnant.” Hokuto helps Ema wipe juice from her chin. “EaseWorks offered structure, benefits, remote work, reasonable hours. It made sense at the time.”

“And now?”

Ema hums as she returns to her coloring, oblivious to the weight of their conversation. Hokuto watches her small hands move across the paper, creating worlds only she can see.

“Now?” He softens his voice. “Now I just want to be there. For every drawing, every scraped knee, every bedtime story. I want her to grow up knowing her father will always show up.”

The unspoken unlike my own hangs in the air between them.

Shintaro sets down his glass, hesitation flickering across his features. “You know, Matsumura-san...” He pauses, as if weighing his next words carefully. “You’re doing an incredible job with Ema-chan. Anyone can see how much she adores you.”

Heat creeps up Hokuto’s neck. Before he can respond, Shintaro continues.

“But it’s okay to ask for help sometimes. Being present doesn’t mean you have to do everything alone.”

The words hit too close to recent events — to fevered accusations and hurt looks across kitchen counters. Hokuto’s hand tightens around his glass.

“Papa, look!” Ema interrupts, holding up her completed masterpiece. “I drew us at dinner! See? That’s you, and that’s Mori-sensei, and that’s me with my hamburger!”

Hokuto studies the drawing, his chest tightening at the simple joy in those crayon lines. The way Ema has captured their dinner feels innocent, pure — untouched by the complexities of adult relationships and unspoken feelings.

“It’s perfect, sweetheart.” He smooths her hair, buying time to gather his thoughts. The weight of Shintaro’s earlier words about asking for help lingers between them.

“The hamburger looks extra delicious,” Shintaro adds, his smile genuine but carrying a hint of something else — hope, perhaps, or uncertainty.

Hokuto sets the drawing down carefully, his fingers tracing its edge. “Morimoto-sensei...” He keeps his voice gentle, mindful of Ema’s presence. “You’re an amazing teacher. The way you connect with the children, how you’ve helped Ema adjust after everything...” He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “I’m grateful for your kindness.”

Understanding flickers across Shintaro’s features. His shoulders drop slightly, but his smile remains warm. “But?”

“But I’m not...” Hokuto glances at Ema, who has started a new masterpiece, humming softly to herself. “I’m not in a place where I can...” He trails off, frustrated by his inability to articulate without potentially hurting someone who’s shown nothing but consideration.

“Hey.” Shintaro’s voice carries no bitterness, only a quiet acceptance. “I get it. Really.” He fiddles with his straw wrapper, folding it into tiny squares. “Actually, can I be honest?”

Hokuto nods, relief mixing with curiosity.

“I’ve been where you are. Well, not exactly, but...” Shintaro’s eyes drift to Ema for a moment. “When my brother got divorced, his son was around Ema-chan’s age. I watched him try to balance everything alone, refusing help because he thought accepting it meant failing somehow.”

The parallel hits close enough to make Hokuto’s breath catch. He remembers his own words during the fever, the accusations he’d hurled at Taiga.

“What I’m trying to say is,” Shintaro continues, his usual cheerful demeanor softening into something more serious, “sometimes it’s nice just to have someone to talk to. No expectations, no pressure. Just... a friend who gets it.”

“A friend,” Hokuto repeats, testing the word. It feels different from the complicated tangle of emotions he’s been wrestling with lately.

“Yeah.” Shintaro grins, some of his typical brightness returning. “Someone to complain to about preschool politics or share funny kid stories with. Though I warn you, I have an endless supply of those.”

A genuine laugh escapes Hokuto. “I can imagine.”

“Papa, you’re laughing!” Ema looks up from her drawing, delight spreading across her features. “Mori-sensei is funny, right?”

“He is,” Hokuto agrees, catching Shintaro’s eye. “And kind. We’re lucky to have him as your teacher.”

“And friend?” Ema asks, her crayon pausing mid-stroke.

Hokuto feels something settle in his chest — not the nervous flutter from earlier, but a calm certainty. “Yes,” he says, watching relief wash over Shintaro’s face. “As our friend.”

🏠

Holiday music fills Hokuto’s ears as he weaves through the crowd aisles of the department store, holding Ema close against his chest. Her small arms wrap around his neck, her warm breath tickling his ear as she gasps at the twinkling lights and festive displays.

“Look, Papa!” she points excitedly at a towering Christmas tree dripping with silver and gold ornaments. “It’s bigger than our house!”

Hokuto adjusts his grip, shifting her weight to his other hip. The press of bodies around them makes him grateful he decided to carry her — he’s seen too many children get separated from their parents in crowds like this.

“Remember what I said?” He keeps his voice gentle but firm. “You can pick anything you want tonight.”

“Anything?” Her eyes widen, and he feels her tiny fingers clutch his collar tighter.

“Within reason,” he amends, though his heart aches at the thought of having to say no. The insurance money from the fire has finally come through, and while most of it needs to go toward practical things, he wants to give Ema this moment of joy.

They pass the cosmetics section, where a saleswoman sprays perfume into the air.

Ema wrinkles her nose, burying her face in Hokuto’s neck. “Smells like Grandma’s flowers.”

He chuckles, rubbing her back as they navigate around a group of teenagers clustered near a display of phone cases. The crowd seems to grow thicker as they approach the toy section, parents clutching shopping bags while their children bounce with barely contained excitement.

“What about there?” He points to a less crowded aisle filled with stuffed animals.

Ema lifts her head, her eyes scanning the shelves until they lock onto something. “Papa, Papa! Can we look at the bunnies?”

His chest tightens at her request. Mr. Bunny, though saved from the fire, still bears a singed ear. He’s caught her examining it sometimes, her small fingers tracing the damaged fur with a solemnity no four-year-old should possess.

“Of course, sweetheart.”

He maneuvers them through the crowd, apologizing softly as he bumps into a woman comparing two identical-looking teddy bears. The stuffed animal section smells of new fabric and plastic, rows of glassy eyes watching them as Ema squirms in his arms.

“Down, please?”

Hokuto hesitates, scanning the immediate area. It’s slightly less crowded here, with enough space between shoppers that he can keep track of her. “Okay, but stay where I can see you.”

She nods seriously as he sets her down, immediately gravitating toward a display of rabbits in various sizes and colors. Her hand reaches out to touch a cream-colored one wearing a blue ribbon, then pulls back, glancing at him for permission.

“It’s okay,” he assures her. “You can touch them.”

She picks up the rabbit, cradling it like she does Mr. Bunny at home. Something in her expression makes Hokuto’s throat tight — a mixture of joy and careful consideration that seems too mature for her age.

“This one looks soft,” she says, running her fingers over its ears. “Like clouds.”

Hokuto kneels beside her, ignoring the way his dress pants protest the movement. “Would you like to take it home with us?”

Ema’s brow furrows in that way that means she’s thinking hard about something. “But what about Mr. Bunny? Won’t he be sad?”

“I think Mr. Bunny and Waddles might like a friend,” Hokuto suggests, watching her face carefully. “Everyone needs friends, right?”

She considers this, looking between the rabbit in her arms and the others on the shelf. “Can I think about it?”

“Of course.” He smooths her hair, pride mixing with a familiar ache. Sometimes he forgets she’s only four, the way she processes things with such care. “We can look at other things too. There’s no rush.”

A group of shoppers crowds into their aisle, and Hokuto instinctively reaches for Ema. She steps closer, still holding the rabbit as she presses against his leg. The noise level rises as more people filter in, drawn by the holiday displays and sale signs.

“Up again?” he offers, noting the way she shrinks from the crowd.

She nods, and he lifts her, rabbit and all.

“Should we explore more? There might be other things you’d like.”

“Can we?” Her eyes brighten despite her obvious tiredness. “I saw pretty lights over there!”

The Christmas lights blur into streams of color as Hokuto follows Ema’s pointing finger. Her warmth against his chest grounds him as they weave through the crowd, the stuffed rabbit still tucked safely in her arms.

A display of children’s gardening tools catches his eye — tiny spades and rakes in cheerful primary colors, sized perfectly for small hands. His steps slow without conscious thought.

“Look, it’s growing!” Rui’s voice echoes in his memory, clear as if she were standing beside him.

She had been so excited about that first plant, a simple pothos in a ceramic pot barely bigger than his palm. They’d just moved in together, the apartment still half-empty, and she’d insisted they needed something living to make it feel like home.

The weight of Ema in his arms shifts, but he barely notices. He sees Rui instead, kneeling on their tiny balcony, showing a toddling Ema how to pat the soil around a new seedling. Her hands had been gentle but sure, dark earth beneath her fingernails as she guided their daughter’s clumsy attempts to help.

“It’s like having a practice kid,” she’d joked when they first started their balcony garden, years before Ema. “If we can keep these alive, maybe we’re ready for the real thing.”

They’d killed that first plant within a month. But Rui had just laughed, bought another, and tried again.

By the time Ema came along, their balcony had become a small jungle – herbs for cooking, flowers for color, even a stubborn tomato plant that never quite thrived but that Rui refused to give up on.

“Papa?” Ema’s voice breaks through the memory. “Why are you sad?”

Hokuto blinks, realizing his eyes have gone damp. He shifts Ema higher on his hip, forcing a smile. “I’m not sad, sweetheart. Just remembering something.”

His gaze drifts back to the gardening set. The small watering can is painted with butterflies, not unlike the ones Rui used to point out to Ema on warm spring mornings. The memory hits him with physical force — Ema barely walking, tottering after a butterfly while Rui laughed, her hands dirty from repotting herbs.

“Did you want to look at the garden toys?” he asks Ema, his voice rougher than he intended.

She peers at the display, then back at him with those observant eyes that sometimes remind him so much of her mother. “Did Mama like gardens?”

The question catches him off guard. Ema rarely asks about Rui directly, though he knows she treasures the stories he tells her. His throat tightens. “She loved them. She used to grow flowers on our balcony.”

“The ones in the pictures?”

“That’s right.” He reaches out with his free hand, touching one of the small trowels. The plastic feels cool against his fingertips. “She taught you how to water them when you were very little. You probably don’t remember.”

Ema is quiet for a moment, processing this new piece of information about her mother. Her small fingers play with the ear of the stuffed rabbit she’s still holding. “Could we make a garden?”

The question hangs in the air, heavy with implications that make Hokuto’s chest ache. They’re living in Taiga’s house, after all. It’s not their space to modify, and after their awkward tension these past few days...

“We’ll have to ask Tiger-san first.” The words slip out before Hokuto can stop them. He shouldn’t make promises about someone else’s home, but the hope in Ema’s eyes makes it impossible to refuse outright. “Maybe we can find a special spot for it.”

Her face lights up. “Really?”

“Really.” He picks up the gardening set, complete with its butterfly-adorned watering can. The weight feels right in his hand, like a piece of the past carried forward. “We’ll figure something out.”

Ema squirms in his arms, still clutching the stuffed rabbit. “I should put this back.”

“Are you sure? We can get both.” The insurance money stretches further than he expected, and he’d spend every yen to keep that smile on her face.

She shakes her head, surprisingly firm.

“Okay.” He sets her down carefully, watching as she returns the rabbit to its shelf with gentle reverence. Her small hands smooth its ears one last time before she steps back.

“Bye-bye,” she whispers to the rabbit, and something in Hokuto’s chest constricts.

“Everything deserves to be loved,” Rui used to say, usually while nursing some half-dead plant back to health. She’d had that same gentle touch, that same careful consideration for living things — even the ones most people would overlook.

The memory hits him with startling clarity: Rui in their tiny kitchen, carefully repotting a struggling succulent she’d rescued from a clearance shelf.

“Look how strong it is,” she’d said, showing him the new growth hidden beneath withered leaves. “It just needs a chance.:

Ema tugs at his sleeve, pulling him back to the present. “Papa? Can we look at the lights now?”

He blinks away the memory, adjusting his grip on the gardening set. “Of course, sweetheart.”

She would have loved this, he thinks, watching Ema skip ahead a few steps. Rui would have made the whole shopping trip into an adventure, pointing out colors and shapes, making up stories about the holiday displays. She’d always had a way of finding magic in ordinary moments.

The Christmas lights blur together as Hokuto follows Ema through the store. His chest feels hollow, memories of Rui pressing against his ribs with each breath.

She would have been thirty this year. Would her hair still be long? Would she have started wearing the reading glasses she’d been putting off buying?

Sadly, he’ll never know.

“Papa, look!” Ema’s squeal cuts through Hokuto’s brooding. She points at a display of throw pillows, her face lighting up with recognition. “It’s Tiger-san!”

The pillow in question features a cartoonish tiger face, complete with round eyes and exaggerated whiskers. Something about its stern expression does remind him of Taiga’s attempts at looking serious during meetings.

“Should we get it for him?” The words slip out before he can stop himself.

Ema bounces on her toes. “Yes! Yes! Can we wrap it up all pretty? With a bow?:

“Of course.” Hokuto picks up the pillow, running his thumb over the soft material. It’s practical, at least. Not too personal. Just a silly gift from Ema that happens to liven up Taiga’s minimalist decor.

They join the queue at the register, Ema humming a Christmas song she learned at school while clutching her gardening set. The line inches forward, holiday music drifting through the speakers above.

“Will Tiger-san like opening presents with us?” Ema asks, her eyes bright with anticipation. “Can we make hot chocolate?”

Hokuto’s chest tightens. He’d almost forgotten about Taiga’s date. “Actually, sweetheart, Tiger-san has plans tonight.”

“Oh.” Her face falls slightly. “With who?”

“With...” Hokuto hesitates. How do you explain dating to a four-year-old? “With a friend from work.”

“Like a playdate?”

“Something like that.” He adjusts his grip on their purchases, the tiger pillow suddenly feeling heavier than it should. “Everyone has special Christmas plans.”

“But we’re his special plans too, right?” Ema looks up at him with such certainty that it makes his throat close up. “We live in his house.”

The couple ahead of them moves forward, and Hokuto guides Ema closer to the counter. “That’s different, sweetheart. Remember? This is just temporary.”

“But—”

“Next customer, please,” the cashier calls, saving Hokuto from having to explain further.

He places their items on the counter: the gardening set with its cheerful butterflies, and the tiger pillow that somehow manages to look smug even as an inanimate object. The cashier begins scanning their purchases, and Ema presses against his leg, suddenly quiet.

“Would you like these gift-wrapped?” the cashier asks, holding up the pillow.

“Yes, please.” Hokuto pulls out his wallet, trying not to think about how Taiga probably won’t even be home to receive it tonight.

🏠

The glass doors of the department store slide open with a gentle hum, releasing them into the crisp evening air. Hokuto shifts the shopping bags in his grip, ensuring the wrapped pillow is secure. His chest still feels heavy from their conversation at the register, but he forces a smile as Ema bounces alongside him.

“Papa, look!” Ema tugs at his sleeve, nearly pulling him off balance. Her eyes grow wide as saucers at the sight before them.

The department store’s façade glows with thousands of twinkling lights, transforming the ordinary building into something magical. Strands of white and gold cascade down like frozen waterfalls, while multicolored orbs pulse in mesmerizing patterns. The effect bathes everything in a warm, ethereal glow.

“Pretty,” Hokuto agrees, though his appreciation is more for Ema’s wonderstruck expression than the lights themselves.

“It’s like stars fell down!” She spins in place, her small boots scuffing against the pavement. “And look at the—”

Her sentence cuts off as her head whips toward something in the crowd. Before Hokuto can react, she drops his hand and darts away.

“Ema!” His heart leaps into his throat. He clutches the bags tighter and pushes through the sea of shoppers, trying to keep sight of her pink coat. “Ema, wait!”

She weaves between legs and shopping bags with the agility of a small cat, while Hokuto mutters apologies to the people he jostles past. The crowd parts just enough for him to see her throw herself at someone’s legs with a delighted squeal.

Please be someone we know, Hokuto prays silently as he rushes forward. Please don’t let my daughter be hugging a stranger and—

He stops short.

There, illuminated by the cascade of lights, stands Taiga. His expression mirrors the shock Hokuto feels as their eyes meet. Ema clings to his leg like a determined koala, beaming up at him.

“Tiger-san! You’re here!” She bounces on her toes, still gripping his pants. “Are you doing Christmas shopping too? Can you see the pretty lights? They look like magic!”

Something flutters in Hokuto’s chest at the sight of Taiga’s usual stern expression softening as he looks down at Ema. It’s the same look he gets when he thinks no one’s watching — when he sneaks extra cookies onto Ema’s plate or straightens Mr. Bunny’s bowtie while passing through the living room.

A tall figure materializes from the crowd, and Hokuto’s stomach drops. Even with the mask covering half his face, Jesse’s presence is unmistakable. The actor’s striking eyes lock onto Ema, still attached to Taiga’s leg.

Hokuto shifts the shopping bags, hyper-aware of how this must look — his daughter clinging to Taiga while he stands there holding their Christmas shopping. His throat tightens as Taiga clears his throat.

“Jesse, this is Matsumura Hokuto,” Taiga says, his voice steady but slightly higher than usual. “He’s my coworker. They’re staying at my house temporarily.”

Temporarily. The word stings more than it should.

“And this is Ema-chan,” Taiga adds, awkwardly patting her head.

Jesse’s eyes crinkle above his mask — the same charming expression Hokuto has seen in countless EaseWorks commercials. “Nice to meet you both.”

Ema’s grip on Taiga’s pants loosens as she tilts her head back, studying Jesse. Her eyes suddenly grow wide with recognition. “Are you… are you the actor from TV?”

Jesse crouches down to her level, and Hokuto fights the urge to pull her closer. “That’s right! You’ve seen me?”

“Yes!” Ema bounces with excitement. “You’re Yuki-chan’s oshi! She talks about you all the time and has your pictures in her bag and—” She takes a deep breath before continuing her stream of consciousness. “She’s going to be so excited when I tell her I met you!”

The shopping bags dig into Hokuto’s palm as he watches the interaction. He should say something, do something, but his mind feels oddly blank. All he can focus on is how Taiga stands slightly closer to Jesse than necessary, how his shoulders tense when Jesse laughs at Ema’s enthusiasm.

This is what he was getting ready for earlier, he realizes.

“Your friend has good taste,” Jesse says to Ema, his voice warm with amusement. “I’m honored to be her oshi.” His eyes sparkle with interest. “Would Yuki-chan like an autograph?”

Ema gasps, her entire body vibrating with excitement. “Yes! Yes! She would love it!” She shrugs off her backpack, the movement so enthusiastic it nearly knocks her off balance. Her small hands fumble with the zipper as she digs through her belongings.

Hokuto watches her, his heart clenching at her eagerness. She’s always so quick to share joy with others, especially her best friend. The shopping bags feel heavier in his hands as he shifts his weight, trying not to stare at how close Taiga and Jesse stand.

“Oh!” Ema’s face lights up as she pulls out her sketchbook. Her expression suddenly turns shy as she holds it up to Taiga. “Tiger-san, look what I drew today.”

The page reveals a somewhat abstract figure with spiky hair and what appears to be a frown, surrounded by little hearts. Despite the crude execution, it’s unmistakably meant to be Taiga.

A soft smile spreads across Taiga’s face — the genuine kind that makes his nose scrunch. It’s the same expression he gets when he thinks no one’s looking, usually directed at Ema.

Ema beams at Taiga’s approval before flipping to a blank page. She produces a marker from her backpack and holds it out to Jesse with both hands. “Here you go!”

Jesse accepts the marker with theatrical grace, crouching down beside her. “So tell me about Yuki-chan. What’s her favorite color?”

“Blue!” Ema bounces on her toes as Jesse begins writing. “She loves butterflies too, and she always shares her snacks with me at lunch.”

Hokuto edges closer to Taiga while Jesse and Ema chat. The Christmas lights cast dancing shadows across Taiga’s face, making him look somehow softer than usual.

“I’m sorry,” Hokuto murmurs, keeping his voice low. “We didn’t mean to interrupt your...” He can’t quite bring himself to say ‘date.’

Taiga shrugs, his shoulders tense despite the casual gesture. “It’s fine. She seems happy.”

The space between them feels charged with unspoken words. Hokuto wants to say more — about the tiger pillow in the shopping bag, about Ema’s earlier questions regarding Christmas plans.

Instead, he watches his daughter chattering animatedly about her best friend’s favorite TV shows and dance moves.

“And she always says your commercials are the best ones,” Ema continues, practically bouncing. “Oh, and she and her Mama are coming to watch you at your fan meeting!”

Jesse’s eyes light up at the mention of the fan meeting. “Really? That’s wonderful! Tell Yuki-chan I’ll look forward to meeting her properly.” He adds a small heart to his signature with a flourish that makes Ema giggle.

Hokuto’s fingers tighten around the shopping bags. They’ve monopolized enough of Taiga’s evening. "Thank you for being so kind,” he says to Jesse, forcing his voice to stay steady. “We should let you get back to your...” The word ‘date’ sticks in his throat again.

“Papa got Tiger-san a present!” Ema bounces on her toes, clearly not ready to end the conversation. “It’s wrapped up all pretty with a bow and everything!”

Heat creeps up Hokuto’s neck. “I’ll leave it in the living room,” he tells Taiga, avoiding his eyes. The shopping bag suddenly feels like it weighs a ton, the silly tiger pillow inside now seeming childish and inappropriate.

“Okay. Merry Christmas,” Taiga says, his voice carrying that careful neutrality he’s been using since their argument during his fever.

“Merry Christmas,” Hokuto echoes, placing his hand on Ema’s shoulder to guide her away.

As they turn to leave, he catches a glimpse of Jesse’s hand sliding to rest on the small of Taiga’s back — an intimate gesture that makes Hokuto’s chest constrict.

For some reason.

🏠

The hostess’ eyes light up at the sight of Jesse, her smile widening as she takes their coats. Taiga hands over his black wool peacoat, ignoring the way she gushes over Jesse’s designer leather jacket.

At least someone’s enjoying themselves.

“Your usual private room is ready, Kyomoto-san.” She guides them through the bustling restaurant, past tables filled with couples seeking warmth from the January chill.

The private dining room feels cozy, with its amber lighting and rustic wooden furniture. A bottle of red wine already breathes on the table — Yugo’s typical thoughtfulness.

Jesse slides into his seat, leather pants squeaking against the cushioned chair. He picks up the menu, scanning it with genuine interest. “Everything looks amazing. What do you usually get?”

“Try the braised short ribs with red wine reduction.” Taiga reaches for the wine, pouring them each a glass. “Yugo spent three months perfecting that sauce. I watched him throw out batch after batch until he got it right.”

“Three months for a sauce?” Jesse’s eyebrows shoot up. “That’s dedication.”

“That’s Yugo.” Taiga swirls the wine in his glass, remembering those early days when the bistro was just a concept. “He lived on energy drinks and spite while testing recipes. I think he made me and Juri taste thirty different versions of that sauce before he was satisfied.”

Jesse leans forward, elbows on the table. “Must be nice having a friend who owns a restaurant. Free food whenever you want?”

“More like being a guinea pig for his experimental dishes.” Taiga takes a sip of wine. “Though I can’t complain. His failures still taste better than most restaurants’ successes.”

“I’ll trust your judgment then.” Jesse sets down the menu with a flourish. “Short ribs it is.”

The hostess returns, notebook in hand. “Yugo-san says he’ll stop by when he has a moment. Are you ready to order?”

Taiga nods, ordering for both of them before settling into the familiar rhythm of a Golden Hour evening. The wine warms his chest, and Jesse’s smile catches the candlelight just right.

It’s simple, comfortable — exactly what he needs on a freezing January night.

A month, Taiga realizes, staring into his wine glass. The rich burgundy liquid catches the light, reminding him of that first night when Jesse had charmed his way past Taiga’s defenses with terrible puns and genuine interest. Now, here they are, sharing comfortable silences and private jokes.

His phone buzzes. Probably another message from Chaka demanding details about his date. The Chaos Trio’s relentless pursuit of office gossip should irritate him more, but lately, he finds himself hiding smiles when reading Jesse’s texts during lunch breaks.

The wine tastes bitter on his tongue. This is how it started with Shuichiro too. The easy conversation, the thoughtful gestures, the way everything felt right until it wasn’t.

Until “you’re so independent” became “Why are you so cold?” Until caring morphed into control.

“You’ve got that look again.” Jesse’s voice cuts through his spiraling thoughts. “The one where you’re overthinking something but trying to act casual about it.”

Taiga’s fingers tighten around the stem of his wine glass. He could deflect — blame work stress or the cold weather. But Jesse has been nothing but honest with him, sharing stories about his insecurities during auditions and his strained relationship with his mother.

“I was thinking about how it’s been a month.” The words slip out before he can stop them. “Since our first date.”

“Has it really?” Jesse’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “Time flies when you’re wooing the most resistant marketing analyst in Tokyo.”

“I wasn’t resistant.” Taiga takes another sip of wine. “I was cautious.”

“Was?”

Damn. Trust Jesse to catch that slip.

Taiga sets down his glass, watching condensation bead on its surface. “I still am. My last relationship...” He pauses, searching for words that won’t sound pathetic. “It started like this. Nice dinners, good conversation. Then it changed.”

Jesse stays quiet, giving him space to continue.

“He changed,” Taiga clarifies. “Or maybe he just stopped pretending. And I keep waiting for—”

He cuts himself off, heat rising to his cheeks. For you to change too hangs unspoken between them.

“For the other shoe to drop?” Jesse suggests softly.

Taiga nods, not trusting his voice. The candlelight flickers, casting dancing shadows on the wall. His chest feels tight, exposed. This is exactly what he didn’t want — to appear damaged, suspicious of kindness.

“Can I tell you something?” Jesse leans back, his usual dramatic flair softening into something more genuine. “Every time you text back, I get excited. Like, embarrassingly excited. My manager caught me grinning at my phone during a commercial shoot last week.”

The admission catches Taiga off-guard. “You’re an actor. You literally charm people for a living.”

“Yeah, and it’s exhausting.” Jesse runs a hand through his hair. “But with you, I don’t have to be on all the time. You call me out when I’m being ridiculous. You don’t laugh at my jokes when they’re not funny. It’s... refreshing.”

Heat creeps up Taiga’s neck at Jesse’s words. His first instinct is to deflect, to make a sarcastic comment about Jesse’s acting skills, but something in Jesse’s expression stops him. The candlelight softens his features, stripping away the polished celebrity persona to reveal something raw and honest.

Jesse reaches across the table, his fingers brushing Taiga’s hand. The touch sends a jolt through Taiga’s arm, but he doesn’t pull away.

“Listen,” he says, his voice low and steady. “I meant what I said. There’s no pressure here.”

Taiga stares at their hands, at the contrast between Jesse’s manicured nails and his own practical ones. He means it, he realizes with a start. The knowledge settles in his chest, warm and uncomfortable.

“If you need three months to figure out I’m not worth your time, that’s fine.” Jesse’s thumb traces circles on Taiga’s palm. “If you need a year to be sure I won’t turn into some controlling asshole, I can wait. Hell, if you decide tomorrow that this isn’t working, I’ll respect that.”

Lies, Taiga’s mind whispers. Everyone says that at first.

But Jesse’s hand remains steady, his grip loose enough that Taiga could pull away at any moment.

“All I’m asking for is honesty.” Jesse’s voice carries none of his usual dramatic flair. “If something bothers you, tell me. If I’m pushing too hard, say so. I’d rather hear ‘back off’ a hundred times than have you pretend everything’s fine when it’s not.”

Taiga’s throat feels tight. He’s heard pretty words before, promises wrapped in charm and good intentions. But Jesse’s earnestness cuts through his defenses, making his carefully constructed walls feel paper-thin.

“I’m not…” He swallows, forcing the words past years of built-up barriers. “I’m not good at this. The talking about feelings part.”

“I’ve noticed.” Jesse’s lips quirk up, but his eyes remain serious. “But you’re doing it right now.”

Am I? Taiga wonders. His hand feels warm where Jesse touches it, grounding him in the moment. The private dining room suddenly seems too small, too intimate. Yet he doesn’t move away.

Jesse waits, patient in a way that throws Taiga off balance. No demands, no subtle manipulation disguised as concern. Just space to breathe, to process, to decide how much of himself he’s willing to risk.

“I can’t promise I won’t get scared,” Taiga admits, the words barely above a whisper. His fingers twitch against Jesse’s palm, but Jesse’s grip remains steady. “Or that I won’t want to run when things get real.”

Jesse’s thumb stills against Taiga’s palm. “That’s not a bad thing. Being scared means you care enough to worry about getting hurt.”

“I don’t want—” Taiga pulls his hand back, wrapping it around his wine glass. The stem feels fragile between his fingers. “I can’t be what my ex wanted. Someone who needs constant validation, who drops everything for him.

“Good thing I’m not your ex then.” Jesse picks up his own glass, but his eyes never leave Taiga’s face. “Though I have to say, he sounds like an absolute dick.”

A startled laugh escapes Taiga’s throat. “He was… complicated.”

“That’s a polite way of putting it.” Jesse takes a sip of wine. “From what you’ve told me, he was the one who needed constant validation. He just projected that onto you.”

The words hit too close to home. Taiga remembers the late-night texts demanding attention, the subtle guilt trips when he prioritized work or friends. How Shuichiro’s “I miss you” turned into “Why don’t you miss me as much?”

“It wasn’t all bad,” Taiga says, though he’s not sure why he’s defending Shuichiro. “At first, it felt nice having someone care that much.”

“Until it didn’t?”

Taiga nods, his throat tight. The wine tastes sour now, memories of suffocation rising like bile. “Until every text felt like a trap. Until caring became...” He trails off, searching for the right words.

“Became a weapon?” Jesse suggests quietly.

Yes, Taiga thinks but can’t say it out loud. His chest aches with phantom pressure. He sets down his glass before his trembling hands can betray him.

Jesse shifts in his seat, leather squeaking against cushion. For a moment, Taiga braces for the inevitable — the well-meaning but patronizing comfort, the promises that he’ll heal Taiga’s trust issues with enough love and patience.

Instead, Jesse says, “You know what I like about you?”

The abrupt change in topic throws Taiga off balance. “My devastating good looks?”

“Well, yeah.” Jesse grins. “But also how you never laugh at my jokes unless they’re actually funny. How you rolled your eyes when I tried that cheesy pickup line about being lost in your eyes.”

Heat creeps up Taiga’s neck. “It was terrible.”

“It was! And you didn’t pretend otherwise.” Jesse leans forward, his expression earnest. “Do you know how rare that is in my world? Everyone’s always laughing, always agreeing, always trying to please the celebrity.”

Something in Taiga’s chest loosens at Jesse’s words. He remembers their first meeting — how Jesse had swept into the marketing department like a whirlwind, charm turned up to eleven. How Taiga had simply raised an eyebrow and asked if he actually planned to read the brand guidelines or just smile his way through the campaign.

“You looked so offended,” Taiga recalls, a smile tugging at his lips.

“I was! And then impressed.” Jesse’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “Still am, actually. You don’t need me, Kyomoto Taiga. You don’t need anyone. That’s what makes this scary, but it’s also what makes it real.”

The door creaks open, cutting through the intimate moment. Yugo appears, carrying a tray of appetizers with the smuggest grin Taiga has seen since high school. The dim lighting does nothing to hide the gleam of mischief in Yugo’s eyes.

“I couldn’t let anyone else serve my favorite critic.” Yugo sets down an artfully plated dish of seared scallops. “And I had to meet the man who finally got Taiga’s heart.”

Taiga blushes. He shoots Yugo a warning glare, but his best friend merely winks.

“Kochi Yugo.” He extends a hand to Jesse with a flourish that rivals the actor’s overdramatic tendencies. “Owner, chef, and keeper of all embarrassing Taiga stories.”

Jesse’s face lights up like he’s just been handed a gift. “Really? Do tell.”

“Don’t you have a kitchen to run?” Taiga reaches for his wine glass, but Yugo’s next words freeze him mid-motion.

“Did he ever tell you about the great recipe disaster of 2019?” Yugo’s grin widens. “Back when I was testing recipes for the bistro’s opening.”

No. Not that story. Taiga’s stomach drops. “Yugo—”

“See, Taiga volunteered to help taste-test my new menu items.” Yugo places Jesse’s appetizer with theatrical precision. “Very supportive friend, always willing to try new things. Except when he accidentally mixed up the wasabi cream sauce with the matcha cream.”

Jesse leans forward, clearly delighted. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes.” Yugo adjusts the garnish on Taiga’s plate, drawing out the moment. “He took one huge spoonful, thinking it was dessert. His face turned this fascinating shade of red — kind of like right now, actually.”

Taiga buries his face in his hands. He can still remember the burning sensation, how his sinuses felt like they were on fire. “I hate you.”

“You should have seen him trying to maintain his dignity while chugging water.” Yugo pats Taiga’s shoulder. “Still insisted on finishing the taste test though. That’s our Taiga — stubborn to the core.”

“Get out,” Taiga groans, but there’s no real heat in his voice. “Don’t you have other customers to torture?”

“Fine, fine.” Yugo straightens up, adjusting his chef’s coat. “But Jesse, if you want to hear about the time he tried to reorganize my entire spice rack using a spreadsheet—”

“Out.”

Jesse’s laughter follows Yugo’s retreating form. Taiga wants to sink into his chair and disappear, but the warmth in his chest betrays him. Watching Jesse and Yugo interact feels dangerously natural, like pieces clicking into place.

“A spreadsheet for spices?” Jesse raises an eyebrow, his eyes dancing with amusement. “That’s adorably on-brand.”

“It was a perfectly logical system.” Taiga picks up his fork, stabbing a scallop with more force than necessary. “Yugo’s chaos needed structure.”

“And how did that work out?”

“He rearranged everything by color the next day just to spite me.” The memory brings an unwanted smile to Taiga’s lips.

Jesse takes a bite of his scallop, his eyes widening. “Oh wow. This is incredible.”

“Wait till you try the short ribs.” Taiga relaxes slightly, grateful for the shift in topic.

Yugo returns ten minutes later with the main course, his grin impossibly wider. “Remember when you tried to cook that ramen for a dorm party?”

Taiga rolls his eyes. “It was the only thing I knew how to cook!”

“Yeah, and the fire alarm went off because you left it boiling too long.” Yugo grins, clearly relishing this moment.

“Oh, come on! That was an accident!” Taiga shoots back, half-laughing but already plotting his retaliation. “At least I didn’t set Juri’s shoe on fire during a late-night study session.”

The laughter erupts around the table as Jesse raises an eyebrow. “I’m starting to see why Taiga prefers a tech-enabled kitchen.”

The evening melts into a blur of stories and laughter. Jesse’s theatrical gasps perfectly complement Yugo’s dramatic retellings, and Taiga finds himself relaxing despite the mounting embarrassment.

The food disappears, replaced by dessert – Yugo’s signature dark chocolate soufflé that makes Jesse actually moan.

When the bill arrives, Jesse reaches for it first. “My treat.”

“But—”

“You treated me last Christmas Eve, so now it’s my turn.” Jesse’s smile carries no pressure. “You can get the next one. Deal?”

Taiga nods, something fluttering in his chest at the casual assumption of next time.

“Let me drop you off the station?” Jesse offers, standing.

The wine sits warm in Taiga’s veins, but anxiety pricks at his skin. “Actually, I should wait until Yugo’s done.”

“Of course.” Jesse accepts the deflection with grace, and something in Taiga’s chest unclenches.

Yugo chooses that moment to reappear, collecting empty plates.

Before he can think too hard about it, Taiga rises from his chair. His body moves on instinct, pressing a quick kiss to Jesse’s cheek.

Jesse freezes, eyes wide. A slow, stupidly happy grin spreads across his face.

“Good night,” Taiga mumbles, heat flooding his face.

“Night,” Jesse breathes, looking dazed as he backs toward the door. He nearly trips over his own feet, catching himself on the doorframe with a laugh.

Behind them, Yugo drops a spoon with dramatic flair. “Well, well, well.”

The door clicks shut behind Jesse. Taiga’s lips still tingle where they brushed Jesse’s cheek, and his heart hammers against his ribs. He turns to Yugo, who’s practically vibrating with glee.

“Don’t—”

Too late. Yugo whips out his phone, fingers flying over the screen. The familiar tone of a call being placed fills the private dining room.

“No!” Taiga lunges for the phone, but Yugo dances away, hitting the speaker button just as Juri’s voice crackles through.

“Hello?”

“TAIGA KISSED JESSE!” Yugo’s voice echoes off the walls.

I’m going to murder him, Taiga thinks, sinking into his chair. His face burns hot enough to reheat the forgotten soufflé.

“What?” Juri’s voice pitches higher. “Details. Now!”

“It was just a cheek kiss,” Taiga mutters, but his traitorous heart skips at the memory of Jesse’s stunned expression.

“Just a—” Yugo sets a phone on the table, pulling up a chair. “Our Taiga, who once wanted to create a spreadsheet to determine the optimal dating radius in Tokyo, just spontaneously kissed someone.”

“On the cheek,” Taiga corrects weakly.

“Even better!” Juri’s excitement crackles through the speaker. “That’s practically a declaration of love coming from you.”

Heat crawls up Taiga’s neck. “It’s been a month. We’re… taking things slow.”

“A month of what?” Yugo leans forward, chin propped on his hands. “Come on, spill. You’ve been suspiciously happy lately.”

“I have not.” But even as he says it, Taiga knows it’s a lie. His phone is full of Jesse’s silly messages, each one making him smile despite himself.

“You hummed when we had lunch yesterday,” Juri points out. “You never hum.”

“Maybe I just had a song stuck in my head.”

“Was it the jingle from his latest commercial?” Yugo’s grin turns wicked. “The one you claimed was ‘annoyingly catchy’ but somehow knew all the words to?”

Traitors. Both of them. Taiga reaches for his wine glass, only to find it empty. “He’s… different.”

“Different how?” Juri’s voice softens, genuine curiosity replacing the teasing.

Taiga stares at his empty glass, watching candlelight dance through the crystal. “He doesn’t push. When I get quiet or need space, he just... accepts it. No guilt trips, no demands.”

The memory of Jesse’s words echoes in his mind: If you need a year to be sure I won’t turn into some controlling asshole, I can wait.

“He said something tonight.” Taiga’s voice comes out quieter than intended. “About how he likes that I don’t laugh at his bad jokes or pretend to be impressed by his celebrity status.”

“And?” Yugo prompts gently.

“And it felt real.” The admission sits heavy on Taiga’s tongue. “Not like Shuichiro’s manipulative bullshit about how ‘refreshingly cold’ I was, only to use it against me later.”

“He might be good for you.” Juri’s voice comes through the speaker, thoughtful and measured. “I mean, anyone who can make you this flustered without sending you running has to be special.”

Taiga fidgets with his empty wine glass, tracing the rim with his finger. The crystal catches the candlelight, casting prisms on the tablecloth.

Good for me, he thinks. The words should set off alarm bells, but they don’t.

“Speaking of running,” Yugo leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “How’s Jesse handling the whole living-with-Matsumura-and-Ema-chan situation?"

The question catches Taiga off guard. “What do you mean, handling it? He knows about them.”

“He does?”

“Yeah, since before Christmas.” Taiga remembers Christmas Eve in the department store and Jesse’s genuine delight when Ema recognized him. How he'd spent five minutes asking Ema about her best friend before signing an autograph. “He was... surprisingly good with her.”

Juri clears his throat. “I think what Yugo means is, how does Jesse feel about you living with another man and his kid?”

Oh. The implication hits Taiga like a splash of cold water. He straightens in his chair, defensive words rising to his tongue.

"It’s temporary,” he says, the words coming out sharper than intended. “Matsumura’s been looking for a place. It’s just... the holidays made it harder to find something suitable.”

The silence that follows feels heavy.

“What?” Taiga demands.

“Nothing.” Yugo holds up his hands in surrender. “Just... have you actually talked to Jesse about it? In-depth?”

“About what? There’s nothing to talk about.” Taiga’s fingers tighten around the wine glass. “Matsumura and Ema-chan needed help. I had space. End of story.”

It is temporary, he tells himself. Just last week, he’d glimpsed Hokuto’s browser tabs — all rental websites, all bookmarked for later viewing. The sight had sent an unexpected pang through his chest, but he’d ignored it.

“Fine.” Taiga slumps in his chair, the fight draining out of him. “I’ll talk to Jesse about it. Happy?”

“Ecstatic.” Yugo’s grin softens into something gentler. “We just want you to be careful, you know? Not with Jesse specifically, but...”

“But communication is important,” Juri chimes in through the speaker. “And you’re not exactly known for volunteering information.”

They’re right, of course. His tendency to keep things close to his chest has caused problems before. He remembers the hurt in Shuichiro’s eyes when he’d discovered Taiga had been promoted without telling him.

That was different, he reminds himself. Jesse isn’t Shuichiro.

“I know,” Taiga mutters, tracing patterns on the tablecloth. “I just... it’s complicated.”

“Life usually is.” Juri’s voice crackles with static. “Look, I should head out. Early meeting tomorrow. But Taiga?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m proud of you. The cheek kiss was very bold.”

“Oh my god.” Taiga buries his face in his hands as Yugo cackles. “I hate you both.”

“Love you too!” Juri’s laugh cuts off as the call ends.

Silence settles over the private dining room, broken only by the distant clatter of dishes being washed. Taiga stays slumped in his chair, face still hidden behind his fingers. His chest feels tight with too many emotions to name.

“Come here, you disaster.” Yugo’s chair scrapes against the floor as he stands.

Before Taiga can protest, strong arms wrap around his shoulders. The familiar scent of spices and coffee envelops him as Yugo pulls him into a hug. For once, Taiga doesn’t resist.

“You’re doing fine,” Yugo murmurs into his hair. “Better than fine, actually. Jesse seems like a good guy.”

“He is.” The words come out muffled against Yugo’s chef coat.

“Then trust that.” Yugo squeezes once before stepping back. “Trust him to handle the truth about your living situation like an adult.”

Taiga straightens up, smoothing his shirt more out of habit than necessity. “When did you get so wise?”

“Please, I’ve always been wise.” Yugo strikes a dramatic pose. “You were just too busy color-coding your sock drawer to notice.”

“That was one time—”

“Out!” Yugo makes shooing motions with his hands. “Some of us have actual work to do. Unlike certain marketing analysts who spend their evenings making googly eyes at handsome actors.”

“I do not make googly eyes.” Taiga stands, gathering his coat. “And you’re the one who kept interrupting with embarrassing stories.”

“Customer service.” Yugo winks. “Can’t let my favorite critic get too comfortable.”

They walk to the front of the restaurant together, Yugo’s arm slung casually around Taiga’s shoulders. The main dining room is empty now, chairs already stacked on tables. Through the kitchen door, Taiga glimpses the prep team cleaning up for the night.

At the entrance, Yugo pulls him into one last quick hug. “Text me when you get home?"

“Yes, mom.” But Taiga hugs back, grateful for the steady warmth of his best friend’s presence.

“And Taiga?” Yugo’s voice turns serious as he pulls away. “You’ll never go wrong with staying true to what you feel.”

🏠

Light spills onto the front steps as Taiga taps his keycard against the reader. A soft beep, and the door unlocks.

“I’m home!” he calls out, the words still feeling foreign on his tongue even after a month of having people to say them to. He slips his shoes off, fishing his phone from his pocket to text Jesse.

Just got home safe. Thanks for tonight.

The dining room light draws his attention. Hokuto sits at the table, his laptop casting a blue glow across his features. Papers spread around him like fallen leaves, some covered in his neat handwriting, others decorated with Ema’s colorful scribbles.

“Welcome back,” Hokuto says without looking up, fingers flying across the keyboard. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing the lean muscles of his forearms. A half-empty coffee mug sits dangerously close to his elbow.

“Still working?” Taiga moves the mug to safer territory, noting the time on his smartwatch. 11:47 PM.

“Mm.” Hokuto gestures vaguely at his screen. “Found some bugs in the new update that need fixing before launch.” He pauses, rubbing his eyes. “Also trying to plan Ema’s birthday party. First Steps only allows celebrations during lunch break, so I need to coordinate with Morimoto-sensei about timing and—” He breaks off with a yawn.

“Her birthday’s next week, right?” He remembers Ema talking about it nonstop. Taiga leans against the table, scanning the scattered papers. Party supply lists mix with lines of code, and what looks like a guest list shares space with bug reports.

“January eleventh.” Hokuto’s shoulders slump slightly. “I want to make it special. After everything that’s happened…”

The unspoken weight of the fire, of displacement, of change hangs in the air between them. Taiga’s chest tightens with an emotion he doesn’t want to name.

He heads to the kitchen, his bare feet silent against the cool floor. The familiar hum of appliances greets him as he reaches for a glass from the cabinet. Moonlight filters through the window, casting long shadows across the granite countertop.

At the refrigerator, his fingers hover over the ice dispenser. His gaze catches on the crayon drawing taped to the stainless steel surface — a stick figure with spiky black hair that could only be him. Ema’s artistic interpretation makes his hair look like a startled hedgehog.

The corner of his mouth twitches.

Water fills his glass with a gentle gurgle. As he turns, the tiger throw pillow on his couch catches his eye, its orange and black stripes a bold splash of color against the neutral tones of his living room. Hokuto’s Christmas gift.

It reminded Ema of you, he’d said on Christmas Day with a soft smile.

The pillow should irritate him. It disrupts the careful minimalism he’s cultivated, like everything else about having Hokuto and Ema here.

But somehow, it feels right – like it belongs. Like they belong.

Shit.

Taiga takes a long drink of water, trying to wash away the uncomfortable realization. It’s none of his business how Hokuto handles Ema’s birthday. The last thing he needs is to get more invested in their lives.

But the image of Hokuto hunched over his laptop, trying to be everything for everyone, won’t leave him alone. The same way Ema’s gap-toothed grin has wormed its way past his defenses, making him actually look forward to coming home.

Dammit.

Taking a deep breath that does nothing to settle the flutter of anxiety in his stomach, Taiga returns to the dining room. He slides into the chair next to Hokuto, close enough to see the fatigue etched around his eyes.

“Let me help,” he says, the words coming out before he can stop them. “With the party planning.”

Hokuto’s fingers freeze over the keyboard. He turns, surprise evident in the slight widening of his eyes. “You don’t have to—”

“You’re clearly struggling to handle both,” Taiga says, gesturing at the chaos of papers. “I work in marketing. Party planning isn’t that different from event coordination.”

The lie sits uncomfortably in his throat — the last event he planned was a product launch, hardly comparable to a child’s birthday party.

Hokuto’s shoulders slump further, his fingers idly tracing the edge of a bug report. “Rui always handled the parties,” he says quietly. “She’d start planning months in advance, making everything perfect. The themes, the decorations...” His voice trails off, heavy with memory. “I’m way out of my league here.”

Something twists in Taiga’s chest at the raw vulnerability in Hokuto’s voice. He wants to look away, to retreat to the safety of his room where emotions can’t ambush him like this.

But the defeated slope of Hokuto’s shoulders keeps him anchored to his chair.

“The offer stands,” Taiga says, forcing his voice to stay neutral. “I have time tonight, and two heads are better than one.” He picks up one of Ema’s drawings — a lopsided cake covered in what appears to be an army of sprinkles. “Besides, how hard can it be to make a four-year-old happy?”

Hokuto looks up, exhaustion warring with hesitation in his eyes. “Are you sure? I don’t want to impose—”

“I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t sure.” The words come out gruffer than intended, but they’re honest. Maybe that’s enough truth for one night.

A small smile tugs at the corner of Hokuto’s mouth. “Thank you, Kyomoto.” He slides a notebook toward Taiga, its pages filled with half-formed ideas and crossed-out notes. “I could really use the help.”

🏠

“Tiger-san, look!” Ema bounces on her toes, pointing at the banner Juri designed. Watercolor bunnies dance across the paper in soft pastels, their ears forming the letters of her name. “They’re just like Mr. Bunny!”

Taiga nods, his gaze sweeping across the transformed classroom. Juri’s artwork covers every surface — bunnies reading books, bunnies playing games, even bunnies wearing party hats. The effect is overwhelming, but Ema’s delight makes the three hours he spent hanging decorations worth it.

A cluster of parents huddle near the potluck table, stealing glances at him between bites of various homemade dishes. He catches fragments of whispered conversation: “... Matsumura-san’s friend...” and “...so nice to help...”

Yugo’s cake commands attention at the center of the spread — three tiers of vanilla sponge decorated with fondant rabbits that look almost too cute to eat. When Taiga had asked for a favor, he hadn’t expected Yugo to go all out like this.

“Alright, everyone!” Shintaro claps his hands, drawing the children’s attention. “Who wants to play Pin the Tail on the Bunny?”

A chorus of excited squeals fills the air as kids scramble to form a line. Ema stands at the front, practically vibrating with anticipation, her party dress swishing around her knees.

Taiga edges toward the relative safety of the gift table. The pile of presents has grown steadily all morning — wrapped boxes and gift bags in various sizes, each tagged with names he barely recognizes. His own gift sits among them, wrapped in simple silver paper.

He’d agonized over what to get her. What do you buy for a kid who’s temporarily living in your house? Who’s slowly turning your carefully ordered life into chaos with her stuffed animals and crayon drawings?

“The decorations turned out beautifully.”

Taiga startles at Hokuto’s voice beside him. He’s wearing the blue sweater they picked out at the thrift store, the one that makes his eyes look warmer somehow.

“Juri outdid himself,” Taiga says, focusing on a particularly energetic bunny illustration. “Though I think he got carried away with the theme.”

“Ema loves it.” Hokuto’s smile carries a hint of something deeper — gratitude maybe, or relief. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”

The sincerity in his voice makes Taiga’s skin prickle. He shrugs, aiming for casual. “It’s just party planning.”

“It’s more than that.” Hokuto pauses, watching Ema get spun around by Shintaro, giggling as she tries to walk straight. “After the fire, I wasn’t sure how to give her a normal birthday. But you...”

A shriek of laughter saves him from responding. Ema has pinned the tail on the bunny’s ear instead of its proper place, sending her classmates into fits of giggles. Her smile could power the whole building.

“Tiger-san!” She waves frantically. “Come play!”

“I don’t—” Taiga starts, but she’s already running over to grab his hand.

“Please?” She looks up at him with those big brown eyes, the same ones her father uses when he wants Taiga to try his cooking. “It’s my birthday.”

Damn it .

“Fine,” he sighs, letting her pull him toward the game. “One round.”

He catches Hokuto hiding a laugh behind his hand and shoots him a glare that holds no real heat. The things he does for this kid...

The blindfold slips over his eyes, and small hands spin him around. The world becomes a dizzy blur of darkness and children’s laughter. He takes a stumbling step forward, clutching the paper tail like a lifeline.

This is ridiculous, he thinks as he waves his hand in the air, trying to find the target. I’m a grown man playing party games at a preschool.

But Ema’s giggling guidance — “Left! No, other left!” — makes it hard to maintain his dignity. Or his irritation.

When he finally pins the tail (somewhere near the bunny’s nose, judging by the renewed laughter), tiny arms wrap around his leg in a quick hug.

“Thank you for playing,” Ema whispers, and something in Taiga’s chest cracks just a little more.

Juri pulls him aside with a grimace that makes Taiga’s stomach clench. “Bad news. My friend just called — he’s got food poisoning. No magician for the party.”

Shit. Taiga glances at Ema, who’s been telling anyone who’ll listen about the upcoming magic show. Her eyes shine with excitement as she chatters to her friend Yuki about rabbits appearing from hats.

“Give me a minute.” He grabs Hokuto’s sleeve, nodding toward Yugo. They huddle near the gift table, away from curious eyes. “The magician canceled. Anyone know someone who could fill in?”

Yugo shakes his head. “Most entertainers book weeks in advance for birthday parties.”

“I could do some card tricks,” Juri offers weakly.

“You can barely shuffle without dropping the deck.” Taiga runs a hand through his hair, his mind racing. Twenty preschoolers expecting magic, and all they have is Juri’s clumsy hands.

Hokuto shifts beside him, worry creasing his forehead. “Maybe we could plan another activity instead?”

“No, she’s been talking about magic all week.” The words come out sharper than intended. Taiga softens his tone at Hokuto’s flinch. “Sorry, I just... she deserves the party she wanted.”

His phone feels heavy in his pocket. There’s one person who might help — someone who literally performs for a living.

But calling Jesse means explaining why he's at a preschool birthday party on a Saturday. Why he cares so much about making a little girl happy.

Fuck it.

He steps away from the group, hitting Jesse’s number before he can second-guess himself.

The phone rings twice before Jesse’s cheerful voice fills his ear.

“Taiga! I was just thinking about—”

“Are you free right now?” Taiga cuts in, keeping his voice low. “I need a favor. A big one.”

“For you? Always.” The flirty tone makes Taiga’s cheeks warm. “What’s up?”

“There’s this birthday party, and the entertainment canceled last minute. Any chance you could...” He trails off, realizing how ridiculous this request sounds. “Never mind, it’s stupid—”

“What kind of party? What do you need?”

“It’s at a preschool. Birthday of a five-year-old. They were expecting a magician.”

Jesse’s laugh rings through the speaker. “This is Ema-chan, right? Lucky for you, I did a stint as a children’s entertainer in college. Still remember most of my tricks. Text me the address?”

Relief floods Taiga’s chest. “Really? You’d do that?”

“Of course! Can’t let down a bunch of kids, right? Plus, I get to see you.”

Taiga types out the preschool’s address, adding a quick thank you. When he returns to the group, their expectant faces make him straighten his shoulders.

“I found someone,” he says, trying to sound more confident than he feels. “He’ll be here soon.”

“Who?” Hokuto asks, but Ema’s voice rings out before Taiga can answer.

“Tiger-san! Come see what Yuki-chan drew!”

He catches Hokuto’s questioning look as he moves away. Later, he mouths, though his stomach churns at the thought of explaining Jesse’s presence.

But why should he even feel uneasy? Hokuto knows they’re dating.

The thought nags at him as he kneels beside Ema's chair, admiring her friend’s crayon masterpiece. He’s not ashamed of dating Jesse. He’s not hiding anything.

It’s just … complicated.

Twenty minutes later, his phone buzzes — Jesse saying he’s five minutes away. Taiga shoots a quick reply before shoving the phone back in his pocket to meet Jesse outside.

No time for his intrusive thoughts. Right now, Ema needs her magic show, and Jesse’s their best shot at salvaging this part of her birthday.

The familiar sleek black car pulls up to the preschool gates, and Taiga’s stomach does an odd flip. Jesse steps out wearing what appears to be a hasty attempt at a magician’s costume — a sparkly purple jacket that clashes spectacularly with red pants and a crooked bow tie that might have been stolen from a clown.

What the actual fuck is he wearing?

“Like it?” Jesse grins, spreading his arms wide. “Found these in my costume trunk. Thought the kids might appreciate some flair.”

Taiga opens his mouth to comment on Jesse’s fashion choices but thinks better of it. “Thanks for coming on such short notice.”

“Anything for you.” Jesse reaches for his hand, interlacing their fingers with practiced ease. His palm is warm against Taiga’s, and something twists in Taiga’s chest — guilt? Anxiety? He can’t quite name it.

They walk toward the classroom, Jesse humming what sounds suspiciously like the theme from a children’s show. At the door, he stops, adjusting his bow tie with his free hand.

“Wait here,” Jesse whispers, releasing Taiga’s hand. “Every good magician needs a dramatic entrance.”

Taiga leans against the wall, watching Jesse compose himself. The transformation is subtle but fascinating — shoulders pulling back, chin lifting, that camera-ready smile sliding into place. This is Jesse the performer, the one who charms millions through TV screens.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Jesse’s voice booms as he sweeps into the classroom. “And most importantly, birthday princesses and their royal guests!”

The reaction is immediate. Gasps ripple through the room, followed by excited whispers. “It’s Jesse!” “From the Tuesday drama!” “Mom, look!”

A parent drops their phone. Another frantically smooths their hair. Yuki’s mother looks like she’s about to faint. Even Shintaro’s professional composure cracks as his jaw drops slightly.

Taiga hangs back in the doorway, watching Jesse work his magic before even pulling out a single trick. The man moves through the room like sunlight, touching each person with his warmth. Kids gravitate toward him, drawn by his theatrical gestures and playful winks.

He’s good, Taiga thinks. Too good.

Jesse pulls a string of colorful handkerchiefs from his sleeve, and the children squeal in delight. Each trick grows more elaborate than the last — coins appearing behind ears, cards dancing through the air, even a dove that seems to materialize from nowhere. The bird perches on Ema’s shoulder for a moment, and her eyes grow wide with wonder.

He’s saving this party, Taiga thinks, relief loosening the knot in his chest. She’ll remember this forever.

“You didn’t have to call him.”

Hokuto’s voice startles him. When did he get so close?

Taiga forces his gaze to stay on Jesse, who’s now showing the kids a simple coin trick.

“The magician canceled,” Taiga says, as if that explains everything. As if calling his boyfriend to perform at a preschool party is perfectly normal.

“I mean...” Hokuto’s voice softens. “You didn’t have to do any of this. The decorations, coordinating with Yugo for the cake, staying up late to wrap the gift table in that sparkly cloth...”

Heat creeps up Taiga’s neck. He hadn’t realized Hokuto noticed all those details.

“I just—” The words stick in his throat. He swallows hard. “I’ve gotten attached to her.”

The admission feels like stepping off a cliff. He risks a glance at Hokuto and immediately regrets it. There’s moisture gathering in the corners of Hokuto’s eyes, and fuck, this is exactly what Taiga was trying to avoid.

“Matsumura-san!” Shintaro waves from across the room. “We’re ready for the cake!”

“Time for the birthday song!” Jesse announces, clapping his hands. “Birthday girl to the center, please!”

Thank god. Taiga’s never been more grateful for an interruption.

Hokuto blinks rapidly, composing himself. “Could you... would you mind taking a video?”

“Sure.” Taiga accepts Hokuto’s phone, their fingers brushing for a fraction of a second. “Go. I’ve got this.”

He watches through the phone screen as Hokuto joins Ema by the cake. The video feels safer somehow — like watching a movie instead of his life spinning further out of control.

Through Hokuto’s phone screen, Taiga frames the perfect shot: Ema beaming at the center of a circle of children, the cake’s five candles casting a warm glow across her face.

“Happy birthday to you...” The song starts tentatively, voices out of sync until Jesse’s theatrical baritone guides them into harmony. Taiga keeps the camera steady, trying not to focus on how Jesse’s showmanship extends even to something as simple as a birthday song.

Hokuto crouches beside Ema, and Taiga’s breath catches. The father's eyes shine with unshed tears, but his smile — god, his smile could light up the whole room. Pride and love radiate from him as he watches his daughter, who bounces slightly with each line of the song.

Taiga’s finger hovers over the record button, suddenly uncertain whether he should be capturing such an intimate moment. But then Hokuto glances at the camera, that same warm smile directed at him for a heartbeat, and Taiga’s chest tightens.

“Make a wish, sweetheart,” Hokuto whispers when the song ends.

Ema screws her eyes shut, hands clasped together like she’s praying. The room holds its breath. Then she leans forward, cheeks puffed out, and blows out all five candles in one determined gust.

The children erupt in cheers. Taiga stops recording, but his eyes linger on the scene before him. Hokuto wraps an arm around Ema’s shoulders, pressing a kiss to her temple. She turns into the embrace, whispering something that makes Hokuto laugh softly.

They’ve invaded every corner of my life, Taiga thinks, watching father and daughter share their private moment amidst the chaos of the party. His perfectly ordered space, his carefully maintained distance — all of it crumbling against the warmth they bring.

And the scariest part?

He’s starting not to mind.

🏠

The bitter scent of coffee fills Hokuto’s nose as he stirs his cup, watching the dark liquid swirl. His phone feels heavy in his other hand, the rental app’s interface mocking him with its cheerful colors and listings that don’t match his criteria.

Too expensive. Too far from First Steps.

He taps through the filters, adjusting his criteria. The monthly budget slider makes him wince. Even with his savings and insurance money from the fire, Tokyo’s housing market remains merciless.

The break room’s fluorescent lights hum overhead, matching the quiet buzz of anxiety in his chest. Two weeks have passed since Ema’s birthday party, and they’re still imposing on Taiga’s hospitality.

Hokuto takes a sip of coffee, grimacing at both the temperature and his situation. He opens his messages, scrolling to his conversation with Minagawa’s wife. Her last update was three days ago—another dead end, a perfect house already snatched up by another family.

His thumb hovers over the keyboard, considering whether to check in again, but he doesn’t want to seem desperate. Though that’s precisely what I am.

The coffee scalds his tongue, but he barely notices. The rental app’s refresh button tempts him.

One more try. Maybe something new has been listed in the last hour.

He adjusts the filters again, removing the “distance from workplace” requirement. He can handle a longer commute.

The loading circle spins.

Zero results.

Hokuto leans against the counter, his shoulders slumping. The office beyond the break room carries on with its usual afternoon rhythm—keyboard clicks, distant laughter from the customer service department, Chaka's voice rising above the general murmur. Normal sounds that make his current situation feel anything but.

He opens the photos on his phone, scrolling to pictures from Ema’s party. His daughter beams at the camera, frosting on her cheek, Taiga visible in the background arranging presents.

The sight makes his chest tight.

We can’t stay forever. It’s not fair to him.

Hokuto adjusts another filter, expanding the search radius. The listings populate: tiny apartments far from Ema’s preschool, run-down buildings that would need extensive repairs, places well beyond their means. He scrolls faster, each swipe of his thumb more frustrated than the last.

The break room door opens, and Hokuto quickly locks his phone, straightening up. He takes another sip of coffee, pretending to be casual, though the liquid has cooled to an unpleasant temperature.

Hokuto’s breath catches as Taiga and Jesse walk in, their fingers loosely intertwined. Taiga’s eyes meet his for a moment, offering a small smile that feels more like an apology. Hokuto focuses on his coffee cup, the ceramic suddenly fascinating.

“Matsumura-san!” Jesse’s enthusiasm fills the break room. “How’s our birthday girl doing? Has she worn out that magic kit yet?”

Hokuto manages a polite smile, grateful for the easy topic. “She practices every night. Thank you again for stepping in as the magician. The party wouldn’t have been the same without you.”

“Are you kidding? It was my pleasure! Those kids were the best audience I’ve had in ages.” Jesse’s warm is laugh and genuine. He leans against the counter while Taiga makes his way to the coffee machine.

Hokuto unlocks his phone, pretending to check messages while Jesse chatters about his upcoming commercial shoot. The rental app’s tab still mocks him from the browser.

“The concept is pretty fun,” Jesse says, reaching for Taiga’s hand as soon as he returns with his coffee. “They want me to interact with all the smart home features, like I’m living in this perfectly automated paradise.”

Taiga’s smile is different when he looks at Jesse—lighter somehow, with none of the careful distance he usually maintains. “Just don’t break anything during filming. Those prototypes are expensive.”

“Have some faith in me!” Jesse pouts, and Taiga rolls his eyes, but there’s fondness in the gesture.

Hokuto’s throat tightens as he watches them, an odd ache settling in his stomach. The way Jesse’s thumb traces circles on Taiga’s palm reminds him of early mornings with Rui, how she’d grip her coffee mug with both hands, shy about showing affection. How long it took them to feel comfortable with casual touches, stolen moments when they were still dating.

“Earth to Matsumura-san?” Jesse’s voice breaks through his thoughts. “You okay there? You looked a million miles away.”

“Ah, sorry.” Hokuto forces his attention back to the present, away from memories of Rui’s tentative fingers brushing against his in crowded train cars. “Just thinking about work deadlines.”

The lie tastes bitter, like his cold coffee. He catches Taiga watching him with an unreadable expression, and something twists in his chest—guilt, maybe, for taking up space in Taiga’s life when he clearly has his own happiness to pursue.

Jesse swings their joined hands slightly as he talks about the commercial’s storyboard. Taiga listens with that same soft smile, and Hokuto finds himself staring at his phone again, refreshing the rental listings compulsively.

We need to move out soon, he thinks, throat tight. Before we overstay our welcome even more.

“I should get back to work.” Hokuto tosses his half-empty cup to the trash bin, wincing as he remembers he should have washed the liquid down the sink first. “The latest update needs testing before—”

His phone vibrates from his pocket. A message from Satomi.

Hokuto’s fingers grow numb as he reads the text.

About Saturday—what time should we expect you and Ema-chan for the anniversary?

The break room door clicks shut behind him. His legs carry him forward on autopilot, but the familiar corridor stretches like a tunnel, the fluorescent lights too harsh. Too similar to that night.

The memory hits with brutal clarity: antiseptic smell burning his nose, machines beeping in irregular rhythms, Rui's fingers cold in his grasp. Her last words, barely a whisper—Take care of our princess.

Hokuto’s back hits the wall. He steadies himself, grateful that this part of the office remains empty at this hour. His thumb hovers over the phone screen, vision blurring.

Has it really been a year? The pain feels raw, like yesterday’s wound. He remembers standing in that sterile hospital room, watching the doctors rush in, their voices urgent but distant. The way time seemed to stop when they called it, how he couldn’t process their words through the static in his head.

Take care of our princess.

He’d promised. And now here he is, unable to provide a stable home, living off someone else’s kindness. What would Rui think of him?

The phone buzzes again. Another message from Satomi.

We bought Ema-chan’s favorite mochi.

Hokuto's chest constricts. He should reply. Should thank her for remembering, for keeping Rui's memory alive for Ema.

His fingers shake as he types.

We’ll be there by 10. Thank you for...

He deletes the words. Starts over.

10 works perfect. Ema will…

Delete.

We’ll be there by 10.

Send.

The message feels inadequate, like everything else lately. Hokuto pushes off the wall, forcing his legs to move. Three steps to his desk. Two. One.

The familiar sight of his monitor grounds him somewhat—lines of code waiting for review, sticky notes with Ema’s drawings stuck to the edge.

He sits, hands flat on the desk to stop their trembling. On his screen, a photo of Ema and Rui serves as his wallpaper—taken at the park near their old apartment, both smiling at the camera. Rui’s arms wrapped protectively around their daughter, her eyes bright with life and love.

The code blurs before him. Hokuto blinks rapidly, reaching for his keyboard. Work. He needs to focus on work. The update won’t test itself, and he can’t afford to fall behind. Not when they need to find a new place.

Not when Ema depends on him.

🏠

Snow crunches under Hokuto’s boots as he lifts Ema from the taxi. His daughter's cheeks are flushed from the cold, her breath forming tiny clouds in the frigid air. The familiar sight of the Hatano family home looms before them, its traditional architecture a stark contrast to Taiga’s modern house.

Rui loved this place, he thinks, adjusting Ema’s pink winter coat. The memory of her here feels sharper somehow, clearer against the pristine white backdrop. She used to say the snow made everything look magical, like they’d stepped into another world.

“Thank you,” Hokuto says to the driver, who’s already hauling their overnight bag and Ema’s folded stroller from the trunk. The leather handle feels cold in his grip as he takes it.

Ema bounces on her feet, clearly excited despite the early hour. “Grandpa and Grandma’s house! Can we make snow bunnies later?”

“We’ll see, princess.” Hokuto wheels their luggage through the garden path, careful not to slip on the freshly fallen snow.

The familiar stone lanterns peek out from white caps, standing sentinel like they always have. How many times had he walked this path with Rui? Her hand in his, planning their future, dreaming of bringing their children here?

The doorbell chimes echo inside. Hokuto’s chest tightens as footsteps approach. He forces his breathing to steady, preparing for the wave of memories that always comes with these visits.

Satomi opens the door, and her warm smile hits Hokuto like a physical force. She looks so much like Rui in certain angles—the same gentle eyes, the same way of tilting her head slightly when she’s happy.

“Grandma!” Ema launches herself forward for a hug, nearly slipping on the icy step. Hokuto’s heart jumps, but Satomi catches her with practiced ease.

“Careful there, sweetheart,” Satomi says, pulling Ema close. Her eyes meet Hokuto’s over their daughter’s head, and he sees his own grief reflected there, muted by time but never quite gone. “Come in, come in. It’s freezing out here.”

The house smells like fresh tea and mochi, exactly as it always has. Hokuto’s throat constricts as he removes his shoes, noting how the familiar wooden floor still creaks in the same spots.

Hokuto follows Satomi and Ema into the living room, where his steps falter. There, in the corner, sits Rui’s altar. Fresh flowers—white chrysanthemums—frame her smiling photo. His chest tightens at the sight of her captured joy, the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she laughed.

Incense smoke curls upward in delicate wisps. Satomi must have lit it recently. The familiar scent of sandalwood wraps around him like an embrace.

“Papa?” Ema tugs at his sleeve, her brown eyes—so like Rui’s—wide with curiosity. “What are you looking at?”

Hokuto kneels beside her, his hand gentle on her shoulder. “I’m going to talk to Mama for a bit. Would you like to join me?”

Ema peers at the altar, her head tilting. “But Mama’s not here.”

“She is, in a way.” The words catch in his throat. How do you explain death to a child who barely remembers her mother? “This is where we can send our thoughts to her. Like sending a letter, but with our hearts instead of paper.”

“Can she write back?”

God, this hurts. Hokuto swallows hard. “Not exactly, princess. But she can hear us.”

He guides Ema to the altar, showing her how to light the incense. Her small hands tremble slightly as she holds the stick, and he steadies them with his own. Together, they place it in the holder, watching the smoke dance upward.

“Now we bow, like this.” He demonstrates, and Ema copies him with solemn concentration. “You can talk to her if you’d like.”

“Hi, Mama,” Ema says, her voice soft but clear. “Papa says you can hear me. Can you say something back?”

Hokuto’s heart splinters. He watches Ema lean forward, clearly straining to hear a response that will never come.

“I don’t hear anything,” she whispers, disappointment clouding her features. “Maybe she’s sleeping?”

A tear escapes before Hokuto can stop it. He quickly wipes it away, but not before Ema notices.

“Papa, why are you crying? Did Mama make you sad?”

“No, princess.” He pulls her close, breathing in the familiar scent of her strawberry shampoo. “Sometimes people cry when they miss someone very much. Like how you sometimes cry when you miss Mr. Bunny if you forget him at preschool.”

“But Mr. Bunny always comes back.” Ema’s brow furrows in thought. “Will Mama come back too?”

The sound of ceramic cups clinking against a tray saves Hokuto from having to explain the permanence of death to his five-year-old. His mother-in-law sweeps into the room, bearing a laden tray that steams in the cool air.

“Hot chocolate for my little princess,” Satomi announces, and Ema’s attention immediately shifts.

Thank god for small mercies, Hokuto thinks, watching his daughter bounce toward the kotatsu.

“Is that my favorite granddaughter I hear?” Toshiyuki’s deep voice booms from the hallway. He appears in his usual cardigan, arms spread wide.

“Grandpa!” Ema launches herself at him with the same enthusiasm she showed Satomi.

The sight squeezes Hokuto’s heart—this is what Rui would have wanted, their daughter surrounded by love.

Hokuto settles under the kotatsu’s warmth, accepting a cup of green tea from Satomi. The familiar weight of it grounds him, even as his in-laws’ concerned gazes prickle against his skin.

“How is work going?” Toshiyuki asks, still holding Ema on his lap. “The app development field must be demanding.”

“It’s manageable.” Hokuto wraps his fingers around the warm cup. “We’re launching a new feature next month, so there’s plenty to do.”

Satomi places a plate of freshly cut mochi before them. “And your living arrangement? Have you found a more permanent arrangement?”

Here we go. Hokuto takes a careful sip of tea. “We’re comfortable where we are for now.”

“With your coworker?” Satomi’s voice carries that gentle worry he’s come to know well. “It’s very kind of him to help, but surely it's not ideal for Ema-chan.”

The tea tastes bitter on his tongue. “Kyomoto has been generous, and Ema’s adjusted well.”

“We’ve been thinking,” Satomi continues, exchanging a look with her husband. “Perhaps it would be easier if Ema-chan stayed with us for a while. Just until you find proper housing. You could focus on work, visit on weekends—”

“Thank you,” Hokuto cuts in, keeping his voice soft but firm. “But we’re managing fine.”

“Are you really?” Satomi reaches across the table, her hand warm on his. “Rui would want you to accept help when you need it.”

Don’t. His chest constricts. They always do this—invoke Rui’s name like a gentle weapon. “I appreciate your concern, but Ema needs stability right now. Moving her between homes would only confuse her.”

“Papa makes good breakfast,” Ema pipes up, chocolate mustache adorning her upper lip. “And Tiger-san has a robot that cleans!”

Toshiyuki’s eyebrows rise. “Tiger-san?”

“Kyomoto. Ema calls her Tiger-san,” Hokuto corrects, though something warm flutters in his chest at Ema’s nickname for his host. “He’s very kind to us.”

“Still,” Satomi persists, “you shouldn’t have to rely on a stranger’s kindness. We’re family.”

The word family hits like a physical blow. Hokuto stares into his tea, seeing Rui’s reflection on its surface. “I know you want to help. But I’m her father. I need to do this.”

I need to prove I can do this, he doesn’t say. I need to show her I'm strong enough to carry on what we started together.

“At least consider it,” Toshiyuki says, his voice gentler than his wife’s. “The offer stands.”

Hokuto nods, though they all know he won’t take it. He’s made his choice—he’ll keep Ema close, maintain the tiny family unit they have left.

Even if it means living in someone else’s house, even if it means working twice as hard.

🏠

The wooden steps creak under Hokuto’s feet as he climbs to the second floor. Each sound echoes through the quiet hallway, a familiar rhythm from his visits years ago.

He pauses at the landing, his gaze drawn to the closed door of Rui’s old room. The nameplate she made in high school still hangs there—purple flowers hand-painted around her name in careful strokes.

Hokuto forces himself to look away. Not today.

He slides open the guest room door instead, letting Ema’s cheerful singing from downstairs wash over him. She’s probably perched on the kitchen counter, “helping” Satomi cook lunch in the way five-year-olds do—more mess than assistance.

The overnight bag sits where they left it this morning. Hokuto unzips the main compartment, pushing aside Ema’s colorful clothes to find her black dress. The fabric feels too heavy in his hands, wrong for a child so full of life.

But where is his suit? He digs deeper, methodically removing each item. T-shirts, pants, Ema’s favorite pajamas with the bunny print. No garment bag. No mourning suit.

Think. He sat on the bed last night, making a mental checklist. Toothbrushes, check. Ema’s special shampoo, check. The suit—

The suit in its protective bag, hanging on the back of Taiga’s guest room door.

His stomach drops. The image is crystal clear: the black garment bag swaying slightly in the air conditioning, forgotten in his rush to pack everything else. Or worse—did he even bring it from the train station? The last few days blur together, a haze of work deadlines and trying to maintain normalcy for Ema.

“Papa!” Ema’s voice floats up from below. “Grandma’s making curry!”

“Coming, princess!” he calls back, but his mind races. The memorial service is in five hours. He can’t attend in regular clothes—it would dishonor Rui’s memory, disappoint her parents.

Downstairs, pots clatter and Ema giggles. The sound tethers him, keeps him from spiraling completely. He needs to solve this practically. Maybe he could borrow something from Toshiyuki? But his father-in-law is shorter, broader in the shoulders.

His phone feels heavy in his pocket. He could call Taiga, ask him to check if the suit is still hanging in the guest room. But that would mean admitting he can’t even manage to pack properly for his wife’s memorial service. That he’s exactly as helpless as Satomi thinks he is.

Hokuto’s phone buzzes in his pocket, startling him from his spiraling thoughts. A message from Taiga.

His heart stutters when he sees the photo: his black garment bag lying across Taiga’s pristine couch, the fabric catching the afternoon light. The sight feels surreal, like a lifeline thrown across the distance between Tokyo and Niigata.

Found this on the couch. Is this important?

Hokuto’s fingers hover over the screen. It’s my mourning suit. I need it for Rui’s memorial service today. He pauses, then adds: Don’t worry, I’ll get a new one here. Could you please keep it in the guest room until we return?

The typing bubbles appear immediately. Hokuto watches them dance across his screen, his stomach knotting. He should start looking up nearby shops. Maybe there’s a rental place nearby—

What’s your in-laws’ address?

The question throws him. Why?

Just booked a bullet train ticket. I’ll bring the suit to you.

“What?” Hokuto whispers out loud.

His phone buzzes again with another message.

Send me the address.

Kyomoto, you don’t have to do this, Hokuto types quickly. It’s a two-hour trip.

Already bought the tickets. Address?

Heat pricks behind Hokuto’s eyes. The idea of Taiga dropping everything to bring him a forgotten suit feels overwhelming. Too much. He doesn’t deserve this kind of consideration.

It’s just a suit, he writes. Please don’t waste your day off.

Stop being stubborn. Address. Now.

Hokuto leans against the wall, sliding down until he sits on the floor. His chest feels tight.

Seriously, he types, I can handle this.

Sure you can. But I already booked a ticket.

Downstairs, a timer dings and Ema cheers about curry. The everyday sounds feel distant, muffled by the thunder of his pulse.

Fine, he types, then adds the address. But I’m paying you back for the ticket.

Whatever helps you sleep at night. See you in two hours.

Hokuto stares at the screen until it dims. The enormity of what Taiga’s doing—spending two hours just to deliver a suit—makes his hands shake.

It’s too much kindness. Too much care.

The weight of it settles in his chest, heavy and warm and terrifying.

🏠

Snow drifts down in heavy flakes, catching in Hokuto’s eyelashes as he waits outside the Hatano family home. His breath fogs in the cold air, each exhale carrying the weight of his embarrassment. The garment bag shouldn’t matter this much—it’s just fabric and thread—but the thought of Taiga traveling through this weather just to deliver it makes his chest ache.

A taxi’s headlights cut through the curtain of white, and Hokuto’s heart stumbles. The vehicle stops, and Taiga emerges, black garment bag draped carefully over one arm. Snow immediately dots his dark hair.

“I’m so sorry,” Hokuto starts, the words tumbling out before Taiga fully reaches him. “You didn’t have to—”

“It’s fine.” Taiga won’t meet his eyes, brushing snow from his shoulders. “Needed to get out of the house anyway.”

Something in Taiga’s tone makes Hokuto pause. There’s an edge there, sharp and raw, that he’s never heard before.

He opens his mouth to ask, but Satomi’s voice cuts through the silence.

“Oh my goodness, you must be freezing!” His mother-in-law appears in the doorway, her familiar worried frown deepening the lines around her mouth. “Hokuto, don’t keep him standing in the snow! Where are your manners?”

Heat floods Hokuto’s cheeks. “Sorry, please come in—”

“It’s no trouble,” Taiga murmurs, but allows himself to be ushered inside.

“Let me take your coat,” Satomi insists, already reaching for the buttons. “You’re soaked through!”

Taiga hesitates, then slowly unbuttons his coat. Hokuto’s breath catches.

Beneath the wet wool, Taiga wears a perfectly pressed black suit, the kind appropriate for a memorial service.

The realization hits like a physical blow—Taiga didn’t just come to deliver the suit. He came prepared to stay.

He watches as Taiga carefully hands over his coat, movements precise and controlled. There’s something vulnerable about him now, standing in their entryway at his funeral best, snow melting in his hair.

Hokuto’s heart races as he watches Satomi fuss over Taiga, her maternal instincts kicking in as naturally as breathing.

“I’m Hatano Satomi,” she says, leading them toward the living room. “We’ve heard so much about you from Ema-chan.”

The living room glows with afternoon light filtered through snow-laden windows. Toshiyuki sits in his favorite armchair, Ema perched on his knee as he reads from a worn picture book.

“Tiger-san!” Ema’s squeal pierces through the room. She launches herself from her grandfather’s lap, racing across the room to wrap herself around Taiga’s leg like a determined koala.

Hokuto watches the easy way Taiga steadies her, his hand automatically finding her shoulder. “Uh, hi,” he says, gulping.

Toshiyuki rises, his eyes crinkling with amusement. “So this is the famous Tiger-san.” He bows slightly. “I’m Hatano Toshiyuki. Thank you for taking care of our Hokuto and Ema-chan. Please”—He gestures toward the family altar—“we’d like you to meet our Rui.”

Taiga approaches the altar with visible uncertainty, his shoulders tense beneath his black suit. He kneels then bows deeply, and Hokuto notices his hands trembling slightly as he lights the incense. The smoke curls upward, carrying with it an ache Hokuto can’t quite name.

“What are you telling Mama?” Ema’s small voice breaks the reverent silence. She peers up at Taiga, her eyes wide with curiosity.

Hokuto feels the air leave his lungs. He watches Taiga freeze, caught between the innocence of Ema’s question and the weight of everything unsaid.

“Just saying hi.” Taiga’s voice cracks slightly as he answers Ema. His fingers twitch, and Hokuto recognizes the gesture—it’s the same nervous tic he displays during difficult meetings at work.

“Hokuto, dear.” Satomi’s gentle command breaks through his observation. “Go upstairs and change. The guests will arrive soon.” She turns to Taiga with the same warmth she shows everyone who enters their home. “Would you like some tea?”

“That would be lovely, thank you.”

Hokuto lingers, caught between the familiar routine of his in-laws’ home and the surreal sight of Taiga standing before Rui’s altar. The incense smoke continues to drift upward.

“Tiger-san!” Ema grabs Taiga’s hand, tugging with the determined strength only a child can muster. “Grandpa was reading about a brave bunny who got lost in the forest!”

She pulls him toward the low table, and Hokuto watches Taiga stumble slightly, his usual grace abandoned in the face of Ema’s enthusiasm.

The sight of them together—Taiga in his somber suit, Ema in her play clothes—creates an ache in Hokuto’s chest he can’t quite understand. He remembers countless moments like this in their temporary home: Ema dragging Taiga into her world of imagination, Taiga’s awkward attempts to participate.

“Hokuto.” His mother-in-law’s voice carries a hint of steel now. He recognizes the tone—it’s the same one she used when Rui would get lost in a book and forget about dinner.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, forcing himself to turn away.

His feet feel heavy as he climbs the stairs. He can hear Ema’s excited voice floating up, explaining the bunny’s adventure with the kind of detailed enthusiasm only she can manage.

At the top of the stairs, he pauses. Taiga’s response drifts up, soft and uncertain: “That’s quite an adventure for a small bunny.”

His fingers brush the wooden banister, worn smooth by years of touch. How many times had Rui run her hand along this same spot? How many times had she climbed these stairs, unaware that her time with them would be so brief?

“And then the bunny found a magical flower!” Ema’s voice carries clearly now, followed by the gentle clink of teacups.

Hokuto forces himself to move, to focus on the task at hand. He reaches the guest room and closes gently. The garment bag rustles as he unzips it, revealing his mourning suit, the fabric cool under his fingers.

Through the floor, he can hear the low murmur of adult conversation mixing with Ema’s animated storytelling. The sounds blend together, creating a strange new harmony in this house full of memories.

🏠

The front door clicks shut behind them. Hokuto rubs his temples, the weight of the day settling into his bones. His mother-in-law’s hand brushes his arm, a gesture so familiar it makes his chest ache.

“I’ll help Toshiyuki with the dishes,” Satomi whispers, her voice gentle in the dim hallway.

Hokuto nods, grateful for the moment to collect himself.

The sound of clinking glasses drifts from the kitchen where Toshiyuki works. The house feels different now—emptier without the murmur of conversation and the rustle of dark fabric.

He steps into the living room and stops. Taiga sits by the engawa, tie loosened and collar undone. Ema’s head rests in his lap, her small body curled like a comma. Her face is peaceful, one hand clutching the edge of Taiga’s suit jacket.

“She fell asleep a few minutes ago,” Taiga whispers, his usual confidence replaced by something softer, more uncertain. “I didn’t want to move and wake her.”

Hokuto’s throat tightens at the sight. He kneels beside them, his hand automatically finding Ema’s small stomach.

The motion is muscle memory—circular, rhythmic pats that Rui had discovered during those early sleepless nights.

“Look,” Rui had whispered, her face glowing with triumph as baby Ema finally settled. “She likes it when you pat her tummy like this. Like a tiny drum.”

The memory hits him with unexpected force. His hand continues the familiar motion, and he watches Ema’s breathing deepen, her fingers loosening their grip on Taiga’s jacket.

“Thank you,” Hokuto manages, his voice barely audible. “For watching her. For coming all this way with the suit. For—”

He stops, overwhelmed by the list of things he should thank Taiga for.

“It’s nothing,” Taiga mumbles, his eyes fixed on Ema’s sleeping face. His hand hovers uncertainly near her shoulder, as if he’s afraid to complete the gesture.

Hokuto continues the gentle patting, each circle a beat in the quiet room. Pat, pat, pat. Like a metronome marking time, like the steady rhythm of days passing, like Rui’s heartbeat that stopped too soon.

The streetlight outside casts long shadows across the floor, and somewhere in the kitchen, Satomi laughs softly at something Toshiyuki says. The familiar sounds of his in-laws’ home blend with the unfamiliar presence of Taiga, creating something that makes Hokuto’s chest feel too tight.

“I should go,” Taiga whispers, breaking the silence. His fingers twitch near Ema’s shoulder. “Wouldn’t want to miss the last train back to Tokyo.”

Hokuto’s hand stills on Ema’s stomach. The thought of Taiga leaving creates an unexpected hollow sensation in his chest.

Before he can respond, soft footsteps approach from behind.

“Nonsense,” Satomi says, her tone gentle but firm. “You’ll stay the night and head back with Hokuto and Ema-chan tomorrow.”

Hokuto watches Taiga’s face tighten with discomfort. “I appreciate the offer, Satomi-san, but I’ve already imposed enough today. Besides, I don’t have—”

“Clothes?” Satomi finishes, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “Hokuto has some things upstairs in Rui’s room. I’ll fetch them for you.”

“Really, I couldn’t—”

But Satomi is already heading toward the stairs.

Hokuto recognizes that determined set of her shoulders. It’s the same stance she took when insisting on helping with Ema after Rui passed, when she showed up at their apartment with containers of food and gentle, unwavering support. Taiga must sense it too, because his protests die on his lips.

The silence stretches between them again, broken only by Ema’s soft breathing and the distant sound of Satomi opening drawers upstairs. Hokuto’s hand resumes its gentle patting, more to ground himself than to soothe Ema now. The familiarity of the motion helps steady the swirl of emotions in his chest—gratitude for Taiga’s presence, grief that still catches him off guard, and something else he can’t quite name.

“Your mother-in-law is...” Taiga trails off, searching for the right word.

“Impossible to argue with?” Hokuto offers, a small smile tugging at his lips. “She gets that from Rui’s grandmother. They say it runs in the family.”

Ran in the family, his mind corrects, and the smile falters. He focuses on Ema’s peaceful face, on the way her fingers have completely released Taiga’s jacket now.

Satomi’s footsteps return, and she appears with a neatly folded stack of clothes. “These should fit,” she says, placing them on the coffee table. Her expression leaves no room for further discussion.

“Thank you, Satomi-san.” Taiga’s voice carries a hint of resignation. “You’re very kind.”

“Nonsense.” Satomi waves off his thanks with the same gentle firmness she uses for everything. “I’ve run the bath upstairs. The water should be perfect now.”

Hokuto watches her straighten a picture frame on the wall—an old habit that surfaces whenever she’s planning something. His suspicion proves correct when she turns to him.

“Hokuto, could you set up the spare futon in the guest room for Kyomoto-kun?” She smooths her skirt, another tell-tale sign of her orchestrating things. “It’s in the usual closet.”

“I can sleep here in the living room,” Taiga interjects quickly, his hand still frozen near Ema’s shoulder. “Since Ema-chan sleeps with Matsumura anyway.”

Hokuto opens his mouth to agree, but Toshiyuki’s voice cuts through from the kitchen doorway.

“Why don’t we keep Ema-chan with us tonight?” He dries his hands on a dish towel, his expression deceptively casual. “It’s been a while since we’ve had our granddaughter sleep over. You boys can share the guest room.”

The suggestion hangs in the air. Hokuto feels his chest tighten. He glances at Taiga, whose ears have turned slightly pink.

“I wouldn’t want to impose—” Taiga begins.

“It’s decided then,” Satomi interrupts with the same tone she used to end arguments.

And that’s that. Hokuto gives Taiga an apologetic smile, one which Taiga returns.

🏠

Steam rises from Hokuto’s skin as he slides the guest room door open. His muscles ache form the day’s emotional toll, but the bath has helped ease some of the tension.

The familiar scent of his old college pajamas hits him first—a mix of fabric softener and memories—before his brain registers that the source isn’t him.

Taiga sits cross-legged by the balcony, moonlight casting sharp shadows across his face. The sight of him in Hokuto’s faded university logo makes Hokuto’s breath catch. The pajamas are big on Taiga’s frame, the sleeves rolled up at his wrists, and something about that detail makes heat rise to Hokuto’s cheeks.

“Your father-in-law stopped by,” Taiga says, gesturing to several beer cans beside him. His voice carries a hint of awkwardness. “He came for Ema-chan’s pajamas, but he left these. Said we could use them to wind down.”

Hokuto’s throat feels dry. He pads across the tatami, hyper-aware of how the material catches against his feet, how each step brings him closer to Taiga in his clothes.

My clothes. The thought loops in his mind, refusing to settle.

“That’s thoughtful of him,” Hokuto manages, lowering himself to sit beside Taiga. Their shoulders don’t quite touch, but he can feel the warmth radiating between them.

Taiga hands him a beer, their fingers brushing briefly. The can is cool against Hokuto’s palm, grounding him in the present moment.

They crack them open in near-perfect sync, the sharp hiss cutting through the night air.

“Cheers,” Taiga murmurs, raising his can.

“Cheers,” Hokuto echoes, tapping their cans together gently.

The first sip burns pleasantly down his throat. Hokuto watches Taiga’s profile, how the university logo stretches across his chest with each breath. The pajamas had been loose on Hokuto in college, but somehow they fit Taiga differently—not better or worse, just different.

Like they’re creating new memories right over the old ones.

This is dangerous territory, his mind warns.

But the beer is already warming his insides, and the day’s emotions sit heavy in his chest, demanding acknowledgment. He takes another sip, longer this time, letting the alcohol blur the edges of his thoughts.

“I’m sorry,” Hokuto says, guilt gnawing at his stomach. “You probably had plans today.”

Taiga shakes his head. “Not really. Was just gonna stay home.”

“Oh.” Hokuto studies him. “I thought maybe you’d be meeting Yugo or Juri.” He hesitates, then adds, “Or Jesse-san.”

A soft snort escapes Taiga. “Yugo’s lucky if he gets two days off a month. Golden Hour keeps him busy.” He takes another sip of beer. “And Juri? Half the time I text him, he’s knee-deep in some project with impossible deadlines. I was kinda lucky they were free to help with Ema-chan’s birthday party.”

Hokuto shifts, his knee brushing against the edge of Taiga’s borrowed sweatpants. He quickly adjusts his position, though the phantom warmth lingers.

“And Jesse-san?” The name feels strange on his tongue, like a word in a foreign language he’s still learning to pronounce.”

“He’s...” Taiga’s fingers trace the rim of his beer can. “Actually pretty good about space. I was nervous telling him I needed days just for myself, but he got it.” A quiet laugh. “Said something about ‘creative recharging’ being essential for his acting process.”

The breeze picks up, and Hokuto wraps his arms around himself. He thinks about Jesse—tall, handsome Jesse with his easy charm and understanding nature—and feels a strange twist in his chest.

“That’s… nice of him,” Hokuto manages, though the words taste oddly flat.

“Yeah.” Taiga’s voice is soft, thoughtful. “He’s nice.”

Something about the way Taiga says it makes Hokuto want to ask more questions, but he swallows them back with another sip of beer. It’s not his place to pry into Taiga's relationship, especially not tonight, not when his own emotions are still raw from the memorial service.

Taiga drains his beer and reaches for another can. The sharp click of the tab breaks the silence. “My dad called earlier.”

Hokuto watches him from the corner of his eye, noting how Taiga’s shoulders tense at the mention of his father. In all their time living together, Hokuto realizes he’s never heard Taiga talk about his family.

“Somehow found out about Jesse.” Taiga’s laugh is bitter, empty. “Wanted me to ask if Jesse could help him get gigs. Can you believe that?” He takes a long drink. “Haven’t heard from him in over a month, and that’s what he leads with.”

The words hit something raw in Hokuto’s chest. He thinks of Toshiyuki downstairs, of how naturally he cares for Ema, of the quiet ways he shows his love. The contrast makes his heart ache.

“I got so pissed, I hung up.” Taiga’s fingers clench around the can. “Then I saw your garment bag and just… needed to get away. Didn’t think about it. Just texted you and booked a bullet train and left.”

Hokuto shifts, the tatami rough against his palm. It strikes him how little he knows about Taiga’s life before they started living together. He’d never thought to ask, assuming their relationship was too... what? Professional? Temporary?

Yet here they are, drinking beer, sharing pieces of themselves they usually keep hidden.

“Your father...” Hokuto starts, then hesitates. Is he allowed to ask? Does he have the right?

“He’s a musician.” Taiga’s voice is flat. “Or tries to be. Spends more time chasing connections than actually playing. He’s had this one hit when he was young that kept us afloat for a while, and then when he got jobs, it was just small gigs.” Another sip of beer. “Then it’s always looking for the next person who can ‘help’ his career take off again.”

The bitterness in Taiga’s tone makes Hokuto’s chest tighten. He thinks of all the times he's seen Taiga with Ema—patient, attentive, never too busy to listen to her stories. How different that must be from his own childhood.

“Jesse’s just his latest target.” Taiga sets his can down harder than necessary. “Doesn’t matter that I’m dating him. Doesn’t matter that I—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenching.

A moth appears, circling the light above them. Hokuto watches its erratic dance, giving Taiga space to collect himself. The breeze carries the faint scent of jasmine, mixing with the bitter smell of beer.

“Sorry,” Taiga mutters. “Didn’t mean to dump all that on you.”

“It’s okay,” Hokuto says softly.

And it is. Something about the quiet night, the shared drinks, makes it feel natural to hold space for each other’s pain.

“We don’t really talk about this stuff, do we?” Taiga’s laugh is self-deprecating. “I mean, we live together, but…”

But we’re not really friends, Hokuto’s mind supplies.

Or are they? The lines have blurred somewhere between shared meals and quiet evenings, between Ema’s laughter and moments like this.

“No,” he agrees. “We don’t.”

Silence settles between them again, broken only by the soft clink of beer cans. The moth continues its dance around the light, casting fleeting shadows across the tatami.

“You know,” Taiga says, his voice thoughtful, “you never really talk about her. About Rui-san.” He pauses. “Not even with Ema-chan.”

The name sends a familiar ache through Hokuto’s chest. He takes another sip of beer, letting the bitter taste ground him. It’s true—he keeps those memories close, protected, like delicate origami that might crumple if handled too roughly.

“How did you meet?” Taiga asks, then quickly adds, “Sorry, if that’s too—”

“Computer science.” The word slips out before Hokuto can overthink it. Maybe it’s the beer, or the lingering rawness from the memorial service, or just the quiet intimacy of this moment. “We were in the same major in college.”

Taiga raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Mm.” Hokuto finds himself smiling at the memory. “She always sat two rows ahead in Basic Algorithms. I spent half the semester watching her solve equations.” His chest feels lighter somehow, sharing this. “She was brilliant at math. Made it look effortless.”

“That’s...” Taiga’s lips twitch. “Actually kind of dorky.”

A quiet laugh escapes Hokuto. “It was. We’d spend hours in the library, surrounded by textbooks and empty coffee cups.” He can still picture it clearly—Rui’s hair falling over her face, tongue poking out in concentration as she leaned over her notebook, her pencil tapping against the page when she was deep in thought. “Sometimes we’d get so caught up in coding problems, we’d miss dinner.”

The beer can is cool against his palm as he takes another sip. “After graduation, I finally worked up the courage to ask her out properly. Took her to this tiny ramen place near campus.”

“Finally?” Taiga shifts, his knee brushing against Hokuto’s again. This time, neither of them moves away. “How long did you wait?”

“Three years.” Heat creeps up Hokuto’s neck at the admission. “I kept making excuses. Too busy with projects, bad timing, what if she only saw me as a study partner...”

“Three years?” Taiga’s voice rises slightly in disbelief. “Over math equations?”

“They were very complex equations,” Hokuto says with mock seriousness, but his smile fades as another memory surfaces. “She used to tease me about it, you know? Said she’d been waiting since sophomore year for me to notice her hints.”

The words catch in his throat. He remembers her laugh, the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she told that story at their wedding. How she’d squeeze his hand and say, “Some things are worth waiting for.”

“She left me something, before...” Hokuto's throat tightens. The beer can trembles in his hand, and he sets it down before he drops it. “A piece of paper. I thought it would be a letter, you know? Some final message.”

His fingers trace invisible numbers on the tatami. “But it was an equation. Complex, the kind we used to solve together in college.” A hollow laugh escapes him. “I’ve been trying to crack it for a year now. The answer keeps slipping away.”

The moth flutters closer, casting erratic shadows across their legs. Hokuto watches it, finding it easier than meeting Taiga’s gaze.

“How did she...” Taiga’s voice is soft, hesitant. “If you don’t mind me asking...”

“She was sick.” The words taste like ash in his mouth. “Heart condition.” His hands clench into fists, nails digging into his palms. “I should have noticed something was wrong. She’d get tired easily, out of breath climbing stairs. But I was so caught up in work, in trying to provide for our family...”

The memories flood back—Rui waving off his concerns, saying she just needed more sleep. Her face, pale and drawn, as she insisted on making Ema’s favorite pancakes despite barely being able to stand. The way she’d rest her hand over her heart when she thought no one was looking.

“By the time I realized...” Hokuto's voice cracks. “By the time I made her see a doctor, it was...” He swallows hard. “If I could do it all again. If I could just—”

The tears come without warning, hot and sudden. Hokuto tries to blink them back, but they spill over anyway, dropping onto his sweatpants.

Not here, he thinks desperately. Not now.

But his body betrays him, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

“I can’t—” Hokuto chokes out between sobs. “I can’t talk about her with Ema. She asks sometimes, and sometimes I tell her a bit about Rui, but I...” His chest feels too tight, like his ribs might crack under the pressure of holding everything in. “What if I tell her the wrong things? What if I can’t remember enough? What if—”

Another sob wracks his body. “What if Ema grows up resenting me for not saving her mother? For being too blind to see what was happening right in front of me?”

Something warm settles over his trembling hand. It takes Hokuto a moment to realize it’s Taiga’s palm, hesitant but present. The touch is uncertain, like Taiga’s not quite sure if this is allowed.

Then Taiga’s fingers start tapping—a gentle, rhythmic pattern that feels achingly familiar. The same rhythm Hokuto uses to soothe Ema to sleep, pressing soft beats against her tummy.

The steady tapping grounds him, pulling him back from the edge of his grief. His breathing starts to even out, though tears still track silently down his cheeks. The moth continues its dance around the light, casting flickering shadows across their joined hands.

“I never knew much about my mother,” Taiga says quietly, his fingers maintaining their steady rhythm. “She left when I was three.”

Hokuto blinks, tears clinging to his lashes. He hadn’t expected this.

“When my dad talked about her, it was always...” Taiga’s hand stills for a moment, then resumes its tapping. “He’d say she was selfish. Unreliable. That she chose her freedom over us.” His voice turns bitter. “Used her as an example of why I shouldn’t trust people. Why everyone leaves eventually.”

The words settle heavy in Hokuto’s chest, mixing with his own grief. He thinks of young Taiga, learning about his mother through the lens of his father’s anger.

“But Ema-chan?” Taiga’s voice softens. “She should know how amazing her mom was. The brilliant mathematician who could solve impossible equations. The woman who waited three years for her dorky classmate to notice her.” His fingers tap a little harder, emphasizing his words. “Keep Rui-san alive in stories. Let Ema-chan see her through your eyes, not just through her absence.”

Hokuto meets Taiga’s eyes, drawn by the unexpected wisdom in his words. The soft smile playing at the corners of Taiga’s mouth catches the dim light, and something shifts in Hokuto’s chest—a subtle realignment that steals his breath.

Oh.

The realization hits him like a physical blow.

His hand jerks away from Taiga’s as if burned, the phantom warmth of their touch lingering on his skin.

“I need to—” Hokuto stumbles to his feet, nearly knocking over his beer can. “Bathroom. Sorry.”

He doesn’t wait for Taiga’s response, doesn’t trust himself to look back. His feet carry him down the familiar hallway to the guest bathroom, movements mechanical and distant.

The bathroom light flickers on, harsh fluorescent revealing his reflection in the mirror. His hair’s a mess from air-drying, his t-shirt slightly rumpled.

But it’s his eyes that catch his attention—wide, almost frightened, like he’s seen something he can't unsee.

I like him.

The thought rises unbidden, unavoidable. Not as a coworker he shares polite conversation with, not as the landlord who gave them shelter, not even as the friend who's become part of their daily life.

Hokuto’s hands grip the cool edge of the sink. Guilt crashes over him in waves—how can he feel this way today of all days? With Rui’s memorial incense still burning downstairs, with her equation still unsolved, with her absence still an open wound?

His wedding ring catches the light, and shame burns hot in his throat. What kind of person develops feelings for someone else while wearing their dead wife’s ring? While sitting in her childhood home?

And Taiga... Taiga who’s dating Jesse. Tall, charming Jesse who makes Taiga smile in ways Hokuto’s never seen. Jesse who gives Taiga space when he needs it, who understands him in ways Hokuto can only glimpse.

Water splashes cold against his face, but it doesn’t wash away the truth. He likes Taiga. Likes his dry humor and quiet strength. Likes how he remembers Ema’s favorite snacks and knows when to step back or step closer. Likes the way his guard drops late at night, sharing pieces of himself over beer.

It’s just a crush, Hokuto tells his reflection firmly. A harmless crush. Nothing more.

His life is complicated enough—raising Ema, managing work, keeping their temporary living arrangement from falling apart.

There’s no room for romance, especially not with someone who's taken.

Someone who deserves better than Hokuto’s messy, grief-tangled heart.

He’s a father first. Everything else—these inconvenient feelings, this ache in his chest—has to take a back seat.

Harmless, he repeats to himself. Just a harmless crush on Kyomoto Taiga.

🏠

“The carrot goes chop-chop-chop,” Ema sings, coloring her workbook orange like the vegetable Papa slices. Mr. Bunny sits beside her on the kitchen counter, watching Tiger-san hold the knife all wrong.

“No, not like—here, let me show you again.” Papa’s hands guide Tiger-san’s fingers into the right position on the knife handle.

Tiger-san’s face scrunches up like when Zoomie bumps into the wall.

Ema switches to her brown crayon for the potato in her drawing. The real potato on Tiger-san’s cutting board looks lumpy and weird, nothing like the neat cubes Papa always makes.

“This is harder than it looks,” Tiger-san mutters.

“You’re thinking too much.” Papa’s voice sounds soft, like when he reads bedtime stories. “Just let the knife do the work.”

Tiger-san’s shoulders stay stiff. He never cooks—not even once since they moved here. The kitchen is Papa’s special place, where he hums and stirs pots and makes everything smell yummy. But tonight is different.

“Ouch!” Tiger-san jerks his hand back.

“Are you bleeding?” Papa reaches for Tiger-san’s fingers.

“No, just…” Tiger-san’s cheeks turn pink. “The knife slipped.”

“Tiger-san needs band-aids like me!” Ema holds up her finger with the bunny-printed band-aid from yesterday’s paper cut. “Papa kisses them better.”

Tiger-san’s face gets even pinker. “I’m fine. No band-aids needed.”

The curry bubbles on the stove, making pop-pop sounds that remind Ema of rain on the window. She draws little steam squiggles above her curry pot, just like the real ones dancing in the kitchen air.

“Maybe I should stick to the rice cooker,” Tiger-san says, but Papa shakes his head.

“You’re doing fine. Here—” Papa stands behind Tiger-san, his hands covering Tiger-san’s on the knife. “Like this. Slow and steady.”

Tiger-san goes very still, like when Ema tries to pet the neighborhood cat without scaring it away. The potato pieces start looking more like Papa’s neat squares now.

“See? You’ve got it.” Papa steps back, and Tiger-san’s shoulders drop a little.

Ema watches them both, her crayon forgotten mid-stroke. Tiger-san never lets anyone teach him anything. He always says he’ll “figure it out” or taps on his phone until it tells him what to do.

But now he’s letting Papa show him, even though his face looks like he ate something sour.

“Papa is the best teacher,” Ema announces, proud of her Papa’s skills. “He taught me how to tie my shoes and fold paper cranes and write my name.”

“Is that so?” Tiger-san’s mouth does that funny twitch that means he’s trying not to smile.

“Uh-huh! And now he’s teaching you cooking!” She beams at them both. “Tiger-san is Papa’s student!”

Tiger-san almost drops the knife. “I wouldn’t say—”

“The curry’s starting to bubble over,” Papa interrupts, reaching for the wooden spoon. His ears look red, just like Mori-sensei’s after talking to Papa.

Ema picks up her yellow crayon, humming the song they learned at preschool. The kitchen feels warm and cozy, filled with curry smell and the quiet tap-tap of Tiger-san’s careful chopping. It’s nice, seeing Tiger-san learn something new instead of asking his phone to do everything.

“There.” Tiger-san steps away from the cutting board.

The vegetables look a bit wonky, but Papa’s smile is bright.

“Perfect for curry,” Papa says. “Now we just need to—”

“Can I add them to the pot?” Tiger-san asks quickly, then clears his throat. “I mean, since I cut them and all.”

Papa’s eyes go wide for a second, like when Ema manages to zip her jacket all by herself. “Of course.”

Tiger-san tips the cutting board, and the potatoes tumble into the pot with a soft plop. Papa stands close, watching with that smile he gets when Ema learns a new word or draws a pretty picture.

Tiger-san used to look scary, Ema thinks, hugging Mr. Bunny close. Back when they first moved in, he’d walk around the house like one of those grumpy cats that hiss at everything.

But now he’s different. Ever since they went to see Grandma and Grandpa, Tiger-san smiles more—not the tight smile he usually uses, but the real kind that makes his cheeks look like mochi.

“Should I stir it?” Tiger-san asks, and Papa nods.

“Gentle circles,” Papa says. “Like this.” His hand touches Tiger-san’s arm to show him.

Ema remembers how quiet dinner used to be, with only the clink-clink of chopsticks and her stories about preschool. Tiger-san would eat fast and disappear into his room, like those magic tricks Mori-sensei shows them. But now he stays, and sometimes he even helps clean up.

“Mr. Bunny,” she whispers to her friend, “look how Tiger-san is learning to cook like Papa.”

She makes Mr. Bunny’s head bob in approval. Next to him, Waddles watches too, his bowtie crooked.

The curry makes bubbling sounds as Tiger-san stirs. Papa leans against the counter, and his eyes look soft, like when he talks about Mama in the photos. He laughs at something Tiger-san says—a quiet laugh that reminds Ema of wind chimes.

“Papa and Tiger-san are best friends now,” she tells her stuffed animals. “Like you and Waddles, Mr. Bunny.”

She makes them nod together again.

Last night, she heard them laughing in the living room after her bedtime. Papa’s laugh sounded different—bigger somehow, like when Uncle Yugo tells funny stories. Before the visit to Grandma and Grandpa’s house, Papa never laughed like that with Tiger-san.

“Is it supposed to smell this good?” Tiger-san asks, and Papa’s eyes do that sparkly thing again.

“That’s how you know it’s almost ready,” Papa says. He moves closer to peek into the pot, his shoulder touching Tiger-san’s.

Ema adds more orange to her carrot drawing, humming happily. The kitchen feels warm and safe, like being wrapped in her favorite blanket. It’s nice seeing Papa teach Tiger-san things, just like how Mr. Bunny teaches Waddles about tea parties and adventure stories.

“Papa,” she calls out, holding up her drawing. “Look! I drew our curry!”

They both turn to look, and Tiger-san’s hand stays on the wooden spoon, still stirring slowly like Papa showed him. Before, Tiger-san would step away quickly whenever Papa came close. Now he stays put, their arms almost touching as they lean in to see her masterpiece.

But Ema spoke too soon because Tiger-san jumps back from Papa like Zoomie when it hits a wall. His face looks funny again—all pink and scrunchy.

“I should set the table,” he says, voice squeaky like when Yuki gets nervous during show-and-tell.

“Can I help?” Ema bounces in her seat, nearly knocking Mr. Bunny over.

Tiger-san nods, walking to the drawer where they keep the nice placemats Papa bought last week. “Here.” He holds them out. “Think you can handle these?”

“I’m a big girl.” Ema puffs up her chest like the brave knight in her storybook.

The placemats are smooth under her fingers as she skips to the table. They’re blue with little silver stars that remind her of the night sky Papa showed her from their old apartment’s window.

Tiger-san follows with plates and glasses, his footsteps quiet on the floor. He moves differently now—not like a grumpy cat anymore, but more like the friendly one that sometimes visits their backyard.

“First one goes here,” Ema announces, placing a placemat carefully in front of Papa’s usual spot. “Then here for Tiger-san, and—eek!”

Suddenly, fingers tickle her sides, making her squeal with laughter. Tiger-san’s hands are quick and playful—nothing like the stiff way he used to pat her head when they first moved in.

“Got you!” Tiger-san’s voice sounds lighter than usual, almost like when Uncle Yugo played with her when he came with free food.

Ema giggles, squirming away. This is new—Tiger-san never tickled her before. He used to watch her play from far away, like those shy kids at preschool who need extra time to join in games.

“No fair!” She clutches the last placemat to her chest, still giggling. “I’m working!”

“Oh? Is that so?” Tiger-san’s cheeks puff into mochi again. His fingers wiggle threateningly. “Better finish quick then!”

Ema darts around the table, placing the last placemat down with a triumphant “Ha!” She sticks her tongue out at Tiger-san, who pretends to look shocked.

This is different—good different, like finding an extra cookie in the jar or seeing a rainbow after rain. Tiger-san is playing with her, really playing, not just watching from his phone while she shows him her drawings.

Papa comes in with the curry pot, and Ema gasps. The steam swirls up like tiny dancers, making the kitchen smell even better.

But what makes her eyes go wide is Papa’s smile—it's different from his usual ones, bigger and brighter, like Christmas lights.

“It’s ready,” Papa says, and his voice sounds different too. Warm and soft, like her favorite blanket.

Tiger-san stops tickling her, his hands dropping to his sides. “I’ll get the rice.” He shuffles toward the counter, nearly bumping into the chair.

Papa lifts Ema into her seat, his hands gentle under her arms. She watches his face as he tucks her chair in, noticing how his eyes keep drifting to Tiger-san’s back. It’s the same look he had at Grandma and Grandpa’s house, when Tiger-san was listening to Grandma tell stories about Mama. All soft and glowy.

Papa’s been doing that a lot lately—looking at Tiger-san when Tiger-san isn’t looking back. Like now, while Tiger-san reaches for the rice pot, Papa’s eyes follow him, and his smile gets all quiet and special.

But then Tiger-san turns around, and Papa;s head snaps down so fast it reminds Ema of when Yuki gets caught talking in class. His cheeks turn pink, just like they did when Tiger-san put a band-aid on his finger and Ema asked Tiger-san if he will kiss Papa’s boo-boo.

Ema wants to ask why Papa’s face is all pink, or why he keeps looking at Tiger-san like that. The words bubble up in her throat like the curry on the stove, but something makes her keep quiet. Maybe it’s how Papa's hands shake a little as he ladles curry into their bowls, or how Tiger-san seems extra careful not to let their fingers touch when he passes the rice.

She hugs Mr. Bunny closer, watching them dance around each other like the kids at preschool during music time. Always moving, never quite touching, but somehow always aware of where the other person is.

Papa’s eyes do that sneaky thing again, peeking at Tiger-san over his curry bowl. His smile is hidden, but Ema can see it in the way his eyes get all crinkly at the corners. It’s the kind of smile he usually saves for when she masters a new word or remembers to say “please” without being reminded.

Tiger-san doesn’t notice. He’s too busy putting curry over his rice.

But that’s okay—Ema notices enough for both of them. She notices how Papa’s smile grows wider whenever Tiger-san takes a bite of the curry they made together.

🏠

“The-Da-ru-ma-fell-o-ver!”

Ema freezes mid-step, holding her breath. Her leg wobbles a little, like that time she tried to balance on one foot during dance time. Behind her, she hears Kenji’s voice getting closer and closer, checking if anyone moves.

Please don't see me, please don’t see me, she thinks really hard, like how Papa taught her to wish on shooting stars.

“You moved!” Kenji points at her, and Ema’s shoulders slump. She was so close to winning this time!

“Did not!” But even as she says it, she knows it’s true. Her leg was shaking too much.

“Did too! Back to the start!”

Ema trudges back to the yellow line painted on the playground, dragging her feet.

Yuki gives her a sympathetic pat she passes by. “Next time,” she whispers.

But Ema’s not really listening anymore because she spots something—no, someone—at the preschool gates that makes her whole body feel like it’s full of sparkles.

“Tiger-san!” She abandons the game completely, racing across the playground. Her shoes make happy tapping sounds against the ground as she runs.

Tiger-san crouches down just in time to catch her in a hug. He smells like paper and coffee and that fancy hand sanitizer he always uses. It’s different from Papa’s smell of laundry soap and curry, but it's nice too.

“Where’s Papa?” Ema pulls back, looking around. Usually, Papa picks her up, his tired smile turning bright when she shows him her drawings from art time.

“Papa has to work late today,” Tiger-san explains, helping her adjust her backpack strap that’s slipping off her shoulder. “So I’m here to take you home.”

“Really?” Ema bounces on her toes. This is new and exciting—like finding a different-shaped cookie in the jar.

Before they lived with Tiger-san, when Papa had to work late, Ema would stay in the classroom with Mori-sensei. She’d watch as her friends left one by one, the room getting quieter and emptier until it was just her and her drawings keeping Mori-sensei company.

But now Tiger-san is here, looking a bit awkward as he nods at the other parents. His hands fidget, like they always do when he’s not sure about something.

“Did you run here?” Ema notices how Tiger-san’s cheeks are pink from the cold air, and his neat work clothes are slightly rumpled.

“I walked,” Tiger-san says, but he’s breathing faster than usual. “Walked fast. Didn’t want to keep you waiting.”

Something warm blooms in Ema’s chest, like when Papa remembers to cut her sandwiches into triangles just the way she likes them. Tiger-san rushed to pick her up—just like Papa always does.

“Kyomoto-san!” Mori-sensei approaches them, his usual bright smile in place. “I didn’t expect to see you today.”

“Ah, yes.” Tiger-san straightens up, his hand automatically going to fix his tie. “Matsumura has a late meeting, so...”

“Tiger-san came to get me!” Ema announces proudly, grabbing Tiger-san’s hand. His fingers are cold from the winter air, and she squeezes them to warm them up, just like Papa does for her.

Mori-sensei’s eyes go all soft and crinkly at the corners. “That’s wonderful!”

“My bag!” Ema suddenly remembers, spotting her pink backpack on the playground bench where she left it during playtime. “Wait, Tiger-san!”

She dashes across the playground, her shoes crunching against the gravel. The cold wind makes her nose tingle, but she doesn’t mind.

Her backpack sits exactly where she left it, next to Yuki’s pink one with the butterfly stickers.

Papa would remind me not to leave my things around, she thinks, scooping up the bag. Inside, she can feel the weight of today’s art project—a finger painting of Mr. Bunny having tea with Waddles. Papa will love it, especially since she used his favorite color purple for the teacups.

When she returns, Tiger-san and Mori-sensei are talking in grown-up voices. Tiger-san’s shoulders look stiff, like when he has to talk to people he doesn’t know well at the office parties Papa brings her to.

“Ema-chan has been doing wonderfully with her numbers,” Mori-sensei says, his smile bright like always. “And her creativity during story time is remarkable.”

Tiger-san nods, his hands fidgeting with his phone again. “I’ll make sure to tell Matsumura.”

“She’s also been helping her classmates during cleanup time,” Mori-sensei continues. “Just yesterday, she showed Kenji-kun how to properly store the building blocks.”

That’s because Tiger-san taught me how to sort things by color, Ema thinks proudly.

“Thank you for letting me know.” Tiger-san bows slightly, then awkwardly holds out his hand toward Ema. “Come on, Ema-chan.”

Ema takes his hand, feeling how his fingers are still cold from rushing here. She wants to tell him about the proper way to wear gloves that Papa taught her, but that can wait until they’re walking home.

“Bye-bye, Mori-sensei!” She waves with her free hand.

“Goodbye, Ema-chan! Kyomoto-san!” Mori-sensei waves back, his smile extra warm today.

As they pass the playground, Ema spots Yuki and the others still playing Daruma-san. “Bye, Yuki-chan! Bye, everyone!”

“Bye, Ema-chan!” Her friends call back in a chorus of happy voices.

Tiger-san’s hand tightens slightly around hers as they walk through the preschool gates. His palm is warming up now, and Ema swings their joined hands back and forth, humming the cleanup song they learned today.

Tiger-san’s steps are different from Papa’s—quicker and lighter, like he’s always in a hurry. Ema has to skip a little to keep up, but she doesn’t mind. She likes how their shadows stretch long in the afternoon sun, making funny shapes on the sidewalk.

“Are you hungry?” Tiger-san asks, his voice soft.

Ema nods, her tummy making a tiny growl.

“Do you...” Tiger-san hesitates, his hand tightening around hers. “Is there anything specific you want to eat? I’m not good at cooking like your Papa, but we can get something.”

This feels special, like those times Papa takes her to family restaurants after her doctor visits or when she gets a good mark on her numbers test. But it’s different too, because it’s Tiger-san asking.

Ema scrunches her face, thinking hard. Papa always says it’s important to think carefully about food choices because eating makes you strong and healthy. She wants to pick something good, something that will make Tiger-san happy too.

They pass shop after shop—the one with the fish pictures that Papa sometimes buys from, the place with the big bowls of noodles that steam up the windows, the—

“Oh!” Ema stops so suddenly that Tiger-san stumbles a bit.

There, in the café window, sits a plate with sandwiches cut into hearts and stars. The bread is pink and blue and yellow, like a rainbow decided to become food. Little flags stick out of each sandwich, and there are cute faces drawn on the plates with chocolate sauce.

Tiger-san follows her gaze. “Would you like to eat there?”

Ema bounces on her toes, nodding. “Can we? Please?”

“Sure.” Tiger-san’s lips twitch up at the corners—not quite a full smile, but close. It’s the same look he gets when Papa tells a really bad joke at dinner.

The café door jingles when they walk in, and warm air wraps around them like a hug. Everything inside is pretty, with lace curtains and pastel-colored chairs.

A lady in a frilly apron shows them to a table by the window, where Ema can still see her sandwich friends waiting in the display case.

“What kind would you like?” Tiger-san asks, helping her into her chair. The menu has pictures of all the sandwiches, each one decorated differently.

“The bunny one!” Ema points at a sandwich cut to look like rabbit ears, with carrots and lettuce making whiskers. “And...” She peers at Tiger-san’s menu. “Which one do you want, Tiger-san?”

Tiger-san blinks, like he wasn’t expecting the question. “I usually just get something simple.”

“But it’s dinner time!” Ema protests. “Look, this one has a tiger face!”

She points to an orange and black striped sandwich that really does look like a tiger, with cheese whiskers and olive eyes. Tiger-san stares at it for a long moment, then lets out a small laugh that sounds like wind chimes.

“Alright,” he says, setting down his menu. “One bunny sandwich and one tiger sandwich.”

When the sandwiches arrive, they’re even prettier than in the pictures. Ema’s bunny has a bow made of cucumber, and Tiger-san’s tiger has a crown made of cherry tomatoes. The plates have swirls of sauce making patterns around the edges, like the doodles Ema draws in her notebook during quiet time.

“Tiger-san,” Ema says, carefully picking up her sandwich so the bow doesn’t fall off. “Thank you for picking me up today.”

Tiger-san pauses with his sandwich halfway to his mouth. For a moment, he looks like Papa does when he talks about Mama—all soft and sad and happy at the same time.

“You’re welcome, Ema-chan.”

🏠

Ema hugs the plastic bag to her chest as Tiger-san unlocks the front door. The rustling sounds remind her of leaves in autumn, and she can smell the sweet candy even through the wrapper. Her tummy does a happy dance, already excited about the treats Tiger-san picked.

“I’m home!” she calls out, though she knows Papa isn’t here yet. Tiger-san taught her that the house likes to be greeted, just like people do.

A whirring sound approaches, and Ema grins as Zoomie emerges from around the corner. The robot vacuum spins in a circle, its little light blinking like it’s saying hello.

“Hi, Zoomie!” She carefully places her shoes in the cubby, making sure they’re neat and straight like Papa showed her. “Did you have a good day? Did you eat lots of dust bunnies?”

Tiger-san makes that wind-chime laugh again as he puts away his own shoes. “Come on, let’s have our secret snack before your Papa gets home.”

Secret snack. The words make Ema feel warm and special inside, like when Papa lets her stay up five more minutes to finish a story. She follows Tiger-san to the couch, watching as he pulls out the bag of gummy bears.

“Remember,” Tiger-san says, his voice serious but his eyes twinkling, “this is just between us, okay?”

Ema nods solemnly, crossing her heart like she learned from Yuki. “I promise!”

The television comes alive with colors and sounds as Tiger-san settles onto the couch. He tears open the gummy bag carefully, the plastic crinkling under his fingers. The sweet smell gets stronger, making Ema’s mouth water.

“Here.” Tiger-san holds out his palm, where three gummy bears sit like tiny jewels—red, green, and yellow. “Which color do you want first?”

Ema studies them carefully. Papa always says choices are important, even small ones. The red one looks like it might be strawberry, her favorite. But the green one reminds her of the pretty trees they passed on their way home.

“Green please!” She picks it up carefully, feeling how squishy and soft it is between her fingers.

Tiger-san takes the red one, and they both pop their gummies in their mouths at the same time.

Ema giggles as she chews, watching Tiger-san’s face. He usually looks so serious, like when he’s working on his computer or talking on the phone, but right now his expression is relaxed.

The house hums quietly around them—the soft whoosh of the heater, Zoomie’s gentle bumping against the wall in the hallway, the muffled sounds from the TV show Tiger-san picked. Everything feels cozy and warm, like being wrapped in her favorite blanket.

“Can I have the yellow one too?” Ema asks, after finishing her green gummy.

Tiger-san drops it into her waiting palm. “What’s your favorite color of gummy bear?”

“Red!” Ema says immediately, then pauses. “No, green! No... all of them!”

Tiger-san’s lips twitch up again. He holds out another handful of gummies, and Ema notices how his fingertips are stained slightly pink from the candy. It reminds her of the time Papa helped her paint flowers, and they both ended up with rainbow hands.

“All of them is a good choice,” Tiger-san says, selecting an orange bear for himself.

Ema settles deeper into the couch cushions, her feet barely reaching the edge. The TV shows people cooking something that makes her think of the pretty sandwiches they had earlier. She watches Tiger-san’s profile, noticing how the light from the screen makes shadows dance across his face.

“Tiger-san?” she asks, rolling a blue gummy between her fingers.

“Hmm?”

“Can we have secret snacks again sometime?”

Tiger-san thinks for a long time, his face scrunched up like when Papa does math. “We can, but not too often. Too much candy isn’t good for you.”

“Why not?” Ema pops another gummy in her mouth, savoring the sweet burst of grape flavor. She loves how the purple ones make her tongue tingle.

Tiger-san stares at the TV, but his eyes look far away, like when Papa talks about Mama. “When I was little, I used to eat candy all the time because I didn’t like my father’s cooking. One day, I got really sick and threw up everywhere.”

Ema’s eyes widen. Getting sick is scary—she remembers when Papa had a fever and couldn’t get out of bed.

But something else catches in her mind, making her tilt her head. Tiger-san never talks about his Papa and Mama, not like how Papa tells her stories about Mama’s garden or her pretty smile. Papa seems to talk about Mama more often now, and that makes her happy.

She looks around the room, noticing for the first time that Tiger-san doesn’t have any pictures on his walls. No family smiling in frames like at her old home, or drawings stuck to the fridge with magnets.

“Tiger-san?” The gummy bears suddenly feel heavy in her palm. “Where’s your Mama and Papa?”

Tiger-san goes very still, like when Zoomie spots something new on the floor. His hand stops halfway to his mouth, a red gummy bear dangling between his fingers. The TV keeps talking, but the sounds feel far away now.

Ema watches his face carefully. Papa says sometimes people need time to find their words, especially for important things. She waits, counting the gummy bears left in her hand—one, two, three, four.

Finally, Tiger-san’s shoulders move, like he’s taking a big breath. “My mother left when I was about your age.” His voice sounds different, like when Papa talks through a cold. “And my father... we don’t really talk anymore.”

The words make Ema’s chest feel tight, like when she sees a kid playing alone at preschool. She looks down at her gummy bears, then back at Tiger-san. His face reminds her of the time she found a baby bird that fell from its nest—lost and a little sad.

“Why don’t you talk to your Papa?” The words tumble out before she can catch them, and she bites her lip, wondering if it’s one of those questions Papa says she should save for later.

Tiger-san puts down the bag of gummy bears, the plastic crinkling loudly in the sudden quiet. His fingers tap against his knee, like when Papa’s thinking really hard about something.

“Some fathers...” Tiger-san starts, then stops. He turns to face her, and his eyes look different—softer, like when he watched her draw pictures last week. “You know how your Papa takes care of you? Makes you food, reads you stories, and helps you get ready for school?”

Ema nods eagerly. “Papa makes the best pancakes! And he always checks under my bed for monsters.”

“That’s right. Your Papa is very good at taking care of you.” Tiger-san’s voice gets quieter. “But my father... he wanted me to take care of him instead. Like when he forgot to buy food, or when he needed money, or when he felt sad. He’d ask me to fix everything, even when I was just a kid.”

Ema’s forehead wrinkles as she tries to understand. It sounds wrong, like wearing shoes on the wrong feet. “But... kids can’t fix everything. Papa says that’s what grown-ups are for.”

“Your Papa is right.” Tiger-san picks up a red gummy bear, rolling it between his fingers. “My father never learned how to be a proper grown-up. He’s like... you know when one of your classmates probably gets upset and throws their crayons?”

“Yeah! Yuki-chan did that. And then Mori-sensei has to help her calm down.”

“Exactly. My father is like that, but he never learned to stop throwing his crayons. He never learned to take care of himself or others. So I had to be the grown-up, even though I was just a kid.”

The TV keeps playing, but Ema barely notices it now. She thinks about how Papa sometimes looks tired after work but still helps her brush her teeth and tells her stories. She can’t imagine having to do all that by herself.

“Did it make you sad?” she asks, her voice small.

Tiger-san’s fingers stop tapping. “Yes, it did. So when I got older, I decided to leave. I needed to take care of myself instead of always taking care of him.”

“And now you’re happy?” Ema watches his face carefully, the way Papa taught her to look for clues in people’s expressions.

A tiny smile appears on Tiger-san’s face, like sunshine peeking through clouds. “Yes, I am. Sometimes it’s okay to step away from people who make us feel bad, even if they’re family.”

Ema looks down at her handful of gummy bears, thinking about how Papa always shares his ice cream with her, even when he’s really tired. How he hugs her when she’s scared and tells her it’s okay to cry. Her chest feels warm and full, like when she’s wrapped in her favorite blanket.

She looks at her last gummy bear—the red one she saved for the end because red ones taste the best. Tiger-san’s eyes look a little wet, like when Papa watches her dance at preschool. His smile seems wobbly too, like when he’s trying to be brave.

She holds out the red gummy bear, stretching her arm as far as it can go. “Here! You can have my last red one.”

Tiger-san blinks at her hand. “No, you can have it.”

“No, you can have it, Tiger-san!” The words burst out of her chest like bubbles. “Red ones are the best, and you should have the best ones.” She pushes her hand closer to his face, the gummy bear gleaming like a tiny ruby in her palm.

Tiger-san stares at the candy for so long that Ema wonders if maybe he doesn’t like red after all. But then his fingers brush against her palm as he takes it, gentle like when Papa helps her hold chopsticks.

“And you don’t have to be sad about your Papa anymore,” she adds, watching him examine the gummy bear. “Because me and Papa are your family now!”

Tiger-san’s hand freezes halfway to his mouth. His eyes get really big, like when Zoomie accidentally bumps into his legs.

For a moment, he looks like Yuki did on her first day of preschool—surprised and a little scared and maybe happy all at once.

But then his smile changes. It grows wider, warmer, reaching all the way to his eyes. Not the polite smile he uses when talking on the phone, or the quick one he gives to people at the store. This one reminds Ema of how the sun feels on her face after it rains.

“Thank you, Ema-chan,” he says, and his voice sounds different too—softer, like when Papa reads her favorite bedtime story. He looks at the red gummy bear in his hand like it’s something precious, something special.

Ema beams, her chest feeling light and bubbly. She watches Tiger-san finally pop the candy into his mouth, his smile never fading even as he chews.

The TV keeps playing in the background, but neither of them is really watching anymore. Zoomie whirs past their feet, bumping gently against the couch before spinning away again.

The front door clicks open, and Tiger-san jumps like he’s been caught stealing cookies. His eyes go wide, and he scrambles off the couch, snatching up the bag of gummy bears. The rustling sounds like leaves, but louder and more frantic.

Ema presses her hands against her mouth to hold in her giggles as Tiger-san disappears upstairs, his sock-covered feet sliding a little on the floor. It reminds her of that time Yuki tried to sneak an extra cookie during snack time at preschool.

“I’m home,” Papa’s voice calls out, tired like when he works on his computer too long.

“Papa!” Ema bounces off the couch, her tummy still fizzy with leftover laughter and sugar. She runs to him, wrapping her arms around his legs.

Papa’s hand settles on her head, warm and familiar. When she looks up, his face has that soft look he gets when she draws him pictures. The tired lines around his eyes smooth out a little.

“Did you have a good day?” he asks, slipping off his shoes. Ema watches him arrange them neatly in the cubby, just like she did earlier.

“Uh-huh!” Her heart does a little skip-hop as she remembers their secret. She wants to tell Papa about the gummy bears and Tiger-san’s story, but secrets are important.

Papa looks around the room, his eyebrows going up like when he’s trying to solve a puzzle. “Where’s Kyomoto?"

The name sounds funny to Ema—she knows that’s what grown-ups call Tiger-san at the office, but it doesn’t fit him, not after sharing gummy bears and stories.

“Tiger-san went to the bathroom!” The words come out a bit too loud, like when she’s excited about show-and-tell. She rocks on her feet, feeling the sugar buzz under her skin.

Papa tilts his head, looking at her face carefully. “Are you okay? You seem... energetic.”

Before Ema can answer, footsteps sound behind her. Tiger-san appears, his face calm like nothing happened, but Ema can see a tiny bit of red candy stuck to his thumb.

Their eyes meet, and Tiger-san’s lips twitch up at the corners. It’s their special smile now, Ema decides—the one that means shared secrets and gummy bears and stories about fathers who never learned to stop throwing crayons.

🏠

Does he have to look so good doing this?

Taiga shifts uncomfortably against the wall of the function room, trying not to stare too obviously as Jesse delivers his lines with practiced ease. The lights catch the subtle highlights in Jesse’s hair, making him look like he stepped straight out of a magazine spread.

“Take five, everyone!” Minagawa’s voice booms across the room. “Jesse-san, that was perfect, but let’s try one more with a bit more emphasis on the app’s scheduling feature.”

Jesse nods, running a hand through his hair. His gaze catches Taiga’s across the room, and that million-watt smile appears—the genuine one, not the commercial one.

Heat creeps up Taiga’s neck.

“He’s really something, isn’t he?” Noel murmurs beside him, making Taiga jump. “The way he can switch between casual and professional so seamlessly.”

“He’s adequate at his job,” Taiga manages, proud that his voice stays neutral despite the warmth lingering in his cheeks. Two months of dating, and he still hasn’t built up an immunity to Jesse’s charm.

“Adequate?” Noel chuckles. “That’s cold, even for you, Kyomo.”

The crew bustles around them, adjusting lights and checking camera angles. Jesse chats animatedly with the director, gesturing with his hands. Taiga forces himself to look down at his tablet, pretending to review the marketing metrics.

“Alright, places everyone!” Minagawa claps his hands. “Let’s nail this in one take so we can all go home early!”

Jesse takes his position, and Taiga can’t help but notice how the carefully arranged set pieces seem to fade into the background when Jesse starts speaking. His voice carries that perfect blend of authority and approachability that marketing teams dream about.

“With EaseWorks’ new scheduling feature, managing your household has never been easier,” Jesse says, his smile brightening. “Simply input your tasks, and let our AI assistant create the perfect routine for you.”

He continues his spiel, but his eyes keep finding Taiga’s between takes, those subtle glances making Taiga’s stomach do strange flips. It’s ridiculous how Jesse can maintain his professional demeanor while still managing to make Taiga feel like they’re the only two people in the room.

“You’re smiling,” Noel observes quietly.

“I’m not,” Taiga protests, immediately schooling his features into something more neutral.

But it’s too late—Noel’s knowing look tells him he’s been caught.

The afternoon drags on, each take more polished than the last. Taiga finds himself mesmerized by the way Jesse moves through the set, his presence filling every corner of the room.

When their eyes meet again, Jesse’s smile turns softer, more private, and Taiga has to look away.

This is getting ridiculous, he thinks, gripping his tablet tighter. He’s just doing his job. Stop acting like a teenager with a crush.

“And that’s a wrap!” Minagawa’s voice echoes through the room. “Great work, everyone!”

The crew bursts into applause, but Taiga barely notices. His attention fixes on Jesse, who’s already bouncing toward him with that infectious energy that makes him look like an oversized puppy.

“So?” Jesse grins, stopping inches from Taiga. “How’d I do?”

Heat crawls up Taiga’s neck again. He’s acutely aware of Noel’s knowing smirk and Minagawa’s not-so-subtle glances in their direction. “You were... competent.”

Jesse clutches his chest in mock offense. “Just competent? I poured my soul into that performance!”

“The metrics will tell us if it was effective,” Taiga says, but his lips twitch traitorously.

“Speaking of metrics…” Jesse leans closer, lowering his voice. “What are your metrics saying about dinner tonight? I know this amazing place in Nonbei Yokocho—”

The word “dinner” triggers a memory of this morning’s conversation. Hokuto mentioning the development team’s deadline. The dark circles under his eyes as he rushed out with barely dried hair.

Shit.

“I can’t,” Taiga says, grimacing. “I promised to pick up Ema-chan from preschool. Matsumura’s team is pulling overtime for the new update.”

Something flickers across Jesse’s face—not disappointment exactly, but a softness that makes Taiga’s chest tight. “Ah, right. The big release is coming up.”

“Yeah.” Taiga shifts his weight, fighting the urge to apologize. He shouldn’t have to apologize for helping out. It’s just practical. Logical. “Maybe another time?”

“Of course.” Jesse’s smile doesn’t dim. If anything, it grows warmer. “Tell Ema-chan I said hi.”

The genuine understanding in Jesse’s voice makes something twist in Taiga’s stomach. He should feel relieved that Jesse gets it.

Instead, he feels… unsettled. Like he’s standing on shifting ground.

“I will,” Taiga manages, grateful when the crew starts calling Jesse over for final checks.

Jesse squeezes his arm before walking away.

Taiga watches as Jesse gathers his things, his heart pounding against his ribs. The thought hits him like a system crash—sudden, jarring, terrifying.

He could invite Jesse over.

His throat tightens. The house has been his sanctuary, carefully guarded against the outside world. Even Yugo and Juri only visit by explicit invitation.

But Jesse…

Jesse isn’t just anyone anymore.

The realization makes his hands shake. He grips his tablet tighter, trying to steady himself.

“Ready to head out?” Jesse’s manager asks, checking his watch.

“Just need to grab my—”

“Wait.” The word escapes before Taiga can stop it. Both men turn to look at him, and he forces himself to continue. “Would you… would you like to help me watch Ema-chan tonight?”

Jesse freezes, his eyes widening.

The manager glances between them, clearly confused.

“At your house?” Jesse asks carefully, as if making sure he heard correctly.

Taiga’s chest constricts. He focuses on breathing, on keeping his voice steady. “Yeah. I mean, I’d have to check with Matsumura first, but…” He swallows hard, heat crawling up his neck. “You’re not just everyone else anymore.”

The words hang in the air, heavy with meaning.

Jesse’s expression softens into something that makes Taiga’s stomach flip. “Are you sure?” He steps closer, lowering his voice. “I know how private you are about your space?”

“I’m not sure about anything,” Taiga admits, the honesty burning his throat. “But I want to try.”

Jesse’s smile grows, warm and genuine. “Then I’d love to.”

“I’ll ask Matsumura,” Taiga says. “If he’s uncomfortable with it—”

“Of course.” Jesse nods. “No pressure.”

The understanding in his voice makes something twist in Taiga’s chest. What am I doing? he thinks, panic edging into his thoughts. Am I really ready for this?

But watching Jesse’s barely contained excitement as he reschedules with his manager, Taiga thinks maybe—just maybe—he is.

“You go ahead.” Jesse waves to his manager. “I'll walk Taiga back."

The manager nods and disappears down the hallway, leaving them alone in the corridor. Taiga’s heart thuds against his ribs as they fall into step together, their footsteps echoing off the walls.

The silence between them feels comfortable. Jesse’s presence beside him radiates warmth, and Taiga finds himself hyperaware of the slight brush of their shoulders as they walk.

This is ridiculous, Taiga thinks, his cheeks warming. We’ve been dating for two months. I shouldn’t feel like this just from walking together.

But he does. Each step makes his skin tingle with awareness.

The fluorescent lights cast long shadows ahead of them as they approach the glass doors leading to the open office space. Through the transparent panels, Taiga spots Hokuto hunched over his keyboard, surrounded by empty energy drink cans. The sight sends a pang through his chest.

Jesse slows his pace as they reach the doors. “I’ll wait for you at parking later?”

“Yeah,” Taiga says, his voice coming out softer than intended. “Thanks.”

Jesse’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles. He leans in, and before Taiga can process what’s happening, warm lips press against his cheek.

The contact lasts only a second, but it leaves Taiga’s skin burning. He stands frozen, his brain short-circuiting as Jesse pulls back with that devastating smile.

“See you later,” Jesse says, already turning away.

Taiga watches him disappear down the hallway, his hand hovering over his cheek where Jesse's kiss lingers like a brand. His heart pounds so loud he’s sure the entire office can hear it through the glass.

What just happened?

“Well, well, well...”

Taiga’s stomach drops at the familiar teasing tone. He turns slowly, already knowing what he’ll find.

Shime and Chaka lean against the doorframe, matching grins spreading across their faces like sharks that just spotted blood in the water.

“That was adorable,” Chaka coos, clasping his hands together dramatically.

Taiga blushes furiously. He forces his expression into something neutral, professional. “Don’t you two have work to do?”

“Oh, we’re working alright,” Shime says, pushing off the doorframe. “Working on getting all the juicy details about that little PDA moment we just witnessed.”

“It wasn’t—” Taiga starts, then catches himself. Arguing will only encourage them. He straightens his shoulders and walks past them toward the development team’s area, tablet clutched to his chest like a shield.

They trail after him like persistent puppies.

“Come on, Kyomo,” Chaka whines. “How long has that been going on?”

“The kiss looked pretty natural to me,” Shime adds with a theatrical wink. “Definitely not their first rodeo.”

Taiga’s face burns hotter. He quickens his pace, but it’s impossible to outrun office gossip—especially when they have legs and follow you around.

“Machu!” Chaka’s voice rings out across the office. “You’ll never guess what we just saw!”

Taiga’s steps falter.

Machu looks up from his workstation next to Hokuto’s desk, eyes bright with curiosity. Even Hokuto’s fingers pause over his keyboard for a fraction of a second before resuming their rapid-fire typing.

“Jesse just gave our Kyomo the sweetest little goodbye kiss,” Shime announces, loud enough for the entire floor to hear. “Right on the cheek, like something out of a drama!”

Machu’s eyes widen. “Really? That’s so—”

“Nothing,” Taiga cuts in sharply. “It was nothing.”

He refuses to look at Hokuto, whose typing has grown noticeably more aggressive. The sharp clack of keys punctuates the air like tiny gunshots.

“Doesn’t sound like nothing,” Chaka sing-songs. “Two months of dating, and now he’s getting kisses at work? Our little Kyomo is growing up!”

An empty energy drink can crunches under Hokuto’s grip.

“Don’t you three have actual work?” Taiga’s voice comes out sharper than intended. He forces himself to breathe, to maintain some semblance of professionalism. “I need to discuss something with Matsumura.”

“Ooh, discuss.” Chaka wiggles his eyebrows. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

“Out.” Taiga points toward the door. “Now.”

Shime raises his hands in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. We know when we’re not wanted.” He tugs at Chaka’s sleeve. “Come on, let’s give the roommates some privacy.”

“But Machu—” Chaka starts.

“Has a deadline,” Machu pipes up, not even trying to hide his interest as he swivels his chair to face them. “Can’t move. Critical bug fixes.”

Perfect. Taiga’s jaw clenches. Of course the one member of the Chaos Trio who can't leave would be sitting right next to Hokuto. He considers waiting, but the clock on his tablet shows 3:45 PM. Ema’s pickup time is approaching.

“Matsumura.” Taiga keeps his voice neutral, professional.

The clacking of keys continues unabated.

“About picking up Ema-chan today...”

The typing pauses. Hokuto’s shoulders tense slightly, but he doesn’t turn around.

“I offered Jesse to come with me,” Taiga continues, hyperaware of Machu’s poorly concealed excitement. “I wanted to check if that’s okay with you.”

The silence stretches. Machu’s eyes dart between them like he’s watching a tennis match.

“Ema likes Jesse-san.” Hokuto’s voice comes out flat, emotionless. The keyboard clacking resumes, harder than before. “It’s fine.”

Something twists in Taiga’s chest at Hokuto’s tone. He’s heard Hokuto stressed, tired, even angry—but never this cold.

“Are you sure?” The words slip out before Taiga can stop them. “If you’re not comfortable—”

“I said it’s fine.” Hokuto’s fingers fly across the keyboard, his shoulders rigid. “I’m busy.”

Machu’s mouth forms a small ‘o’ of surprise.

Heat crawls up Taiga’s neck—from embarrassment or frustration, he’s not sure. “Right. Sorry to disturb you.”

The aggressive typing is his only answer.

🏠

The winter scenery blurs past the car window, a monochrome palette of grays and whites that matches Taiga’s mood. He replays Hokuto’s clipped tone in his mind, the sharp staccato of his typing like tiny accusations.

It’s just work stress, Taiga tells himself, watching his breath fog up the glass. The development team has three major deadlines this week. Anyone would be tense.

But the memory of Hokuto’s rigid shoulders and that emotionless voice nags at him. In all their two months of living together, he’s never heard Hokuto sound so… distant.

“You’re thinking awfully hard over there.” Jesse’s voice cuts through his brooding. “Everything okay?”

Taiga straightens in the leather seat, forcing his features into something less troubled. “Just work stuff.”

Jesse hums knowingly as he navigates the sleek company car through afternoon traffic. “The dev team’s been pretty intense lately. I heard Matsumoto-san’s really pushing for those updates before the new campaign launches.”

“Yeah,” Taiga agrees, latching onto the excuse. “That must be it.”

The car slows to a stop in the parking lot beside First Steps Academy. Through the tinted windows, Taiga can see parents already gathering at the gates, their coats and scarves pulled tight against February’s chill.

“Want to come with?” Taiga asks. “Ema-chan would be excited to see you.”

Jesse’s smile turns apologetic. “Better not. Last time I visited the school, it took half an hour before you could pull me away from the parents.” He runs a hand through his perfectly styled hair. “Besides, pickup time should be about the family, you know?”

Something warm and uncertain flutters in Taiga’s chest at the word’ family.’ He pushes it aside, nodding as he reaches for his coat.

“I’ll wait here,” Jesse says, his voice gentle. “Take your time.”

Taiga adjusts his scarf and steps out into the biting cold. The wind immediately finds every gap in his clothing, making him shiver despite his layers. He hurries toward the gates, his mind still caught between Jesse’s casual use of ‘family’ and Hokuto’s icy dismissal.

The school doors burst open, releasing a flood of excited chatter and tiny footsteps. Parents sweep forward to collect their children, creating a sea of embraces and animated conversations about the day’s adventures.

Taiga hangs back, hands buried in his coat pockets. His breath forms little clouds in the cold air as he scans the crowd for a familiar face.

Through the gates, he spots Shintaro kneeling beside Ema, helping her tiny arms into her pink winter coat.

“Tiger-san!” Ema’s delighted shriek pierces the afternoon air. She bolts toward him, coat flapping half-buttoned behind her like a cape. Her backpack bounces wildly with each step.

Taiga barely has time to brace himself before she crashes into his legs, wrapping her arms around his knees. The impact nearly throws him off balance.

“Hey, Ema-chan.” He steadies himself, patting her head. Her hair is staticky from her wool hat, and it clings to his fingers. “Ready to go home?”

“Where’s Papa?” Ema tilts her head back, searching past him with expectant eyes.

“Working late today.” The words taste stale on his tongue. How many times has he said that this week?

Shintaro approaches with Ema’s mittens in hand, his ever-present smile warm despite the cold. “Matsumura-san’s been quite busy lately, hasn’t he?”

“Deadlines.” Taiga shrugs, aiming for casual. He focuses on buttoning Ema’s coat properly, grateful for the distraction.

“Well, we’ve been busy too, haven’t we, Ema-chan?” Shintaro crouches down to her level, holding out her mittens. “Show Tiger-san what you learned today.”

Ema breaks into an enthusiastic twirl, her arms spread wide. “We’re doing a butterfly dance! For the big show!”

“The spring recital,” Shintaro explains, helping Ema with her mittens. “The children are already practicing. It’s earlier this year since it marks the end of the academic year.” He reaches into his bag and pulls out a crisp white envelope. “Actually, I have the invitations here.”

Ema bounces on her toes. “Two tickets! One for Papa and one for Tiger-san!”

Taiga accepts the envelope, something tight and uncomfortable settling in his chest. “Both of us?”

“Ema-chan was very insistent.” Shintaro’s smile turns knowing. “She said, and I quote, ‘Tiger-san has to come because he makes the best faces during my performances.’”

Heat creeps up Taiga’s neck despite the cold. He tucks the envelope into his coat pocket, unsure how to respond. The weight of it feels heavier than paper should.

“I do butterfly good,” Ema declares, demonstrating with another wobbly spin. Her backpack swings dangerously close to another parent passing by.

“Well,” Taiga corrects automatically, then catches himself. Is it okay to correct a five-year-old’s grammar this early? “Let’s get you home before you knock someone over with those moves.”

Taiga takes Ema’s mittened hand, carefully navigating around the clusters of parents and children still milling about the entrance. Her backpack bumps against his leg with each bouncing step.

“Hey, guess what?” He glances down at her excited face. “Uncle Jesse is going to hang out with us at the house today.”

Ema’s eyes widen. “Really?” She tugs on his hand, nearly making him stumble. “Can he do more magic? Like at my party?”

The memory of Jesse pulling scarves from thin air while Ema and the other kids shrieked with delight, brings an unexpected smile to Taiga’s face. “I’m sure he’ll help if you ask nicely.”

“I practice lots.” Ema nods solemnly. “But the scarves get stuck sometimes.”

“That’s because you stuff them in your sleeves instead of using the special pockets,” Taiga points out, remembering the rainbow of fabric she’d pulled from her sweater last week.

They reach the parking lot, and Taiga spots Jesse’s car, its sleek black exterior a stark contrast to the gray afternoon. He opens the back door, helping Ema with her backpack.

“Uncle Jesse!” Ema practically vibrates with excitement as she climbs in. “Tiger-san says you can help with magic!”

Jesse turns in his seat, his million-watt smile somehow warmer than usual. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite assistant! Have you been practicing those card tricks I showed you?”

“Yes! But...” Ema’s face scrunches up. “The cards get all messy when I shuffle.”

“That’s okay,” Jesse laughs. “Even the best magicians drop cards sometimes. Right, Taiga?”

Taiga slides into the passenger seat, watching their interaction in the rearview mirror. There’s something about seeing Jesse like this – playful and genuine, without his usual polished performance – that makes his chest feel tight.

This could work, a small voice whispers in his head. This could be normal.

But then he thinks of Hokuto’s cold shoulder this morning, of the invitation burning a hole in his pocket, and the moment fractures like ice under pressure.

🏠

The warm pizza boxes weigh heavy in Taiga’s arms as he nudges the front door closed with his hip. He pauses in the entryway, a strange warmth spreading through his chest at the sight before him.

Jesse sits cross-legged on the living room floor, his designer blazer discarded over the couch as he leans forward, watching Ema’s clumsy attempt at a card trick. Her tiny fingers fumble with the deck, and half the cards scatter across the carpet.

“Oops.” Ema’s face scrunches up in concentration. “They’re slippery today.”

“That’s because they’re magic cards,” Jesse says with complete seriousness. “Sometimes they try to escape. Watch this.” He scoops up the fallen cards with practiced ease, his movements fluid and graceful. With a dramatic flourish, he fans them out, revealing the ace of hearts that Ema had chosen earlier. “Ta-da!”

Ema’s delighted gasp fills the room. “How did you do that?”

“A magician never reveals his secrets.” Jesse winks, then catches Taiga watching them. His smile softens into something more private. “But I think someone brought us something better than magic tricks.”

“Pizza!” Ema scrambles up, cards forgotten.

“Hold on, Ema-chan.” Taiga sets the boxes on the coffee table, already anticipating her next move. “We’re not eating on the floor.”

“Actually...” Jesse’s eyes sparkle with mischief. “Why don’t we have a picnic right here? It’ll be more fun than the dining room.”

Taiga’s automatic refusal dies in his throat. The dining room suddenly feels too formal, too wrong for tonight.

“Fine.” He sighs, already wondering if he’ll regret this decision. “But we need drinks. Jesse, could you grab the orange juice from the fridge? Glasses are in the cabinet above the coffee maker.”

“Sir, yes sir.” Jesse gives a mock salute that makes Ema giggle. He heads toward the kitchen with the confidence of someone who’s been here before, though Taiga notices his slight hesitation at the cabinet choices.

Jesse returns with three glasses tucked between his fingers, the orange juice bottle cradled in his other arm. He sets everything on the coffee table with theatrical flair, as if serving royalty at a five-star restaurant.

“Your beverages, distinguished guests.” He pours the juice with exaggerated precision, making Ema bounce with anticipation.

When did he get so comfortable here? The thought catches Taiga off guard. Jesse moves through his space with an ease that should be unsettling, but somehow isn’t.

“Everyone ready?” Jesse holds up his glass. “Time for a proper toast.”

Ema grabs her glass with both hands, liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. Taiga steadies it before disaster strikes.

“To our lovely pizza party.” Jesse grins. “May the crusts be crispy and the company divine.”

“Cheers!” Ema thrusts her glass forward with such enthusiasm that Taiga has to catch it again.

The glasses clink together, and Taiga finds himself smiling. Jesse’s theatrical nature somehow makes things feel less forced, more playful.

Steam rises from the pizza as Taiga helps Ema with her slice. “Blow on it first,” he reminds her, already reaching for the tissues. “It’s too hot.”

Ema puffs her cheeks and blows dramatically, sending a strand of cheese dangling off the edge. Taiga catches it with a tissue before it can drop on the carpet.

“Again,” he instructs, watching her face for signs of impatience. “We don’t want you burning your tongue.”

She complies, though her eyes never leave the slice. The moment Taiga nods his approval, she takes an enormous bite, marinara sauce immediately smearing across her chin.

“Slow down, princess.” Taiga dabs at her face with a fresh tissue. “The pizza isn’t going anywhere.”

A soft chuckle draws his attention. Jesse watches them with warmth in his eyes, his own slice untouched on his plate. Something in his expression makes heat rise to Taiga’s cheeks.

“What?” he asks, perhaps a bit more defensively than intended.

“Nothing.” Jesse’s smile widens. “Just... you’re really good with her, you know that?”

The compliment settles awkwardly in Taiga’s chest. He focuses on wiping another smear of sauce from Ema’s chin, unsure how to respond. It’s not like he’s doing anything special. Anyone would make sure a kid doesn’t burn themselves or make a complete mess.

But Jesse’s gaze lingers, soft and appreciative, making Taiga’s skin tingle with awareness. He busies himself with his own slice, trying to ignore the way his heart stutters when Jesse’s knee brushes against his as they sit cross-legged on the floor.

“All done!” Ema announces, pizza sauce still smeared at the corner of her mouth despite Taiga’s best efforts. “I can put on my pajamas by myself now.”

“You sure?” Taiga eyes her dubiously.

“I’m a big girl.” She puffs out her chest, chin tilted up in determination. “Papa says practice makes perfect.”

“Alright.” Taiga can’t help but smile at her fierce independence. “But call if you need help.”

Ema races up the stairs, her footsteps thundering despite her tiny size.

Taiga winces at the noise, making a mental note to remind her about indoor feet versus outdoor feet. Again.

Jesse gathers the used tissues, humming softly as he wipes down the coffee table. The domesticity of the moment strikes Taiga as oddly comfortable. He busies himself with the leftover pizza, carefully arranging the slices in a container.

Matsumura might want some when he gets home, he thinks, then feels a sharp twist in his chest.

Hokuto had barely looked at him when he talked to him at work, responding with clipped answers before turning back to his monitor. The cold shoulder treatment stings more than Taiga wants to admit.

“You okay?” Jesse’s voice cuts through his thoughts. “You went quiet there for a second.”

“Just tired.” Taiga forces his attention back to the container, snapping the lid with perhaps more force than necessary. “Long day at work.”

Jesse hums noncommittally, but his eyes are too perceptive.

Taiga turns away, gathering dirty plates to avoid that knowing gaze. He doesn’t want to think about Hokuto right now, wondering what he did to deserve that cold shoulder.

It feels like his father again, like Shuichiro…

“Need help with those?” Jesse asks, already reaching for a plate.

“I got it.” Taiga stacks them efficiently. “You’re the guest.”

“A guest who helped make the mess.” Jesse’s fingers brush against his as he takes half the stack anyway. “Let me help.”

The kitchen feels smaller with both of them in it. Jesse’s presence is warm and solid beside him as they load the dishwasher, their movements falling into an easy rhythm. It should feel natural. Jesse is attentive, playful, everything Taiga thought he wanted.

So why does his chest feel tight when he closes the refrigerator, the container of pizza sitting on the middle shelf like an accusation? Why does his mind keep drifting to Hokuto’s turned back, to the wall of silence between them?

“Tiger-san!” Ema’s voice carries down the stairs. “I did it!”

“Coming to inspect!” Taiga calls back, grateful for the interruption.

He catches Jesse watching him again, that same soft expression from earlier making his skin prickle with unease.

Stop overthinking, he scolds himself. This is good. This is simple. This is what you wanted.

But as he heads upstairs to check on Ema, the weight in his chest refuses to lift. The image of Hokuto’s distant expression lingers, an unwelcome shadow over what should have been a perfect evening.

Taiga opens the guest room door, ready to fix whatever wardrobe disaster awaits him. Instead, he finds Ema perched on the bed in her pink pajamas, Mr. Bunny and Waddles clutched to her chest. Every button is fastened correctly.

“See?” She beams at him. “I told you I could do it.”

“Well done, princess.” The pride in her voice tugs at something in his chest. He checks the buttons anyway, more out of habit than necessity. “Ready for bed?”

Ema nods, already scooting under the covers. She arranges her stuffed animals with careful precision – Mr. Bunny on the left, Waddles on the right. Taiga tucks the blanket around her, making sure both toys are properly covered.

“Tiger-san?” Ema’s eyes are bright in the soft glow of her nightlight. “Can you tell me a story about Zoomie?”

Taiga glances at the robot vacuum docked in the corner. “What kind of story?”

“Hmm.” She snuggles deeper into her pillow. “About Zoomie making friends.”

Great. An impromptu story about household appliances.

Taiga settles on the edge of the bed, buying time. “Well... once upon a time, Zoomie was very happy living alone.”

“All alone?” Ema’s voice carries a hint of concern.

“He liked it that way.” Taiga watches the vacuum’s charging light blink steadily. “Everything was neat and organized. He knew exactly when to clean and where to go.”

“That sounds boring,” Ema mumbles into Mr. Bunny’s ear.

“Maybe.” Taiga’s chest tightens. “But then one day, a... coffee maker moved in.”

“Was the coffee maker nice?”

“Very nice.” The words catch in his throat. “And really good at making coffee. But Zoomie wasn’t sure about sharing his space.”

Ema’s eyes are already drooping. “Did they become friends?”

“They...” Taiga trails off, realizing he’s projecting too much onto a damn vacuum cleaner.

But Ema’s breathing has evened out, her grips on Mr. Bunny and Waddles loosening.

He carefully stands, adjusting the blanket one last time. The nightlight casts soft shadows across her peaceful face as he turns off the main light. He pauses in the doorway, watching her sleep.

When did this become normal? The thought hits him as he closes the door quietly. This routine, these bedtime stories, the way his chest aches with something unnamed when she calls him Tiger-san.

Taiga heads back downstairs, his unfinished story about Zoomie echoing in his mind.

Jesse lounges on the couch when Taiga returns, his long legs stretched out and a lazy smile playing on his lips. The sight should make Taiga’s heart race. Instead, he feels a strange hollowness in his chest.

“Sorry about all this.” Taiga gestures vaguely at the living room, still bearing evidence of their impromptu pizza picnic. “Not exactly a romantic date.”

“Come here.” Jesse pats the space beside him.

Taiga hesitates for a fraction of a second before settling next to him. The couch dips with their combined weight, bringing them closer than he intended. Jesse’s arm slides around his shoulders, warm and solid.

“You know what I loved about tonight?” Jesse’s voice is soft, intimate. “Seeing you relaxed. No walls up, no careful distance. Just you, being yourself.”

Heat creeps up Taiga’s neck. He stares at the coffee table, where a stray playing card lies forgotten. “I wasn’t doing anything special.”

“That’s exactly my point.” Jesse’s thumb traces small circles on Taiga’s shoulder. “Thank you for letting me in. I know your house is your sanctuary.”

The words hit too close to home. Taiga’s sanctuary has been invaded twice now — first by Hokuto and Ema, and now by Jesse. But where Hokuto’s presence felt like a disruption, Jesse slots into his space with practiced ease, like he’s auditioning for a role he’s studied carefully.

“It’s just a house,” Taiga mumbles, even as his mind catalogs the changes: toys in the corner, Ema’s drawings on the fridge, the lingering scent of Hokuto’s cooking...

Jesse’s fingers find his chin, gently turning Taiga’s face toward him. His eyes are warm, full of something that makes Taiga’s stomach twist. “You’re cute when you’re deflecting compliments.”

Cute. The word echoes in Taiga’s head, reminding him of another conversation, another person’s quiet presence in his kitchen.

He pushes the thought away, focusing on Jesse’s face inches from his own.

This is good. This is simple. This is what dating should feel like — easy affection, no complicated emotions, no messy entanglements.

So why does his chest feel tight when Jesse leans closer?

“Can I kiss you?” Jesse’s breath ghosts across Taiga’s lips, the question barely a whisper.

Taiga nods, not trusting his voice. His mind races with too many thoughts, too many complications.

He shuts them down, one by one, until there’s nothing left but the warmth of Jesse’s hand on his jaw and the anticipation building in his chest.

Jesse’s lips brush against his, feather-light and questioning. The gentleness of it makes Taiga’s breath catch. He leans into the touch, chasing the simplicity of physical connection.

This is what he needs — something uncomplicated, something that doesn’t make his chest ache with unnamed emotions.

The kiss deepens, and Taiga’s hands find Jesse’s shoulders, pulling him closer. Heat builds between them as Jesse’s tongue traces his bottom lip. Taiga opens for him eagerly, wanting more, needing to drown out the thoughts that threaten to surface.

His fingers tangle in Jesse’s hair, and he shifts to straddle Jesse’s lap, but gentle hands on his hips stop him.

“Hey.” Jesse breaks the kiss, his breathing uneven. “Let’s slow down.”

Taiga freezes, suddenly aware of how desperate he must seem. Heat floods his cheeks as he tries to pull back, but Jesse’s hands keep him close.

“I want to do this right,” Jesse murmurs, his thumbs drawing circles on Taiga’s hipbones. “No rushing. No using this to avoid whatever’s going on in that head of yours.”

Damn him for being so perceptive. Taiga looks away, but Jesse’s hand cups his cheek, guiding him back.

“Stay with me,” Jesse whispers, and then he’s kissing Taiga again, slower this time. Each brush of lips feels deliberate, measured, like Jesse’s trying to map every reaction.

Taiga forces himself to match Jesse’s pace, to feel each moment instead of chasing oblivion. Jesse’s mouth is soft against his, patient in a way that makes Taiga’s chest tight with something that feels dangerously like gratitude.

The kiss stays gentle, controlled, and Taiga’s mind betrays him by wondering if this is what it feels like to be cherished.

A sudden thud makes Taiga jerk away from Jesse’s lips. His heart hammers against his ribs as he turns toward the sound.

Hokuto stands in the living room entrance, already bending to pick up the bag he’d dropped. The sight of him hits Taiga like a physical blow — he looks exhausted, his suit wrinkled from a long day at work.

Their eyes meet for a fraction of a second before Hokuto looks away.

Heat crawls up Taiga’s neck. He scrambles away from Jesse, nearly tripping in his haste. The domesticity of moments ago shatters, leaving him oddly exposed. Like being caught doing something shameful, though he has every right to kiss someone in his own house.

“Sorry about that.” Jesse’s voice carries an easy laugh, seemingly unbothered. “Didn’t mean to give you a show.”

Hokuto’s face goes impossibly pale before smoothing into that blank mask Taiga’s come to hate. “No, I apologize for interrupting.” His voice is flat, controlled. “I’ll head upstairs.”

“Wait—” The word escapes before Taiga can stop it. He doesn’t know what he wants to say, just that the growing distance between them feels wrong.

But Hokuto is already moving, each step measured and precise. His shoulders are too straight, his movements too careful. It reminds Taiga of how he looked that first night after the fire — like he’s trying to take up as little space as possible.

Jesse’s warm hand finds Taiga’s lower back. “I should get going. It’s getting late.”

Taiga nods, not trusting his voice. His skin feels too tight, like he’s wearing someone else’s body.

Jesse gathers his blazer from the couch, movements unhurried. He draws Taiga close, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. “Thanks for tonight. The pizza picnic was perfect.”

The kiss should make Taiga’s heart race. Instead, his eyes keep drifting to the stairs where Hokuto disappeared. The container of leftover pizza sits heavy in his mind — he’d saved it for Hokuto, but now the thought makes his chest ache.

“I’ll text you when I get home?” Jesse’s thumb brushes Taiga’s cheek, drawing his attention back.

“Yeah.” Taiga manages a smile that feels wooden.

Jesse kisses him again, gentle and sweet, before heading to the door. His footsteps fade, followed by the soft click of the lock engaging.

Taiga stands alone in his living room, the ghost of Jesse’s kiss on his lips, wondering why he feels like he’s done something unforgivable.

Fix this. The thought surfaces with familiar urgency. His fingers twitch with the need to smooth things over, to restore balance.

He moves to the kitchen on autopilot, muscle memory from years of managing his father’s moods guiding his actions. The container of pizza feels heavy in his hands as he takes it from the fridge. He transfers a slice to a plate, watching the microwave numbers count down.

The mechanical whir fills the kitchen, giving him something to focus on besides the knot in his stomach. Steam rises when he opens the door, carrying the scent of melted cheese and tomato sauce.

His feet feel like lead as he climbs the stairs. Each step brings him closer to the guest room, to another closed door, another wall between him and someone he’s trying to reach.

Taiga’s knuckles hover over the wood for a moment before he forces himself to knock. The sound echoes in the quiet hallway, too loud, too intrusive.

Hokuto opens the door, and Taiga’s words die in his throat. That blank expression is back, the one that reminds him of Shuichiro’s carefully constructed masks.

“I saved you some pizza.” Taiga holds out the plate like a peace offering, hating how his voice sounds small and uncertain.

“I’m not hungry.” Hokuto’s tone is flat, controlled. Empty.

The plate feels ridiculous in Taiga’s hands now. He watches Hokuto start to close the door and panic flutters in his chest — the same desperate need to fix things that used to drive him to chase after his father’s approval.

“Wait.” His free hand shoots out, catching the edge of the door. “Did something happen? Did I... did I do something wrong?”

The words taste bitter, familiar. How many times has he asked this question, trying to decode someone else’s silence?

Hokuto’s expression doesn’t change, but something flickers in his eyes. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Then why—” Taiga swallows hard. “You can talk to me. If something’s bothering you, I’ll listen.”

“I’ve already inconvenienced you enough.” Hokuto’s voice carries an edge now, sharp enough to cut. “And you’re not family. You don’t need to listen to my problems.”

The words hit like a physical blow. Taiga takes an involuntary step back, the plate wobbling in his grip.

“Goodnight, Kyomoto.” Hokuto’s voice is quiet, final.

The door closes with a soft click that somehow hurts more than if he’d slammed it.

Taiga stands frozen, holding a plate of pizza, feeling like he’s sixteen again — watching his father’s back as he walks away, listening to Shuichiro’s silence on the other end of the phone.

You’re not family.

The words echo in his head, each repetition carving something hollow in his chest.