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.

🏠

The granola scatters across the counter as Hokuto’s trembling hands miss the bowl.

Damn it. He sweeps the fallen clusters back into the container, hyperaware of every sound from upstairs.

No footsteps yet. Just Ema’s cheerful humming from the living room, something about butterflies and rainbows that she probably learned at preschool.

His stomach churns. The memory of last night burns fresh—Taiga and Jesse on the couch, lips pressed together. The way his own voice had turned to ice.

We’re not family.

Hokuto measures out granola, his movements mechanical. What was I thinking? He had no right to react that way. Taiga and Jesse are dating. It’s none of his business who Taiga kisses in his own home—the home he so generously opened to them when they had nowhere else to go.

“Papa, you’re spilling again.”

He blinks. Granola overflows onto the counter. “Sorry, sweetheart.”

He brushes the excess into his palm, wondering if they should start looking for a new place today. His salary won’t stretch far in this neighborhood, but maybe if he picks up extra projects…

The ceiling creaks overhead.

Hokuto’s hand jerks, splashing milk onto the counter.

Get it together. He grabs a dishcloth, wiping furiously as footsteps approach the stairs.

“Papa, you made a mess!” Ema giggles.

“I did, didn’t I?” His laugh sounds hollow.

He should apologize to Taiga. Clear the air. But what would he say? Sorry I acted like a jealous teenager when I saw you with your boyfriend?

More footsteps.

Hokuto’s pulse quickens. He busies himself with wiping imaginary spots off the counter, shoulders tensing with each approaching step.

The morning sun feels too bright, too exposing. His white-knuckled grip on the dishcloth betrays the casual air he’s trying to project.

“Papa, you already cleaned there,” Ema mouths through a mouthful of granola.

Footsteps reach the bottom of the stairs, and Hokuto’s heart lurches.

Taiga appears on the doorway, hair tousled from sleep, still in his faded gray pajamas.

Their eyes meet, and the air grows thick with unspoken words.

Say something. Apologize. Fix this.

But Hokuto’s throat closes up as memories of last night flood back—the hurt in Taiga’s eyes, the harshness of his own voice.

“Tiger-san!” Ema’s bright voice cuts through the tension. “Good morning!”

A soft smile curves Taiga’s lips as he looks at Ema, and relief washes over Hokuto like a cool wave. The knot in his chest loosens slightly. He could handle Taiga being angry with him—deserves it, really—but the thought of Ema losing her bond with Taiga had kept him awake half the night.

“I, uh—” Hokuto clears his throat, gesturing at the simple breakfast spread. “Sorry it's just granola. With the deadlines this week, I haven’t had time to...”

He trails off, painfully aware of how domestic this sounds, how presumptuous after last night’s outburst.

Taiga moves toward the coffee machine, his shoulder brushing past Hokuto’s. The brief contact sends electricity through Hokuto’s skin.

“It’s fine,” Taiga says, reaching for a mug. “I don’t mind.”

The coffee machine whirs to life, its familiar sound filling the awkward silence. Hokuto watches Taiga’s hands as he pours his coffee—steady, unlike Hokuto’s own trembling fingers.

We’re not family. The words echo in his head, sharper in the morning light. He’d spoken them like a weapon, but they’d cut him deeper than anyone.

Despite his better judgment, Hokuto reaches for a third bowl. The ceramic feels cool against his sweaty palms as he fills it with granola. His movements are careful, measured, as he sets it in front of Taiga.

Taiga nods his thanks, and they settle into their seats.

The kitchen feels smaller somehow, the space between them charged with unsaid things. Hokuto picks at his breakfast, hyperaware of every clink of spoons against bowls, every sip of coffee.

They used to talk during breakfast. About deadlines and meetings, about who would pick up Ema if Hokuto had to stay late. Now the silence stretches between them like a physical thing.

“And then Yuki-chan said we’re going to wear butterfly wings!” Ema’s voice fills the quiet. She bounces in her seat, milk splashing dangerously close to the edge of her bowl. “Tiger-san, will you come see me be a butterfly?”

Hokuto’s spoon freezes halfway to his mouth.

“Actually,” Taiga says, his voice careful and neutral, “Morimoto-sensei gave me tickets yesterday. When we picked up Ema-chan.”

We. The word twists in Hokuto’s gut.

He forces himself to take another bite, trying to forget how he felt when Taiga asked him if it was okay if Jesse came with him to pick up Ema. How natural they must have looked together, picking up Ema like—

Stop it. He swallows hard, the granola tasteless in his mouth.

“Two tickets,” Taiga continues, not quite meeting Hokuto’s eyes. “For both of us.”

Hokuto stares at his bowl, watching milk pool around islands of granola. His chest aches with something that feels too much like hope. “That’s... thoughtful of him.”

“I’ll put them in your room later,” Taiga says quickly, then corrects himself. “The guest room, I mean.”

The words hang in the air, a reminder of boundaries crossed and redrawn. Hokuto nods, not trusting his voice.

Soon, Hokuto stacks the empty bowls, painfully aware of Taiga still nursing his coffee at the table. The dishes clatter too loudly in his hands as he carries them to the sink.

“All done!” Ema pushes back her chair with a screech. “Can I go get my bag now?”

He nods, grateful for the excuse to focus on loading the dishwasher.

Behind him, Taiga’s spoon scrapes against ceramic—he’s always been a slow eater, savoring each bite while scrolling through his phone. The familiar sound twists something in Hokuto’s chest.

The dishwasher’s door creaks as he pulls it open. He arranges the bowls with careful precision, buying time until Ema returns. His fingers tremble slightly as he measures out the dish soap.

“I’m ready!” Ema bounds back into the kitchen, backpack bouncing. “Tiger-san, look at my new hair clips! Papa got them last week!”

“Very sparkly,” Taiga says, his voice warm in that way it only gets with Ema.

Hokuto’s throat tightens. He closes the dishwasher with more force than necessary, the slam making him wince.

“Time to go, sweetheart.” He grabs his bag from the counter. “Say goodbye to—”

The words catch. What should he call Taiga now? After last night?

“Bye-bye, Tiger-san!” Ema waves enthusiastically. “Will you help me practice magic tricks when I get home?”

The silence stretches for a heartbeat too long. Hokuto doesn’t dare turn around.

“We’ll see,” Taiga finally says. “Have a good day at school.”

Ema’s small hand slips into Hokuto’s as they step out into the morning air. The street is quiet, plum blossom petals scattered across the sidewalk like pale confetti.

They walk in silence for half a block before Ema speaks.

“Papa, did you and Tiger-san have a fight?”

Hokuto nearly stumbles. Of course she noticed—she notices everything these days. Her question hits him like a punch to the gut, forcing him to confront the mess he’s made.

“What makes you think that?” He tries to keep his voice light, but the words come out strained.

“You didn’t look at each other at breakfast.” She swings their joined hands. “And Tiger-san’s smile was different. Like when Yuki-chan broke her favorite crayon.”

Sad, she means.

Hokuto’s chest constricts. He’d caused that—turned Taiga’s usual morning smile into something brittle and forced.

“I...” He swallows hard. “I said something that hurt Tiger-san’s feelings.”

A plum blossom petal drifts down, landing in Ema’s hair. She looks up at him with those serious eyes that sometimes seem too wise for her age.

“Then you should say sorry.”

Hokuto gently brushes the petal from her hair, wishing everything could be as simple as his daughter makes it sound. “I wish I could, sweetheart.”

“Why can’t you?”

The station comes into view, already bustling with morning commuters. Hokuto tries to find words that a five-year-old might understand, when he barely understands his own tangled feelings.

“Sometimes...” He takes a deep breath. “Sometimes saying sorry isn’t enough. Sometimes we hurt people in ways that are hard to fix.”

“But Tiger-san likes us,” Ema insists. “He knows magic tricks and—”

“I know, sweetheart.” Hokuto’s voice cracks slightly. “I know.”

They join the crowd heading toward the station entrance, surrounded by the click of heels and murmur of conversations. Hokuto holds Ema’s hand a little tighter, anchoring himself in her unwavering trust that everything will work out fine.

If only she knew that her Papa had let his heart run away with him, had dared to imagine something more than temporary shelter, more than gratitude for a coworker’s kindness.

That he’d forgotten, for a dangerous moment, that Taiga’s heart belonged to someone else.

🏠

The line of code blurs before Hokuto’s eyes. He blinks hard, trying to focus on the string of errors flooding his screen.

Next to him, Machu’s keyboard clacks at a frantic pace, punctuated by the hollow thud of another empty energy drink can hitting the desk.

“Just... one more try.” Machu’s voice sounds raspy, his usual cheerful tone replaced by something manic. His hands shake as he reaches for his thirteenth—or is it fourteenth?—can.

Hokuto glances at his coworker, noting the dark circles under his eyes and yesterday’s wrinkled shirt. The debugging marathon has stretched through the night, with Machu refusing to leave until they crack this particularly nasty bug in the latest update.

“Matsukura.” Wakana’s sharp voice cuts through the quiet hum of computers. She stands at the entrance to their workspace, arms crossed. “When was the last time you slept?”

Machu’s fingers freeze over his keyboard. “I’m fine, Matsumoto-buchou. Just need to—”

His hand trembles violently, sending his mouse clattering to the floor.

“Hospital. Now.” Wakana’s tone leaves no room for argument. “Your heart rate is clearly through the roof.”

“But the bug—” Machu protests weakly, his face pale under the office fluorescents.

“I’ll take it,” Hokuto finds himself saying. The words surprise him, but as soon as they’re out, he knows they’re right. “I’ve already mapped out most of the error patterns. It makes sense for me to continue.”

Machu shakes his head, reaching for his fallen mouse. “You’ve got your own workload, and Ema-chan—”

“I’m ahead on my tasks.” Hokuto pulls up his progress tracker, showing the nearly completed list. The late nights at home, after Ema’s gone to bed, have at least been productive. “And I can handle the extra debugging."

Wakana studies him carefully. “What about picking up Ema-chan?”

His stomach tightens at the question. Usually, he’d ask Taiga, but after this morning... He pushes the thought away. “I’ll figure something out.”

“Matsumura...” Machu starts, but another violent tremor runs through him.

“Go,” Hokuto says firmly, already pulling Machu’s debugging notes toward him. “Before you end up coding from a hospital bed.”

Wakana nods approvingly. “I’ll call you a taxi.” She turns to Hokuto. “Are you sure about this? The deadline—”

“Is manageable.” He’s already scanning Machu’s latest attempts, identifying where the code started to go wrong. “I’ve handled worse time crunches.”

Machu slowly pushes back from his desk, his movements unsteady. “I owe you one.”

“Just get some rest.” Hokuto forces a small smile, trying not to show how much the idea of owing favors makes his chest ache. “And maybe switch to decaf.”

As Wakana steers a shaky Machu toward the elevator, Hokuto’s gaze drifts to the marketing department. He spots Taiga leaning over Noel’s desk, both of them nodding as Minagawa gestures at something on the laptop he’s carrying.

The familiar sight of Taiga’s focused expression sends an uncomfortable twinge through Hokuto’s chest.

Get it together. He needs to focus on what matters—getting Ema from school. His daughter shouldn’t suffer because of his... whatever this is. The thought of approaching Taiga makes his skin prickle with the memory of this morning’s tense breakfast, but what choice does he have?

Hokuto watches Minagawa pat Taiga’s shoulder and head back to his desk. Noel returns to his desk, leaving Taiga alone with his laptop.

Now or never.

His legs feel heavier with each step toward the marketing area. The usual buzz of office noise fades to a dull hum in his ears as he approaches Taiga’s desk. His throat tightens. How did something as simple as asking for help become so difficult?

“Excuse me.” His voice comes out rougher than intended. He clears his throat, hyper-aware of how Taiga’s shoulders tense at the sound. “Could I have a moment?”

Taiga looks up, his expression carefully neutral. The same mask he wears in client meetings.

“About Ema...” The words stick in Hokuto’s throat. He forces them out anyway. “Machu’s been sent to the hospital—too many energy drinks. I took over his debugging project, and with the deadline...” He trails off, hating how each word feels like an admission of failure.

Taiga’s neutral expression cracks slightly, concern flickering across his features. “Is Machu okay?”

“Just needs rest.” Hokuto’s fingers fidget with the hem of his sleeve. “But I need to stay late to fix this bug. Could you...?”

Understanding dawns in Taiga’s eyes, followed quickly by something that looks like regret. He glances at his screen, then back at Hokuto.

“Minagawa-buchou just assigned me the Jesse campaign revisions. They need to be done by tomorrow morning.”

“Oh.” The word falls between them like a stone. Hokuto’s chest tightens further. Of course Taiga has his own work. Of course he can’t always be there to pick up Hokuto's slack. “I understand. I’ll figure something—”

“I could try to wrap up early,” Taiga offers, his voice careful. “But I can’t guarantee...”

“No, don’t worry about it.” The words come out automatically, practiced from years of not wanting to burden others. “You have your own deadlines. I’ll call—”

But who? The Hatanos are visiting relatives in Osaka. Shintaro would probably be willing to stay with Ema like he always did before, but his stomach turns at the thought of having Shintaro and Ema stay in the preschool until late at night.

Taiga’s brow furrows, a familiar crease forming between his eyebrows. Hokuto recognizes that expression—it’s the same one Taiga gets when he’s solving a particularly complex problem.

“What about Juri?” Taiga’s voice is tentative, testing the suggestion. “Yugo’s got the dinner rush at Golden Hour, but Juri might be free. He’s on the pickup list at First Steps.”

Hokuto’s chest loosens slightly. He’d forgotten about Juri—the quiet, steady presence who sometimes brings art supplies for Ema. The knot of anxiety in his stomach begins to unwind.

Taiga’s fingers move swiftly over his phone screen, the soft tapping sound oddly reassuring in the quiet space between them. Hokuto finds himself studying the way Taiga’s fingers dance across the screen, remembering how those same hands had helped Ema with her origami just two mornings ago, before everything became... complicated.

“Juri says he can do it.” Taiga looks up, relief evident in his voice. "He’s got a meeting now but will swing by after to get my keycard. Says staying at the house would be better for Ema-chan than his studio.”

The thoughtfulness of the arrangement—considering Ema’s comfort in familiar surroundings—makes Hokuto’s throat tight. Even now, after his cold behavior, after his harsh words about not being family, Taiga still thinks of what’s best for Ema.

“Thank you,” Hokuto manages, the words feeling inadequate. He shifts his weight, gathering courage. “About yesterday, I—”

“Kyomo.” Noel’s voice cuts through the moment like a knife. “Could you look at these metrics? Something's off in the engagement patterns.”

Hokuto watches the professional mask slip back over Taiga's features, efficient and distant. Their chance at... whatever that was about to be dissolves into the fluorescent-lit reality of deadlines and responsibilities.

“Of course,” Taiga responds to Noel, already turning toward his screen. He glances briefly at Hokuto, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “I’ll let you know when Juri picks up the keycard.”

Hokuto nods, the unspoken words sitting heavy in his chest as he retreats to his own department. The bug in Machu’s code awaits, offering a welcome distraction from the growing weight of things left unsaid.

🏠

The code blurs before Hokuto’s eyes. He blinks hard, refocusing on the monitor where the debugging interface glows accusingly. His neck aches from hours hunched over the keyboard, and the office feels eerily quiet without Machu’s constant chatter or Wakana’s authoritative footsteps.

A glance at the time—7:02 PM—sends a fresh wave of guilt through him. Two hours since Juri picked up Ema.

His phone buzzes right on cue, as if sensing his parental anxiety.

The photo loads: Ema beaming at the camera, spoon posed over what looks like a hamburger meatball next to a bag with Golden Hour’s logo. Her hair is slightly messy, probably from running around at school, but her eyes sparkle with enthusiasm.

Something in Hokuto’s chest constricts at the sight.

Thank you for taking care of her, he types to Juri. His fingers hover over the keys before adding: She can bathe herself, but the water needs to be run first. Not too hot.

The reply comes quickly—a simple thumbs-up emoji. Juri’s quiet efficiency reminds Hokuto of Taiga, how he’d immediately thought of Ema’s comfort when arranging this. The comparison brings an uncomfortable tightness to his throat.

Hokuto sets his phone face-down and forces his attention back to the code. The bug is proving more complex than anticipated—something in the user interface keeps crashing when specific conditions align. He scrolls through lines of implementation, trying to ignore how the empty office amplifies every click of his mouse, every tap of his keyboard.

The space feels different at night. During the day, it buzzes with energy: Machu’s excited rambling about new features, Wakana’s precise instructions, the distant sound of laughter from the break room.

Now, the silence stretches like a rubber band, broken only by the soft hum of his computer and the occasional distant ding of the elevator.

His eyes drift to the marketing department again, dark now except for a single desk lamp. Taiga’s still there, his profile illuminated by his screen’s glow as he works on the Jesse campaign.

The sight sends an unwelcome surge of... something through Hokuto’s chest. Not quite jealousy—he has no right to that—but a complicated mix of gratitude and regret that makes it hard to breathe.

Not being family doesn’t mean not caring, his mind supplies unhelpfully.

He pushes the thought away, focusing instead on the error log in front of him. The bug won’t fix itself, and Ema needs him to finish this so he can get home at a reasonable hour.

The bug finally yields around 9:30 PM. Hokuto exhales, his shoulders dropping as he runs the test suite one final time. Green checkmarks cascade down the screen, confirming his fix works.

He saves everything, documenting his changes in the commit message with meticulous detail. His hands move mechanically through the motions of shutting down—closing tabs, logging out of various systems, unplugging his laptop.

The sound of his chair rolling back seems unnaturally loud in the empty office. As he slides his laptop into his bag, movement catches his eye.

Across the floor, Taiga rises from his desk, his movements slow and tired.

Hokuto’s stomach tightens. He’d gotten so absorbed in his work, he’d forgotten they’d have to leave at the same time. The thought of sharing the elevator, of walking the same route home—

His phone buzzes. Another photo from Juri: Ema curled up on Taiga’s guest room bed, already in her pajamas, Mr. Bunny clutched tight against her chest.

She insisted on waiting up for you, the message reads. Finally crashed about ten minutes ago.

The guilt hits fresh. Here he is, worrying about awkward moments with Taiga when his daughter fought sleep just to see him.

Footsteps approach—familiar ones. Hokuto’s body tenses instinctively. He busies himself with his bag’s zipper, though it’s already closed.

The footsteps pause. From the corner of his eye, he sees Taiga hovering near his own desk, probably caught in the same uncomfortable awareness. The silence stretches between them, thick with unspoken words.

Hokuto’s hand finds the strap of his bag, gripping it too tight. The elevator feels miles away, though it’s just across the floor. Someone needs to move first. Someone needs to break this stalemate.

He forces his legs to work, managing what he hopes passes for a casual stride toward the elevator. His finger presses the down button, and the soft ding seems to startle them both.

More footsteps. Taiga moves to stand a careful distance away, close enough to share the elevator but far enough to avoid any accidental contact. The gap between them feels both too wide and not wide enough.

Hokuto manages a stiff nod, the barest acknowledgment of their shared destination. His neck aches from the motion, or maybe from the hours of coding. He can’t tell anymore.

The elevator numbers tick down from the upper floors, each illuminated digit marking another second of suffocating silence.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft ding that echoes in Hokuto’s chest. His feet move automatically, carrying him inside. The familiar scent of metal and cleaning solution fills his nostrils as Taiga follows, their shoes squeaking against the polished floor.

Their hands reach for the ground floor button simultaneously.

Fingers brush—warm skin against skin—and Hokuto jerks back as if burned. His heart thunders against his ribs as he takes a sharp step backward, nearly colliding with the elevator wall.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Taiga do the same, their movements a mirror of mutual discomfort.

The doors close with agonizing slowness. Hokuto fixes his gaze on the floor numbers above, watching each digit illuminate. Fifteen floors have never felt so far. The mechanical whir of descent fills the space between them, somehow both too loud and not loud enough to drown out his thoughts.

A soft buzz breaks the silence. Taiga pulls out his phone, and Hokuto’s stomach twists as a faint smile crosses Taiga’s face. His thumbs move quickly across the screen, no doubt responding to Jesse.

The sight sends an irrational surge of... something through Hokuto’s chest. Not quite anger, not exactly jealousy—he has no right to either—but a sharp ache that makes him wish he’d taken the stairs instead.

Thirteen... twelve... eleven...

Hokuto shifts his weight, adjusting his bag just for something to do with his hands. The strap digs into his shoulder, and he welcomes the discomfort. It’s easier to focus on that than the way Taiga’s presence fills the small space, than the lingering warmth where their fingers touched.

Another buzz. Another smile.

Hokuto’s jaw clenches.

Ten... nine... eight...

The elevator seems to move slower with each floor, as if time itself is stretching like taffy. The air feels too thick, charged with an tension that makes it hard to breathe. Hokuto finds himself counting his breaths, trying to match them to the descending numbers.

Seven... six... five...

Taiga’s quiet laugh cuts through the silence like a knife. It’s soft, barely more than a breath, but in the confined space it might as well be a shout.

Hokuto’s fingers curl into his palm, nails biting into skin.

Four... three... two...

The numbers mock him with their steady progression. Each illuminated digit represents another eternal second trapped in this metal box with the man who’s somehow become both stranger and something terrifyingly close to family.

One.

The elevator chimes. Hokuto’s muscles coil, ready to escape. The doors slide open with excruciating slowness, revealing the dimly lit lobby.

He steps forward—and freezes.

Taiga moves at the same moment, their shoulders nearly brushing. They both jerk back as if shocked.

Hokuto gestures vaguely toward the door. “After you.”

“No, please.” Taiga’s voice sounds strained. “Go ahead.”

Neither moves.

The elevator doors start to close, then open again as their sensors detect the obstruction. Hokuto’s face burns. He opens his mouth to insist—

A pointed throat-clearing cuts through the tension. A woman in a business suit stands behind them, her expression caught between amusement and annoyance as she waits to enter.

Heat crawls up Hokuto’s neck. His body finally cooperates, carrying him through the doors. His shoes click against the polished floor, the sound echoing in the near-empty lobby.

Taiga’s footsteps follow, slightly out of sync with his own.

The night guard barely glances up from his phone as they pass. The automatic doors whoosh open, releasing them into the cool evening air. The familiar path to the station stretches before them, street lamps casting pools of light on the sidewalk.

Their footsteps fall into an unwilling rhythm. Not quite walking together, but heading the same direction, separated by a careful meter of space. The distance feels both too much and not enough.

Hokuto’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He should check it—it could be about Ema—but his hands remain stiff at his sides. The last thing he needs is to fumble his phone, to create another moment of awkward interaction if Taiga tries to help him pick it up.

A group of late-night office workers passes them, their laughter and chatter highlighting the silence between him and Taiga. Their shadows stretch and shrink under each street lamp, a strange dance of light and dark that makes Hokuto dizzy if he looks too long.

He focuses instead on counting his steps, on the steady rhythm of left-right-left. Anything to distract from the presence at his back, from the urge to turn around, to say... something.

What would he even say? Sorry for making things awkward? Sorry for feeling things I shouldn’t?

The station entrance looms ahead, its fluorescent lights harsh against the gentle glow of street lamps. Their steps slow simultaneously as they approach the ticket gates, another unconscious synchronization that makes Hokuto’s chest ache.

The platform bustles with an unusual crowd for this hour—probably some event letting out nearby. Hokuto’s shoulders tense as bodies press around them, forcing him and Taiga closer together despite their earlier attempts at distance.

The train arrives with a rush of displaced air. The doors open and somehow even more people try to squeeze inside. Hokuto finds himself pressed against the wall near the doors, Taiga’s shoulder brushing his as the crowd shifts.

His senses heighten, too aware of every point of contact. The familiar scent of Taiga’s shampoo—the one he keeps in their shared bathroom—mingles with the sterile train air. Hokuto’s fingers tighten around the hanging strap, knuckles white with effort.

A sharp intake of breath draws his attention. Taiga's face has gone ashen, his eyes wide and fixed on something—or someone—over Hokuto’s shoulder.

“Shit,” Taiga whispers, barely audible. “He’s here.”

Hokuto’s protective instincts flare before he can suppress them. He glances back, scanning the crowd until his gaze lands on a tall man in an expensive suit. Even without knowing exactly who Taiga’s ex is, something about the man’s predatory smile as he leans over a younger passenger sets off warning bells in Hokuto's mind.

The train lurches, and Taiga stumbles slightly.

Without thinking, Hokuto’s free hand steadies him, palm pressing against Taiga’s lower back. The touch sends electricity through his fingers, but he doesn’t pull away.

Taiga’s breathing has gone shallow. His usual composed demeanor cracks, revealing something vulnerable that makes Hokuto’s chest tight. The same raw edge he’d heard in Taiga’s voice that night they’d discussed their pasts over drinks.

Another glance back shows Shuichiro moving closer through the crowd, that shark-like smile still in place. He hasn’t spotted them yet, but in this cramped space, it’s only a matter of time.

Hokuto’s body moves on instinct. He shifts slightly, angling himself to block Taiga from view. It’s presumptuous, maybe even unwelcome, but he can’t stop himself. Can’t bear to see that haunted look in Taiga's eyes.

The train sways again. Bodies press closer. Hokuto feels Taiga’s sharp exhale against his neck, raising goosebumps despite the stuffy air. His hand remains steady on Taiga’s back, a silent anchor neither of them acknowledges.

A laugh cuts through the crowd—sharp, calculated. Closer now.

Hokuto’s jaw clenches as he catches another glimpse of Shuichiro’s predatory grin. The ex-boyfriend’s attention has shifted, his head turning as if sensing Taiga’s presence.

Taiga tenses under Hokuto’s palm. “Fuck,” he breathes, barely a whisper. “He always does this. Shows up when I’m—when I can’t—”

The words trail off, but Hokuto understands. Trapped. Cornered. His fingers press slightly firmer against Taiga’s back, a reflexive gesture of protection that surprises even himself.

The crowd shifts again. Shuichiro’s voice carries over the rumble of the train—smooth, cultured, with an edge that sets Hokuto’s teeth on edge. He’s definitely moving closer, though still out of direct sight.

Hokuto feels rather than sees Taiga try to make himself smaller, to disappear into the mass of bodies. It’s so unlike his usual confident presence that something fierce and protective roars in Hokuto’s chest.

His hand doesn’t move from Taiga’s back. If anything, it presses more firmly, grounding them both. The touch feels charged, important in a way he doesn’t want to examine. Not here. Not now.

The protective instinct overwhelms Hokuto's usual restraint. Before he can second-guess himself, he leans closer to Taiga’s ear.

“Come here,” he whispers, the words barely audible over the train's rumble.

Taiga stiffens, uncertainty flickering across his face.

For a moment, Hokuto thinks he’s overstepped—of course he has, they’re barely speaking to each other—but then Taiga shifts closer. His movement is hesitant at first, like approaching a wild animal.

Hokuto’s arm slides fully around Taiga’s waist, drawing him in until their chests nearly touch. His heart pounds so hard he's certain Taiga must feel it. The familiar scent of Taiga’s shampoo fills his senses, bringing with it a rush of domestic memories he’s been trying to suppress.

The train curves around a bend, and Taiga stumbles slightly. His hands come up to brace against Hokuto’s chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

Hokuto’s breath catches at the contact.

Slowly, impossibly slowly, he feels the tension begin to leak from Taiga's frame. The rigid line of Taiga’s shoulders softens. His breathing evens out, though Hokuto can still feel the rapid flutter of his pulse where their bodies press together.

They stay like that through one stop, then another. Bodies shift around them as passengers exit and enter, but their bubble remains unbroken. Hokuto keeps his arm firm around Taiga’s waist, ignoring the voice in his head that whispers how right this feels.

At the third stop, Taiga lifts his head slightly. “He’s gone,” he murmurs, but makes no move to pull away.

Hokuto’s arm loosens its hold, giving Taiga space to step back if he wants.

But Taiga stays where he is, his fingers still twisted in Hokuto’s shirt, his breath warm against Hokuto’s collarbone.

The train continues its journey, and they remain suspended in this moment. Neither quite holding on, neither quite letting go.

Hokuto’s palm burns where it rests against Taiga's lower back, and he can’t tell if the slight tremor he feels comes from Taiga or himself.

🏠

The cold night air hits Hokuto’s face as they emerge from the station. His palm still tingles where it pressed against Taiga’s back, the phantom warmth a reminder of their proximity on the train. They walk in silence, shoulders not quite touching, the space between them heavy with unspoken words.

Hokuto sneaks a glance at Taiga’s profile. The streetlights cast harsh shadows across his face, making him look drawn and tired. Something twists in Hokuto’s chest.

“Are you—” He swallows, trying again. “Are you okay?”

Taiga keeps walking, his eyes fixed ahead.

The lack of response sends a spike of anxiety through Hokuto’s stomach. Stupid. Of course Taiga wouldn’t answer. Not after everything.

The convenience store’s fluorescent lights spill onto the sidewalk ahead. Hokuto grasps at the opportunity like a lifeline.

“Do you want something to drink?” The words tumble out too fast, too eager. “I can grab—”

“What are you doing?”

Taiga’s voice is barely above a whisper, but it stops Hokuto cold. When he turns, Taiga stands perfectly still, his expression unreadable in the shadows.

“I don’t—”

“Last night you told me I’m not family.” Taiga’s words cut through the night air. “This afternoon, you asked me to pick up Ema-chan like nothing happened. And now...” He gestures vaguely between them, his hand trembling slightly. “What is this, Matsumura?”

The sound of his name in Taiga’s mouth makes Hokuto’s chest ache. He opens his mouth to respond, but no words come.

How can he explain what he doesn’t understand himself? How the sight of Taiga kissing Jesse had torn something open inside him? How holding Taiga on the train had felt simultaneously like coming home and stepping off a cliff?

The silence stretches between them, filled only with the distant hum of traffic and the mechanical whir of vending machines.

“I just—” Taiga rakes a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture Hokuto has come to recognize. “I thought we were getting somewhere, you know? And then you pull this hot and cold act.”

Hokuto’s throat tightens. The convenience store’s neon sign flickers, casting strange patterns across Taiga’s face.

“I didn’t enjoy it at first,” Taiga continues, his voice gaining strength. “Having people in my space. But Ema-chan’s laughter in the morning, your cooking, even finding her toys scattered everywhere—” He swallows hard. “I got used to it. Started looking forward to it.”

We were getting somewhere. The words echo in Hokuto’s mind, sharp and accusatory.

He remembers Ema’s small voice this morning: “Then you should say sorry.”

“And then you tell me I’m not family.” Taiga’s laugh is hollow. “Which, fine, maybe I’m not. But it hurt, Matsumura. And now you’re acting like this—protecting me from my ex, asking favors like nothing happened.”

Heat crawls up Hokuto’s neck. On the train, holding Taiga had felt natural, necessary. Now the memory burns.

“If you want to keep things professional until you find a new place, fine. Just...” Taiga’s shoulders slump. “Stop sending mixed signals. Tell me what your deal is so we can both survive this arrangement.”

Words crowd Hokuto’s throat, tangling together. I’m sorry. I was jealous. I think I’m falling for you. I’m terrified of wanting something for myself.

But none of them make it past his lips.

A car horn blares in the distance. The sound makes Hokuto flinch, but Taiga doesn’t move. He just stands there, waiting, his expression a mix of exhaustion and something that looks dangerously like hope.

Hokuto opens his mouth, closes it. His heart pounds against his ribs. How can he explain when he barely understands it himself? The fierce protectiveness he felt on the train wasn’t just about Shuichiro.

It was about keeping Taiga close, safe. His.

The realization makes his chest tight. He remembers Ema’s drawings on the fridge—three figures holding hands. The way Taiga brings home her favorite snacks without being asked. How the house feels warmer, fuller, more like home than it has since Rui—

“Just say something,” Taiga says softly. “Anything.”

But Hokuto’s tongue feels like lead. The words stick in his throat, choking him. I’m sorry seems too small. I was wrong; it doesn’t cover the depth of what he’s feeling. And anything more feels too dangerous, too raw to voice aloud.

A shrill ringtone cuts through the tension. Hokuto startles as Taiga fumbles for his phone, his hands shaking slightly in the dim light.

“Juri?” Taiga’s voice shifts from frustration to concern in an instant. “Wait, slow down—”

Hokuto's stomach drops. Something in Taiga’s expression makes his heart race. Ema.

“We’ll be right there.” Taiga ends the call, already moving. “It’s Ema-chan. She had a nightmare and won’t stop crying. Keeps asking for you."

The world narrows to a pinpoint. Hokuto’s feet move before his brain catches up, his body propelling him forward. The earlier tension dissolves into sharp, focused panic.

My baby girl.

🏠

Ema’s cries pierce through the house the moment Taiga unlocks the door. He and Hokuto exchange a glance before kicking off their shoes, not bothering to line them up properly.

The sound twists something in Taiga’s chest as they rush up the stairs. He’s never heard Ema cry like this—raw and desperate, like her small body couldn’t contain the hurt.

“Papa!” Her voice cracks on the word. “Mama!”

Taiga’s throat tightens. He follows Hokuto into the guest room, where Juri sits on the edge of the bed, his face etched with concern. Mr. Bunny lies forgotten on the floor, the singed ear pointing toward the ceiling.

“Thank god you’re here.” Juri stands, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “She woke up screaming. I tried everything—water, stories, even drawing—but...”

Hokuto doesn’t wait for him to finish. He’s already gathering Ema into his arms, and she burrows into his chest like she’s trying to disappear. Her small fingers clutch his shirt.

“Shh, I’m here.” Hokuto’s voice is soft, steady. “Papa’s here.”

“M-mama.” Ema hiccups between sobs. “I want Mama.”

The words hit Taiga like a physical blow. A memory surfaces—himself at three, crying in his dark bedroom.

Mama, please come back. I’ll be good.

His father’s voice, sharp with anger: She’s selfish, Taiga. She’s never coming back.

He watches Hokuto rock Ema gently, murmuring soft reassurances into her hair. Unlike his father, Hokuto doesn’t try to silence her grief or dismiss it. He simply holds her, lets her cry.

Taiga’s chest aches. He wants to help but doesn’t know how. What right does he have to comfort her? He’s not family—Hokuto made that clear.

And yet...

“Tiger-san?” Ema’s voice is small, watery. She peers at him through tear-swollen eyes, one hand still gripping Hokuto’s shirt.

Taiga steps closer without thinking. “I’m here.”

She reaches for him with her free hand, and something inside him breaks. He perches on the edge of the bed, close enough that she can grab his finger. Her tiny hand is warm and damp with tears.

Don’t get attached, a voice warns—it sounds like his father.

She’ll leave you too. They always do.

But Ema holds on, and Taiga can’t bring himself to pull away.

They stay frozen in this strange tableau—Hokuto cradling Ema, Taiga’s finger caught in her grip. Her sobs gradually quiet to hiccups, then to shaky breaths. The room feels thick with unspoken words.

Taiga’s knees protest the awkward position, but he doesn’t dare move. Each time Ema’s grip loosens slightly, it tightens again, as if she’s checking he’s still there. The weight of her trust settles uncomfortably in his chest.

“I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.” Juri’s voice breaks the silence. His footsteps fade down the hallway.

Ema’s breathing evens out, becoming deeper and slower. Her face, still flushed from crying, gradually relaxes. Even in sleep, she doesn’t let go of Taiga’s finger.

Hokuto shifts slightly, adjusting his hold on her. His shirt is damp with her tears, wrinkled where she gripped it. The fabric pulls taut across his shoulders as he moves.

Their eyes meet briefly before Taiga looks away.

What am I doing here? The thought echoes in his mind. He doesn’t belong in this intimate moment between father and daughter.

And yet, Ema wanted him here. Called for him.

His finger tingles where she holds it. Such a small point of contact, but it anchors him to this moment, this room, these people who aren’t his to keep.

Finally, her grip loosens completely as she drifts into deeper sleep. Taiga carefully withdraws his hand, flexing his finger to restore circulation. The loss of contact leaves him oddly bereft.

Hokuto moves with practiced care, laying Ema down on the bed. She stirs slightly but doesn’t wake as he pulls the covers up to her chin. Mr. Bunny still lies forgotten on the floor.

Taiga picks it up, hesitates, then places it next to her pillow.

“I should...” He gestures vaguely toward the door. His voice sounds too loud in the quiet room. “Juri’s probably waiting.”

Hokuto nods, still focused on Ema. His hand lingers on her hair, smoothing it back from her forehead. The tender gesture makes Taiga’s chest tight.

He backs away from the bed, careful not to disturb the peace they’ve created.

His feet feel heavy as he moves toward the door. Each step reminds him that he’s an outsider here, intruding on moments that should be private.

The hallway light seems harsh after the dimness of Ema’s room. Taiga squints against it, trying to shake off the intimacy of what just happened. He needs to get downstairs, see Juri off, return to his normal routine where everything makes sense.

But his finger still tingles where Ema held it, and he can’t quite forget the way she called his name through her tears.

Tiger-san.

Like he matters. Like he belongs.

Taiga’s legs feel heavy as he descends the stairs. Each step echoes in his mind like Ema’s sobs, like Hokuto’s words from last night.

You’re not family.

Juri waits by the door, messenger bag slung over his shoulder. His normally disheveled appearance looks even more rumpled, dark circles under his eyes betraying the strain of the evening.

“Hey.” Taiga’s voice comes out rougher than intended. He clears his throat. “Thanks for watching her. I’m sorry things got...” He trails off, unable to find the right words.

“Don’t worry about it.” Juri waves off his apology with an easy smile. “I’ve babysat my brothers’ kids plenty of times. Nightmares happen. Kids that age, they process things differently at night.”

The casual way he says it makes something twist in Taiga’s chest. As if Ema’s pain is ordinary, expected. As if her cries for her mother didn’t crack something open inside him that he’d thought long sealed.

Juri studies him, head tilted slightly. “You okay?”

The question hits too close to the mess of emotions churning inside him. The awkwardness at the office despite Hokuto asking him for a favor. The warmth of Hokuto’s body pressed against his on the train, shielding him from Shuichiro’s gaze. The desperate way Ema’s small fingers had gripped his, like he was someone worth holding onto.

“Just tired.” The lie tastes stale on his tongue. “Long day.”

Juri’s expression suggests he doesn’t quite believe it, but he doesn’t push. Instead, he adjusts his bag and reaches for the door. “Well, try to get some rest.”

“I will.” Taiga manages a nod. “Thanks again.”

The door clicks shut behind Juri, leaving Taiga alone in the entryway.

The house feels different now—heavier with the weight of what happened upstairs. He can still hear the echo of Ema’s cries, see the way Hokuto gathered her into his arms without hesitation.

His finger tingles with phantom pressure where Ema held it. Such a small thing, really. He shouldn’t let it affect him like this. He shouldn’t let himself imagine he has any right to comfort her, to be part of their lives beyond this temporary arrangement.

But the memory of her tear-stained face turning to him, calling his name—Tiger-san—won’t leave him alone.

The sound of footsteps upstairs makes him tense. Hokuto must be coming down. Taiga’s not ready to face him, to navigate the awkward space between them filled with unspoken words and crossed boundaries.

The stairs creak, and Taiga’s shoulders tense. He should move—go to his room, the kitchen, anywhere but here. But his feet stay rooted to the spot as Hokuto descends, his footsteps measured and deliberate.

The entryway light casts shadows across Hokuto’s face. His shirt still bears the wrinkles from Ema’s grip, a physical reminder of the moment upstairs that Taiga wasn’t meant to share.

“She’s asleep.” Hokuto’s voice is soft, careful. “I’m sorry about... all of that.”

Taiga forces his shoulders to relax. “Juri said it’s normal. Kids that age, they process things differently at night.” The words feel borrowed, hollow in his mouth. As if repeating them might make the ache in his chest disappear.

Silence stretches between them, thick with things unsaid. Taiga shifts his weight, hyper-aware of every movement. The house feels too small suddenly, the air too heavy.

“I could heat up the food from Golden Hour.” Hokuto takes a step forward, then stops.

“I’m not hungry.” Taiga turns toward the stairs. His room beckons—a safe space where he can sort through the mess of emotions threatening to overwhelm him.

He makes it two steps before warm fingers circle his wrist. The touch sends electricity up his arm.

“Five minutes.” Hokuto’s grip is gentle but firm. “Please.”

Taiga’s pulse races under Hokuto’s fingers. He should pull away. Should maintain the careful distance they’ve built since last night.

But Hokuto’s hand is warm, and Taiga is tired of pretending this awkwardness between them doesn’t hurt.

“Fine.” The word comes out rougher than intended. “Five minutes.”

Taiga follows Hokuto into the dining room, hyperaware of the space between them. His wrist still tingles where Hokuto touched it. He sinks into his usual chair, watching as Hokuto takes the seat across from him.

The kitchen light casts strange shadows across Hokuto’s face as he stares at his hands, folded neatly on the table. His shoulders are tense, and dark circles rim his eyes—signs of exhaustion Taiga hadn’t noticed earlier.

Say something, Taiga thinks. The silence stretches uncomfortably between them, filled with the soft hum of the air conditioning and distant traffic outside.

“About last night...” Hokuto’s voice is quiet but steady. “I need to apologize.”

Taiga’s fingers twitch against his thigh. He wants to brush it off, but he stays silent, watching as Hokuto gathers his thoughts.

“I was stressed.” Hokuto’s fingers flex against the table. “The new feature launch, and every apartment I look at is either too expensive or too far from Ema’s school. I keep failing to find us a proper home.”

The word ‘home’ echoes in Taiga’s mind. He thinks of Ema’s drawings stuck to the fridge, of Hokuto’s coffee mug in the dish rack, of tiny shoes lined up neatly by the door. When did his house start feeling like their home?

“And then I saw you with Jesse-san...” Hokuto’s voice catches slightly. “It hit me that I’d forgotten you have your own life. That you’d want to have him over, spend time together here. And instead, you’re stuck with a single father and a five-year-old taking up space.”

Taking up space. The phrase twists something in Taiga’s chest. He thinks of Ema’s small fingers gripping his, of the way she calls him Tiger-san with complete trust. Of Hokuto’s quiet presence in the kitchen each morning, the comfort of knowing he’s not alone.

“I shouldn’t have said what I did.” Hokuto looks up finally, meeting Taiga’s eyes. “About us not being family. I was frustrated and took it out on you. I’m sorry.”

The sincerity in Hokuto’s voice makes Taiga’s throat tight. He wants to say something—that they’re not taking up space, that the house feels more alive with them in it. That maybe he’s the one who’s been taking up space in their lives.

But the words stick in his throat, trapped behind years of carefully constructed walls. His father’s voice echoes in his head: Don’t get attached. They always leave.

“I’ve been looking at apartments in Koenji,” Hokuto continues into the silence. “There’s one that might work. It’s a bit small, but—”

“No.” The word bursts from Taiga’s lips, cutting through Hokuto’s careful explanation. His heart pounds against his ribs, but he can’t let this continue. Can’t listen to Hokuto talk about leaving as if it’s inevitable.

“You’re not taking up space.” His voice comes out rough, urgent. “Either of you.”

Hokuto stares at him, mouth slightly parted in surprise. The kitchen light catches the shadows under his eyes, making him look younger somehow. More vulnerable.

Taiga’s hands clench under the table. He’s terrible at this—at saying what he means, at being honest about feelings. But the memory of Ema’s small fingers gripping his, of her tear-stained face turning to him for comfort, pushes him forward.

“I meant what I said earlier.” The words scrape his throat. “About... about thinking of you as family.”

His father’s voice whispers warnings in his head, but Taiga pushes them aside. He’s not his father. He won’t let fear of abandonment stop him from having this.

“The family I never had.” The admission feels like stepping off a cliff. “And you can stay. Both of you. As long as you need, until you find somewhere that feels right.”

Hokuto’s expression shifts, something soft and stunned crossing his features. “But Jesse-san—”

“Jesse understands.” Taiga’s finger tingles with the phantom pressure of Ema’s grip. “He’s never judged the situation. It’s fine.”

But right now, all Taiga can focus on is the way Hokuto’s shoulders have loosened slightly, the careful hope in his eyes.

“You don’t have to decide right now,” Taiga adds quickly. “Just... don’t feel like you have to rush into something that doesn’t feel right. The house is big enough.”

Too big, he doesn’t say. Too empty before you came.

Silence stretches between them, thick with the weight of Taiga’s confession. His heart pounds against his ribs as he watches Hokuto’s expression, trying to read the emotions flickering across his face.

The kitchen light casts strange shadows, making it hard to interpret the subtle shifts in Hokuto’s features. Taiga’s fingers twitch against his thigh, fighting the urge to fill the silence with meaningless words. He’s said enough—too much, maybe. Exposed too much of himself.

Stupid, he thinks. Should have kept my mouth shut.

The quiet extends until Taiga’s skin starts to crawl. He considers getting up, retreating to his room where he can pretend this conversation never happened. Where he can rebuild the walls he just carelessly knocked down.

But then Hokuto’s expression shifts, softening into something that makes Taiga’s chest tight.

“You’re too kind, Kyomoto.” Hokuto’s voice is gentle, almost reverent.

The formality of his name should sting, but there’s a warmth in Hokuto’s tone that soothes the edge. Taiga’s throat feels too tight to respond.

“If you’re sure...” Hokuto’s fingers trace an invisible pattern on the table. “I’d like to stay. For a bit longer, at least.”

Relief floods through Taiga so intensely it makes him dizzy. He hadn’t realized how much he’d been dreading their departure until this moment. The thought of empty rooms, of silence where Ema’s laughter should be, of mornings without Hokuto’s quiet presence—it had been sitting like a stone in his gut.

“Good,” Taiga manages. The word comes out rougher than intended. He clears his throat. “That’s... good.”

Eloquent, he chides himself.

But Hokuto’s lips curve into a small smile, and something warm unfurls in Taiga’s chest.

The air feels lighter somehow, as if the weight of unspoken words has lifted. Through the wall, Taiga can hear the soft hum of the air conditioning, the distant sound of traffic outside.

Normal sounds. Home sounds.

His finger tingles again with the memory of Ema’s grip. This time, the sensation doesn’t feel like a reminder of what he can’t have.

Instead, it feels like a promise—of mornings filled with tiny shoes by the door, of evenings watching Hokuto cook, of moments that matter.

🏠

Ema’s eyes dart between Taiga and Hokuto like she’s watching a particularly intense ping-pong match. Her chopsticks hover forgotten over the reheated gyoza from Golden Hour, and Taiga finds himself squirming under her scrutiny.

The kitchen feels different this morning—warmer somehow, despite the lingering awkwardness from last night’s conversation. Sunlight streams through the window, catching on the empty coffee mugs and turning them into miniature lighthouses on the table.

Taiga takes another bite of his cold yakisoba, trying to ignore the weight of Ema’s stare. His throat still feels raw from last night’s honesty, like he’s used up his quota of emotional vulnerability for the month.

“Are you and Papa friends again?”

The question makes Taiga choke on his noodles. He reaches for his water, face burning as Hokuto’s chopsticks clatter against his bowl.

Of course she noticed, Taiga thinks, mortified. He should have known better than to think they could hide their tension from her perceptive eyes. Children always seem to pick up on the undercurrents adults try to disguise.

“Ah, about that...” Hokuto sets down his chopsticks, his voice gentle. “Tiger-san and I had a good talk last night. Everything’s okay now.”

Ema’s whole body seems to relax, her shoulders dropping as she beams at them both. “Really? Promise?”

“Promise,” Hokuto says softly, and Taiga’s chest tightens at the sincerity in his voice.

“Good!” Ema bounces in her seat, nearly knocking over her juice. “Because I want both of you to watch me at the recital! Mori-sensei says I get to be the sun!”

The reminder of the spring recital tickets sitting in Taiga’s work bag makes his stomach flutter. He’d almost forgotten about them in the chaos of the past few days.

“The sun, huh?” Taiga manages, grateful for the change in subject. “That’s a pretty important role.”

“Uh-huh!” Ema nods enthusiastically, pieces of egg flying from her chopsticks. “I have to wear yellow and spin around and everything! Papa, can Tiger-san come? Please?”

Hokuto’s gaze flicks to Taiga, a silent question in his eyes. Something warm unfurls in Taiga’s chest as he nods. The gesture feels natural, like they’ve been doing this dance of wordless communication forever.

“Of course Tiger-san will come,” Hokuto tells Ema, his voice soft but certain.

Ema squeals, bouncing so hard that she almost spilled her glass of milk. “Yes! Now I can show both of you my special spin!” She demonstrates by twirling in her chair, nearly toppling sideways before Hokuto steadies her.

Taiga’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out, expecting a work email, but Jesse’s name flashes on the screen instead.

Can I steal you after work tonight? At this amazing Italian place. Miss your face 🥺

The message should make his heart race. Instead, Taiga feels a strange heaviness settle in his stomach.

“I’ll be home late tonight,” Taiga says, sliding his phone back into his pocket. The words taste strange on his tongue—when did he start thinking of coming “home” rather than just “back”? “Jesse wants to take me to dinner.”

“Ah.” Hokuto’s chopsticks pause halfway to his mouth. His expression doesn’t change, but something in his shoulders tightens almost imperceptibly.

“If you’re working late again, I can message Juri to watch Ema-chan,” Taiga adds quickly, not sure why he feels the need to fill the sudden silence. “He mentioned having a light schedule this week.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Hokuto’s voice is perfectly pleasant, but his eyes stay fixed on his bowl. “I cleared my schedule after yesterday. No more overtime this week.”

“Oh. Good.” Taiga fidgets with his chopsticks, wondering why the air feels thicker somehow. “That’s... good.”

“Can Jesse-san teach me more magic tricks?” Ema pipes up, oblivious to the tension. “He promised to show me how to make cards disappear!”

“Maybe next time,” Taiga manages, watching Hokuto methodically finish his breakfast, movements just a fraction too precise.

Hokuto rises from his chair with fluid grace, gathering his and Ema’s empty plates. The soft clink of ceramic against ceramic fills the kitchen as he stacks them.

“I’ve got those.” Taiga stands quickly, nearly knocking over his water glass. “You should help Ema-chan get ready.”

Hokuto pauses, dishes balanced in his hands. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” The words come out more forcefully than Taiga intends. He softens his tone. “Really. Go on.”

A moment passes between them, heavy with something Taiga can’t quite name.

Then Hokuto nods, setting the plates back on the table. “Thank you, Kyomoto.”

His name in Hokuto’s lips sends an unexpected shiver down Taiga’s spine. He busies himself with gathering chopsticks, pretending not to notice how his hands shake slightly.

“Sweetheart, time to get ready.” Hokuto’s voice carries from the hallway. “Where did you put your other shoe?”

“Under Zoomie!” Ema’s giggles echo through the house.

Taiga can’t help but smile as he runs water over the dishes. Trust Ema to turn the robot vacuum into impromptu storage.

He stacks bowls in the dishwasher, hyperaware of the domestic sounds floating from the entryway—the rustle of jackets, Ema’s excited chatter about her upcoming day, Hokuto’s patient responses.

He finds himself moving slower than necessary, drawing out the task of loading the dishwasher. From here, he has a perfect view of the entryway where Hokuto kneels, helping Ema with her shoelaces. The morning light catches in Hokuto’s hair, turning the edges golden.

“All set?” Hokuto asks, straightening Ema’s collar.

“Wait!” Ema bounces on her toes. “I forgot Mr. Bunny’s good morning hug!”

She dashes past the kitchen, her footsteps thundering up the stairs. Hokuto watches her go with fond exasperation, and something in Taiga’s chest aches at the softness in his expression.

Before he can second-guess himself, Taiga calls out, “Take care.”

The words hang in the air between them. Taiga’s face burns as he realizes this is the first time he’s said it since they moved in. Such a simple phrase, yet it feels monumental somehow.

Hokuto turns, surprise flickering across his features before melting into a smile that makes Taiga’s breath catch. Not his usual polite smile, but something warmer, more genuine.

“Papa, I got him!” Ema bounds back, Mr. Bunny clutched triumphantly to her chest. Her eyes light up. “Tiger-san said take care! That means he cares about us, right?”

More than I should, Taiga thinks, but he keeps that thought safely buried.

“Of course he does.” Hokuto’s voice is soft but certain. He takes Ema’s hand, that warm smile still lingering. “We’re heading out now.”

“See you tonight!” Ema waves enthusiastically before disappearing through the doorway.

The door clicks shut behind them, and suddenly the house feels too big, too quiet.

Taiga stands in the kitchen. The silence wraps around him like a blanket—not suffocating anymore, just... different. Empty spaces that used to represent freedom now feel like they’re missing something vital.

He wipes his hands on a dish towel and moves to clear the table. Ema’s chair sits askew, her milk glass leaving a ring on the wooden surface. He should be annoyed by the mark, but instead finds himself smiling as he wipes it away.

The living room shows similar signs of their morning rush—Mr. Bunny’s temporary landing spot on the couch, Ema’s coloring book splayed open on the coffee table, Hokuto’s cellphone charging cord still plugged into the wall. Little pieces of evidence that he’s not alone anymore.

When did I stop minding the mess? Taiga wonders, straightening the cushions.

His phone buzzes again—probably Jesse following up about dinner.

Taiga ignores it, focusing instead on gathering the scattered colored pencils that have somehow migrated under the coffee table. One has rolled all the way to the robot vacuum’s charging station.

“Found you,” he mutters, fishing out the purple pencil. His hand brushes against something else—one of Ema’s hair ties.

He adds it to the growing collection on the side table.

The quiet doesn’t feel oppressive anymore. Instead, it holds the promise of noise returning—Ema’s laughter, Hokuto’s soft humming while he cooks, the everyday sounds of people living and breathing in his space.

His space.

No, that’s not quite right anymore.

Their space.

The thought should terrify him. Instead, it settles in his chest like a warm drink on a cold day. He moves through the living room, adjusting small things here and there, not really cleaning so much as... tidying. Making sure everything’s ready for when they return.

Because they will return, they're staying.

Taiga catches his reflection in the window and realizes he’s smiling. A real smile, not the polite one he wears at work or the careful one he gives Jesse. Something shifts in his chest—acceptance, maybe. Or recognition.

This is home now. Not just his house, but their home.

He heads upstairs to get ready for work, leaving the living room exactly as it is—slightly messy, thoroughly lived-in, and somehow perfect.

🏠

The CEO’s voice drones in the background as Hokuto glances at his phone. A text from Juri appears, complete with a photo of Ema curled up with Mr. Bunny and Waddles in the guest room.

She’s out like a light. Take your time celebrating—you and Taiga worked hard for this.

Warmth spreads through Hokuto’s chest, though he can’t tell if it’s from the whiskey or the sight of his sleeping daughter.

The function room buzzes with drunken chatter and laughter. Someone—probably Chaka—lets out a whoop that drowns out whatever milestone the CEO is announcing.

Hokuto takes another sip, savoring the burn. His gaze drifts across the room to where Taiga stands with Jesse near the bar. Jesse’s arm drapes casually around Taiga’s waist as they chat with Noel.

The sight makes something twist in Hokuto’s stomach.

He should be happy. The app’s new features that he and the development team slaved over for weeks are finally live. Five million downloads is no small achievement.

Yet watching Jesse lean in to whisper something that makes Taiga laugh, Hokuto feels a hollowness that no amount of whiskey seems able to fill.

His phone buzzes again. Another message from Juri: She wanted to wait up for both of you but crashed around 8. Said to tell Tiger-san goodnight too.

Hokuto’s thumb hovers over the screen, torn between showing Taiga the message and letting him enjoy his evening with Jesse. They’ve settled into a comfortable rhythm lately, one which was better after they made up—sharing breakfast, trading off picking up Ema, often going home together for groceries.

It’s comfortable. Safe.

And absolutely torture.

The alcohol must be hitting harder than he thought, because Hokuto finds himself staring at the way Taiga’s shirt collar falls open at his throat. At how his fingers curl around his glass. At the slight flush high on his cheeks that means he’s probably had one drink too many already.

A sharp “Matsumura-san!” cuts through Hokuto’s thoughts, making him nearly spill his drink. The CEO’s voice booms across the function room, and suddenly hands are pushing at his back, urging him forward.

“Go on,” Wakana whispers, giving him a gentle nudge. “The CEO is recognizing key contributors to the launch.”

Hokuto’s legs feel unsteady as he makes his way to the platform. The whiskey’s warmth spreads through his chest, and he silently curses himself for drinking on a relatively empty stomach.

The spotlights blur his vision slightly as he bows to the CEO.

“Matsumura-san’s dedication to debugging the new features was instrumental to our success,” the CEO announces, his voice carrying across the room. “Working late into the night, taking over additional responsibilities when needed—this is the kind of commitment that drives EaseWorks forward.”

Heat creeps up Hokuto’s neck.

“In recognition of your contributions,” the CEO continues, “please accept this bonus.” He hands Hokuto an envelope that feels thick with cash. “And this—” Another envelope appears. “A gift certificate for Tokyo Disneyland, valid for two people.”

Hokuto's heart skips. Disneyland. Ema’s been begging to go since her friend Yuki came back with Mickey Mouse ears, chattering endlessly about princesses and parades.

But between rent, groceries, and setting aside money for emergencies, Hokuto could never justify the expense.

“Thank you very much,” Hokuto manages, bowing deeply. His mind already races with possibilities—Ema’s face when she sees the castle, her excitement at meeting her favorite characters. He imagines her tiny hand in his as they explore the park together, making memories that are purely their own.

The crowd applauds, and as Hokuto steps down from the platform, his eyes instinctively seek out Taiga. He finds him still by the bar, but now Taiga’s attention is fixed solely on him, a proud smile playing on his lips.

Jesse’s arm is no longer around his waist.

Two tickets, Hokuto thinks, and for a dangerous moment, he lets himself imagine a different scenario: the three of them walking through the park together, Ema between them, her hands clasped in theirs. Taiga pretending to be annoyed by the crowds but secretly enjoying himself. The way his face might light up at the fireworks...

Hokuto shakes his head, clutching the envelopes tighter. No. This is something for him and Ema. Simple. Uncomplicated. Safe.

The development team swarms around Hokuto as he reaches the bottom of the stairs, their excitement a whirlwind of congratulations and chatter. Machu bounces on his heels, already suggesting ride recommendations, while others from the team pat his back with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

“Ema-chan will love it,” Wakana says, her eyes crinkling with warmth. “She’s at the perfect age for her first Disney experience.”

“I think so too.” Hokuto tucks the envelopes carefully into his jacket pocket, his fingers lingering over them. His eyes scan the room automatically for Taiga, but the spot by the bar where he and Jesse stood is now occupied by coworkers he recognizes from finance.

Machu tugs at his sleeve. “You have to take her on the Pooh ride first,” he insists, cheeks flushed from alcohol. “It’s gentle enough for kids but magical enough to set the mood for the whole day. And then there’s this spot near Tomorrowland where you can get the best photos of the castle—”

Hokuto nods along, letting the excited chatter wash over him. The development team’s enthusiasm feels genuine, warming him more than the whiskey did. They share stories of their own Disney adventures, each person trying to outdo the last with recommendations for shows, snacks, and prime photo locations.

But as the conversation flows, Hokuto feels his energy beginning to ebb. The noise of the party seems to grow louder, more grating. Each burst of laughter from across the room makes him wince slightly. The spotlights that had seemed merely bright on stage now feel harsh and invasive.

He catches fragments of nearby conversations—something about meeting quotas, a debate about the best coding framework, someone’s weekend plans. It all begins to blur together, creating a buzz in his head that makes it hard to focus on Machu’s animated description of the parade route.

“I should get some air,” Hokuto says finally, cutting through a heated discussion about FastPass strategies. He gestures vaguely toward the terrace doors. “And maybe some food.”

Understanding flashes across Wakana’s face. She creates a subtle opening in the circle of developers, allowing him an escape route. “Don’t forget to try the spring rolls,” she says. “They’re surprisingly good.”

Hokuto makes his way to the buffet table, loading a small plate with spring rolls and other finger foods. His movements are mechanical, focused on the simple task of selecting items that might help absorb the alcohol in his system.

The vegetables look fresh and crisp. The cheese platter remains largely untouched. He adds a few crackers, aware that he should eat something substantial.

The crowd seems to press in around him, bodies shifting and bumping as people navigate between the food and their social circles. The clink of glasses and burst of laughter feel overwhelming now, making his skin prickle with discomfort. He needs space, quiet, a moment to breathe without having to maintain his social smile.

The terrace doors beckon, promising relief from the stuffy atmosphere of the function room. Hokuto clutches his plate and weaves through the crowd, politely dodging attempts to pull him into new conversations. Just a few more steps to the door, to fresh air and blessed silence.

The cool night air beckons through the terrace doors, promising relief from the suffocating party atmosphere. Hokuto shifts his plate to one hand and reaches for the handle.

His fingers freeze on the metal.

Through the glass panel, he sees them—Taiga pressed against the railing, Jesse’s hands cupping his face as they kiss. The city lights create a romantic backdrop that makes Hokuto’s stomach lurch.

He steps back, nearly dropping his plate. Stupid. Of course they’d seek privacy out here. He should leave, find another quiet spot—

“I need to talk to you about something.” Jesse’s voice carries through the gap in the door.

Hokuto knows he should walk away. But his feet move on their own, carrying him to the shadowed corner just outside the terrace entrance. The wall here shields him from view while voices drift clearly through the opening.

“Sounds serious,” Taiga says, a hint of teasing in his tone.

“I got a role. In Domoto’s new film.”

“What? That’s incredible!”

Hokuto hears the genuine excitement in Taiga’s voice—the same tone he uses when Ema shows him a new drawing or masters a difficult word. His heart clenches.

“It’s... different from what I usually do,” Jesse continues. “I play the antagonist. A pretty dark character.”

“But that’s perfect for you to showcase your range.” Taiga’s words overflow with pride. “And working with Domoto—that’s huge.”

A spring roll grows cold on Hokuto’s plate as he listens, rooted to the spot. The Disney tickets seem to burn in his pocket, a reminder of simpler dreams that pale in comparison to movie roles and romantic moments against Tokyo’s skyline.

I should go, he thinks.

But he remains frozen, a witness to a private moment he has no right to observe.

“You really think I can do it?” Jesse asks, vulnerability seeping into his usually confident voice.

“Are you kidding? You’ll be amazing.” Taiga’s warmth wraps around each word. “This is what you’ve been working toward, isn’t it?”

The genuine support in Taiga’s voice makes something twist in Hokuto’s chest. This is the Taiga that few people get to see—the one who notices small details, who encourages without reservation, who makes others feel seen and valued.

The Taiga that Hokuto has been trying desperately not to fall deeper in love with.

“It’s not just any role though,” Jesse continues, his voice growing serious. “Most of the filming will be in Saga. Three months, starting next week.”

The cold night air wraps around Hokuto, making him shiver. Or perhaps it’s the weight of what he’s hearing.

“That’s... quite far,” Taiga says softly.

“Yeah. I won’t be able to see you much unless you’re free to visit when I’m back in Tokyo for breaks. Or if I find time to bring you to Saga.”

“We can message,” Taiga offers. “Video calls too.”

Silence stretches between them. Hokuto shifts his weight, his legs cramping from standing still so long. He should leave—this conversation isn’t meant for his ears.

Yet his feet remain rooted, his heart thundering against his ribs.

Jesse clears his throat. “Actually, that’s part of what I wanted to talk about. These past three months with you... they’ve meant a lot to me.”

Hokuto’s fingers tighten around his plate. The spring rolls have gone completely cold now.

“I want to make this official,” Jesse says. “Something serious. But I know you’re still healing from your past relationship, and I don’t want to pressure you.”

Past relationship. Hokuto’s mind flashes to Taiga’s ex on the train, how Taiga had trembled against him. The memory of Taiga’s warmth pressed against his chest makes his skin tingle.

“I want you to really think about it,” Jesse continues. “About whether you want this as much as I do. And... there’s something else you should consider.”

A car horn blares from the street below, making Hokuto flinch. He catches the soft rustle of movement, imagines Jesse pulling Taiga closer.

“Once we’re official, the tabloids will notice. You won’t be named since you’re not a public figure, but...” Jesse sighs. “Fans and netizens have ways of finding out. They might make things difficult for you.”

The words hang heavy in the air. Hokuto thinks of the office gossip that already surrounds Taiga—the whispers about their living arrangement, the speculation about his relationship with Jesse. How much worse would it be under the spotlight of celebrity dating?

I should protect him from that, Hokuto thinks automatically.

Then, he catches himself. That’s not his place. Taiga isn’t his to protect.

“Take your time thinking about it,” Jesse says gently. “I don’t need an answer right away. I just want you to be sure. Dating an actor isn’t just about the relationship—it’s about dealing with public scrutiny, constant speculation about your private life. It can be overwhelming, even when you try to keep things private.”

Hokuto takes a quiet step back from his hiding spot, careful not to let his shoes scuff against the concrete. He’s heard enough—more than enough. More than he had any right to hear.

The party’s warmth and noise wash over him as he slips back inside the function room. The plate in his hands feels like a prop now, something he’d grabbed in another lifetime.

He lifts a spring roll to his mouth mechanically, but the first bite turns to ash on his tongue. His throat feels too tight to swallow.

The food looks pristine and untouched on his plate as he sets it down on a random table, lost among other abandoned plates and half-empty glasses.

🏠

“Papa! Papa! Wake up!”

Something small and energetic bounces on Hokuto’s chest, forcing a groan from his lips. His head throbs with each movement, and the morning light streaming through the curtains feels like needles in his eyes.

“Five more minutes, princess.” He reaches blindly for Ema, wrapping her in a clumsy hug that does nothing to contain her excitement.

“But Tiger-san is making breakfast!” Ema wiggles in his arms, her voice pitched high with a mix of delight and urgency. “He’s using the big pan!”

Hokuto’s eyes snap open, memories from last night flooding back—the company celebration, the Disney tickets, and that conversation he wasn’t meant to hear. The one that had driven him to accept far too many drinks from an overenthusiastic Chaka.

“The big pan?” His throat feels like sandpaper, but concern cuts through the hangover fog. In the months they’ve lived here, Taiga has never once attempted to cook anything more complicated than instant ramen.

“Uh-huh! And there’s smoke!”

That gets Hokuto sitting up, the room tilting dangerously as his head protests the sudden movement. He steadies himself with one hand on the mattress, squinting at Ema’s bright face. She’s dressed in her favorite pajamas, her hair a mess of tangles he’ll need to brush out.

“Smoke?” The word comes out rough, and he swallows hard.

“Just a little!” Ema holds up her thumb and forefinger, showing a tiny gap. “But Tiger-san said a bad word when the pan made a scary noise.”

Oh god.

Hokuto swings his legs over the side of the bed, ignoring how the room spins. He’s still wearing yesterday’s clothes, wrinkled from sleeping in them. The taste in his mouth is awful, and his head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton, but the thought of Taiga attempting to cook in the kitchen is enough to get him moving.

“Let’s go check on him, shall we?” He manages a smile as Ema grabs his hand, tugging him toward the door with all the strength her tiny body can muster.

“Yes! Before the smoke gets bigger!”

They make their way down the stairs, Hokuto gripping the railing tighter than usual. Each step jostles his aching head, but Ema’s excited chatter about Tiger-san’s cooking adventure keeps him moving forward.

The smell of something burning grows stronger as they descend, along with what sounds suspiciously like muttered curses.

This is what I get for drinking so much, Hokuto thinks, remembering how he’d tried to drown out the image of Taiga and Jesse on that terrace, their silhouettes close in the Tokyo night. He’d wanted to forget the way Jesse’s words had painted a future so different from the simple happiness Hokuto had started to imagine—one where Taiga wouldn’t have to hide their living arrangement, where the three of them could be...

A loud clatter from the kitchen snaps him back to the present, followed by Taiga’s voice.

“No, no, no—why is it sticking? I followed the video exactly!”

Ema giggles, squeezing Hokuto’s hand. “Tiger-san’s face is all red like when he helps me with puzzles!”

The kitchen doorway looms ahead, and Hokuto takes a deep breath, steeling himself. His head is pounding, his mouth tastes terrible, and his heart aches with words he wasn’t meant to hear. But Ema’s warm little hand in his anchors him to this moment, to this house that’s become more than just a temporary shelter.

“Should we go save Tiger-san from the big pan?” he asks Ema, forcing lightness into his voice.

“Yes!” She bounces on her toes, pulling him forward. “He said he wanted to make something special, but I think the pan is being mean to him.”

The sight that greets them in the kitchen makes Hokuto's hangover-addled brain stutter. Eggshells litter the counter like casualties of war, and something dark and crusty clings to the edge of their largest frying pan.

Taiga stands at the stove, phone propped up nearby, his usual composed demeanor nowhere to be found.

“No, the heat needs to be lower.” Yugo’s voice crackles through the phone speaker. “And you’re supposed to crack the eggs into the bowl, not—what even happened there?”

“I’m trying!” Taiga’s shoulders are tense, his hair slightly disheveled. “The shell kept—why does it keep breaking into tiny pieces? This isn’t normal.”

Hokuto’s head throbs in time with each word, but he can’t look away from this disaster unfolding in Taiga’s kitchen.

Their kitchen. The kitchen that’s always been his domain, where he’s spent countless mornings making breakfast while Taiga watched from a safe distance, coffee in hand.

“Tiger-san!” Ema’s voice rings out, making Hokuto wince.

Taiga whirls around, spatula raised like a weapon. His eyes widen when he spots Hokuto, and a flush creeps up his neck. Bits of egg white cling to his sleeve, Hokuto notes with a mix of horror and something warmer he doesn’t want to examine too closely.

“You’re up.” Taiga’s voice cracks slightly. “I was trying to... Jesse drove us home last night, and you were pretty out of it, so I thought...”

“He’s been trying to make eggs for twenty minutes,” Yugo's voice cuts in, heavy with amusement. “At this rate, Ema-chan might graduate college before breakfast is ready.”

“Shut up,” Taiga hisses at his phone. “I’m hanging up.”

“Wait, you still need to—”

Yugo’s voice cuts off as Taiga jabs at his screen.

Hokuto’s gaze drifts to the mess on the counter, counting at least six broken eggs in various states of destruction. His stomach lurches, though whether from the hangover or the sight of his carefully organized kitchen in chaos, he’s not sure. The memory of last night feels distant and hazy, but Jesse’s name brings back fragments—the terrace, the film offer, the way Taiga’s silence had felt like an answer.

“Tiger-san wanted to make omelet!” Ema tugs at Hokuto’s hand. “But the eggs are being tricky.”

“Tricky is one word for it,” Hokuto mumbles, then louder, “How about I—”

“No,” Taiga cuts him off, determination settling over his features. “You’re hungover, and it’s already past ten. I can handle this.”

The pan behind him chooses that moment to start smoking again.

The smoke alarm’s shrill beep startles them all into action. Despite his hangover, Hokuto moves on instinct, reaching past Taiga to switch off the burner. His fingers brush Taiga’s sleeve, and he catches a whiff of coffee mixed with something burnt—a far cry from the usual pristine order of their morning routine.

“Maybe we should...” Hokuto squints at the ruined pan, his head throbbing. The eggs have fused into a blackened mass that might take days to scrub clean. “Order something?”

Taiga’s shoulders slump, the spatula lowering in defeat. “Denny’s?” he suggests, and there’s something vulnerable in how quickly he gives up the fight. “They deliver.”

“Denny’s sounds perfect.” Hokuto manages a weak smile, even as his stomach churns at the thought of food. The kitchen looks like a war zone—their usually immaculate counters scattered with eggshells and sticky residue. It’ll take ages to clean, but right now, he can barely keep his eyes open against the morning light.

“Oh, right.” Taiga moves to the fridge, the familiar hum as he opens it oddly comforting. “I left aspirin on the dining table. You looked like you might need it this morning.”

Hokuto blinks, processing this information through the fog in his brain. The first-aid kit lives in the upstairs bathroom, tucked away in the cabinet where Ema can’t reach it.

Which means Taiga must have...

“Here.” A cold glass of water appears in front of him, Taiga’s fingers steady as they hold it out. “You should take them before the food arrives.”

“Thanks,” Hokuto mumbles, accepting the glass. He tries not to think about Taiga planning ahead, about waking up early to attempt breakfast, about all the small ways their lives have tangled together in this house. His head hurts too much for that kind of reflection.

Ema tugs at his sleeve. “Papa, your face is all scrunchy. Does your tummy hurt?”

“Just a headache, sweetheart.” Hokuto squeezes Ema’s hand, grateful she’s too young to understand why Papa feels like his skull might crack open. That’s a conversation for her teenage years, preferably when he’s better equipped to explain why accepting too many drinks is never a good idea.

He takes the aspirin, the cool water soothing his parched throat. The kitchen still reeks of burnt eggs, making his stomach roll, but at least the smoke alarm has stopped its assault on his senses.

“Should we clean up before breakfast arrives?” He surveys the damage, trying not to wince at the state of his usually pristine domain. Eggshells crunch under his socked feet as he moves to set down the glass.

“I’ll handle it,” Taiga says quickly. “It’s my mess.”

The words hit something tender in Hokuto’s chest. Taiga, who treats housework like a foreign language, stands amid the chaos he created, determination written across his features. It’s the same look he gets during difficult marketing presentations, the one that makes Hokuto’s heart skip even through the hangover haze.

“I can help!” Ema bounces on her toes. “I’m good at cleaning!”

“How about we all pitch in?” Hokuto suggests, the aspirin already taking the edge off his headache. “Sweetheart, could you gather the eggshells and put them in the bin? Just be careful not to cut yourself.”

“Okay!” She salutes, a habit picked up from Shintaro.

“Kyomoto, if you could wipe down the counters?” Hokuto keeps his voice steady, professional. Like they’re discussing project assignments at work, not cleaning up evidence of Taiga’s first attempt at cooking for them by himself. “I’ll tackle the pan.”

“You should sit down,” Taiga protests. “You’re hungover.”

“I’m fine.” Hokuto fills the sink with hot water, avoiding Taiga’s gaze. “The sooner we clean, the sooner we can eat.”

They work in companionable silence, broken only by Ema’s running commentary on each eggshell she discovers. “This one looks like a tiny boat! And this one has spots!”

The familiar rhythm of cleaning settles Hokuto’s churning thoughts. He scrubs at the burnt remains in the pan, trying not to think about why Taiga chose today to attempt cooking. About Jesse driving them home, about film roles in Saga, about futures that don’t include quiet mornings in this kitchen.

“Found another one!” Ema’s voice pulls him back. “It was hiding behind the coffee maker!”

“Good eye, princess.” Hokuto manages a smile, even as his head throbs. The pan’s starting to look salvageable, though his arms ache from scrubbing.

“I didn’t know eggs could explode like that,” Taiga mutters, wiping down the stovetop. “Yugo made it look so easy.”

“That’s because Yugo’s been cooking since he could walk,” Hokuto says. “Maybe start with something simpler next time? Like toast?”

“Toast is boring.” Taiga’s sleeve brushes Hokuto’s arm as he reaches for another paper towel. “I wanted to...”

He trails off, but Hokuto catches the unspoken words hanging between them.

I wanted to help. I wanted to do something for you.

The doorbell chimes, saving them both from whatever might have followed.

“Breakfast!” Ema claps, egg-collecting mission forgotten. “Can I open the door?”

“Wait for me,” Taiga says quickly, dropping his cleaning supplies.

Hokuto rinses the last traces of burnt egg from the pan, his movements slower than usual as his head continues to throb. The sound of Ema’s excited footsteps trailing after Taiga echoes through the house, followed by the creak of the front door opening.

“Good morning!” A cheerful female voice drifts in from the entranceway. “Oh my, aren’t you adorable!”

“Thank you!” Ema’s response is bright and clear. “I helped clean up eggs!”

Hokuto sets the clean pan on the dish rack, wiping his hands on a nearby towel. He makes his way toward the dining room, pausing in the doorway as he watches the scene unfold.

The delivery lady beams at Ema, who’s practically bouncing beside Taiga. “Your daughter’s cute,” she says to Taiga, adjusting the bags in her arms. “How old is she?”

Something twists in Hokuto’s chest as he waits for Taiga’s correction. But Taiga just accepts the bags with a polite nod and a reply (“She’s five”), his expression unreadable.

The lack of denial sits heavy in Hokuto’s stomach, mixing unpleasantly with his hangover.

But he understands why Taiga stays silent. How do you explain this arrangement to a stranger? Yes, this is my coworker’s daughter, we’re living together temporarily because their apartment burned down, and no, it’s not what you think.

“Here.” Taiga’s voice pulls Hokuto from his thoughts as they return to the dining room. He hands Ema one of the smaller paper bags. “Be careful, it’s still warm.”

Hokuto watches Ema clutch the bag like it’s treasure, her eyes bright with excitement. The same expression she wore when Rui would surprise her with treats from the bakery.

His throat tightens at the memory.

“Papa, look!” Ema holds up her bag. “Tiger-san got me pancakes!”

The casual way she switches between calling Taiga ‘Tiger-san’ and treating him like a second parent makes Hokuto’s head spin—or maybe that's just the hangover.

He takes his usual seat at the table, trying to ignore how natural this feels, how easily they’ve fallen into these roles.

Roles that might not last, his mind supplies unhelpfully, remembering fragments of last night’s overheard conversation.

“Let me help you with that,” Taiga says, reaching for Ema’s bag. His fingers are still slightly sticky from the egg disaster, a reminder of how hard he’d tried to do something special this morning.

The aroma of warm pancakes fills the dining room as they settle into their usual spots. Hokuto’s head still throbs, but the aspirin has taken the worst edge off. He watches Taiga help Ema arrange her breakfast, noting how his usually pristine colleague doesn’t seem to mind the syrup threatening to drip onto his sleeve.

“Was the grown-up party fun?” Ema asks between bites, her legs swinging under the table. “Did they have cake like my party?”

The question triggers a flash of memory—the company celebration, colleagues laughing, Chaka pressing drinks into his hand. Then that moment on the terrace, words he wasn’t meant to hear. Hokuto’s stomach churns, but something else surfaces through the hangover fog.

The tickets.

“Actually...” Hokuto straightens, remembering the envelope still in his jacket pocket. His head protests the sudden movement, but Ema’s curious expression makes him push through the discomfort. “I got something special at the party.”

“A present?” Ema’s eyes widen, pancake forgotten mid-bite.

“Sort of.” He turns to face her properly, trying to match her excitement despite his lingering headache. “I won tickets to Disneyland.”

The squeal that follows makes him wince, but Ema’s joy is infectious. She bounces in her chair, nearly knocking over her orange juice before Taiga’s quick hand steadies it.

“Really? Really really?” Her voice rises with each word. “Can we go? Can we go tomorrow? Please, Papa?”

Hokuto glances at his plate, where his eggs benedict sits mostly untouched. He wants to just stay at home after last night’s party, but Ema’s enthusiasm washes away his hesitation.

Besides, it’s Sunday tomorrow—a perfect day for making memories.

“I don’t see why not,” he says, and Ema’s resulting cheer echoes through the kitchen.

“Tiger-san!” Ema swivels in her chair, syrup dripping from her fork as she turns to face Taiga. “Have you been to Disneyland? Is it magical? Do they have real princesses? Are you coming with us?”

Hokuto watches Taiga’s expression shift, something flickering behind his eyes before he sets down his coffee cup. The morning light streaming through the window catches the dark circles under Taiga’s eyes, reminding Hokuto that he wasn’t the only one who had a long night.

“Ah, well...” Taiga’s fingers tap against his mug, a nervous gesture Hokuto has learned to recognize over their months of cohabitation. “The tickets are just for you and your papa, Ema-chan.”

The joy drains from Ema’s face so quickly it makes Hokuto’s heart clench. She turns back to him, bottom lip trembling slightly. “But Tiger-san has to come too! He’s family!”

Hokuto’s head throbs harder at those words. Family. Such a simple word from his daughter’s lips, yet it carries the weight of every complicated feeling he’s been trying to ignore.

He sets down his fork, the eggs benedict suddenly looking even less appetizing. “Sweetheart,” he starts, careful to keep his voice gentle despite his hangover. “I only won two tickets at the party. It’ll just be you and me this time.”

“But that’s not fair!” Ema’s voice rises, making him wince. “Tiger-san makes us breakfast—”

“Tried to make,” Taiga interrupts, wincing as he gazes at the disaster they’d just cleaned up.

“—And helps me with puzzles and reads me stories! He should come too!”

“Ema-chan,” Taiga says, his voice softer than usual. “It’s okay. You should have a special day with your Papa.”

But Ema shakes her head. “No! You’re family too! Papa, tell Tiger-san he’s family!”

The words stick in Hokuto’s throat. How can he explain to his five-year-old that ‘family’ isn’t as simple as she thinks? That sometimes people who feel like family might have different paths ahead of them, paths that lead to a life with someone else and futures that don’t include burnt eggs in their kitchen?

“Princess,” he tries again, reaching for words through his hangover fog. “Sometimes special days are just for—”

“But Mama always said family stays together!” Ema’s lower lip trembles dangerously. “And Tiger-san is family now, right? So he has to come!”

The mention of Rui hits Hokuto like a physical blow. He remembers her voice, soft and sure, telling bedtime stories about the importance of family. How she’d always made room at their table for friends who needed a place to belong.

His daughter stares at him with Rui’s eyes, waiting for an answer he doesn’t know how to give.

Hokuto glances at Taiga, taking in the careful way he holds himself, the slight tension in his shoulders that suggests he’s already crafting a polite refusal.

Before Taiga can speak, Hokuto makes a decision that has nothing to do with his pounding headache and everything to do with the way his daughter’s eyes shine with hope.

“If Tiger-san wants to join us,” he says slowly, “he’s welcome to come.”

The words hang in the air between them. Taiga’s eyes widen slightly, his coffee cup frozen halfway to his lips.

Ema whips around to face him, practically vibrating with anticipation. “Please?” She clasps her hands together, syrup dripping unnoticed from her forgotten fork. “Please come with us, Tiger-san! We can see the princesses together!”

Hokuto watches the familiar crack appear in Taiga’s composed expression—the same one that appears whenever Ema turns those pleading eyes on him. It’s fascinating, really, how his usually stoic colleague melts under the force of a five-year-old’s enthusiasm.

“I...” Taiga sets down his coffee cup, fingers tapping against the ceramic. “I suppose I don’t have anything else planned tomorrow.”

Ema’s squeal of delight pierces through Hokuto’s lingering hangover, but he can’t bring himself to mind. She launches herself at Taiga, wrapping sticky fingers around his neck in a fierce hug.

He awkwardly pats her back, a slight smile tugging at his lips.

“I’ll pay for your ticket,” Hokuto says quickly, guilt settling in his stomach. “Since we’re hijacking your Sunday.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Taiga carefully extracts himself from Ema’s grip, his sleeve now sporting a distinct syrup stain. “It’s impossible to say no when she looks at you like that.”

A quiet chuckle escapes Hokuto as he watches Ema scramble back to her seat, attacking her pancakes with renewed vigor. “Tell me about it. Try dealing with that face at bedtime.”

The laugh catches Hokuto off guard—a genuine sound that makes his heart stutter in his chest. Taiga’s usually composed features soften, eyes crinkling at the corners as he watches Ema devour her pancakes. It’s not his polite work chuckle or the measured response he gives during meetings.

This laugh belongs here, in their kitchen, on a lazy weekend morning.

Hokuto’s hangover fades to background noise as he studies the way sunlight plays across Taiga’s face. There’s a smudge of flour on his cheek from the earlier cooking disaster, and his hair falls in messy waves instead of its usual styled perfection.

He looks... human. Approachable. Like he belongs at this table, sharing breakfast with them despite the burnt eggs and sticky fingers.

“Papa, can I wear my princess dress tomorrow?” Ema’s voice breaks through his thoughts. “The one Grandma got me?”

“Of course, sweetheart.” Hokuto tears his gaze away from Taiga, focusing on his daughter’s syrup-covered face. “We should probably wash it first, though.”

“I’ll help!” Taiga offers, then seems surprised by his own enthusiasm. A faint blush colors his cheeks as he adds, “I mean, I should do laundry anyway.”

The casual domesticity of the moment hits Hokuto like a physical ache. This is dangerous territory—watching Taiga volunteer for chores he once avoided, seeing him interact so naturally with Ema.

It’s one thing to acknowledge his own feelings, to carry them quietly while respecting the boundaries of their arrangement. But this? This easy familiarity, this glimpse of what could be?

Hokuto knows he’s doomed when Taiga reaches over to wipe syrup from Ema’s chin with his napkin, not even flinching at the stickiness.

His daughter beams at the attention, and something in Hokuto’s chest constricts painfully.

Because Ema’s right—somewhere along the way, Taiga has become family. And that knowledge terrifies him more than any fire ever could.

“We should make a list,” Taiga says, already reaching for his phone. “For tomorrow. The park can get crowded on weekends.”

Hokuto watches his daughter lean against Taiga’s arm, peering at the screen as he pulls up park information. They look so natural together, heads bent over the phone, Ema pointing excitedly at pictures while Taiga nods seriously at her suggestions.

The scene before him feels like a gift he doesn’t deserve.

And one he might not get to keep.

🏠

The train rocks back and forth, and Ema swings her feet in time with the motion. Her new purple dress—just like Rapunzel’s—swishes around her ankles. She reaches up to touch the crown Papa helped pin into her hair this morning. It feels a little crooked now, but that’s okay because real princesses probably have crooked crowns sometimes too.

“Are you excited?” Tiger-san asks from her left side. His shoulder is warm against her arm.

Ema nods so hard her crown slides further sideways. “Yuki-chan said the castle is bigger than all the buildings in Tokyo!”

Papa’s fingers brush her hair, fixing the crown. “I don’t know about that big,” he says in that soft voice he uses when he doesn’t want to make her sad. “But it is very pretty.”

The lady sitting across from them smiles, and Ema waves. She likes when people notice her dress. Mr. Bunny peeks out from her backpack—she couldn’t leave him at home because he’s never seen a castle before either.

“Look, look!” Ema points at the window as another train zooms past. The whoosh makes her giggle. “That was super fast like Zoomie!”

Tiger-san chuckles. “Zoomie would be jealous.”

“Can we get Zoomie a friend?” The words tumble out before she can stop them. Papa always says to think before asking for things, but she really wants Zoomie to have someone to play with when they’re not home.

“Ema…” Papa starts, but Tiger-san interrupts.

“Maybe.”

Ema bounces in her seat. Tiger-san never breaks promises.

The train stops, and more people squeeze in. Papa pulls her closer so she won’t get bumped. She can smell his cologne—the one that reminds her of bedtime stories and good morning hugs.

Tiger-san moves too, his arm pressing against hers as he makes space for a lady with lots of shopping bags.

“How many princesses do you think we’ll see?” Ema asks, trying to count on her fingers. “Yuki-chan met Snow White and Belle!”

“I bet we’ll see lots,” Papa says. His hand finds hers, warm and familiar. “But remember what we talked about? Sometimes the princesses need to rest…”

“Like when I have quiet time after lunch.” Ema nods seriously. She understands about quiet time—even princesses need naps.

The train announces another station, but it’s not theirs yet. Ema watches a little boy with Mickey Mouse ears walk past. Those are what Yuki wore to school.

Maybe...

She tugs on Tiger-san’s sleeve. “Tiger-san, you should get ears!” She looks up at Papa. “Papa too!”

Papa and Tiger-san exchange one of those grown-up looks they do sometimes—the kind that makes her feel like they’re having a whole conversation without words.

She holds her breath, hoping.

“We’ll see,” Papa says, which usually means yes if she’s patient and good.

Ema settles back between them, content. Mr. Bunny peeks out again, and she pats his head.

“We’re going to have the best day ever,” she whispers to him. “Because we’re all going together.”

The train rocks on, and Ema hums ‘When Will My Life Begin’ under her breath. Papa’s thumb rubs small circles on her palm, and Tiger-san’s shoulder is steady beside her. She feels safe, squeezed between them like the filling in a sandwich.

“Next station, Maihama,” the announcer’s voice rings through the train.

Ema’s heart skips a beat. That’s us! She remembers Papa showing her the name on his phone this morning.

Papa stands up first, his hand still holding hers. “Ready, princess?”

Tiger-san gets up too, and they make a wall around her as people start pushing toward the doors. Ema clutches Papa’s hand tighter—there are so many legs and bags moving around them. The crowd reminds her of the time they went to the summer festival, except nobody’s wearing yukatas today.

She reaches out with her free hand, finding Tiger-san’s. His fingers twitch in surprise, but then they curl around hers, warm and strong.

Now she feels extra safe, like when Papa and Tiger-san carry her between them to make her fly.

The train doors open with a whoosh, and everyone starts moving at once. Ema keeps her eyes on Papa’s back as they squeeze through. Mr. Bunny’s ear tickles her neck where he peeks out of her backpack.

“This way,” Tiger-san says, nodding toward a big sign with Mickey Mouse ears on it.

They follow the crowd up the stairs. Ema has to take big steps because her legs are shorter, but Papa and Tiger-san match her pace. Their hands swing with each step, making her feel like she’s dancing.

The crowd gets thicker as they near the exit. Ema feels squished between legs and bags again, but Papa and Tiger-san make a circle around her like they’re playing defense in soccer. She giggles at the thought—Papa would be terrible at soccer in his nice shoes.

“Almost there,” Papa says, his thumb rubbing circles on her hand like he does when she’s nervous about something new.

But Ema isn’t nervous at all. Not with Papa on one side and Tiger-san on the other. She can already hear music playing outside, and someone nearby is carrying a balloon that looks like Mickey’s head.

This is going to be the best day ever, she thinks, squeezing both their hands.

Tiger-san squeezes back, and when she looks up, he’s smiling—not his usual quiet smile, but the big one that makes his cheeks look like mochi.

Ema bounces on her toes, trying to peek through the gaps between people’s legs. She catches glimpses of bright colors and big signs with Mickey Mouse’s face, but there are too many grown-ups in the way.

“Papa, I can’t see!” She tugs on both their hands, a familiar mischief bubbling up inside her. Her feet lift off the ground for a second, and an idea sparks.

She swings their hands harder.

“One, two…”

Tiger-san catches on first—he always does when she wants to play. His grip tightens just enough, and on her next swing, he lifts with her.

“Three!” Ema squeals as her feet leave the ground. The crowd becomes a blur of colors as she swings between them, her purple Rapunzel dress swooshing in the breeze.

Papa laughs that warm laugh that means he’s not worried about being proper anymore. “Ready?” he asks Tiger-san.

“Ready,” Tiger-san says.

And now they’re both lifting her higher.

“Wheeee!” Ema kicks her feet out, and she’s flying. Mr. Bunny probably feels like he’s on a roller coaster in her backpack. “Higher!”

They swing her again, and this time she can see over the crowd. The castle spikes into the blue sky like the one in her storybooks, only bigger. Much bigger than the paper one they made at preschool last week.

“I see it!” she announces proudly. “It’s big!”

More swinging, more flying. People move out of their way now, some smiling at their game. Ema feels like a proper princess, floating between her two favorite people in the whole world.

They reach the entrance gates, where lines of people wait with their tickets. Papa and Tiger-san slow their swinging, letting her feet touch the ground again. Her head still spins a little, but in a fun way, like after spinning in circles during dance time at school.

“Tickets ready?” A lady in a blue uniform asks, smiling at Ema.

Papa lets go of her hand to pull paper tickets from his pocket. They’re shiny and have Mickey Mouse printed on them—she saw them this morning when Papa was checking their bag.

Tiger-san’s hand slips away too as he takes out his phone. He shows the lady something on the screen, probably one of those grown-up codes that look like funny squares.

Ema stands between them, bouncing on her toes again. She can hear music now, real Disney music like from her movies. And somewhere nearby, someone is singing “It’s a Small World”—she knows that one from music time with Mori-sensei.

The lady scans their tickets with a machine that makes happy beeping sounds. “Welcome to Disneyland!” she says, waving them through.

The music fades away when Ema spots them—real, actual Disney characters! Her mouth drops open at how big they are. On TV, Mickey and Minnie are tiny, smaller than Mr. Bunny. But here they stand taller than Papa, their round ears bobbing as they wave at people.

Her feet root to the spot. She clutches Papa’s hand tighter, suddenly unsure. Mickey’s gloves look giant enough to wrap around her whole head.

“Look who’s here to meet you,” Tiger-san says softly, crouching beside her. “Should we say hello?”

Ema peeks at Mickey and Minnie from behind Papa’s leg. They’re hugging a little girl in a Belle dress, and the girl isn’t scared at all. She even high-fives Mickey’s enormous glove.

“They’re so tall,” Ema whispers, tugging on Tiger-san’s sleeve. “Like Papa and you.”

Tiger-san chuckles. “That’s because they’re magic here. Want to take a picture with them? We can wave from far away first.”

That sounds safer. Ema nods, and Tiger-san leads them closer, but not too close.

Mickey spots them and waves, his whole arm swooping through the air. Minnie blows kisses, her polka-dot bow bouncing.

They’re friendly, Ema thinks. Like Mori-sensei when he pretends to be different characters during story time.

“Hi Mickey! Hi Minnie!” The words burst out of her before she can stop them. She waves back, her crown tilting sideways.

Papa fixes her crown, his fingers gentle. “Want to take a picture with them?”

“Can you come too?” She doesn’t want to face the giant mice alone.

“Of course.”

Papa walks with her to where Mickey and Minnie stand. Up close, their faces are soft and round, like the plushie in the toy store window she passes on the way to preschool.

Mickey holds out his hand, moving slower now, letting her decide.

Ema reaches up and touches his glove. It’s fuzzy! She giggles, suddenly brave. “Tiger-san! Look! I’m holding Mickey’s hand!”

Tiger-san already has his phone out, taking pictures. “Very brave, Princess Ema!”

“Papa too!” She grabs Papa’s hand with her free one, pulling him closer.

Minnie claps and poses beside them, one white-gloved hand on her cheek like she’s saying oh my!

The camera clicks and clicks. Ema feels like a real Disney princess now, standing between Mickey Mouse and Minnie Mouse and Papa.

“Tiger-san’s turn!” She bounces on her toes. “All three of us!”

“Oh, I can help with that!” A lady wearing Mickey ears steps forward, smiling. “You’re such an adorable family. Here, let me take one of all of you together.”

Ema beams as Tiger-san hesitates, but she won’t let him escape. She grabs his hand too, positioning him next to Papa. Mickey and Minnie squeeze in on either side of them, making their group into a perfect circle.

Papa and Tiger-san have funny looks on their faces, like when Yuki-chan’s mom caught them both picking Ema up from school last week. Their smiles seem stuck, and they stand extra straight, leaving space between their shoulders.

“Say cheese!” the lady calls out.

“Cheese!” Ema throws her arms up.

The lady hands Tiger-san his phone back. Ema bounces over to look at the pictures, but Papa and Tiger-san stand weirdly far apart now, like when Yuki-chan’s big brothers have to share the swing set.

“These are…” Papa’s voice trails off, his ears turning pink like they do when he’s embarrassed.

Tiger-san clears his throat. “Good shots.” He quickly puts his phone away, not letting Ema see.

Grown-ups are so strange sometimes.

“Where to first, Ema?” Papa asks, maybe a bit too loudly. He pulls out a colorful map from his pocket.

But something’s missing. Something important.

“We need hats first!” She points at other families walking past, all wearing matching Mickey ears or fun character hats. “Everyone has special hats!”

“The gift shop is right there,” Tiger-san says, gesturing to a nearby building.

Ema grabs both their hands again, pulling them toward the shop.

Inside, rows and rows of hats and ears sparkle under bright lights. Some have sequins, others have bows like Minnie’s, and some are familiar characters from her favorite Disney movies!

“Look, look!” She rushes to a wall covered in different character hats. There’s Stitch with his big blue ears, Winnie the Pooh, and even a Buzz Lightyear helmet.

Papa picks up simple black Mickey ears, turning them over in his hands. But then his eyes catch something else—a big blue and purple hat with horns and spots, just like...

“Sully!” Ema squeals, recognizing the monster. She watches Papa’s fingers trace the soft fur, a small smile playing on his lips. “Try it on, Papa!” She tugs at his sleeve until he bends down.

The hat fits perfectly, making Papa look silly and fun instead of proper like he usually does at work.

“Rawr!” Papa growls in a deep voice, just like Sully does in the movie. “Where’s my favorite human?”

Ema giggles, falling right into the game. “I’m Boo!” She ducks behind a shelf, peeking out like she’s playing hide-and-seek.

“Boo? Where are you?” Papa stomps around, making monster footstep sounds.

She jumps out, waving her arms. “Here I am!”

Papa scoops her up, tickling her sides until she shrieks with laughter.

“Kitty!” she says between giggles.

The word makes Papa pause, his eyes going soft and crinkly at the corners like they do when he’s really happy.

Tiger-san watches them with a strange look on his face—kind of like when he saw the pictures of them with Mickey and Minnie. His smile seems both happy and sad at the same time, if that’s even possible.

Tiger-san needs a hat too! Ema wiggles out of Papa’s arms, determined to complete their matching set. Tiger-san still stands near the entrance, like he sometimes does when he’s not sure if he should join their games.

“Tiger-san!” She grabs his hand, pulling him deeper into the store. “Everyone needs special hats.”

Tiger-san lets her lead him past shelves of sparkly princess crowns and light-up wands. His eyes catch on something, and he stops in front of a display with orange and black stripes.

“Look,” he says, reaching for a hat that looks like Tigger. “What do you think?”

Ema’s eyes go wide. She never thought about it before, but Tiger-san is just like Tigger! He pretends to be all quiet and proper at first, but then he plays silly games with her, like swinging her high in the air or making funny faces during breakfast.

A giggle bubbles up inside her. “You’re Tigger-san now!” The name feels perfect on her tongue, like when she finally learned how to say “responsibility” after Mori-sensei taught them the word.

Tiger-san (or is it Tigger-san now?) tries on the hat. The orange ears stick up just like real Tigger ears would.

Papa walks over, still wearing his Sully hat. His eyes do that soft crinkly thing again as he looks at Tigger-san. “The wonderful thing about Tiggers,” he sings quietly, making Tigger-san’s cheeks turn pink.

“Is Tiggers are wonderful things!” Ema joins in, bouncing just like Tigger does. She knows this song from movie time with Yuki-chan!

Tigger-san’s face gets even pinker, but he’s smiling that special smile he only uses when he thinks no one’s looking. The one that makes his eyes all warm and sparkly, like when he watches Papa cook dinner or helps Ema with her drawings.

Now they look like a proper Disney family. Papa in his Sully hat, Tigger-san with his bouncy ears, and Ema with her purple Rapunzel dress and crown.

“Ready to explore?” Tigger-san asks once they’ve paid for the hats, holding out his hand.

Ema grabs it, then reaches for Papa’s too. With both her favorite people beside her, wearing silly hats and smiling real smiles, she feels like she could burst with happiness.

They step out of the gift shop into the bright sunshine, and the music seems louder now, like it’s playing just for them. Other families walk past wearing their own matching hats—but none of them look as perfect as her Papa and Tigger-san.

🏠

The giant teacup spins and spins, making Ema’s stomach feel all fluttery like when she chases butterflies. Her crown slides sideways as she bounces in her seat between Papa and Tiger-san. All around them, other teacups whirl in circles while cheerful music tinkles through the air.

“Look, Ema.” Papa points to a big silver wheel in the middle of their cup. “If we turn this, we can make our cup spin faster.”

Ema’s eyes go wide. “Really?” She wraps her fingers around the cool metal, but when she tries to push, it barely moves. Her arms feel like wet noodles, the kind Papa makes for lunch sometimes.

“Here, let me show you.” Papa’s hands cover hers on the wheel.

He pushes gently, and their cup starts spinning a tiny bit faster. The world outside blurs—the pink and purple cups nearby becoming streaks of color.

“More!” Ema bounces harder, making the whole cup wobble. “Make it go faster, Papa!”

Papa laughs, that special laugh he saves for when they’re playing together. “Want to help us, Tiger-san?”

Tiger-san hesitates for a second, like he does sometimes when Papa asks him to join their games. But then he grins—that real grin that makes his eyes crinkle up—and puts his hands next to theirs on the wheel.

“Ready?” Tiger-san asks. “One, two...”

“Three!” Ema shrieks as both men turn the wheel together.

Their cup whooshes around faster and faster. The wind makes Ema’s dress flutter like butterfly wings, and her giggles bubble up uncontrollably. Everything outside their cup becomes a beautiful swirly mess of colors—like when she mixes all her paints together at preschool.

“Wheeeee!” She throws her hands up in the air, feeling brave because Papa’s arm is secure around her waist. Her crown nearly flies off, but Tiger-san catches it just in time, settling it back on her head without letting go of the wheel.

The music seems to spin with them: tea for two and two for tea, just me for you and you for me. Ema tries to sing along, but she’s laughing too hard, especially when Papa and Tiger-san start making silly whooping sounds.

“Faster?” Tiger-san asks, his orange Tigger ears bouncing with each spin.

“Faster!” Ema demands, even though her tummy feels like it’s full of popping bubbles.

Papa’s Sully hat wobbles dangerously as they spin even quicker. Their cup must be the fastest one in the whole ride! Other families in nearby cups look like colorful blobs, and Ema imagines they’re racing through a rainbow.

“We’re flying!” she declares, spreading her arms wide like wings. The wind whips her hair around her face, tickling her nose and making her giggle even harder.

When the teacup finally stops spinning, Ema’s whole world keeps moving in circles like the time she spun around and around in the playground until she fell down. Her legs feel wobbly-wibbly as she stands up, like they’ve turned into the jelly Papa puts on her toast.

“Careful there, Princess.” Tiger-san’s warm hand catches her elbow before she can tumble over. His orange Tigger ears are all crooked now, which makes her want to giggle, but her head is still spinning too much.

Papa holds her other hand as they step out of the cup. The ground feels funny under her feet, like it’s made of marshmallows instead of concrete. She takes tiny baby steps, gripping both their hands tighter.

“That was so fun!” She tries to bounce but almost trips over her own feet. “Can we do it again?”

“Maybe later,” Papa says with that gentle voice he uses when he doesn’t want to say no right away. “How about we—”

A loud growl interrupts him, but it’s not from any of the scary rides nearby—it’s from Ema’s tummy! Her face feels hot, like when she has to present her drawing in front of the whole class.

“Sounds like someone’s hungry,” Tiger-san teases, his cheeks doing that mochi thing again.

Papa points to a big building ahead that looks like it came straight from one of her storybooks. “Look, Ema. That’s the restaurant. Should we see what they have for lunch?”

Ema’s eyes go wide. She remembers the story—how the mean queen always yelled “Off with their heads!” But the building doesn’t look scary at all. It’s pretty, an M-shaped arc of plants leading to what looks like a palace.

Inside, everything is even more amazing. The ceiling is so high up it might touch the clouds, and there are playing cards everywhere—but not the boring kind Papa keeps in his desk drawer. These cards have faces and arms and legs!

“Look, Papa!” She tugs on his hand, pointing at a card-person nearby. “They’re alive!”

“They’re the Queen’s servants,” Tiger-san explains, adjusting his Tigger ears that got messy from the teacup ride.

Ema’s tummy does another growl, but this time she doesn’t feel embarrassed because the smell of food is everywhere. It reminds her of when Papa bakes cookies, but there are so many other yummy smells too.

Her legs still feel a bit wobbly as they walk past card-servants. Some of them bow as they pass, making Ema feel like a real princess in her purple dress and crown. She tries to bow back but almost trips again, making Papa and Tiger-san catch her arms.

The card-servants guide them to a round table with three chairs. Ema’s legs still feel like jelly from all the spinning, so she plops into the nearest seat, her crown tilting sideways again. The chair is so big her feet dangle way above the floor, like when she sits in Papa’s chair at home.

“You can get food first,” Papa offers, fixing his hat. “I can stay with Ema.”

Tiger-san shakes his head. “No, you go ahead.”

“Really, it’s no—”

“Ema-chan!”

The familiar voice makes Ema’s heart jump like when she spots a butterfly. She twists in her chair, almost knocking over her crown again.

No way!

Through the crowd of card-people, she spots Mori-sensei walking toward their table. He’s wearing a Mickey Mouse house instead of his usual teacher clothes, and his smile is as bright as always.

“Mori-sensei!” Ema waves both arms over her head, nearly falling off her chair in excitement.

Papa’s hand steadies her back just in time.

Mori-sensei weaves between the tables, his Mickey hat bobbing with each step. His eyes look extra sparkly today, like when he reads them their favorite stories at circle time.

“What a surprise!” Mori-sensei’s voice sounds different outside of school, more bouncy somehow. “I love your Rapunzel dress, Ema-chan. You look just like a real princess!”

Ema preens, smoothing her purple skirt. “Papa got it for me! And look—” She points to her head. “I have a crown too!”

“Very royal,” Mori-sensei agrees with a little bow that makes her giggle. He turns to Papa, and his cheeks look pinker than usual. “Matsumura-san, what a coincidence meeting you here.”

Papa’s hand feels stiffer against Ema’s back. “Morimoto-sensei, hello.”

“And Kyomoto-san too!” Mori-sensei’s eyes get even wider when he notices Tiger-san. His smile wobbles a tiny bit, like when Yuki-chan’s crayon breaks during art time. “Are you all here together?”

“We’re on a family trip!” Ema announces proudly. She reaches for Tiger-san’s hand. “See? Tiger-san is Tigger-san now!”

Something funny happens then. Mori-sensei’s smile does that wobbly thing again, and Papa’s fingers twitch against her back. Tiger-san’s hand feels warm in hers, but he’s standing super still, like when Zoomie gets stuck under the couch.

“That’s... wonderful,” Mori-sensei says, but his voice sounds different now, more like when he has to tell someone to stop running in class.

“What brings you here, Morimoto-sensei?” Papa asks, his voice all polite and stiff, like when he has important meetings at work.

“Oh, I’m here with my brother and nephew!” Mori-sensei’s face lights up like when someone brings cupcakes to share at preschool. “I was about to get some food from the buffet when I spotted you all.”

“What a coincidence.” Papa’s hand leaves Ema’s back. “I was heading there myself.”

“We can go together then!” Mori-sensei’s Mickey hat bounces as he gestures toward the long tables full of food.

Papa glances at Tiger-san, then back at Ema. “Will you be okay here with Tiger-san?”

“Mm-hmm!” Ema nods so hard her crown slips again.

Tiger-san catches it before it can fall, just like he always does.

Papa and Mori-sensei walk away together, weaving between the card-people. Mori-sensei talks with his hands, just like during story time, and Papa nods along. It’s weird seeing them outside of school—like that time she saw Yuki-chan at the grocery store and couldn’t understand why her friend wasn’t in the block corner where she belongs.

But something feels funny. Not ha-ha funny like when Papa makes silly faces, but strange-funny, like when the air gets heavy before it rains. Tiger-san is super quiet beside her, and when she looks up, his face reminds her of Mr. Bunny that time she accidentally spilled juice on his ear—all scrunched up and worried.

Tiger-san’s eyes follow Papa and Mori-sensei as they reach the buffet table. His fingers keep fiddling with his Tigger hat, like he does with his tie when he has big meetings at work. His mouth is doing that thing where it tries to smile but can’t quite remember how, the way Papa’s did right after they moved to Tiger-san’s house.

“Tiger-san?” She tugs on his sleeve. “Are you okay?”

He jumps a little, like when Zoomie bumps into his legs. “Of course, Princess. Just... thinking about what I want to eat.”

But his eyes keep watching Papa and Mori-sensei, who are now laughing about something while picking out food. Tiger-san’s shoulders look all stiff, like when Papa has to carry too many grocery bags at once.

Ema wishes she knew the right words to make Tiger-san’s face go back to normal—the way Papa always knows exactly what to say when she’s upset. But grown-ups are confusing sometimes, with all their weird faces and voices that say one thing while meaning another.

Papa’s footsteps sound different in this magical place—like when he walks on the kitchen tiles at home, but more click-clacky. He balances a big brown tray as he weaves between the card-people, his Sully hat bobbing with each step.

“Your turn,” Papa tells Tiger-san, setting down the tray. His voice sounds normal again, not stiff like when he was talking to Mori-sensei.

Tiger-san nods and stands up. His hat is still crooked, but he doesn’t fix them this time. His eyes look sad-tired, like when Papa stares at Mama’s picture late at night. He disappears into the crowd of card-people, his shoulders all hunched up.

But then Papa puts something amazing in front of Ema—a plate with ears! Not real ears like Tiger-san’s orange ones, but Mickey Mouse ears made of white rice! And there’s a hamburger right in the middle.

“Look what they had.” Papa’s smile is back to normal as he points to the plate. “Even the plate has Mickey ears.”

Ema traces the plate’s edge with her finger. It feels smooth and cool, like the stones she collects from the playground. “It’s so pretty! Can we keep it?”

Papa chuckles, that warm sound that makes her feel cozy inside. “No, Princess. But guess what I saw at the dessert counter?”

“What?” Ema bounces in her seat, making her crown slide again.

“They have strawberry cake.” Papa’s eyes twinkle as he fixes her crown. “With pink frosting and little Mickey shapes on top. If you finish your lunch, we can get some later.”

Strawberry cake! Her tummy does a happy dance, different from the hungry growls before. “Promise?”

“Promise.” Papa cuts her hamburger into smaller pieces, the way he always does at home. “But vegetables first, okay?”

Ema eyes the small pile of green beans on her plate. They’re arranged in a Mickey shape too, which makes them slightly less yucky. She pokes one with her fork, wondering if Disney magic makes vegetables taste better.

The first bite proves that even Disney can’t make green beans taste like candy, but Ema chews anyway. The faster she eats them, the sooner she’ll get cake! She imagines the strawberries will taste like the ones Papa puts in her breakfast, sweet and juicy and perfect.

The hamburger tastes much better—all warm and soft, with cheese that stretches like rubber bands when she takes a bite. The rice Mickey ears are fun to eat too. She dismantles them piece by piece, pretending each grain is a tiny treasure.

“Slow down, Princess.” Papa wipes a bit of ketchup from her chin. “The cake isn’t going anywhere.”

But Ema can’t help it. Her fork moves faster and faster, scooping up rice and hamburger bits like Zoomie collecting dust bunnies under the couch. The promise of pink frosting makes everything taste better, even the last stubborn green beans.

She’s halfway through her Mickey rice ears when Tiger-san returns. His tray has a hamburger too, but it looks lonely without the Mickey shape. His orange Tigger hat is still crooked, and his eyes still have that sad-tired look, even though his mouth is trying to smile.

Something’s wrong with Tiger-san, she thinks, watching him pick at his food. It reminds her of when Papa pretends to be okay but isn’t—like that time he had a fever but still tried to make cookies with her for the Christmas party.

Tiger-san’s face looks the same way now, all scrunched up and pretending.

But before she can ask what’s wrong, Papa mentions the magic word again: “Remember, if you finish everything, we can get that strawberry cake.”

Just like that, Ema’s attention snaps back to her plate. The promise of pink frosting and Mickey-shaped strawberries is too exciting to ignore.

She attacks the remaining rice ears with renewed energy, her fork moving like a tiny shovel.

🏠

The parade sparkles like a million fireflies dancing in the fading sunlight. From her perch on Papa’s shoulders, Ema can see everything—the glittering costumes, the twinkling lights, and Mickey himself waving from his special float!

“Look, look!” She points excitedly, almost losing her balance. Papa’s hands steady her legs. “Mickey has stars all over his suit!”

The music swells around them, making her whole body tingle with happiness. It’s like being inside one of her favorite snow globes, except better because everything is moving and singing and magical.

“Wave to Snow White,” Papa says, shifting his weight to keep her steady. His Sully hat bumps against her knee as she waves frantically at the princess floating by on her crystal carriage.

Tiger-san stands next to them, his phone held up like he’s trying to catch stardust. The orange Tigger hat is finally straight on his head, though his face still has that funny look from lunch—not quite sad anymore, but not as bright as usual either.

“Hey, Princess Ema!” Tiger-san calls out, turning his phone toward them. “Show me your biggest Disney smile!”

She throws both arms up in the air, nearly knocking off her crown again. “Like this?”

“Perfect!” Tiger-san laughs—a real laugh this time, not the pretend one from the restaurant. “Matsumura, look over here too!”

Papa turns slightly, making Ema giggle as she sways on his shoulders. The parade lights paint everything in rainbow colors, making Tiger-san’s orange ears glow like they’re magic too. His phone stays steady even though the crowd keeps pushing and moving around him.

“Wave to Tiger-san!” Ema commands, tugging gently on Papa’s Sully hat. She remembers not to pull too hard—last time she got excited and almost made Papa drop his coffee cup.

Papa waves, and through Tiger-san’s phone screen, they look just like the happy families in Disney commercials.

Except better, because it’s them—her and Papa and Tiger-san, all together under the sparkly parade lights.

A new float appears, this one carrying Rapunzel in her purple dress that matches Ema’s. The princess’ hair glows like actual sunlight, trailing behind her float in a golden river.

“Tiger-san, Tiger-san! Film Rapunzel!” Ema bounces on Papa’s shoulders, making him grunt. “Her hair is glowing!”

Tiger-san swings his phone back to the parade just as Rapunzel starts waving at the crowd. The music wraps around them like a warm blanket, mixing with the crowd’s excited whispers.

Papa hums along to the song, the vibrations tickling Ema’s legs where they rest against his shoulders. His hands feel warm and safe around her ankles, keeping her steady as she sways to the music.

“I can see all the way to the castle!” Ema gasps. The castle looks like it's made of starlight now, all lit up against the sunset.

Tiger-san’s phone moves between the parade, the castle, and them, trying to catch every magical moment. His hat bobs as he steps closer, dodging a group of excited kids with light-up Mickey balloons.

“Say ‘Disney magic!’” Tiger-san calls out, pointing his phone at them again.

“Disney magic!” Ema throws her arms wide, imagining she’s spreading pixie dust everywhere like Tinker Bell.

Papa laughs below her, the sound mixing with the parade music and making everything feel even more special.

Through Tiger-san’s phone screen, she can see herself perched like a real princess on Papa’s shoulders, her crown catching the parade lights and sparkling. Papa’s Sully hat has slipped a little sideways, but his smile is bigger than it’s been all day.

The last float disappears, taking all the music with it. The crowd starts moving like a big wave, pushing and pulling in different directions. Ema holds onto Papa’s Sully hat as he carefully lifts her down from his shoulders.

Her legs feel wobbly after sitting up so high for so long. She grabs Papa’s hand to steady herself, her other hand making sure her crown is still straight. The parade lights are dimming now, but the castle still glows like magic in the distance.

“The fireworks start in twenty minutes,” Papa says, checking his phone. His Sully hat is definitely crooked now. “What should we do until then, Princess?”

Tiger-san points to a wooden bench near a pretty lamp post. “We could rest there for a bit.” His hat bounces as he talks, making Ema smile. He looks more like himself now, not like at lunch when his face got all funny after seeing Mori-sensei.

The bench looks perfect for three people—just like their breakfast table at home. Papa leads the way, helping Ema dodge around a group of kids with light-up balloons that look like floating stars.

“My feet are dancing,” Ema announces as she climbs onto the bench, smoothing her purple Rapunzel dress. The sparkles on her skirt catch the lamplight, making tiny stars dance on her legs.

Papa sits next to her, his Sully hat finally falling off completely. She catches it and places it back on his head, giggling when it slides down over his eyes.

“I’ll get us some drinks,” Tiger-san says, his hat glowing under the Mickey lamp post. “The counter store’s right there.”

“Thanks, Kyomoto.” Papa fixes his hat, and his voice sounds softer than before. Like when he reads Ema bedtime stories about gentle things.

Tiger-san nods, and his smile looks real again—not like the pretend one from the restaurant when Mori-sensei was there. He turns toward the store, his Tigger hat disappearing into the crowd of people finding spots for the fireworks.

Ema swings her legs, watching her sparkly shoes catch the light. They match her crown and her dress, making her feel like a real Disney princess. She leans against Papa’s arm, suddenly feeling how tired her excitement is making her.

“Did you have fun today, Princess?” Papa’s arm wraps around her shoulders, warm and safe like always.

“So much fun!” She sits up straighter, remembering all the magical things they’ve seen. “We met Mickey and Minnie and Rapunzel! And the parade had real glowing lights!”

Papa laughs, the sound mixing with the excited chatter of people walking past their bench. His Sully hat is crooked again, but Ema decides it looks better that way—more like the real Sully from her favorite movie.

She spots Tiger-san at the counter, his Tigger hat making him easy to find in the crowd. He’s talking to the person behind the counter, probably ordering their drinks. His phone is still in his hand, probably full of all the magic moments he caught during the parade.

“Papa?” Ema tugs on his sleeve, an important thought popping into her head. “Can we put Tiger-san's parade videos on the TV when we get home? Like we do with my princess movies?”

Papa’s hand pauses where he’s fixing his hat again. “We’ll have to ask him first,” he says, his voice doing that soft thing again. “But I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

Ema watches Tiger-san’s hat bob through the crowd. His shoulders look heavy, like when Mr. Bunny gets wet in the washing machine.

“Papa?” She snuggles closer, feeling the rough fabric of his shirt against her cheek. “Is Tiger-san okay?”

Papa’s arm tightens around her shoulders. His heart does a funny jump-skip under her ear, like when she asks about Mama’s pictures. “Why do you ask, Princess?”

“Sometimes he looks sad.” Ema traces the sparkles on her dress with one finger. “Like when he tries to smile but his eyes don’t sparkle. The way Yuki-chan does when she scrapes her knee but says she’s fine.”

Papa takes a long time to answer, like when she asks difficult questions about why the sky is blue or where clouds go at night. His Sully hat slips forward again, but this time he doesn’t fix it.

“Tiger-san is thinking about important adult things right now.”

“What adult things?” The sparkles on her dress make tiny stars dance on her hands. She remembers Tiger-san’s phone catching all their parade smiles, how his laugh sounded real again for a little while.

Papa’s chest rises and falls with a big breath. “I can’t really say, Princess. Those are Tiger-san’s thoughts to share if he wants to.”

“Oh.” Ema nods, understanding blooming like when she finally learned to write her name. It’s like when Tiger-san told her about his papa who never learned to stop throwing crayons—some things are hard to talk about, even for grown-ups.

She watches Tiger-san at the counter, how he shifts his weight from foot to foot like he’s dancing to music only he can hear.

“Papa?” She sits up straighter, her crown tilting slightly. “What can I do to make Tiger-san smile? His real smile, not a pretend one?”

Papa’s hand comes up to fix her crown, gentle like when he helps her brush her teeth or ties her shoes. His eyes look soft and a little shiny, like the parade lights reflecting off the castle windows.

“Just be you, Princess.” His voice sounds like warm honey, sweet and gentle. “That’s more than enough.”

Tiger-san emerges from the crowd like magic, his orange ears glowing under the castle lights. He’s carrying drinks, and Ema notices his smile looks better now—more like sunshine breaking through clouds.

“Here you go, Princess.” He hands her a cold orange juice, the cup decorated with tiny Mickey heads that sparkle. “Careful, it’s full to the top.”

The juice tastes extra special, like happiness mixed with pixie dust. Ema holds it carefully with both hands, remembering how Papa always tells her not to spill.

Tiger-san passes Papa a drink too, their fingers brushing for a moment like butterfly wings.

Music starts floating through the air—soft at first, like a whisper, then growing louder and louder until it feels like it’s dancing inside Ema’s chest. The castle changes colors, turning from white to purple to gold, each shade more magical than the last.

“Look!” Ema points with her free hand as the first firework explodes above the castle. It’s like a giant flower made of stars, blooming in the dark sky. The boom echoes in her tummy, making her whole body tingle with excitement.

More fireworks burst overhead, painting the night in rainbow colors. Some look like hearts, others like shooting stars racing across the sky. The music swells with each explosion, telling a story with light and sound.

Ema sneaks a peek at Papa and Tiger-san. They’re both staring up at the sky, their drinks forgotten in their hands. The fireworks paint their faces in different colors—red, blue, gold—making them look like they’re part of the magic too.

Papa’s Sully hat is crooked again, but he doesn’t seem to notice. His eyes are wide and sparkly, just like when Ema shows him her best drawings. Tiger-san’s hat glows with each burst of light, and his real smile—the one that reaches his eyes—is back.

A huge firework explodes right above them, making Ema jump. It’s purple and gold, just like her Rapunzel dress, and it seems to fill the whole sky. The boom is so big she can feel it in her chest, like when Papa hugs her extra tight.

“Wow,” she whispers, her orange juice sloshing a little in its cup. The castle glows brighter and brighter, like it’s made of actual starlight now.

More fireworks dance across the sky, some tiny like fireflies, others huge like exploding suns. The music wraps around them like a warm blanket, making everything feel safe and magical at the same time.

Papa and Tiger-san stand close together, their shoulders almost touching. They both look amazed, their faces tilted up toward the sparkling sky. Tiger-san’s phone stays in his pocket, like he wants to keep this moment just for them, not trapped behind a screen.

A golden firework bursts overhead, raining down sparkles that seem to dance forever before fading away. The light catches in Papa’s eyes, making them shine like stars. Tiger-san gasps softly beside them, his orange juice tilting dangerously in his hand.

The music swells again, and more fireworks paint pictures in the sky—castles and stars and hearts that glow like magic. Ema’s orange juice is getting cold in her hands, but she doesn’t want to drink it. She doesn’t want to look away from the sky, not even for a second.

Papa and Tiger-san haven’t moved, and haven’t even sipped their drinks. They stand perfectly still, watching the light show with wonder on their faces. They look just like the princes in Ema’s storybooks when they see something magical for the first time.

Another huge firework explodes, this one shaped like a giant Mickey head. The boom makes Ema’s whole body vibrate with excitement. She glances at Papa and Tiger-san again, catching them sharing a look that reminds her of the soft way Snow White gazes at her prince.

The light sparkles on Papa’s face, and something in Ema's tummy feels funny. She knows that look—it’s the special one Papa gives when he talks about Mama, or when he shows Ema pictures of their wedding day. His eyes get all soft and shiny, like stars reflecting in a quiet pond.

But he’s not looking at Mama's picture now. He’s looking at Tiger-san that way, while the fireworks paint their faces in gold and purple.

Tiger-san’s smile is different too. Not the pretend one from lunch, or even the happy one from the parade. It’s gentle and warm, like when Mama smiles in the photos on Papa’s phone. The ones where she’s wearing her pretty white dress and holding flowers.

Ema’s orange juice suddenly feels too cold in her hands. Her tummy twists like when she spins too fast in the teacups. It’s wrong somehow. That look belongs to Mama. Papa only gives that look when he talks about Mama.

Another firework bursts overhead, but the boom feels far away now. Papa and Tiger-san still haven’t moved, haven’t noticed how their shoulders are touching or how their drinks are getting cold in their hands.

Why is Papa looking at Tiger-san like that?

The question bounces around in Ema’s head like an echo. She remembers the photo album Papa keeps in his special drawer, the one with all the pictures of Mama smiling that same soft way at Papa.

But Tiger-san isn’t Mama. Tiger-san is... Tiger-san.

The music swells again, but it doesn’t feel magical anymore. It feels too loud, too bright, like when she wakes up from a nap and the sunlight hurts her eyes.

Papa’s Sully hat is still crooked, and Tiger-san’s hat glows with each firework. They look happy—really happy.

But something in Ema’s chest feels tight, like when she tries not to cry during sad parts in movies.

She tugs on Papa’s sleeve, but he doesn’t notice right away. He’s still giving Tiger-san that special Mama-look, and Tiger-san is giving it right back, and Ema’s tummy feels like it’s full of squirming butterflies.

The castle lights blur a little, and Ema realizes her eyes are getting wet. She doesn’t understand why she feels like crying. Tiger-san makes Papa smile. Tiger-san helps with breakfast and reads stories and plays princess games.

But that look—that’s supposed to be just for Mama.

Isn ’ t it?

🏠

Taiga stares at Ema’s untouched ginger pork, his own chopsticks hovering midair. The silence weighs heavy in the dining room, broken only by the soft whir of Zoomie cleaning the corner.

This isn’t like her at all.

“The pork might get cold,” he tries, keeping his voice light. “I thought you like your Papa’s cooking?”

Ema pushes a piece around her plate. “Not hungry.”

Across the table, Hokuto catches his eye, that familiar worried crease between his brows deepening. They’ve been exchanging these looks for days now, ever since they returned from Disneyland. Each attempt at conversation met with one-word answers or silence.

Something’s wrong, Taiga thinks, studying the way Ema’s shoulders droop. The sparkle in her eyes that usually lights up the room has dimmed. Her Rapunzel dress hangs unworn on the closet door, though she’d been insisting on wearing it to bed every night before the trip.

“Would you like something else?” Hokuto asks softly. “We could make pancakes—”

“No thank you.”

Taiga’s chest tightens at her polite refusal. Even her usual morning chatter about preschool adventures has vanished. No stories about Yuki’s latest crayon masterpiece or Morimoto-sensei’s silly songs.

Morimoto-sensei.

The memory of their awkward encounter at Disneyland surfaces. But surely that couldn’t be bothering her this much? She’d been fine during the parade, perched on Hokuto’s shoulders and pointing at every character that passed.

The silence stretches uncomfortably. Taiga finds himself missing her endless questions about Zoomie’s inner workings or her giggles when he pretends the vacuum is chasing him. Now she barely glances at it.

“Ema-chan,” he starts, then pauses when she doesn’t look up. “You know you can tell us if something’s wrong, right?”

Her little fingers tighten around her chopsticks. “Nothing’s wrong.”

But everything in her posture screams otherwise. Taiga exchanges another helpless look with Hokuto, whose face mirrors his own concern. They’ve faced tantrums and tears before, but this quiet withdrawal feels different. More worrying.

“Should we watch Tangled after school?” Hokuto suggests.

“No thank you, Papa.”

Taiga’s heart sinks further. He watches as she methodically separates her vegetables from the meat, creating neat little piles that remain uneaten.

“Maybe we could do some magic tricks later?” he offers. “We can practice that card trick we learned—”

“I’m finished,” Ema announces, pushing her barely touched plate away. “May I go brush my teeth?”

Hokuto nods, his expression pained. “Of course, sweetheart.”

They watch in silence as she slides off her chair and pads toward the bathroom, her usual morning bounce notably absent. The sound of running water drifts down the hallway, leaving them alone with their mounting concern.

“This isn’t like her,” Hokuto whispers, voicing what they’re both thinking. “I’ve never seen her this withdrawn, not even after—” He cuts himself off, but Taiga knows he means after Rui’s passing.

“Could something have happened at preschool?” Taiga keeps his voice low. “Maybe with Yuki-chan?”

“I don’t think so. Morimoto-sensei would have mentioned…” Hokuto trails off, absently straightening Ema’s abandoned chopsticks. “She was fine during the parade at Disneyland, wasn’t she? It wasn’t until after the fireworks that she got quiet.”

Taiga leans back in his chair, trying to piece together that moment at Disneyland. The fireworks had painted the sky in bursts of color, but his memory fixates on something else entirely—the way Hokuto’s face had softened at him in the flickering light, those warm eyes reflecting more than just pyrotechnics.

His heart stutters at the recollection. That look had knocked the breath from his lungs, sent warmth spreading through his chest that had nothing to do with the crowded plaza or the summer night. He’d seen that expression before, in the quiet moments when Hokuto gazed at Rui’s photo on the dresser.

Shit.

The realization hits him like a punch to the gut. His chopsticks clatter against his bowl, drawing Hokuto’s concerned glance.

“Kyomoto?”

“Just thinking,” he manages, his throat tight.

The memory shifts, morphing into Hokuto and Morimoto-sensei at the buffet table—heads bent close, sharing some private joke.

His stomach twists. He’d watched them from across the restaurant, that familiar acid taste of jealousy burning the back of his throat.

Jealousy.

The word echoes in his mind, undeniable now that he’s named it. He knows this feeling intimately—felt it watching Shuichiro charm others at parties, experiencing that possessive surge whenever someone got too close.

But this runs deeper, rawer somehow.

“About the fireworks?” Hokuto asks, gathering their plates. “Did you notice anything unusual with Ema then?”

Taiga’s pulse jumps at the mention of fireworks. “No, I...” He trails off, distracted by the graceful efficiency of Hokuto’s movements as he loads the dishwasher. Everything about him is like that—precise, thoughtful, infuriatingly endearing.

Jesse.

The name surfaces like a guilty reminder. Jesse, who texts him good morning with strings of emojis. Jesse, who brings laughter and magic tricks and none of this complicated ache in his chest.

When Jesse kisses him, it’s nice—pleasant even. But it doesn’t make his heart race like Hokuto’s accidental touches when they pass in the hallway.

“She seemed happy,” Taiga says, forcing his thoughts back to Ema.

But his mind betrays him, replaying that moment under the fireworks instead. How his skin had tingled when Hokuto’s shoulder brushed his, how he’d wanted to lean into that warmth.

The sound of running water stops, and tiny footsteps approach the kitchen. Taiga straightens, shoving these dangerous thoughts aside. But they linger, persistent as the mint of toothpaste that follows Ema into the room.

“Ready for school?” Hokuto asks, his voice gentle.

Taiga watches them, father and daughter, and something in his chest constricts. The domesticity of it all—Hokuto adjusting Ema’s backpack straps, smoothing her hair—hits differently now. He’s seen this scene countless times, but today it feels like looking through new eyes.

I’m in trouble, he thinks, catching himself memorizing the way Hokuto’s fingers work so carefully with Ema’s hair ties. The tenderness in those hands makes his breath catch. Nothing like Jesse’s confident touches or playful gestures.

“Kyomoto?” Hokuto’s voice breaks through his spiral. “Are you sure you’re alright? You look…”

“Fine,” he says quickly. Too quickly. “Just thinking about the early meeting later.”

“I’ll talk to Morimoto-sensei,” Hokuto says, his hand resting on Ema’s shoulder. “Maybe he can get her to open up.”

Taiga nods, trying not to focus on how domestic Hokuto looks, adjusting Ema’s backpack with practiced care. “Text me if you learn anything?”

“Of course.” Hokuto hesitates at the door, that worried crease still etched between his brows. “I’ll see you at work.”

The door clicks shut behind them, leaving Taiga alone in the sudden quiet. The house feels different now—emptier somehow. He never noticed the silence before they moved in, but now it sits heavy in his chest.

Get it together, he thinks, pushing away from the table. Work. He needs to focus on work. The metrics won’t finish itself, and he has that meeting with—

“Fuck!”

Pain shoots through his toe as it collides with Zoomie’s solid frame. The robot vacuum continues its predetermined path, oblivious to his suffering.

Taiga sinks to the floor, clutching his throbbing foot. His phone chirps from the table. Grimacing, he stretches to grab it, nearly toppling over in the process.

Yugo: Don’t forget tomorrow! And if either of you mentions my age, I’m banning you from Golden Hour for life. That means you too, Tanaka.

Juri: I would never~

Taiga stares at the group chat, his toe forgotten. Right. Yugo’s birthday. He should be worrying about planning the surprise party with Juri, maybe even thinking about making things official with Jesse after that conversation on the terrace.

Normal things. Simple things.

Not wondering why his chest aches watching Hokuto brush Ema’s hair. Not analyzing every shared glance or accidental touch. Not lying awake remembering that expression during the fireworks, equal parts beautiful and terrifying in what it stirred in him.

This isn’t what I signed up for, he thinks, watching Zoomie bump methodically against the wall. He didn’t ask to care about a five-year-old’s eating habits or her father’s gentle hands. He didn’t want this warmth that spreads through his chest when Ema calls him “Tiger-san” or the way his skin burns wherever Hokuto touches him.

His phone buzzes again.

Jesse: Morning! 🌞 Please see me off before my flight tomorrow. 🥹 Dinner tonight? 💕

Taiga lets his head thump back against the cabinet. Jesse is safe. Jesse is uncomplicated. Jesse doesn’t make his heart race with just a look or leave him aching with want over simple domestic moments.

Jesse doesn’t come with a grieving daughter and memories of a wife he can never measure up to.

Shit.

🏠

“EaseWorks sure did a good job with the place,” Taiga says, trailing his fingers along the sleek countertop.

The apartment gleams with that particular shine of professional cleaning—the kind that speaks of someone else’s labor. A magnetic notepad on the fridge displays neat handwriting: Maria - Housekeeping (Mon/Thu) followed by a phone number.

Jesse’s laugh echoes from the kitchen. “They take care of everything. Water, right?”

“Yeah.” Taiga’s gaze catches on the familiar app interface glowing from a tablet mounted on the wall—the same system he uses at home.

Home.

The word snags in his chest, dragging his thoughts back to messy breakfast tables and half-drunk coffee cups.

His phone vibrates.

Hokuto: Talked to Morimoto-sensei. Says Ema’s fine at school. Asked her directly but she won’t talk about it.

Something cold settles in Taiga’s stomach. He types back: Nothing? Not even a hint?

“Here you go.” Jesse appears with two glasses, his smile bright against the apartment’s minimalist backdrop. “The food should be here in twenty. I ordered from that place you mentioned—the one with the amazing pad thai?”

“Thanks.” Taiga accepts the water, barely feeling the cool sensation down his throat as he watches three dots appear on his screen.

Hokuto: Complete silence. Just stares at her lap.

That’s not like her, Taiga wants to type. But he hesitates, thumb hovering over the keys. Who is he to make that observation? He’s not—

“Earth to Taiga?” Jesse waves a hand in front of his face. “You okay there?”

“Sorry, just…” He gestures vaguely with his phone. “Work stuff.”

Jesse settles beside him on the pristine leather couch, close enough that their thighs touch. “The campaign? I thought we wrapped everything yesterday.”

“No, it’s...” Taiga trails off, distracted by another message.

Hokuto: Should we be worried?

We. Such a simple word shouldn’t make his pulse jump like this. Shouldn’t feel so right and wrong simultaneously.

“Hey.” Jesse’s hand finds his knee, warm and steady. “You seem tense. Want to talk about it?”

Taiga stares at the contact list magnetized to Jesse’s fridge. Below Maria’s information, there’s another name: Chef Antonio - Meal Prep (Tue/Fri).

Everything here is delegated, organized, pristine. No sticky fingerprints on the windows or forgotten toys under the couch.

“It’s nothing,” he says, pocketing his phone. “Just tired from the campaign.”

Jesse hums sympathetically, his thumb tracing circles on Taiga’s knee. “We could skip dinner. Order in another time?”

The suggestion hangs in the air, heavy with implication. Taiga’s phone feels like it’s burning through his pocket, Hokuto’s message unanswered.

“The food’s already on its way,” Taiga says, forcing a smile. “Besides, I won’t be seeing you for three months.”

The guilt hits harder than it should. He shouldn’t feel like he’s betraying anyone by sitting here in Jesse’s immaculate apartment, surrounded by evidence of his successful, uncomplicated life.

But he does.

Taiga’s fingers drum against his phone. The weight of Jesse’s expectant gaze and Hokuto’s unanswered messages press down on him like physical things.

“Actually…” He shifts away from Jesse’s touch, needing space to think clearly. “There is something.”

Jesse’s hand falls away naturally, no hurt in the gesture. Just understanding. “The messages aren’t about work, are they?”

“No.” Taiga exhales. “It’s Ema-chan. She’s been… off since Sunday night.”

“Sunday?” Jesse’s eyes light up with recognition. “Oh, from your Disneyland trip? I saw the photos—you guys looked adorable with Mickey and Minnie. Though I have to say, those Tigger ears suited you nicely.”

The casual observation catches Taiga off-guard. He’d forgotten he sent updates to Jese that day. The memory of that moment—Ema’s delighted giggles as she dubbed him “Tigger-san,” Hokuto’s quiet smile—twists something in his chest.

“Yeah, that’s... that’s the thing. Everything was fine until after the fireworks. She just... shut down. Completely.” Taiga runs a hand through his hair. “We thought maybe she was just sad about leaving, you know? Missing the magic of it all. But we’ve shown her videos, photos—nothing. She just stares at her lap and won’t talk.”

Jesse tilts his head. “Kids get moody sometimes, right? Maybe she’s just processing the excitement?”

“You don’t know Ema-chan.” The words come out sharper than intended. Taiga softens his tone. “Sorry, I mean... she’s not like that. She’s usually this endless ball of energy and questions. When something’s wrong, she lets you know—loudly and with dramatic flair.”

His phone buzzes again. Hokuto’s name flashes on the screen.

“I’m sorry,” Taiga says, guilt coating his tongue. “This isn’t... we’re supposed to be celebrating. You’re leaving for Saga tomorrow, and here I am worrying about someone else’s kid.”

Someone else’s kid. The phrase tastes false, hollow. Like trying to convince himself the sun isn’t warm or water isn’t wet.

Jesse watches him with an unreadable expression. “You really care about them, don’t you?”

The question hangs between them, loaded with implications Taiga isn’t ready to examine.

“I...” Taiga starts, but the words tangle in his throat. How can he explain what Ema means to him? How her morning bedhead and sticky fingers have become as much a part of his day as his morning coffee? How Hokuto’s quiet presence fill spaces in his house he never knew were empty?

“I do,” Taiga admits, the words barely a whisper. “She’s... she’s not just someone else’s kid. Not anymore.”

Jesse leans back, his expression softening. “And Matsumura-san?”

The question hits Taiga like a punch to the gut. His fingers tighten around his phone, knuckles white against the dark case. Images flash through his mind—Hokuto’s bedhead in the morning, the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs at Ema’s antics, his focused expression when coding late at night.

“He’s...” Taiga swallows hard. “We work well together. The arrangement’s been good for everyone.”

The words feel inadequate, clinical. Like describing a business transaction instead of the way his heart races when Hokuto’s fingers brush his during dish duty. Or how he catches himself watching Hokuto read bedtime stories to Ema, voice changing for each character.

Jesse’s knowing look makes Taiga’s skin prickle. “Just an arrangement?”

“What else would it be?” The defensive edge in his voice betrays more than he intends.

The doorbell chimes—a blessed interruption.

“That’ll be dinner.” Jesse rises smoothly, squeezing Taiga’s shoulder as he passes. “I’ll get it.”

As soon as Jesse disappears down the hallway, Taiga’s fingers fly over his phone screen.

We can figure something out over the weekend, he types to Hokuto. I can pick up her favorite snacks.

The response comes immediately: Sounds good. Thanks.

Two words shouldn’t make his stomach flip like this. Shouldn’t make him question why he’s sitting in Jesse’s perfect apartment instead of at home, helping Hokuto coax answers from their unusually quiet five-year-old.

Their five-year-old.

The thought sneaks in before he can stop it.

Taiga closes his eyes, trying to steady his breathing. He’s not ready to examine what that means. Not here. Not now. Not with Jesse returning any moment with dinner and expectations Taiga’s not sure he can meet.

Jesse returns with the takeout containers, the rich aroma of pad thai filling the pristine space. He doesn’t mention their earlier conversation as he divides the food onto sleek white plates. Taiga’s grateful for the reprieve, even as his phone sits heavy in his pocket.

“So,” Jesse says, settling back on the couch with his plate. “Anything interesting at the office today? Besides the campaign wrap-up?”

Taiga twirls noodles around his fork, latching onto the safe topic. “Chaka tried to convince everyone he saw a ghost in the break room.”

“No way.” Jesse’s eyes light up with amusement. “What kind of ghost?”

“According to him, the spirit of a disgruntled former employee who died from too much overtime.” Taiga snorts. “Turns out Machu fell asleep standing up while waiting for his coffee to brew.”

Jesse’s laughter echoes through the apartment. “Classic Chaos Trio. What did Shime do?”

“Started a betting pool on whether Machu was actually sleepwalking or just pretending to avoid work.” The memory draws a genuine smile from Taiga. “Noel shut it down before they could collect any money.”

Their conversation drifts to Jesse’s upcoming projects. Taiga half-listens to stories about Jesse’s co-stars planning an onsen trip to Ureshino, nodding at appropriate intervals while pushing vegetables around his plate.

“Oh!” Jesse jumps up suddenly, plate balanced precariously. “I almost forgot—I found something amazing while packing yesterday.”

He disappears down the hallway, returning with a DVD case that’s seen better days. The cover shows a younger Jesse in what appears to be a high school uniform, trying too hard to look brooding.

“My first leading role,” Jesse announces proudly, waving the case. “Want to watch and make fun of my terrible acting?”

Something loosens in Taiga’s chest at the offer—simple, uncomplicated fun. This is what dating should be, right? No complicated feelings, no worry about a five-year-old’s mysterious silence, no domestic routines that feel too much like family.

“Sure,” he says, forcing his thoughts away from home. “Show me your embarrassing teenage phase.”

They settle in to watch, Jesse providing running commentary on his awkward line delivery and stiff movements. Taiga finds himself genuinely laughing at Jesse’s dramatic monologue about friendship and courage, delivered with all the finesse of a wooden plank.

“Look at that hair!” Jesse groans, covering his face. “What was the stylist thinking?”

“It’s not that bad,” Taiga lies, grinning at the gelled spikes defying gravity.

“You’re too kind.” Jesse nudges him playfully. “But seriously, I had no idea what I was doing. All I knew was how to smile and look pretty for the camera.”

The self-deprecating honesty is charming. Everything about this evening should be perfect—good food, easy conversation, shared laughter over teenage mishaps. It’s exactly what Taiga thought he wanted when he first agreed to date Jesse.

Simple. Comfortable. Safe.

His phone vibrates once, brief but impossible to ignore. Probably just a work email, he tells himself, resisting the urge to check. He forces his attention back to the screen, where teenage Jesse is attempting to look cool while confessing his feelings to the female lead.

This is fine. This is normal. This is what he should want.

He repeats it like a mantra, trying to ignore the way his thoughts keep drifting to another apartment, to worried messages about a quiet child, to breakfast tables with sticky fingerprints and half-drunk coffee cups.

The credits roll on the third episode, Jesse’s teenage self frozen mid-bow on the screen. Jesse glances at his phone and winces.

“Shit, is that the time?” He runs a hand through his hair. “I should probably call it a night. Flight’s at nine, which means...”

“Airport by seven,” Taiga finishes, already reaching for their empty plates. His own phone sits heavy in his pocket, untouched for the past hour. The thought of checking it now makes his stomach twist.

They fall into an easy rhythm cleaning up—Jesse placing the takeout boxes in a plastic bag while Taiga wipes down the coffee table, It’s efficient, practiced, nothing like the chaotic dance of elbows and quiet laughter that characterizes his evening routine with Hokuto.

Stop that, he scolds himself. Stop comparing.

“I can call you a cab,” Jesse offers, drying his hands on a pristine kitchen towel. “It’s getting late.”

Taiga nods, imagining what awaits him at home. A quiet house, maybe. Or worse, a still-awake Ema with those unnervingly sad eyes. Hokuto probably working late in the dining room again, lines of code reflecting in his glasses...

Jesse’s hand on his arm startles him. “You okay? You went somewhere else for a minute there.”

“Just tired,” Taiga lies, the words bitter on his tongue. He stares at Jesse—beautiful, uncomplicated Jesse with his perfect apartment and scheduled life. Something desperate claws at Taiga’s chest.

Before he can think better of it, Taiga grabs Jesse’s shirt and pulls him down into a kiss.

Jesse makes a surprised sound but responds immediately, hands finding Taiga’s waist. The kiss is good—technically perfect, even. Jesse tastes like pad thai and possibility.

But all Taiga can think about is how wrong it feels. How the height difference isn’t quite right. How Jesse’s hands are too confident, too practiced. How this pristine apartment with its cleaning service and meal prep feels more like a hotel than a home.

Taiga breaks the kiss first, his heart hammering against his ribs. “Can I stay?” The words tumble out before he can stop them. “Tonight?”

Jesse’s eyes widen slightly, hands still warm on Taiga’s waist. “Are you sure?”

Taiga nods quickly—too quickly. His fingers curl tighter in Jesse’s shirt, desperate for an anchor. For something to make sense. For a way to prove that this is what he wants. What he should want.

But his hands are shaking.

Jesse notices. Of course he notices. His grip on Taiga’s waist softens, turns gentle. “Hey,” he says, pulling Taiga into a hug instead. "You’re trembling.”

“I’m fine,” Taiga lies, even as his body betrays him with another tremor. Jesse’s cologne wraps around him—expensive, unfamiliar. Nothing like the subtle scent of Hokuto’s shampoo that sometimes lingers in their shared bathroom.

Their bathroom. When did he start thinking of everything as theirs?

“Let me call you a cab.” Jesse’s voice is soft but firm.

“But—”

“I would love for you to stay.” Jesse pulls back enough to meet Taiga’s eyes. “Trust me, I would. But I think we should wait until after the shooting’s done. After we talk.”

Relief floods Taiga’s system so fast it makes him dizzy. He sags against Jesse’s chest, hating himself for feeling grateful. For being such a coward.

“And when I come back...” Jesse’s hand finds Taiga’s chin, tilting it up. “I want you to be honest with me. Even if it breaks my heart.”

The words hit Taiga like a physical blow. He steps back, guilt churning in his stomach. “Jesse, I—”

“It’s okay.” Jesse’s smile is gentle, understanding in a way that makes Taiga’s chest ache. “You don’t have to figure it out right now.”

Taiga’s phone buzzes again. The sound feels like an accusation.

Jesse reaches for his own phone, already dialing a cab service. Taiga watches him, trying to memorize the elegant lines of his profile, the easy grace of his movements. Everything about Jesse should be perfect. Their relationship should be simple, uncomplicated.

So why does every cell in his body scream that he’s in the wrong place?

🏠

Taiga’s phone vibrates against his temple, jerking him awake. His head throbs in protest as he squints at the screen, the bright light stabbing his eyes. Seven notifications from the group chat with Yugo and Juri flood his lockscreen.

Shit. Yugo’s birthday.

He rolls onto his back, wincing at the stale taste in his mouth. The ceiling swims above him as fragments of last night replay in his mind—Jesse’s apartment, that desperate kiss, the knowing look in Jesse’s eyes.

His phone buzzes again. And again.

“Stop,” he groans, but unlocks it anyway. The message thread springs to life:

Juri: GOOD MORNING TO MY FAVORITE ELDERLY FRIEND @Yugo 👴🏻👴🏻👴🏻👴🏻👴🏻👴🏻

Yugo: I swear to god, Juri, I will ban you from my apartment

Juri: Aww, is someone cranky because their joints are creaking?

Yugo: TAIGA WHERE ARE YOU I NEED BACKUP

Juri: He’s probably still sleeping bec he’s your fellow grandpa

Taiga’s lips twitch despite his headache. His thumbs hover over the keyboard before typing:

“Bold of you to mock us when you’ll be joining us ancient ones this year”

Juri replies instantly:

“TRAITOR I thought you’d be on my side!”

Taiga: Solidarity with my fellow senior citizen 👨‍🦯👨‍🦯👨‍🦯

Yugo: That’s it, both of you are uninvited. Deliver my cake and I’ll eat it all myself

The mention of cake makes Taiga’s stomach turn. He pushes himself up, sheets pooling around his waist as his head spins. Seven in the morning feels impossibly early after last night, but the quiet of the house suggests Hokuto and Ema are still asleep.

Matsumura.

The name alone sends a fresh wave of guilt through him. He checks their chat history—no new messages since yesterday’s worried texts about Ema. He’d never replied, too caught up in his desperate attempt to prove something with Jesse.

His phone chimes again.

Yugo: Seriously though, you’re coming right? @Taiga Juri’s bringing that awful wine he thinks is fancy

Juri: It IS fancy you uncultured swine

Yugo: It’s boxed wine with a French name

Taiga huffs out a laugh, grateful for their familiar bickering. For one blessed moment, he can pretend everything is simple—just three friends planning to celebrate a birthday, no complicated feelings or messy domestic situations or film stars with knowing smiles.

But then he hears movement from down the hall—probably Hokuto starting his morning routine. The sound yanks him back to reality, to the tangle of emotions he'd tried so hard to escape last night.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he types quickly. “See you later!”

The wooden floor creaks beneath Taiga’s feet as he drags himself out of bed. His head pounds with each step down the hallway, a dull reminder of his sleepless night. The smell of coffee drifts up from the kitchen, rich and inviting.

At least someone had the presence of mind to start the coffee maker.

He pauses at the kitchen doorway, breath catching in his throat. Hokuto stands at the counter, shoulders tense beneath his white t-shirt as he stares at the coffee machine like it holds the answers to the universe. Dark circles shadow his eyes, and his usually neat hair sticks up at odd angles, as if he’s been running his fingers through it all night.

He looks like shit. The thought comes unbidden, followed immediately by a surge of guilt. Of course Hokuto looks rough—he’s been worried sick about Ema while Taiga was...

No. Don’t go there.

The coffee machine gurgles, drawing Taiga’s attention to Hokuto’s hands gripping the edge of the counter. His knuckles are white with tension, and something about the way his forearms flex makes Taiga’s mouth go dry. He finds himself tracking the line of Hokuto’s neck, the way his shirt pulls across his shoulders, the slight curve of his—

Hokuto turns, catching Taiga mid-stare. Their eyes meet, and Taiga’s heart slams against his ribs.

“Coffee?” Hokuto’s voice is rough from lack of sleep.

Heat crawls up Taiga’s neck. He clears his throat, desperate to shake off the lingering effects of his inappropriate appraisal. “Yeah,” he manages. “Thanks.”

Taiga leans against the counter, keeping a careful distance from Hokuto as the coffee machine sputters. The silence stretches between them, thick with unspoken words. His headache pulses behind his eyes, but he can’t tell if it’s from the lack of sleep or the tension radiating off Hokuto’s rigid frame.

“Yugo’s birthday thing is today,” Taiga says, desperate to fill the quiet. “At his place.”

Hokuto nods, still focused on the coffee maker. “Yeah, I greeted him this morning.” His voice remains carefully neutral.

“I’m probably staying over too.” The words feel heavy on Taiga’s tongue. He watches Hokuto’s profile, searching for any reaction, but Hokuto’s expression remains unreadable. “Juri’s bringing his terrible wine, so...”

The coffee machine gives one final gurgle. Hokuto reaches for two mugs from the cabinet, his movements precise and controlled. “Ema and I are heading to Niigata today.”

Something cold settles in Taiga’s stomach. “Oh?”

“Might stay until tomorrow.” Hokuto pours coffee into both mugs, the dark liquid steaming in the morning light. He passes one to Taiga, their fingers carefully avoiding contact.

Taiga wraps his hands around the warm ceramic, anchoring himself. “Everything okay?”

Hokuto’s jaw tightens. He stares into his coffee as if reading tea leaves. “I thought... maybe Satomi-san or Toshiyuki-san could help. With Ema.”

The cold feeling spreads through Taiga’s chest. He takes a sip of coffee, burning his tongue, but welcomes the pain as a distraction. “Help how?”

“They’re better with … children.” Hokuto’s voice cracks slightly. His fingers drum against his mug—once, twice. “She barely talks anymore. Picks at her food. And I...” He swallows hard. “I don’t know what’s wrong. What I did wrong.”

You didn’t do anything wrong, Taiga wants to say. But the words stick in his throat, tangled with guilt and something else he can’t name.

Instead, he watches Hokuto’s hands tremble around his mug.

“I feel so fucking useless.” Hokuto’s whisper cuts through the morning quiet. “My own daughter is hurting, and I can’t...”

Taiga’s chest aches. He shifts closer without thinking, drawn by the raw pain in Hokuto’s voice. Their shoulders brush, and Hokuto tenses but doesn’t pull away.

“You’re not useless.” The words come out rougher than intended. Taiga clears his throat, tries again. “You’re doing everything you can.”

Hokuto lets out a hollow laugh. “Am I? Because it feels like I’m failing her. Like I’m...” He trails off, shaking his head. “Maybe her grandparents will see something I’m missing. They knew Rui better than anyone. If Ema needs...”

He doesn’t finish the thought, but Taiga hears it anyway. If Ema needs her mother. If she needs more than I can give her. If she needs something I can’t provide.

The kitchen feels too small suddenly, too intimate. Taiga’s skin prickles with awareness of Hokuto’s proximity, of the heat radiating from his body, of the way his breath hitches slightly on each inhale. The urge to reach out, to offer comfort through touch, burns in Taiga’s fingers.

Instead, he keeps his hands wrapped around his coffee mug, ignoring the way they itch to brush against Hokuto’s skin. He focuses on breathing, on the bitter taste of coffee on his tongue, on anything except the hollow ache in his chest when Hokuto whispers, “I just want her to be okay.”

Soft footsteps patter down the hallway. Taiga’s heart jumps as Ema appears in the doorway, her hair mussed from sleep and Mr. Bunny dangling from one hand. She stops, dark eyes flicking between them with an unsettling sharpness.

“Good morning, sweetheart.” Hokuto’s voice shifts instantly, warming with forced cheer. “Did you sleep well?”

“Morning, Ema-chan.” Taiga tries for a smile, but it feels brittle on his face.

Ema just stares, her gaze oddly calculating for a five-year-old. Without a word, she walks past them to her usual spot at the table, climbing onto the chair and setting Mr. Bunny beside her plate.

The silence feels wrong—no giggles, no morning hugs, no excited chatter about her dreams.

Taiga catches Hokuto’s eye, sees his own worry reflected there. His stomach twists at the dark circles under Hokuto’s eyes, the slight tremor in his hands as he moves to the cabinet.

“Let’s get you some breakfast before we go to Grandma and Grandpa’s house, okay?” Hokuto pulls down Ema’s favorite cereal—the one with the cartoon penguin on the box. The rustle of the bag seems too loud in the weighted quiet.

Taiga sets his coffee down, stepping forward. “Can I help with anything?”

“Thanks, but...” Hokuto doesn’t look up as he measures cereal into Ema’s bowl. “I’ve got this.”

The words shouldn’t sting—they’re perfectly polite, perfectly reasonable.

But something in Taiga’s chest constricts anyway. He wraps his arms around himself, suddenly cold despite the morning sun streaming through the window.

You’re not her parent, he reminds himself harshly. You’re not his partner. You’re just… here.

The thought tastes bitter, like coffee grounds stuck between his teeth. They’d called themselves family once. But in the harsh light of morning, with Ema’s silence hanging heavy between them, that moment feels like a dream he’d imagined.

🏠

“You assholes!”

Taiga doubles over, clutching his stomach as laughter bubbles up. Beside him, Juri wheezes, tears streaming down his face. The giant “31” balloons sway mockingly on Yugo’s apartment wall, surrounded by streamers and signs like “Over the Hill” and “Officially Ancient.”

“I hate you both.” Yugo storms into his transformed apartment, but his lips twitch with suppressed amusement. “I’m kicking you out. Right now. Get your asses—” He freezes, sniffing the air. “Wait. Is that from Miyako’s?”

“Maybe.” Taiga straightens, wiping his eyes. His cheeks hurt from grinning. “But since you’re kicking us out...”

“Shut up and get the food.” Yugo shrugs off his coat, tossing it onto a chair. His eyes keep darting to the decorations, a mix of horror and fondness crossing his face. “I can’t believe you broke into my apartment for this.”

“We didn’t break in.” Juri pulls takeout containers from bags, the rich aroma of curry filling the air. “You gave me a key, remember?”

“For emergencies.”

“This was an emergency.” Taiga films Yugo’s exaggerated eye roll, zooming in dramatically. “Your youth is officially dying. We had to document it.”

“I’m thirty-one, not ninety.” But Yugo’s fighting a smile now, settling onto his couch. His apartment feels smaller with the three of them crammed in, knees bumping as they pass containers around. It reminds Taiga of college, of late nights and shared dreams and the certainty that they’d always make time for each other.

Juri disappears into the kitchen, returning with a cake balanced carefully in his hands. The candles flicker, casting warm shadows across their faces. Taiga keeps filming as they sing, their voices off-sync despite singing birthday songs to each other for years.

“Happy birthday to you…”

Yugo’s eyes shine in the candlelight. For a moment, he looks younger—the same bright-eyed kid who’d declared he’d open his own restaurant someday, who’d practiced recipes on Taiga and Juri until they couldn’t eat another bite.

“Make a wish,” Juri says softly.

Yugo closes his eyes, inhales deeply, and blows. The flames dance and die, leaving trails of smoke curling up toward the ceiling.

“Thirty-one,” Yugo sighs, accepting the first slice of cake. “When did we get so old?”

“Speak for yourself.” Taiga lowers his phone, reaching for his own plate. “I’m eternally twenty-five.”

“In your dreams, maybe.” Juri dodges Taiga’s half-hearted swat. “Remember when we thought adults had everything figured out?”

Taiga snorts. “Bold of you to assume I have anything figured out now.”

The cake is rich and sweet on his tongue—chocolate ganache, Yugo’s favorite. They eat in comfortable silence for a moment, shoulders pressed together on the too-small couch. Outside, Tokyo hums with its usual energy, but in here, time feels softer somehow. Stretched and warm like honey.

“I can’t believe you both made time for this.” Yugo gestures with his fork at the decorations. “With the restaurant, and your deadline, and…”

“We’ll always make time.” The words come out fiercer than Taiga intended. He stabs at his cake, avoiding their knowing looks. “Even if we’re ancient and busy and...”

Even if everything else changes, he doesn’t say. Even if I’m confused and scared and don’t know what I want anymore. Even if home doesn’t feel like home without...

“Plus,” Juri cuts in, nudging Taiga’s shoulder. “We couldn’t miss the chance to remind you how old you are. The balloons were non-negotiable.”

“Speaking of old…” Yugo leans forward, eyes gleaming with mischief. “How was Disneyland? I saw your family photo. It was totally cute.”

Taiga’s stomach tightens. He scrapes his fork against the plate, gathering chocolate crumbs. “We’re not family. It’s a temporary thing.”

“Right. Like how my pop-up restaurant was temporary.” Yugo rolls his eyes. “And now look at me—five years later, still serving the same regulars.”

But that’s different, Taiga wants to say. Golden Hour grew from Yugo’s passion, his determination.

This thing with Hokuto and Ema... it sprouted from necessity, from a fire and desperation and—

“You’re doing that thing again.” Juri points his fork accusingly. “That thing where you overthink everything until it falls apart in your head.”

“I’m not—” Taiga stops, the protest dying on his tongue.

His phone buzzes in his pocket—probably Jesse, updating him about his first few hours in Saga.

He should check it. Should want to check it.

Instead, he thinks about breakfast this morning: Hokuto’s tired eyes, Ema’s unusual silence, the weight of unspoken words hanging between them like smoke.

“Jesse asked me to think about our relationship,” Taiga says finally, the words feeling strange on his tongue. “And whether I want to make it serious.”

Yugo and Juri exchange glances—the kind of silent communication that comes from years of friendship.

“And?” Yugo prompts gently.

“Three months.” Taiga pushes cake around his plate, avoiding their gazes. “He said he’ll ask for my answer when he returns from filming.”

“That’s... generous of him.” Juri’s fork hovers mid-air. “I mean, considering how quickly you let your walls down with Jesse.”

Yugo tilts his head, studying Taiga with the same intensity he uses to taste-test new recipes. “But?”

“But what?”

“There’s always a ‘but’ with you.” Yugo sets his plate down, leaning forward. “I’ve known you since we were kids, remember? You get this look when you’re holding something back.”

Taiga’s chest tightens. The memory hits him suddenly—Disneyland fireworks painting the sky in bursts of color, Ema’s delighted gasps, and Hokuto...

Hokuto looking at him with an expression that made his heart stutter. The same soft wonder he shows when looking at Rui’s photos.

Shit.

The fork clatters against his plate. “I think...” His voice comes out rough. He clears his throat, tries again. “I might like Matsumura.”

The words hang in the air, heavy with implications. Yugo and Juri wait, letting him process.

“As more than a coworker,” Taiga continues, the confession spilling out now that he’s started. “More than a roommate. And it’s stupid because he’s still grieving his late wife, and I’m dating Jesse, and there’s Ema-chan to consider, and—”

“Breathe.” Juri’s hand lands warm on his shoulder.

“When did you realize?” Yugo asks quietly.

“I don’t know. Maybe at Disneyland? Or before?” Taiga runs a hand through his hair, frustration building. “It’s like... one day I looked up and suddenly everything was different. The way he hums while cooking. How he remembers exactly how I like my coffee. The stupid dad jokes he tells Ema that shouldn’t be funny but somehow are.”

“And Jesse?”

“Jesse is...” Safe, his mind supplies. Uncomplicated. “Jesse deserves someone who’s all in. Not someone who keeps checking his phone during dates because Hokuto might need help with Ema-chan.”

Yugo nods slowly, urging him to continue.

“I told myself it was because Ema-chan’s been acting weird lately.” Taiga’s laugh comes out hollow. “But honestly? I just... wanted to be there. With them.”

His phone buzzes again. Jesse’s name lights up the screen, but Taiga can’t bring himself to check it. Not when his chest aches with the weight of this revelation, when every casual touch and shared moment with Hokuto replays in his mind with new significance.

“What are you going to do?” Juri’s voice is gentle, but the question hits like a punch to the gut.

Taiga stares at his half-eaten cake. The chocolate feels too sweet now, cloying. “I don’t know.” His chest aches with the admission. “Matsumura’s still wearing his wedding ring. Still keeps his late wife’s photos on his phone. Still talks about her with this... softness in his voice.”

The memory of Hokuto’s late-night confession at the Hatano family home surfaces—how his eyes had shimmered with unshed tears as he spoke about Rui. About their plans, their dreams, their future that never was.

“And Ema-chan...” Taiga’s throat tightens. Something clicks in his mind, a realization that makes his stomach drop. “Shit. At Disneyland, she got quiet after probably seeing me look at Matsumura. She kept looking between us during the fireworks, and then...”

The pieces slot together like a cruel puzzle. Ema’s withdrawn behavior. Her unusual silence. The way she watches him now, with something like confusion and fear in her young eyes.

“What if she thinks...” The words stick in his throat. He tries again, each syllable painful. “What if she thinks I’m trying to replace her mother?”

Yugo inhales sharply. Juri’s hand tightens on Taiga’s shoulder.

“She’s five.” Taiga’s laugh comes out broken. “Five, and probably terrified that her father’s friend is...”

He can’t finish the sentence. The thought of Ema—sweet, brilliant Ema who draws him pictures and calls him Tiger-san—being scared of losing her mother’s place in their family...

It hurts more than imagining Hokuto’s rejection. More than the possibility of ruining their friendship or making work awkward.

More than anything.

“She still asks about her mother.” Taiga’s voice drops to a whisper. “Shows her photos to Mr. Bunny and Waddles before bed. Tells stories about ‘when Mama was here’ like... like she’s just away on a trip.”

His phone buzzes again. Jesse’s name feels like an accusation now.

“I can’t...” Taiga swallows hard. “I can’t do that to her. Even if by some miracle Matsumura felt the same, I can’t risk hurting Ema-chan like that.”

The apartment feels too small suddenly. The “31” balloons mock him with their cheerful bounce, reminding him of another lifetime when love seemed simpler. When hearts didn’t get tangled up with grief and loss and the fragile trust of a child who’s already lost too much.

“She’s so young,” Taiga continues, the words spilling out like a confession. “Too young to understand why Tiger-san suddenly wants to hold Papa’s hand or kiss him goodnight. Too young to know that loving someone new doesn’t mean forgetting who came before.”

His chest feels hollow, carved out by the weight of this realization. It’s one thing to pine after Hokuto in secret, to cherish their quiet moments and shared laughter. But Ema...

God. Sweet Ema, who’s already struggling to process changes she can’t fully grasp. Who might see Taiga’s feelings as a threat to her mother’s memory.

“You’re doing it again.” Yugo’s voice cuts through Taiga’s spiral. “Making decisions for everyone else without actually talking to them.”

“I’m being realistic.” The words taste bitter, like the chocolate turning to ash on Taiga’s tongue.

“No, you’re being a coward.” Yugo leans forward, eyes sharp with the same intensity he uses when critiquing new chefs. “The Taiga I know doesn’t run from challenges. He faces them head-on.”

“This isn’t about me.” Heat rises in Taiga’s chest. “You didn’t see her face during the fireworks. The way she just… shut down.”

“And you think avoiding your feelings will fix that?” Juri’s voice remains gentle, but his words hit like precision strikes. “Kids aren’t stupid, Taiga. They pick up on tension. On things left unsaid.”

“Exactly why I need to—”

“To what?” Yugo cuts in. “Pretend everything’s fine while dating Jesse? Keep playing house with them until what—Matsumura finds a new place? Ema-chan finds a new Tiger-san?”

The thought makes Taiga’s stomach lurch. He pushes his plate away, cake forgotten.

“You know what I remember about my parents’ divorce?” Juri sets his fork down with deliberate care. “Not the fighting. Not the actual separation. I remember the silence. The way they tiptoed around each other, thinking they were protecting me by not talking about it.”

Taiga’s throat tightens. He remembers those days—teenage Juri showing up at his door, sketch pad clutched to his chest, seeking escape from the suffocating quiet of his home.

“All it did was make me feel like I couldn’t talk about it either.” Juri’s eyes meet Taiga’s, steady and knowing. “Like my feelings were too big, too messy for anyone to handle.”

“She’s five,” Taiga repeats, but the words feel weaker now.

“Old enough to notice changes.” Yugo shifts closer, their shoulders brushing. “Old enough to make up stories in her head about why Tiger-san looks at Papa differently. Why everyone’s acting weird.”

Shit.

“Look.” Yugo’s voice softens. “I’m not saying you should march home and confess. But maybe... maybe Ema deserves more credit. Maybe she needs to see adults talking about feelings—even the complicated ones.”

“And Matsumura?” The question comes out rough.

“Deserves the chance to make his own choices.” Juri squeezes Taiga’s shoulder. “Instead of you deciding what he can or can’t handle.”

“When did you two get so wise?” Taiga aims for lightness, but his voice cracks.

“Around the time these gray hairs started showing up.” Yugo points accusingly at his temples. “Thanks for the reminder, by the way. The balloons were completely necessary.”

“Consider it payback for all the advice I didn’t ask for.” But Taiga’s lips twitch, warmth spreading in his chest.

“That’s what old people are for.” Juri dodges Yugo’s retaliatory swat. “Dispensing wisdom and complaining about our backs.”

The tension breaks. Laughter bubbles up, genuine this time. The “31” balloons sway overhead, casting dancing shadows on the walls.

“I’m sorry.” Taiga slumps in his chair. “Some birthday celebration this turned out to be. All I’ve done is whine about my problems.”

“Please.” Yugo waves dismissively. “What else are birthdays for after thirty? We drink, we complain about life, we pretend we’re still young enough to handle the hangover tomorrow.”

“Speaking of drinking...” Juri bolts upright, eyes wide. “I almost forgot! The wine!” He scrambles toward his messenger bag, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste.

Yugo groans. “Just because it has a French name doesn’t make it good, you know.”

“This is a 2015 Bordeaux.” Juri cradles the bottle like it’s his firstborn. “The good stuff.”

“The pretentious stuff, you mean.” But Yugo’s eyes crinkle with fondness as Juri fumbles with the cork.

Taiga watches them bicker, warmth spreading in his chest that has nothing to do with alcohol. How many nights have they spent like this? Trading barbs and sharing drinks, picking each other up when life gets messy?

“Got it!” Juri announces triumphantly as the cork comes free with a satisfying pop. He pours generous measures into their glasses, the deep red liquid catching the light.

“To surviving another year,” Yugo declares, raising his glass.

“To good friends and overpriced wine.” Juri shoots Yugo a pointed look.

“To...” Taiga pauses, throat tight with sudden emotion. “To having people who call you out on your bullshit.”

Their glasses clink.

The wine is... well, Taiga can’t tell if it’s actually good or if he’s just too buzzed to care. But Juri’s face lights up with each sip, while Yugo makes increasingly dramatic faces of disapproval.

“You’re just being contrary now,” Juri accuses after Yugo’s third exaggerated grimace.

“I’m being honest.” Yugo swirls his glass with expert flair. “This tastes like someone bottled pretension and marked up the price.”

“Your palette is clearly not refined enough—”

“I’m literally a chef.”

“A chef who thinks instant ramen counts as a midnight snack!”

“Don’t bring my comfort food into this.”

Taiga lets their familiar squabbling wash over him, sinking deeper into his chair. His phone sits silent now, Jesse’s messages unanswered. Thoughts of Hokuto and Ema hover at the edges of his mind, but for now...

For now, he can just be. Here, with his oldest friends, letting their warmth and laughter fill the spaces where his doubts usually live.

“You’re not even tasting it properly,” Juri insists, demonstrating an elaborate sniffing technique that makes him look like he’s trying to inhale the glass.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Yugo mimics the motion with exaggerated flourish. “Let me just... commune with the wine’s soul.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You love me anyway.”

“Debatable.”

Taiga takes another sip, hiding his smile behind the rim of his glass. The wine might be overpriced, but the company... that’s priceless.

🏠

Numbers dance across the tablet screen, a complex web of equations that blur together after hours of staring. Hokuto squints, adjusting his position in the bullet train seat. The formula mocks him — Rui’s final puzzle,  her last gift wrapped in mathematical elegance that he still can’t crack months later.

A soft rustling draws his attention. Beside him, Ema arranges Mr. Bunny and Waddles on her lap, making them face each other as if in conversation. Her eyes are clearer now, though the puffiness remains — a reminder of last night’s tears and revelations that still twist like a knife in his chest.

“Papa, do you love Tiger-san like you loved Mama?”

The memory of her trembling voice makes his fingers tighten on the tablet. He’d frozen then, caught between denial and the truth reflected in his daughter’s perceptive gaze.

Of course she’d noticed. Of course she’d seen the way he looked at Taiga during the fireworks, probably the same way he used to look at Rui’s photos — with longing, with love, with the weight of everything unsaid.

Sunlight flashes along the screen. The numbers swim before his eyes, and he finds himself staring at his own reflection instead — tired, guilty, exposed. He’d tried so hard to protect Ema, to maintain the sanctity of Rui’s memory, yet somehow his carefully constructed walls had crumbled without him noticing.

“Papa?” Ema’s small voice pulls him back. “Mr. Bunny wants to know if we’re almost there.”

“Another half hour, sweetheart,” he manages, forcing a smile that feels brittle.

Her question from last night echoes in his mind, along with his fumbling attempt at reassurance. How do you explain these complicated feelings to a five-year-old?

He glances down at the formula again, this time in its original paper version, at Rui’s elegant handwriting in the margins. The last thing she’d written before... before everything changed.

Sometimes he wonders if solving it would give him permission to move forward, to acknowledge the warmth that spreads through his chest when Taiga makes Ema laugh, or when he catches Taiga absently humming while playing on his video game console.

Ema shifts closer, leaning against his arm. The familiar weight of her trust makes his throat tight. “Mr. Bunny says Waddles is scared of the train going too fast.”

“Is that so?” Hokuto sets the tablet aside, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

The guilt surges again as he remembers her tears, her fear that Tiger-san would replace her Mama in their little family. He’d held her close, whispering that no one could ever replace Rui, but the words felt inadequate against the complexity of his feelings.

“Niigata Station. We have arrived at Niigata Station.”

The announcement jolts Hokuto from his thoughts. He blinks, realizing they’ve reached their destination.

“Sweetheart, it’s time to go.” He gently squeezes her shoulder. “Put Mr. Bunny and Waddles in your backpack so they don’t get left behind.”

She nods, carefully tucking her stuffed companions away. The motion reminds him of how Rui used to pack Ema’s diaper bag, each item placed with deliberate care.

The memory aches less than it used to, softened by time and — guilt twists in his chest — by something new taking root.

Hokuto stands, his joints stiff from the long ride. The duffel bag in the overhead compartment feels heavier than when he packed it, weighted with all the unspoken words and confused feelings he’s running from.

What would Rui think of me now?

“Ready, Papa?” Ema holds up her arms, silently asking to be lifted over the gap between train and platform.

He obliges, breathing in the familiar scent of her strawberry shampoo. For a moment, he holds her closer than necessary, drawing strength from her unconditional trust. Even after last night’s tears, after her devastating question about his feelings for Taiga, she still looks at him with complete faith.

The station bustles around them as they make their way toward the exit. Hokuto keeps Ema’s hand firmly in his, navigating through the crowd.

The convenience store comes into view, and with it, the familiar figures of his in-laws. Satomi’s silver-streaked hair catches the afternoon light, while Toshiyuki stands tall beside her, his kind eyes crinkling as he spots them.

Ema’s hand slips from his grasp. “Grandma! Grandpa!”

She darts forward, her small legs carrying her straight into Satomi’s waiting arms. The sight squeezes Hokuto’s heart — there’s something of Rui in the way Ema throws herself into love so completely, so fearlessly.

Not like him, hesitating and overthinking until everything becomes a mathematical equation he can’t solve. Until his daughter’s tears force him to confront truths he’s been avoiding.

Toshiyuki lifts the duffel bag from Hokuto’s shoulder with practiced ease. “Let me take that for you, son.”

The familiar gesture — so paternal, so natural — makes Hokuto’s chest tighten. He watches as Satomi takes Ema’s small hand in hers, their matching dark hair catching the afternoon sun.

“And then Yuki-chan is going to be a butterfly!” Ema’s voice carries across the parking lot, her earlier silence forgotten in the warmth of her grandmother’s attention. “She gets to wear wings and everything!”

“My, that sounds wonderful.” Satomi’s gentle laugh reminds Hokuto of Rui. “And you’re going to be the prettiest flower in the garden, aren’t you?”

“Mori-sensei says I have to stand very still, like this.” Ema demonstrates, freezing mid-step with her arms stretched toward the sky.

The sight of her, animated and chattering once more, twists something in Hokuto’s gut. For days, he’d tried everything — her favorite food, extra bedtime stories, even letting her stay up past her usual time. Nothing had pierced through her unusual quiet, nothing had brought back his bright, curious girl.

Yet here she is, blooming again under her grandparents’ attention as if the past week never happened.

Hokuto settles into the passenger seat of Toshiyuki’s car, watching Ema bounce with renewed energy in the back. Her voice fills the interior, detailing her latest art project at preschool.

“And then Yuki-chan spilled the glitter everywhere.” Ema spreads her arms wide, nearly knocking Mr. Bunny and Waddles off her lap. “But Mori-sensei said it made the flowers look like fairy dust!”

The familiar route winds through Niigata’s streets. Hokuto half-listens to Ema’s chatter, noting how carefully she skips over anything related to Taiga or their Disneyland trip. His chest tightens at that.

The motion of the car soon lulls Ema to sleep, her head drooping against the window. In the rearview mirror, her face looks peaceful, unburdened by the confusion of the past few days. Hokuto reaches back to adjust her position, making sure she won’t wake with a stiff neck.

When they arrive at the house, Hokuto lifts Ema from the backseat. She stirs slightly, mumbling something about butterflies before settling against his shoulder. Her weight feels different now — she’s growing so fast, yet in moments like these, she’s still his baby girl.

The stairs creak familiarly under his feet as he carries her to their usual guest room. He lays her down gently, removing her shoes and tucking Mr. Bunny and Waddles under her arm.

For a moment, he just watches her breathe, remembering countless nights when Rui would do the same.

The door to Rui’s old bedroom catches his eye as he turns to leave. It’s always closed now, preserved like a time capsule of her youth. His fingers brush the wooden frame as he passes, a habit he can’t seem to break.

Downstairs, the scent of green tea fills the air. Satomi has already set out cups on the low table, steam rising in delicate wisps.

But Hokuto’s feet carry him to the altar first, where Rui’s photo sits among fresh flowers.

Her smile, forever frozen in that moment, seems to see right through him. He lights an incense stick with trembling fingers, watching the smoke curl upward. The guilt weighs heavy in his chest — guilt for the feelings he can’t control, for the way his heart speeds up when Taiga’s hand brushes his while doing dishes, for how natural it feels when the three of them curl up on the couch for movie nights.

I’m sorry, he thinks, bowing his head. I never meant to…

But the photo just smiles back, offering no answers, no absolution.

“The tea will get cold.” Satomi’s gentle voice breaks through his thoughts. She kneels at the table, waiting with the patience of someone who understands grief intimately.

Hokuto lifts the teacup to his lips, letting the familiar warmth seep into his palms. The house feels quieter without Ema’s chatter, though her presence lingers in the faint echo of her footsteps upstairs.

“What’s troubling you, Hokuto?”

The question catches him off-guard. He looks up to find Satomi watching him with that same gentle intensity Rui used to have — the kind that sees straight through carefully constructed walls.

“I…” He sets the cup down, searching for words.

“You know”—Satomi’s lips curve into a knowing smile—“Rui used to do this too. Show up at our doorstep claiming she just wanted to ‘catch up.’ That’s how she told us she was pregnant with Ema — over tea, just like this, after dancing around the subject for an hour.”

The memory hits him like a physical ache. He remembers Rui’s nervous excitement that day, how she’d practically glowed when she finally shared their news.

His fingers trace the rim of his teacup. “Ema’s angry with me.”

The words feel inadequate against the weight of what’s really happening, but they’re all he can manage.

“Last week, at Disneyland...” He swallows hard. “She noticed something. About me. About how I look at... someone.”

Understanding dawns in Satomi’s eyes, but she remains silent, waiting.

“It’s Kyomoto. He’s...” Hokuto’s voice catches. “You met him last time, when he delivered my mourning suit. And I never meant to... I didn’t plan...”

The tea grows cold between his palms as he struggles to continue.

“Last night, she asked me...” His throat tightens around the words. “She wanted to know if I love him the way I loved Rui.”

The silence that follows feels heavy with unspoken implications. Hokuto stares into his tea, unable to meet Satomi’s gaze.

“She’s barely spoken all week. Just watches me with these sad eyes, like she’s trying to figure something out. And last night, she finally broke down crying, asking if I was trying to replace her mama.”

His voice cracks on the last word. The guilt he’s been carrying spills out with it — guilt for letting his heart open to someone new, for disrupting Ema’s world, for somehow failing to protect her from this confusion.

“I tried to explain that no one could ever replace Rui, but how do you make a five-year-old understand something you barely understand yourself?”

Satomi reaches across the table, her weathered hand covering his. The gesture reminds him so much of Rui that his chest constricts.

“Do you remember what Rui said when we first met you?” Her voice carries a hint of warmth. “She told us, ‘Papa, Mama, I found someone who loves puzzles as much as I do.’”

The memory hits him like a physical blow. That day feels like another lifetime — him standing awkwardly in this very room, clutching a half-solved Rubik’s cube Rui had challenged him with.

“She also said something else.” Satomi’s fingers tighten slightly. “She said you were the kind of person who got so caught up in finding the perfect solution that you sometimes missed the simple answer right in front of you.”

Heat pricks at the corners of his eyes. He remembers Rui teasing him about that — how he’d spend hours debugging code only to find he’d missed a simple semicolon, or how he’d agonize over the perfect birthday gift when she would have been happy with convenience store chocolates.

“The thing about love,” Satomi continues, her voice gentle but firm, “is that it’s not a puzzle to be solved. It’s not an equation where replacing one variable cancels out another.”

The words sink into him slowly, like rain into parched earth. He thinks of Taiga’s awkward attempts at cooking breakfast, of shared laughter over Ema’s bedtime stories, of quiet moments cleaning up after dinner.

None of it diminishes the love he still holds for Rui — it just exists alongside it, different but equally real.

“But Ema—” His voice catches.

“Is struggling to understand something even adults find difficult.” Satomi pours fresh tea into his cup. “She’s not angry with you, Hokuto. She’s scared. Change is frightening at any age, but especially when you’re five and your whole world has already shifted once before.”

Steam rises between them as Hokuto absorbs her words. Outside, wind chimes tinkle softly — the ones Rui hung years ago, their melody unchanged by time.

“The last puzzle Rui was working on,” he finds himself saying, “I still can’t solve it. Sometimes I wonder if I’m stuck on it because... because solving it feels like letting go.”

“Or maybe”—Satomi’s eyes hold that same gentle wisdom Rui’s did—“you’re stuck because you’re looking for an answer that isn’t there.”

Footsteps creak on the wooden floor, and Toshiyuki appears in the doorway. His tall frame casts a long shadow across the tatami mats as he settles beside them at the table.

“I remember the day Rui brought you home,” Toshiyuki says, accepting a cup of tea from Satomi. “You were so nervous, you nearly dropped that Rubik’s cube three times.”

Heat creeps up Hokuto’s neck at the memory. “Four times, actually. The last one was when I was leaving.”

“Ah yes.” Toshiyuki’s eyes crinkle. “And Rui caught it mid-air, saying something about how she’d always be there to catch your mistakes.”

The words hit Hokuto like a physical blow. His fingers tighten around his teacup, knuckles turning white.

“Hokuto.” Toshiyuki’s voice grows serious. “Satomi and I... we’ve talked about this possibility. About you finding someone new.”

Hokuto’s head snaps up, guilt and surprise warring in his chest.

“We knew it might happen someday,” Satomi adds softly. “And we’ve made our peace with it.”

“But I—” Hokuto’s voice catches. “I never meant to—”

“Love isn’t something we mean to do,” Toshiyuki interrupts gently. “It just happens. Like rain after a drought, or sunshine after storm clouds.”

The wind chimes tinkle outside, a delicate counterpoint to the heavy conversation.

“Listen, son.” Toshiyuki leans forward, his weathered hands clasped on the table. “Loving someone new doesn’t erase what you had with Rui. It doesn’t make you any less our son-in-law, or any less Ema-chan’s father.”

Tears prick at the corners of Hokuto’s eyes. He blinks hard, trying to maintain composure.

“And Rui...” Toshiyuki’s voice softens. “Our daughter would want this for you. She’d want you to find happiness again.”

“How can you be so sure?” The words escape before Hokuto can stop them, raw and vulnerable.

“Because we knew our daughter,” Satomi says. “She loved life too much to want anyone she cared about to stop living it fully.”

Hokuto stares into his tea, watching ripples form from his trembling hands. The truth of their words settles into his bones, both terrifying and liberating.

“Besides,” Toshiyuki adds with a hint of his usual humor, “anyone who Ema-chan can’t stop talking about must be pretty special.”

A startled laugh escapes Hokuto’s throat, wet with unshed tears. He thinks of Taiga’s mock-serious negotiations with Ema over broccoli consumption.

“He is,” Hokuto whispers, the admission feeling like both a betrayal and a release. “But it’s complicated.”

“How complicated?” Satomi’s voice carries that same gentle persistence Rui used to have when she knew he was holding something back.

Hokuto’s fingers trace the rim of his teacup. “He’s dating someone else. And I...” The words stick in his throat. “I have no right to feel this way.”

The afternoon sun slants through the window, casting long shadows across the tatami. Somewhere upstairs, he hears the soft creak of floorboards – Ema shifting in her sleep.

Toshiyuki shifts, his tea forgotten. “Sometimes healing means learning to embrace change, not fighting against it.”

“But what if—” Hokuto’s voice catches. “What if I’m just projecting? What if I’m so desperate for connection that I’m seeing something that isn’t there?”

The wind chimes sing softly outside, their melody carrying memories of countless summer afternoons spent in this room, watching Rui solve her beloved puzzles.

“When Rui was little,” Satomi begins, her voice thoughtful, “she once spent three months on a thousand-piece puzzle. But she’d hidden one piece, refusing to complete it.”

Hokuto looks up, surprised by the change in topic.

“When I asked her why, she said she was afraid the picture would disappear once she finished it.” Satomi’s eyes hold his. “Sometimes we create our own complications because we’re afraid of what happens when things fall into place.”

The words hit too close to home. Hokuto thinks of all the times he’s pulled back from casual touches while clearing the table, of how he forces himself to look away when Taiga falls asleep on the couch while playing with his game console.

“The thing about children”—Satomi’s voice pulls him from his thoughts—“is that they’re more resilient than we give them credit for.” She refills his cup with practiced grace. “Ema-chan’s confusion isn’t about your feelings for Kyomoto-kun. It’s about not understanding where she fits in this new picture you’re creating.”

Hokuto's throat tightens. He thinks of Ema’s tear-stained face last night, of her small fingers clutching Mr. Bunny as she asked if Papa was trying to replace Mama.

“But how do I even begin to explain?” His voice comes out rough. “She’s only five.”

“Start with honesty.” Satomi’s eyes hold that same gentle wisdom Rui’s did when she knew he was overthinking something. “Children understand love better than adults sometimes. They haven’t learned to complicate it yet.”

The afternoon light shifts, casting longer shadows across the tatami. Somewhere upstairs, a floorboard creaks under Ema’s sleeping weight.

“You’re allowed to be happy, Hokuto.” Satomi reaches across the table, her weathered hand covering his. “More than that — you owe it to yourself to be honest about what makes you happy.”

His chest constricts at her words. Images flash through his mind: Taiga’s concentrated face while helping Ema with her drawings, his quiet presence when they’re catching up with work late at night, the way his cheeks puff up and his nose scrunches when he smiles.

“But what if—” He swallows hard. “What if being honest ruins everything? We live in his house. Ema’s finally settled. I can’t risk—”

“The only thing you risk by staying silent,” Satomi interrupts gently, “is teaching Ema that it’s better to hide from difficult feelings than face them.”

The truth of her words settles heavy in his stomach. He thinks of all the times he’s caught Ema watching him lately, her young face serious as she tries to understand the subtle shifts in their household dynamic.

“A good talk,” Satomi continues, squeezing his hand, “can clear the air better than weeks of careful avoidance. Both with Ema-chan and with Kyomoto-kun.”

Hokuto stares into his tea, watching ripples form from his trembling hands. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

“Start with what you know for certain.” Satomi’s voice is patient. “The rest will follow.”

What he knows for certain. Hokuto closes his eyes, letting the weight of that sink in. He knows the warmth that spreads through his chest when Taiga remembers Ema’s favorite snacks. He knows the flutter in his stomach when their hands brush while handing each other their coffee mugs. He knows the ache of watching Taiga with Jesse, pretending it doesn’t affect him.

But most of all, he knows the guilt that comes with each of these feelings — guilt that tastes like betrayal and sounds like wind chimes on a summer afternoon.

🏠

The front door clicks shut, and silence settles over the house like a familiar blanket. Hokuto’s fingers trace the worn edges of Rui’s formula, its creases deepened by years of folding and unfolding. The paper feels delicate beneath his touch, as if it might crumble with too much pressure.

He settles into the living room, where afternoon light paints golden stripes across the tatami. The formula stares back at him, its elegant scrawl both invitation and challenge.

His mind drifts to that spring afternoon in university, when cherry blossoms drifted past the classroom windows and Rui sat two rows ahead, her dark hair catching the light as she bent over her notebook.

For half a semester, he’d watched her solve equations with the same focused grace she brought to everything else. The way her pencil moved across paper, the slight tilt of her head when she encountered a particularly challenging problem. He’d memorized all of it, too shy to do more than observe.

Until that day she’d dropped her eraser.

It had rolled beneath his desk, and he’d nearly tripped over himself retrieving it. When he’d handed it back, her smile had been warm enough to make his ears burn.

“You’re good at Basic Algorithms,” she’d said, as if they’d been friends all along. “Want to study together?”

Hokuto unfolds the paper fully now, squinting at the familiar sequence of numbers and variables. He’s tried solving it countless times since Satomi gave it to him after the cremation, but the answer remains elusive. Knowing Rui, there’s probably a trick to it — she’d always loved puzzles within puzzles.

His gaze drifts toward the stairs leading to the second floor. To Rui’s old bedroom, untouched since that last hospital stay. His heart rate picks up at the thought of entering that space, preserved like a time capsule of her youth.

Maybe there’s a clue, he thinks, his fingers tightening on the paper. Something I’ve been missing.

The first step creaks under his weight, a sound that echoes through the quiet house. Each subsequent step feels heavier than the last, memories pressing against his chest like physical things. Halfway up, he almost turns back.

But Satomi’s words from earlier ring in his ears: The only thing you risk by staying silent is teaching Ema-chan that it’s better to hide from difficult feelings than face them.

The door to Rui’s room stands before him, its wooden surface catching the late afternoon light. How many times has he walked past it, pretending not to notice? How long has he been teaching Ema to do the same?

His hand trembles as it reaches for the doorknob. The metal feels cool against his palm, grounding him in the present even as memories threaten to overwhelm him.

He takes a deep breath, tasting dust and stillness on his tongue.

The door opens with a soft protest of hinges.

Sunlight streams through the window, illuminating dancing dust motes and familiar shapes: the desk where she’d spent countless hours studying, the bulletin board still covered in movie tickets and dried flowers, the bookshelf lined with textbooks and manga. Everything exactly as she’d left it, waiting like a held breath.

Hokuto steps inside, his feet sinking into the carpet. The air feels different here, heavy with preservation and memory. A stack of notebooks catches his eye – her precise handwriting visible on their spines, organizing them by subject and year.

His throat tightens as he approaches the desk, noticing the small details he’d forgotten: the way she’d labeled everything with cute stickers, how she’d arrange her pens by color.

The formula in his hand crinkles as his grip tightens.

What am I missing, Rui?

His fingers brush against her old pencil case, still sitting at the corner of the desk as if waiting for her return. The zipper catches as he opens it, revealing a collection of mechanical pencils and her favorite eraser — the one he’d returned to her that first day.

The eraser sits heavy in his palm, a simple white block that carries the weight of memory. His thumb traces its worn edges, and suddenly he’s back at graduation, cherry blossoms dancing through the air as Rui stands beneath them in her hakama kimono. The deep purple and gold of the traditional dress had made her look ethereal, like something from a dream he didn’t dare disturb.

Three years of quiet longing had led to that moment. Three years of shared study sessions, of watching her solve impossible equations with that slight smile playing at her lips, of wanting to say more but swallowing the words back down.

But that day, with diploma in hand and future stretching endless before them, he’d finally found his voice.

“Rui,” he’d called out, his heart thundering so loud he could barely hear himself speak. “Would you... would you like to go out with me sometime?”

Her smile had been brighter than the spring sun overhead.

Something catches his eye as he turns the eraser over – a flash of ink where there shouldn’t be any.

Hokuto frowns, noticing that the edge of the protective case has come loose. His fingers work carefully, sliding the thin plastic away from the eraser body.

There, hidden beneath the case, is a small symbol he recognizes from their Basic Algorithms class.

His breath catches. Could it be...?

The formula lies open on the desk beside him, its familiar sequence of numbers and variables suddenly looking different. His hands shake slightly as he picks up the paper, eyes darting between the hidden symbol and the equation he’s studied countless times before.

“Of course,” he whispers, the realization hitting him like a physical force. The symbol fits perfectly into the gap he could never quite resolve, the missing piece that makes everything else align.

Like Rui herself, making sense of his scattered thoughts with just a smile.

Hokuto grabs one of her mechanical pencils, muscle memory guiding his fingers as he works through the equation. With the new symbol in place, the solution unfolds like a flower opening to the sun. Letters emerge from the numbers, a message hidden in plain sight all this time:

Check Basic Algorithms notebook - Spring semester.

His fingers trace the spines of notebooks stacked neatly on Rui’s desk, each one labeled with her precise handwriting. Math Analysis. Linear Algebra. Calculus II. But no Basic Algorithms.

Hokuto’s heart pounds against his ribs as he scans the bookshelf, careful not to disturb the delicate arrangement of manga volumes and study guides. Everything in its place, just as she’d left it. The thought catches in his throat like a physical thing.

A cardboard box peeks out from beneath the desk, “University — First Year” written in Rui’s neat characters. His hands tremble slightly as he pulls it closer, the sound of cardboard scraping against carpet unnaturally loud in the quiet room.

Inside, more notebooks rest in chronological order. Of course she’d organize them by date, he thinks, a bittersweet smile tugging at his lips.

He lifts each one carefully, reading labels until—

There.

Basic Algorithms - Spring Semester.

The notebook’s cover is worn at the corners, evidence of frequent use. Hokuto remembers how she’d tap her mechanical pencil against the spine when thinking through particularly challenging problems. The memory hits him with unexpected force, and he has to steady himself against the desk.

He opens the notebook, expecting another equation, another puzzle to unlock. Pages of neat notes flip past — theorems, flowcharts, example problems. Her handwriting flows across each page with characteristic precision, occasionally interrupted by tiny doodles in the margins. A cat here, a flower there.

Something slips from between the pages – an envelope, yellowed slightly with age. His name stands out in familiar handwriting, the characters both invitation and warning.

Hokuto sinks onto Rui’s bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. The envelope feels impossibly heavy in his hands. His thumb traces the edge of the flap, already loosened as if expecting him.

Inside, a letter waits. The paper is crisp, newer than the envelope. His vision blurs as he recognizes the date from last year, just weeks before...

He blinks hard, forcing himself to focus on the words:

My dearest Hokuto,

If you’re reading this, you’ve finally solved the formula. I knew you would — you were always brilliant at finding patterns, even if you doubted yourself sometimes. Remember how long it took you to realize I was flirting with you in university? But that’s what I loved about you — your careful, thoughtful way of approaching everything.

A drop of moisture lands on the paper. Hokuto wipes his eyes with his sleeve, careful not to smudge the ink. His other hand grips the edge of the mattress, anchoring himself in the present as Rui’s words wash over him.

I’m writing this from the hospital while you’re getting coffee. The doctors say—well, you know what they said. But there’s something I need you to understand, something I couldn’t find the right words to say in person.

The paper trembles in his grip. Hokuto remembers that day with painful clarity: the harsh fluorescent lights, the steady beep of monitors, the way Rui’s hand had felt so small in his. He’d brought her favorite coffee from the café down the street, not knowing it would be the last time.

You have such a capacity for love, Hokuto. I’ve watched you with Ema, seen how your whole world lights up when she smiles. But I worry you’ll try to keep that love locked away after I’m gone, as if sharing it somehow diminishes what we had.

His chest aches, each word striking true. How many times has he pulled back from moments of joy, feeling guilty for experiencing happiness without her?

Please don’t do that. Don’t teach our daughter that love is something finite, something that needs to be rationed. I want both of you to live fully, to embrace whatever happiness comes your way.

Hokuto’s fingers brush against the next page, but he pauses, needing a moment to steady his breathing. The afternoon light has shifted, casting long shadows across Rui’s desk.

The paper rustles as Hokuto turns to the next page, Rui’s words blurring through his tears:

I see the way you look at Ema’s drawings sometimes, as if trying to memorize every detail because you’re afraid of missing something. As if loving her enough for both of us means you can’t have room for anything else. But love doesn’t work that way, Hokuto. It grows. It expands. It finds new spaces to fill without emptying the old ones.

His fingers trace the edge of the paper, remembering how Rui’s hands would dance across pages as she explained complex theorems. Always patient, always seeing more in him than he saw in himself.

There will be someone else someday, Hokuto. Someone who makes your heart skip in that way that still surprises you. Someone who looks at Ema and sees all the wonder that we do. When that happens, please don’t push them away out of some misplaced sense of loyalty to me.

Hokuto’s breath catches. An image of Taiga flashes through his mind – the way he’d held Ema during her nightmare, how naturally they’d fallen into morning routines, the gentle understanding in his eyes when Hokuto talked about Rui.

I chose this formula because it was the beginning of our story. But every good algorithm needs an exit condition, a way to move forward. Consider this letter mine. Permission to let your heart grow in new directions. Permission to show Ema that love multiplies rather than divides.

The mattress creaks as Hokuto shifts, his hand brushing against the familiar texture of Rui’s comforter. How many afternoons had they spent here? The air feels thick with memory, but somehow lighter than before.

You’re probably sitting in my old room right now, surrounded by all these carefully preserved memories. Mom always was sentimental that way. But memories aren’t meant to be locked away, Hokuto. They’re meant to be foundations we build upon.

His eyes drift to the bulletin board, where a younger version of Rui smiles from countless photos. Study sessions, school festivals, their first date at the aquarium where he’d nearly dropped his phone into the penguin exhibit from nervousness.

I’ve watched you these past months, seeing how you try to shoulder everything alone. How you measure each smile, each moment of joy, as if happiness is something you need to ration now. As if letting yourself feel anything but grief somehow betrays what we had.

The words pierce through him, precise as any of Rui’s calculations. He thinks of all the times he’s pulled back from laughter in the kitchen with Taiga, all the moments he’s swallowed down warmth and possibility out of guilt.

But love isn’t a zero-sum game, Hokuto. It’s more like that recursive function we studied in class – each iteration building on the last, growing exponentially rather than replacing what came before.

A fresh wave of tears blurs his vision. Trust Rui to explain emotions through algorithms, to make sense of his heart's complexity with mathematical precision. His fingers brush against the final paragraph:

So this is my last theorem for you: The capacity for joy is infinite. The heart expands to hold whatever we give it. And somewhere out there, someone is waiting to help you prove it.

All my love,

Rui

P.S. - Tell Ema that Mama loves her, and that it’s okay to love freely and fully. She’ll understand when she’s ready.

Hokuto presses the letter to his chest, feeling the weight of Rui’s words settle into his bones. The formula sits on the desk, its solution now so obvious he wonders how he missed it all this time.

Just like his feelings for Taiga, hidden in plain sight until he was ready to see them.

A soft creak draws Hokuto’s attention from the letter. He looks up to find Satomi in the doorway, her expression gentle as her eyes fall on the paper in his hands.

“I see you found it,” she says quietly, stepping into the room. Sunlight catches the silver in her hair, reminding Hokuto of how Rui used to joke about inheriting her mother’s early grays.

His throat feels tight. “You knew about this?”

“She asked me to keep it safe until you were ready.” Satomi’s hand brushes against the desk where her daughter once sat, a familiar gesture that makes Hokuto’s chest ache.

Hokuto carefully folds the letter, his fingers lingering on the creases. “Is Ema...?”

“She’s helping Toshiyuki water the garden.” Satomi’s smile holds a knowing warmth. “Would you like me to get her?”

He nods, unable to find words past the lump in his throat.

As Satomi’s footsteps fade down the hallway, Hokuto smooths the letter against his knee. The paper feels different now, charged with possibility rather than weighted by grief.

Moments later, quick footsteps announce Ema’s arrival. She appears in the doorway, her eyes wide with curiosity as she takes in the unfamiliar room. Her shoes squeak slightly on the wooden floor as she hesitates at the threshold.

“Come in, sweetheart,” Hokuto says, patting the space beside him on the bed. “There’s something I’d like to show you.”

Ema steps inside carefully, as if sensing the room’s importance. Her gaze darts around, taking in the bulletin board covered in photos, the neat stack of manga on the shelves, the desk with its perfectly arranged supplies.

“This was Mama’s room,” Hokuto explains, watching her face closely. “Where she grew up.”

Ema’s mouth forms a small ‘o’ of understanding. She climbs onto the bed next to him, her small hand finding his automatically. “Really?”

“Yes.” Hokuto shifts to make space for her, feeling the mattress dip under their combined weight. “And I found something special today – a letter Mama wrote for us.”

Her eyes widen. “For me too?”

“For both of us.” He squeezes her hand gently. “There’s something important I want to talk to you about.”

Hokuto’s thumb traces the edge of Rui’s letter, its pages still warm from being pressed against his chest. Ema sits beside him, her small hand trusting in his, and the weight of the moment settles over him like cherry blossoms drifting down.

“Do you remember,” he starts, his voice catching slightly, “when you asked me if Papa loves Tiger-san like I loved Mama?”

Ema's hand tightens in his. She nods, her eyes growing wide and uncertain. The fear in her expression makes his heart clench.

Hokuto takes a deep breath, tasting the familiar scent of Rui’s room – old books and dried flowers, memories preserved in dust and sunlight. The letter crinkles softly as he sets it aside, turning to face his daughter fully.

“The truth is,” he says, gentle as the afternoon light filtering through the window, “I do love Tiger-san.”

The words feel strange on his tongue, both terrifying and freeing. Like solving Rui's formula, the answer had been there all along, waiting to be discovered.

Ema’s lower lip trembles. Her fingers twist in the fabric of her dress — the same nervous gesture he’d fallen in love with in Rui, now reflected in their daughter.

“But that doesn’t mean I love Mama any less,” he continues, his voice steady despite the ache in his chest. “Love isn’t like... like sharing the last cookie, where giving some to one person means less for another.”

He glances at the bulletin board, where a younger Rui smiles from countless captured moments. Her words from the letter echo in his mind: Love multiplies rather than divides.

“It’s more like...” Hokuto searches for words Ema might understand, “like how you love both Mr. Bunny and Waddles. Getting Waddles didn’t make you love Mr. Bunny less, right?”

“But...” Ema’s voice comes out small, uncertain. “But Mama...”

“Mama will always be Mama,” Hokuto says firmly, squeezing her hand. “Nothing can change that. Not time, not distance, not even loving someone new.” His gaze falls on the notebook where Rui had hidden her letter, waiting for him to be ready. “Sometimes our hearts grow bigger to make room for more love, without losing any of the love that was already there.”

The sunlight shifts, casting long shadows across the floor. In the quiet, Hokuto can almost hear Rui’s laughter echoing through the years, her voice in the letter guiding him still: Don’t teach our daughter that love is something finite.

Ema’s small fingers twist in her dress, her voice wavering. “I... I love Tiger-san too.”

Hokuto’s heart clenches at the conflict in her expression, so much like Rui when she struggled with difficult problems.

“But...” Ema’s lower lip trembles. “When I look at Tiger-san, I get sad because...” She hiccups, tears welling in her eyes. “What if I forget what Mama looks like? What if I forget her voice?”

The fear in her voice hits Hokuto like a physical blow. He pulls her closer, feeling her tiny frame shaking with held-back sobs.

“Oh, sweetheart.” His voice comes out rough. “We won’t forget Mama. I promise you.”

Ema looks up at him, tears rolling down her cheeks. “Really?”

“Really.” Hokuto wipes her tears with his thumb. “We’ll talk about her every day. About how she loved solving puzzles, and how she always hummed while cooking.” His throat tightens. “And we’ll visit Grandma and Grandpa, and they’ll tell you stories about when Mama was little, just like you.”

Ema’s fingers clutch his shirt. “Promise?” The sunlight catches the tears on her lashes, making them sparkle like the way Rui’s eyes would shine when she solved a particularly challenging equation.

“Promise.”

She burrows into his chest, her tears soaking through his shirt.

After a moment, her small voice emerges, muffled against the fabric. “Did I make Tiger-san sad? Because I didn’t talk to him all week?”

Hokuto strokes her hair, remembering the concern in Taiga’s eyes each time Ema withdrew from him, the way his hand would hover uncertainly before pulling back. “Tiger-san did look sad,” he admits. “But you know what would make him happy?”

Ema pulls back slightly, looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes. “What?”

“If you talk to him honestly, just like you talked to me now.” Hokuto smooths her hair back from her forehead. “Tiger-san cares about you very much, and he wants to understand how you feel.”

Ema wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, her small shoulders straightening with resolve. “I’ll tell Tiger-san I’m sorry when we get home.”

Relief washes through Hokuto at her words.

But then Ema tilts her head, curiosity replacing the lingering sadness in her expression. “Papa?” Her fingers play with the hem of her dress. “Will Tiger-san be my other Papa?”

Heat rushes to Hokuto’s face. The question catches him off guard, though perhaps it shouldn’t have. Trust Ema to cut straight to the heart of things, just like Rui used to do.

“Ah, well...” He tugs at his collar, suddenly warm despite the gentle breeze from the window. “That’s... complicated, sweetheart. You see, Tiger-san is dating Jesse-san right now.”

Ema’s brow furrows. “But you love him.”

“Yes, but...” Hokuto runs a hand through his hair, searching for words a five-year-old might understand. His eyes land on the manga collection on Rui’s shelves, and inspiration strikes. “You remember the story of Mulan? How she couldn’t tell the other soldiers she was really a girl?”

Ema nods eagerly. “Because it was a secret!”

“Right. Well, sometimes we can’t tell people how we feel right away, even if we want to.” The explanation feels clumsy on his tongue, but he pushes forward. “It wouldn’t be right to tell Tiger-san while he’s dating Jesse-san.”

Ema’s face scrunches up in that way that always means she’s working through a particularly challenging puzzle. “But Papa,” she says slowly, “you said I should talk to Tiger-san because it’s important to be honest.”

The logic hits Hokuto like a physical force. Leave it to his daughter to use his own words against him with devastating accuracy.

“That’s...” He falters, heat creeping up his neck. “That’s different.”

“Why?”

Hokuto opens his mouth, then closes it. The afternoon sun catches dust motes dancing in the air, and he’s suddenly, acutely aware of Rui’s presence in every corner of this room. What would she say about his careful dance around his feelings? About teaching their daughter to be brave while he hides behind propriety?

“You’re right,” he admits finally, the words coming out in a rush. “I should be honest too.”

Ema beams at him, victory written across her face. “So you’ll tell Tiger-san?”

“I promise I’ll tell him.” Hokuto smooths her hair, buying time. “When the moment is right.”

“Promise?” Ema holds out her pinky, her expression serious as only a five-year-old can manage.

Hokuto links his pinky with hers, marveling at how tiny her finger feels against his. “Promise.” The word settles between them, as binding as any legal document.

Ema’s gaze wanders around the room, taking in the carefully preserved pieces of Rui’s life. Her eyes land on the bulletin board, crowded with photos and memories.

“Papa?” She points to a photo near the center. “Is that Mama?”

Hokuto follows her gesture to a snapshot from his university days. His chest tightens at the sight of Rui bent over a textbook, her long hair falling forward to hide her face. Only the curve of her smile is visible, caught in a moment of pure joy.

“Yes, that’s Mama.” He shifts Ema in his lap so she can see better. “This was from when we were studying together in the library.”

“What was she studying?”

“Mathematics.” Hokuto’s fingers brush against the photo’s edge. “She was helping me understand a difficult problem. We both like math back then.”

Ema leans forward, fascinated. “Did Mama like numbers?”

“She loved them.” The memory rises, vivid and bittersweet. “That day, she’d been trying to explain something to me for hours. I kept getting frustrated, but she never lost patience.”

He can still hear Rui’s voice, gentle but firm: Think of it like tracing the edge of a curve, Hokuto. We’re just following the path it wants to take.

“Then what happened?” Ema’s question pulls him back to the present.

“Well,” Hokuto adjusts his hold on Ema, warmth spreading through his chest as she snuggles closer. “I finally solved the problem, and Mama was so excited she knocked over her coffee. It spilled all over my notes.”

Ema gasps. “Oh no!”

“Oh yes.” He chuckles at the memory. “But instead of getting upset, she just started laughing. Said it was the universe’s way of telling me to take a break.”

“Like when you tell me it’s time to stop coloring and go to bed?”

“Exactly like that.” Hokuto presses a kiss to the top of her head, breathing in the familiar scent of her shampoo mixed with garden soil from helping Toshiyuki. “That’s when I realized I was in love with her.”

“Because she spilled coffee?”

“Because she could make even my mistakes feel like something worth smiling about.” Hokuto’s throat tightens as he looks at the photo, at Rui’s half-hidden smile. “Just like you do, sweetheart.”

“Did Tiger-san make you smile like that?” Ema’s question catches Hokuto off guard.

His heart skips. The answer rises unbidden – Taiga’s dry humor, his quiet consideration when trying to help with chores, the way his eyes soften when watching Ema play. Each moment a small revelation, like discovering a new solution to an old equation.

“He does,” Hokuto admits, the truth settling warm in his chest.

Ema nods, satisfied, as if this confirms something she’s long suspected. She yawns, the emotional weight of their conversation finally catching up with her.

“Tired, sweetheart?”

She shakes her head even as her eyes droop. “Want to see more pictures of Mama.”

Hokuto glances at the bulletin board, at the fragments of his life with Rui preserved under pushpins and careful labels. His fingers find the familiar texture of her letter, still waiting on the bed beside them.

“How about we look at them after your nap?” He shifts, preparing to stand. “Mama’s photos aren’t going anywhere.”

Ema’s grip on his shirt tightens. “Promise we’ll come back?”

“Of course.” He lifts her easily, her weight familiar and grounding. “We can ask Grandma to tell you stories about each picture.”

She nestles against his shoulder, already half-asleep. “Papa?”

“Hmm?”

“I think...” Her voice grows mumbly with exhaustion. “I think Mama would like Tiger-san too.”

The words hit Hokuto like a physical force. He thinks of Rui’s letter, of algorithms and exit conditions, of love that multiplies rather than divides. Of Taiga’s patient presence in their lives, never pushing, always steady.

His arms tighten around Ema as he carries her from the room. The afternoon sun catches the dust motes swirling in their wake, like fragments of memory dancing in the light.

Behind them, Rui’s photos watch over the empty room, their captured moments of joy preserved in time — not as anchors holding him back, but as foundations to build upon.

🏠

The microwave hums, filling Yugo’s cramped kitchen with the smell of reheated pasta. Taiga watches the container spin, his reflection distorted in the microwave door.

Behind him, twin groans echo from the living room.

“I’m dying.” Juri’s voice is muffled, probably face-down on the couch. “When did hangovers get this bad? I don’t remember them being this bad in our early twenties.”

“Everything hurts more in our thirties,” Yugo mumbles from his spot on the floor. “Taiga, you bastard, how are you even standing?”

Taiga pulls the pasta from the microwave, careful not to burn his fingers. “Superior genes.”

“Superior bullshit.” Juri lifts his head just enough to glare. His hair sticks up at odd angles, and dark circles shadow his eyes. “You drank more than both of us combined.”

The microwave beeps again as Taiga heats another portion. His phone buzzes in his pocket, and his heart jumps—a reflex he's not ready to examine too closely.

The message is from Hokuto.

Everything’s okay with Ema now. Will explain when you’re home.

Relief floods through him, easing the tension he’s carried all week. He types back a quick reply, then grabs bowls from Yugo’s cabinet.

“Here.” He sets the pasta in front of his friends. “Eat something before you both pass out again.”

Yugo sits up slowly, wincing. “Pack some to take home. Ema-chan would love it.”

“Yeah.” Taiga’s throat tightens.

“How is she?” Juri asks, finally managing to sit upright.

Taiga shows them Hokuto’s message. “Better, apparently.”

“That’s good.” Yugo pushes a container of leftover cake toward him. “Take this home. And Taiga—” He pauses, exchanging a look with Juri. “Whatever you decide about Jesse, just... be careful with them, okay? Ema-chan’s young, and Hokuto—”

“I know.” Taiga stares at the container, remembering Ema’s silence at breakfast, the way Hokuto’s shoulders had tensed when he’d mentioned Jesse. “Trust me, I know.”

His phone buzzes again. Another message from Hokuto.

Ema wants to know what time you’ll be home. She has something to tell you.

Something to tell me? Taiga texts back, curiosity piqued.

She made me promise not to spoil it, Hokuto replies. But she’s smiling again.

The microwave beeps one final time. Taiga packs the last of the leftover, his movements automatic as his mind drifts to his house.

Their house, if he’s honest with himself. He pictures Ema’s drawings on the fridge, Hokuto’s coffee mug in the sink, all the little ways they’ve transformed his pristine space into something warmer. Something that feels like—

“Oi!” Juri throws a chopstick at him. “Stop overthinking and go home already. Your face is doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“That soft thing it does when you think about them.” Juri grins despite his hangover. “It’s disgusting. I love it.”

“I do not have a soft face,” Taiga announces at full volume, just to watch Juri wince. His cheeks burn, but he covers it by gathering the containers with more force than necessary.

“Lower your voice, you demon.” Juri clutches his head. “Some of us are suffering here.”

“Karma’s a bitch.” Taiga clatters the dishes in the sink, earning another groan.

Yugo props himself up on his elbows, squinting at Taiga through his hangover haze. “So what’s your plan now? You can’t keep dancing around this forever.”

The question sobers Taiga. He sets down the last container, considering his words carefully. “I need to talk to Jesse first. Before anything else happens.” His fingers trace the edge of the counter. “He deserves that much. To hear it from me, face to face, when he gets back from Saga.”

“And then?” Yugo’s voice is gentle, free of judgment.

“Then...” Taiga’s throat tightens. He thinks of Hokuto’s messages, of Ema’s mysterious surprise waiting at home. Of quiet mornings and shared laughter and all the ways his carefully ordered life has been beautifully disrupted.

“Then I talk to Matsumura. If there’s even anything to talk about.”

“There is,” Juri says, suddenly serious despite his disheveled state. “You know there is.”

“Maybe.” Taiga busies himself with wiping down the counter, avoiding their knowing looks. “But Jesse needs to hear it first. It’s only fair.”

“Look at you, being all mature and considerate.” Yugo’s teasing holds an undercurrent of pride. “Who are you and what have you done with our Taiga?”

“Shut up.” But there’s no heat in it. Taiga checks his phone again—another message from Hokuto asking about dinner preferences. Something warm unfurls in his chest at the simple domesticity of it. “I should head back. Before Ema-chan explodes from whatever secret she’s keeping.”

“Go.” Juri waves him off, then immediately regrets the sudden movement. “Ow. Just go be disgustingly domestic with your not-family.”

“They’re not—”

A shrill ringtone pierces the kitchen, making Yugo and Juri flinch in unison. Taiga watches Yugo fumble for his phone, squinting at the screen before answering.

“Hello?” Yugo’s voice shifts from pained to alert. He sits up straighter, hangover forgotten. “Wait, slow down—he’s doing what?”

Something in Yugo’s tone makes Taiga’s stomach clench.

“No, don’t call the police yet.” Yugo runs a hand through his disheveled hair. “Just—give me five minutes. He’s here with me now.” A pause. “Yeah. I’ll handle it.”

Yugo ends the call, meeting Taiga’s eyes with a grimace. “Your father’s outside Golden Hour. He’s threatening to make a scene unless you come talk to him.”

Damn it. Taiga’s fingers curl into fists. Of course his father would pull this now, when things are already complicated enough. “What kind of scene?”

“He’s got his guitar.” Yugo’s mouth twists. “Masaki-san says he’s threatening to perform a ‘heartfelt ballad’ for the lunch crowd.”

“Fuck.” Heat rises in Taiga’s cheeks—anger, embarrassment, that familiar cocktail of emotions Masaki always stirs up. “I’m sorry. I’ll handle this.”

“Want us to come with you?” Juri asks, already struggling to his feet.

“No.” Taiga grabs his jacket, leaving the containers forgotten on the counter. “You’re both barely functional, and he’ll just use that as an excuse to drag this out longer. I’ll deal with him myself.”

“At least let me call you a cab,” Yugo insists, but Taiga’s already heading for the door.

“I’ll run. It’s only ten minutes.” He needs the time to get his anger under control, to remember all the reasons he can’t just turn around and pretend his father doesn’t exist. “I’m sorry about the restaurant, Yugo.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Yugo waves off his apology. “Just… be careful, okay? You know how he gets when he’s like this.”

Yeah, Taiga thinks bitterly. I know exactly how he gets. He’s spent most of his life learning his father’s patterns, the way Masaki’s neediness can turn manipulative when he feels ignored. The public performances, the guilt trips, the way he weaponizes their shared history to force Taiga’s attention.

The spring evening is cool against his face as he walks, trying to channel his anger into something productive. Into the kind of calm detachment that usually serves him so well. But his father has always had a talent for getting under his skin, for making him feel like that overwhelmed kid again, struggling to be the adult his father never quite managed to become.

His steps quicken, driven by a mix of fury and resignation. He can already picture the scene waiting at Golden Hour—his father with that earnest, slightly manic energy he gets when he’s convinced himself his latest scheme is actually a grand romantic gesture. The way he’ll try to turn Taiga’s anger into proof that he’s the unreasonable one, that he’s being cruel by maintaining boundaries.

I should have known he’d pull something like this, Taiga thinks, rounding the corner onto the shopping street. The longer I ignore his calls, the more dramatic he gets.

The familiar storefront of Golden Hour comes into view, and with it, the unmistakable figure of his father. Even from here, Taiga can see him testing his guitar strings, probably warming up for whatever embarrassing performance he’s planned. A small crowd has already gathered, drawn by the promise of drama.

He squares his shoulders and walks faster, hoping to reach his father before the first chord can ring out across the street.

His father’s face lights up with that familiar eager smile that always makes Taiga’s stomach twist. Masaki waves at the gathering crowd, guitar still balanced precariously on his knee. “Show’s canceled, folks! My son’s here now.”

Son. The word sticks like thorns in Taiga’s throat. He clenches his jaw, hands balled into fists in his pockets. “What do you want?”

“What do I want?” Masaki’s smile falters, replaced by that wounded look he’s perfected over the years. “You’d know if you hadn’t blocked my number. I’ve been trying to reach you for weeks.”

“Because you wouldn’t stop calling at three in the morning.” Heat rises in Taiga’s chest, that familiar mix of anger and guilt that his father always manages to provoke. “I was tired of—”

“Five minutes.” Masaki clutches his guitar closer, like a shield. “That’s all I’m asking. Five minutes of your time.” His voice cracks slightly on the last word, and damn it, Taiga knows this play. Knows exactly how his father can make him feel like the villain for setting any boundaries at all.

People are still watching, phones half-raised to capture whatever drama might unfold. Taiga’s skin crawls under their attention. He glances at Golden Hour’s entrance, where Yugo’s staff peers anxiously through the windows.

“Not here.” The words taste bitter, like surrender. But the alternative is worse—letting his father turn their relationship into entertainment for strangers. “There’s a park around the corner.”

Masaki brightens immediately, shouldering his guitar case with renewed energy.

The swift shift in his mood only irritates Taiga more. It’s always been like this—his father cycling through emotions faster than Taiga can process them, leaving him constantly off-balance.

They walk in tense silence, Masaki humming under his breath. It’s an old habit that used to comfort Taiga as a child. Now it just sets his teeth on edge, a reminder of all the times his father chose music over stability.

The park is mercifully empty, save for a few pigeons pecking at abandoned crumbs. Taiga leads them to a bench far from the main path, where at least their conversation won't become another public spectacle.

“What do you want?” Taiga repeats, the words sharp on his tongue. His father’s theatrical sigh only heightens his irritation.

Masaki sets his guitar case down with exaggerated care, as if buying time. “I’m moving out of the apartment.”

The statement hangs in the air, heavy with unspoken accusations. Taiga waits for the other shoe to drop, for whatever guilt trip his father has carefully orchestrated.

“My friend—you remember Yoshi from the jazz club?—he found this nice retirement home in Saitama.” Masaki’s fingers drum against the guitar case, a nervous rhythm that sets Taiga’s teeth on edge. “They have activities, group meals. Someone to check on the residents regularly.”

Residents. The word feels wrong applied to his father, who’s spent decades refusing any form of structure or responsibility.

“I’m sixty-six now.” Masaki’s voice wavers. “Getting too old for the late-night gigs. No one wants to hear an aging musician anyway.” He glances sideways at Taiga, that familiar mix of hope and manipulation in his eyes. “At least there, someone will take care of me.”

The implied since you won’t hangs between them like poison.

Taiga’s jaw clenches so hard it aches. This is what his father does—twists every situation until Taiga feels like a monster for having boundaries, for refusing to be the parent in their relationship.

“I mean, it’s not like I have anywhere else to go.” Masaki’s fingers still drum that endless rhythm. “No family to rely on—”

“Stop.” Taiga’s voice comes out harder than intended. “Just... stop.” He rises from the bench, anger burning through his practiced detachment. “You don’t get to do this. Not anymore.”

His father blinks up at him, startled by the sudden shift. “I’m just saying—”

“You’re manipulating me. Like you always do.” The words pour out, years of carefully contained frustration finally breaking free. “Every time I build something good, something stable, you show up with your guilt trips and your public scenes and your neediness.”

Masaki’s face crumples into that wounded expression that used to make Taiga backtrack, apologize, smooth things over. But he’s tired of being the adult in their relationship. Tired of carrying the weight of his father’s emotional immaturity.

“I was three when Mom left.” His voice shakes, but he pushes on. “Three years old, and instead of stepping up, you made me your emotional support system. Do you know what it’s like, being a kid and having to talk your father through a breakdown because he spent the rent money on guitar strings?”

“I was going through a hard time—”

“You were always going through a hard time!” The shout echoes across the empty park, startling nearby pigeons into flight. “Every time I tried to have a normal childhood, you’d fall apart. Need attention. Make everything about your pain, your loneliness, your artistic struggles.”

His father shrinks back, but Taiga can’t stop now. The dam has broken, and everything he’s swallowed down over the years comes rushing out.

“I couldn't have friends over because the apartment was a mess. Couldn’t join clubs because someone had to make sure you ate.” His throat burns. “Do you know how many nights I lay awake wondering if Mom knew? If she saw what you were like and just... couldn’t handle it?”

Masaki’s eyes fill with tears. Once, that sight would have sent Taiga scrambling to comfort him. Now it just fuels his anger.

“And the worst part?” Taiga’s laugh comes out bitter. “The worst part is that sometimes I wish I’d gone with her. That she’d taken me when she left, instead of leaving me to raise you.”

The words hang in the air between them, sharp and irretrievable. His father’s face crumples, genuine pain replacing the theatrical suffering from earlier.

“You don’t mean that,” Masaki whispers. “We had good times too. All those nights I’d play for you—”

“Those weren’t for me.” The truth of it hits Taiga like a physical blow. “Those were for you. Everything was always for you.”

“We had each other.” Masaki’s voice cracks. “Just us against the world. That’s what I always told you, remember?”

“That’s the problem." Taiga's hands shake. “We weren’t supposed to be against the world. You were supposed to protect me from it.”

His father opens his mouth, then closes it. For once, the theatrical suffering drops away, leaving something raw and uncertain in its place. He stares at his guitar case, fingers finally stilling their endless rhythm.

“I... I never thought of it that way.” The words come out small, almost lost in the spring breeze. “I just didn’t want to be alone.”

The simple admission hits harder than any of his father’s usual dramatics. Taiga’s anger drains, leaving exhaustion in its wake.

Masaki rises slowly, movements stiff with age. “Yoshi’s picking me up soon. Moving me to Saitama.” He shoulders his guitar case, the familiar gesture suddenly foreign on his aged frame. “I won’t contact you anymore. You’ve made yourself clear.”

Relief and grief tangle in Taiga’s chest, neither emotion winning out.

But before he can respond, his father pauses, half-turned away.

“There’s a box.” Masaki’s voice wavers. “In the hall closet, behind my old albums. Letters from your mother.”

The world tilts sideways. “What?”

“She wrote to us. Every year since she left.” His father won’t meet his eyes. “I... I kept them from you. Couldn’t bear the thought of sharing you, even with her words.”

Taiga’s legs go weak. He grabs the bench for support, ears ringing. All these years of wondering, of lying awake imagining every possible scenario—and his mother’s words were sitting in a box, hidden behind his father’s precious vinyl collection.

“I thought—” His voice breaks. “You told me she never tried to contact us.”

“I know.” Masaki takes a step away, then another. “It’s time you read them. Maybe then you’ll understand... or maybe you’ll hate me more. Either way, you deserve to know.”

Taiga watches his father’s retreating back, the familiar slouch of his shoulders, the way his guitar case bumps against his hip with each step. Thirty years of memories overlay the image—his father walking away from parent-teacher conferences, from bill collectors, from responsibilities.

But this time feels different. Final.

Something wet hits Taiga’s hand. He touches his face, surprised to find tears tracking down his cheeks. Not from grief or anger, but from relief—pure, overwhelming relief that crashes through him in waves.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, grounding him in the present. In the life he’s built despite his father’s best efforts to keep him tethered. In the warmth waiting at home, where Ema’s mysterious surprise and Hokuto’s steady presence remind him that family doesn't have to hurt.

He wipes his eyes with shaking hands and watches until his father disappears around the corner, taking thirty years of emotional baggage with him.

🏠

The box weighs heavy in Taiga’s arms, each step up to his front door a small eternity. Letters from his mother. Twenty-seven years of unspoken words, trapped in paper and ink.

Did you think about me on my birthdays? Did you wonder if I turned out okay?

His hands shake as he fumbles for his keycard, nearly dropping the worn cardboard box. The spring breeze carries plum blossom petals past him, a few landing on the lid. He brushes them away, revealing water stains and faded marker—his father’s messy handwriting labeling old record albums, now crossed out.

Why didn’t you take me with you?

The question burns in his throat, has burned there since he was old enough to understand what abandonment meant. Now, answers sit in his arms, and he’s terrified to look at them.

His keycard finally connects with the reader, the familiar beep jarring him back to reality. He pushes the door open with his shoulder, stepping into the warmth of the entryway.

Two pairs of shoes greet him—Hokuto’s sensible loafers and Ema’s tiny purple sneakers. The sight hits him like a punch to the chest. Such a simple thing, shoes by the door. Such a normal, everyday reminder that he’s not alone anymore.

What would you think of the family I’ve found? The one I’m too scared to claim?

“Welcome home,” Hokuto calls from the hallway. “I was just about to—”

Taiga’s breath catches. Hokuto stands there in a dark blue apron, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing the lean muscles of his forearms. A dish towel hangs from his waist.

The sight makes Taiga’s chest ache with longing.

Stop it. You need to talk to Jesse first, remember?

“Still figuring out lunch,” Hokuto continues, running a hand through his slightly disheveled hair. “I found some recipes online, but I’m not sure if—” He breaks off, dark eyes focusing on the box, then lifting to Taiga’s face. His expression shifts to concern. “Are you okay?”

The genuine worry in Hokuto’s voice threatens to crack Taiga’s fragile composure. He swallows hard, fingers tightening on the cardboard edges.

“They’re letters,” Taiga says, his voice rougher than he’d like. “From my mother. My father kept them. All this time, he just...” The words stick in his throat.

Hokuto takes a step forward, then hesitates. His hands twitch at his sides like he wants to reach out but isn’t sure if he should. The gesture, so characteristically Hokuto, makes Taiga’s heart squeeze.

A small movement catches Taiga’s eye. Ema peeks around the corner, her fingers curled against the wall. She’s wearing the purple dress they bought at the thrift store, the one with tiny stars along the hem.

Her eyes meet Taiga’s, and for the first time in days, she doesn’t immediately look away.

“Ema,” Hokuto says softly, turning toward his daughter. “Remember what we talked about? Do you want to tell Tiger-san now?”

Ema nods, her small fingers still pressed against the wall. The silence that’s haunted her this past week seems different now—less heavy, more like she’s gathering courage.

Taiga sets the box down carefully, his mother’s unread words waiting while something equally important unfolds in front of him. He looks between Hokuto and Ema, struck by how much they’ve come to mean to him, how the sight of them in his entranceway feels more like home than any letter could.

Ema’s small fingers wrap around Taiga’s hand, warm and trusting. She tugs gently, and he follows her lead to the couch, his heart hammering against his ribs. The box of letters sits by the door, momentarily forgotten as something equally monumental unfolds.

The couch cushion dips as Hokuto settles beside Ema. His presence feels like gravity, pulling at the edges of Taiga’s awareness even as he focuses on Ema’s face. She looks so much like her father when she’s serious—the same furrow between her brows, the same determined set to her mouth.

“I’m sorry,” Ema says, her voice small but steady. “I made Tiger-san sad.”

Taiga opens his mouth to protest, but Ema squeezes his hand, asking him to listen.

“At Disneyland,” she continues, “when we watched the pretty lights...” Her lower lip trembles. “I saw Papa and Tiger-san looking at each other.”

Oh.

“And I got scared.” Tears well up in her eyes. “Because we’re like a new family now, and I thought—” A hiccup interrupts her words. “I thought maybe I’d forget about Mama.”

The ache in Taiga’s chest spreads, sharp and bittersweet. He blinks against the burning in his own eyes, his earlier tears about his mother making him raw and vulnerable to Ema’s pain.

“But Papa said—” Ema’s voice wobbles. “Papa said just because I love Tiger-san doesn’t mean I have to forget Mama.” The tears spill over now, rolling down her cheeks. “And I do love Tiger-san, but I don’t want to forget—”

Taiga pulls her into his arms before she can finish, his own tears falling into her hair. She feels so small against his chest, her little shoulders shaking with sobs. He holds her closer, trying to pour all his complicated feelings into the embrace.

“Ema-chan,” he whispers, his voice rough. “I would never, never want you to forget your Mama.” His fingers smooth over her hair, the gesture automatic and protective. “She’s part of who you are. Part of what makes you so special.”

Ema shifts in Taiga’s arms, her small hands clutching his shirt. “You’re not mad?” Her voice comes out muffled against his chest.

Something in Taiga’s heart cracks at the question. He pulls back just enough to see her face, tear-stained and uncertain. “No, I’m not mad at all.” His thumb brushes a tear from her cheek. “I’m just happy you’re talking to me again. I missed you.”

God, I missed you so much.

“Really?” Ema’s eyes search his face with that startling intensity she sometimes has, the one that makes her look so much like Hokuto.

“Really.” Taiga manages a smile despite the tightness in his throat. “These past few days were hard without hearing your stories about preschool.”

Ema wiggles back slightly, her hands falling to her lap. She twists the fabric of her purple dress, gathering courage. “Then...” Her lower lip trembles. “Can Papa and me still live in Tiger-san’s house?”

The question hits Taiga like a physical blow. He glances at Hokuto, finding him watching them with an unreadable expression, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. The sight makes Taiga’s chest ache.

“Of course you can.” Taiga’s voice comes out rougher than he intends. He clears his throat, trying again. “You can stay as long as you want. This is your home now too.”

Please stay. Please don’t leave.

Ema launches herself at him with enough force to knock him back against the couch cushions. Her arms wrap around his neck, tight enough to make breathing difficult, but Taiga doesn’t care. He holds her close, breathing in the scent of her strawberry shampoo.

Over Ema’s shoulder, his eyes meet Hokuto’s. Something electric passes between them, loaded with all the words they haven’t said. Hokuto’s expression softens into something that makes Taiga’s heart stutter in his chest.

 Ema pulls back from the hug, her face still damp but brightening with a sudden thought. “Since I made Tiger-san worry, Papa’s going to cook Tiger-san’s favorite food!”

The declaration hangs in the air for a moment. Hokuto shifts on the couch, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “I... actually don’t know what that is.”

Right. Of course he doesn’t. Why would he?

Something twists in Taiga’s chest at the realization that despite living together for months, sharing meals and space and quiet moments, they’ve never discussed such a basic thing.

“Tomato pasta,” Taiga says. “With extra sauce.”

The reaction is immediate. Hokuto flinches, a full-body recoil that would be comical if it weren’t so dramatic.

Ema bursts into giggles, the sound bubbling up and filling the room with her first real laughter in days. “Papa hates tomatoes!” she declares, bouncing on the cushion between them. “He makes funny faces when he sees them!”

Taiga stares at Hokuto, genuinely offended. “You hate tomatoes? What kind of adult hates tomatoes?”

“The texture,” Hokuto mutters, looking anywhere but at Taiga. “It’s... slimy.”

“Slimy?” Taiga’s voice rises with indignation. “They’re not slimy, they’re perfect. The acidity, the sweetness—how can you not like tomatoes?”

“Papa picks them out of his hamburger,” Ema adds helpfully, clearly delighted by this turn of events. “And his salad.”

“You pick them out of salad?” Taiga’s horror grows. All this time, he’s been living with a tomato hater. No wonder Hokuto always ordered the cream pasta when they got Italian takeout. “That’s just wrong. You’re wrong about this.”

Hokuto’s lips twitch, fighting a smile. “I wasn’t aware there was a right or wrong way to feel about tomatoes.”

“There absolutely is,” Taiga insists, warming to the argument. This feels better than tears, easier than the weight of his mother’s letters or the complicated tangle of his feelings. “And you’re on the wrong side of history here.”

“Papa makes this face—” Ema scrunches up her nose and purses her lips in an exaggerated grimace that looks nothing like Hokuto but sends Taiga into unexpected laughter.

“I do not make that face,” Hokuto protests, but he’s smiling now too, the tension from their earlier emotional moment dissolving into something lighter.

“You absolutely do,” Taiga says. “I bet you’ve been secretly judging my marinara sauce this whole time.”

“I would never.” But Hokuto’s ears are pink, giving him away.

“You have!” Taiga points an accusing finger. “Every time I heated up pasta sauce, you were sitting there thinking terrible tomato-hating thoughts.”

“I promised to make your favorite food,” Hokuto says with the grim determination of a man facing execution. “And I keep my promises.”

“Even with slimy tomatoes?” Taiga can’t help the teasing note in his voice. The weight of his mother’s letters still lingers by the door, but this—watching Hokuto steel himself to face his culinary nemesis—feels like exactly what he needs right now.

“Even with slimy tomatoes.” Hokuto’s nose wrinkles slightly. “Though I might need help.”

“I can help!” Ema bounces off the couch, her earlier tears forgotten in the excitement of a new mission.

“You just want to watch Papa make funny faces,” Taiga accuses, but he’s already standing too. No way is he missing this show.

Hokuto leads them to the kitchen, his shoulders set with the same determination he shows debugging particularly stubborn code. He pulls out his phone, presumably to look up recipes, while Ema drags her step stool to the counter.

“I’ll supervise,” Taiga announces, leaning against the doorframe. “You know, for moral support.”

“You mean to make sure I don’t ‘accidentally’ forget the tomatoes?” Hokuto’s knowing look makes something warm flutter in Taiga’s chest.

“Would I do that?”

“Yes,” Hokuto and Ema say in unison, then share a grin that makes Taiga’s heart skip.

This is what family looks like, he thinks, watching Hokuto gather ingredients while Ema chatters about helping her teacher make pizza sauce at preschool.

The thought should terrify him. Instead, it settles in his chest like coming home.

“The recipe says to dice the tomatoes,” Hokuto mutters, staring at his phone like it’s betrayed him.

“That means they get even more slimy,” Taiga helpfully points out, earning a glare that holds no real heat.

“Papa, your face!” Ema giggles, pointing at Hokuto’s expression.

“I’m beginning to think you two are ganging up on me.” But Hokuto’s lips twitch, betraying his amusement as he starts chopping tomatoes with exaggerated care.

I want to keep this, Taiga realizes, watching them work. I want mornings of shared breakfast and evenings of cooking together. I want Ema’s laughter and Matsumura’s quiet strength. I want...

He wants everything he’s been too afraid to admit wanting.

The box of letters can wait. Right now, he has a tomato-hating cook to supervise and a family to hold onto.

🏠

The guest room door creaks as Taiga pushes it open. His heart skips at the sight of Ema curled up in bed, her small form illuminated by the nightlight. She clutches Mr. Bunny and Waddles close, their plush bodies squished against her cheeks.

But no Hokuto.

He was just here a moment ago, Taiga thinks, remembering how Hokuto had excused himself after cleaning up the kitchen disaster. The tomato sauce experiment had ended with more laughter than actual cooking, and they’d ordered takeout instead.

His feet carry him downstairs, drawn by the soft glow from the living room. The box of letters from his mother sits on the coffee table like an accusation.

And Hokuto is holding a letter in his hands.

Panic spikes through Taiga’s chest before his brain catches up. No, Hokuto wouldn’t. The paper looks different anyway—crisp white rather than the yellowed envelopes his father had kept hidden for years.

Hokuto looks up, his eyes soft in the lamplight. “Hey.” He gestures to the letter in his hands. “It’s Rui’s. I solved her formula yesterday, and...” He trails off, fingers tracing the edges of the paper with reverence.

Something twists in Taiga’s chest. He hovers in the doorway, suddenly unsure of his place in this moment. This feels private, sacred—a conversation between Hokuto and his late wife that Taiga has no right to witness.

But Hokuto shifts on the couch, making space. An invitation.

“You don’t have to—” Taiga starts.

“I want to,” Hokuto says quietly. “If you want to read it.”

Taiga moves closer, drawn by the gentle certainty in Hokuto’s voice. The couch dips under his weight as he sits, careful to maintain a respectful distance. Close enough to see the neat handwriting on the page, far enough that their shoulders don’t brush.

You’re allowed to be here, he tells himself. He invited you into this moment.

But his eyes drift to the box on the coffee table, to his own unread letters waiting like landmines. He wonders if they’ll hold the same kind of love that radiates from the paper in Hokuto’s hands, or if they’ll be full of excuses and regret.

The lamp casts shadows across Hokuto’s face as he smooths the letter against his knee. His wedding ring catches the light, a quiet reminder of everything that came before—everything that makes this moment feel both precious and precarious.

Hokuto extends the letter, and something in Taiga’s chest constricts. The paper trembles slightly between them, catching the lamplight. This isn’t just a letter—it’s a piece of Hokuto’s heart, of his past, of everything that makes him who he is.

“Are you sure?” Taiga’s voice comes out rougher than intended.

Hokuto nods, that same gentle certainty in his eyes.

Their fingers brush as Taiga takes the letter, and he fights the urge to pull back. The paper feels delicate in his hands, as if it might crumble under the weight of its own significance.

Taiga’s eyes find the first line. My dearest Hokuto. The words blur for a moment before sharpening again. He blinks hard, forcing himself to focus.

As he reads, Rui’s voice emerges from the page—warm, loving, and achingly aware of what’s coming. She talks about Hokuto’s brilliance at finding patterns, teases him about being slow to notice her flirting in university. Each word paints a picture of the man sitting beside him, seen through eyes full of such deep understanding that it makes Taiga’s throat tight.

You have such a capacity for love, Hokuto.

Taiga’s hands tighten on the edges of the paper. He feels like an intruder, reading words meant for Hokuto’s heart alone. But then he reaches the part about love growing, expanding, finding new spaces to fill without emptying the old ones.

His chest aches. He thinks of his own mother’s letters in the box, still unread. Would they hold this kind of grace? This permission to move forward while holding the past gently?

Someone who looks at Ema and sees all the wonder that we do.

The words hit like a physical blow. Taiga remembers Ema’s tears earlier, her fear of forgetting her mother. He remembers countless moments of wonder—watching her draw, hearing her laugh, feeling her small hand slip into his when he walks her home from preschool.

He keeps reading, each word both a gift and a wound. Rui’s voice flows through the letter, strong and clear, as if she’s sitting right there with them. She talks about memories being foundations rather than anchors, about joy being infinite.

The last paragraph blurs completely. Taiga blinks rapidly, trying to clear his vision. He’s dimly aware that his hands are shaking.

“She would have liked you.”

Hokuto’s voice startles him. Taiga looks up, finding Hokuto’s eyes in the soft lamplight. There’s something raw and honest in his expression that makes Taiga want to look away. But he can’t.

“How can you know that?” The words scratch his throat.

“Because she was right about everything else in that letter.” Hokuto’s voice is quiet but steady. “About love growing. About seeing wonder in Ema.”

Taiga’s heart thunders against his ribs. He looks down at the letter again, at Rui’s neat handwriting spelling out permission he never knew he needed. Permission to be here, in this moment, with these people who have somehow become his whole world.

His own box of letters sits accusingly on the coffee table. Unlike Rui’s carefully preserved words of love, those envelopes hold decades of silence. He wonders if they’ll offer any kind of foundation to build upon, or if they’ll just confirm what he’s always feared about being unwanted.

The paper trembles in his hands as he tries to pass it back to Hokuto. But Hokuto doesn’t take it immediately, and their fingers brush again, lingering this time.

Heat blooms where their fingers touch. Taiga can’t bring himself to pull away, caught in this fragile moment where everything feels both terrifying and possible.

“I don’t know if I can read mine,” he admits, glancing at the box. His mother’s letters mock him from their cardboard prison. “What if they’re not... what if she didn’t...”

He can’t finish the thought. Can’t voice his fear that those yellowed envelopes contain nothing but disappointment and rejection. That maybe his father had done him a favor by hiding them all these years.

“You don’t have to read them tonight,” Hokuto says softly. His thumb brushes against Taiga’s knuckle, so light it might be accidental. “Or ever, if you don’t want to.”

Taiga’s chest tightens. He thinks of Rui’s words about foundations and moving forward. About love expanding rather than replacing. His gaze drops to where their hands still touch over the letter.

“I want to understand,” he says finally. “But I’m afraid of what I’ll find.” The confession feels raw in his throat. “At least Rui-san left you something beautiful. Something that makes sense of everything.”

Hokuto shifts closer, his knee bumping Taiga’s. “Sometimes understanding comes from unexpected places.” His voice carries that same gentle certainty from before. “Like how Rui helped me see that loving someone new doesn’t mean betraying what came before.”

The letters taunt him from the box. Taiga’s mouth feels dry as he looks at Hokuto, still anchored by his gentle presence.

“Would you...” The words stick in his throat. He swallows hard and tries again. “Would you stay while I read one?”

Hokuto’s eyes soften. He nods.

The envelopes rustle beneath his fingers, years of silence captured in paper and ink. He stares at the neat handwriting on each one, trying to find something familiar in the curves and loops.

But twenty-seven years is too long—he can’t remember if his mother’s handwriting slanted left or right.

His hands shake as he pulls out the earliest letter, dated just weeks after she left. The paper feels fragile, yellowed at the edges. The envelope’s seal has grown brittle with age, and it crackles as he works his finger under the flap.

Something warm brushes his knuckles. Hokuto’s hand, palm up, offering silent support. Taiga hesitates for a heartbeat before sliding his fingers into Hokuto’s grip. The touch steadies him, grounds him in this moment as he unfolds the letter with his free hand.

The first line swims before his eyes. He blinks hard, forcing the characters into focus. His mother’s words, hidden for nearly three decades, finally ready to be read.

Hokuto’s thumb traces small circles on the back of his hand as Taiga begins to read.

 The paper shakes in Taiga’s hand as his mother’s words come into focus. Her handwriting slopes right, each character precise and controlled. Nothing like his own messy scrawl.

Dear Taiga,

I ’ m writing this from a small apartment in Osaka. The walls are thin, and I can hear the neighbors arguing through them. It reminds me of how your father and I used to fight, though I suspect you remember that all too well.

Taiga’s throat tightens. He does remember—the raised voices, the slammed doors, the way he’d hide in his room to try and drown out the noise.

I want you to understand why I left. Not to excuse it—there’s no excuse for abandoning a child. But perhaps knowing might help you hate me a little less.

Hokuto’s thumb continues its gentle circles on Taiga’s hand. The touch anchors him as the words blur and sharpen on the page.

Your father and I weren’t ready for a child when we had you. He wanted to chase his dreams of being a musician, and I... I was suffocating. Every day felt like drowning in responsibilities I wasn’t ready for. You were such a quiet child, always trying to make yourself smaller, less troublesome. It broke my heart to see you tiptoeing around our chaos.

Heat pricks behind Taiga’s eyes. He remembers that too—how he’d learned to read the tension in a room, to anticipate storms before they broke.

I told myself I was leaving to protect you from our toxic relationship. That you’d be better off without watching us tear each other apart. But the truth is, I was a coward. I ran because staying meant facing my own failures.

The paper crinkles as Taiga’s grip tightens. Hokuto shifts closer, his shoulder pressing warm against Taiga’s.

I wrote this letter because I couldn’t bear the thought of you believing I never looked back. But I was too afraid to actually send it, too ashamed to face the hurt I’d caused. Your father promised to tell you I was thinking of you, that I loved you. I hope that I can at least trust him with that responsibility.

Taiga’s chest aches. He thinks of his father, hiding these letters for years while feeding him lies about his mother not caring. About her starting a new family, forgetting him entirely.

You deserved so much better than parents who couldn’t put your needs first. Than a mother who ran away instead of fighting for you. I know these words come far too late to fix anything, but I hope someday you might understand that leaving had nothing to do with you and everything to do with my own weaknesses.

Something wet hits the paper. Taiga blinks, realizing tears are rolling down his cheeks. Hokuto’s hand tightens around his, grounding him in the present moment.

I don’t expect forgiveness. I just want you to know that not a day has passed where I haven’t thought of you, haven’t regretted my choices. You deserved a mother strong enough to stay.

His mother’s signature blurs beneath the final line. Taiga stares at it, trying to reconcile these raw, honest words with the abandonment that shaped his childhood.

The letter trembles in his grip. He wants to crumple it, to throw the whole box away and pretend these words never existed. But Hokuto’s steady presence beside him keeps him anchored, prevents him from running like his mother did.

“I can’t—” His voice cracks. “I can’t read any more tonight.”

Hokuto’s hand slides up to cup his face, thumb catching a tear. “You don’t have to.”

Taiga stares at the words until they blur into meaningless shapes. His mother’s explanations echo in his head—too young, not ready, suffocating. All the reasons she couldn’t stay.

His chest feels hollow. He should understand. Should empathize with her fear, her regret, her inability to handle the weight of parenthood. But all he can think about is the little boy who spent years believing he wasn’t worth staying for.

“She knew.” The words scratch his throat. “She knew exactly what she was doing to me, and she still—” His voice breaks. “She still left.”

The letter crumples in his fist. He thinks of all the birthdays spent watching other kids with their mothers. Of coming home to an empty apartment while his father chased gigs, learning to cook instant ramen because no one else would feed him.

“I was three.” The words tear from his chest. “How could she—I was just a kid.”

His body shakes with the force of held-back sobs. The careful walls he’s built over decades crack and crumble, leaving him raw and exposed. He presses his free hand against his mouth, trying to hold back the tide of grief, but it’s too late.

The first sob rips through him like a physical pain. Hokuto’s arms wrap around him, pulling him close. Taiga’s face presses into the soft cotton of Hokuto’s shirt as the dam finally breaks.

He cries for the child who learned to make himself small and quiet. For the teenager who built walls to keep everyone at arm’s length. For the adult who still flinches away from dependency, terrified of being left behind again.

Hokuto’s hand cups the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair. The gentle touch only makes Taiga cry harder. He clutches Hokuto’s shirt, shoulders heaving as years of carefully contained pain pour out.

“I tried so hard,” he chokes out between sobs. “To be good. To not cause trouble. To be worth staying for.”

Hokuto’s arms tighten around him. The steady thump of his heartbeat against Taiga’s ear reminds him that he’s not that lonely child anymore. That someone is here, holding him through the storm.

But the letter burns in his clenched fist, his mother’s words like acid on his skin. I was too afraid, she wrote. As if fear justified leaving a child to piece himself together from the wreckage of her choices.

Another sob tears through him. He thinks of Ema, so small and precious, and can’t imagine ever walking away from her light. Can’t fathom choosing fear over the chance to watch her grow.

His tears soak into Hokuto’s shirt as the grief crashes over him in waves. Each gasping breath carries the weight of twenty-seven years of abandonment, of questions left unanswered, of wounds that never quite healed right.

The sobs gradually loosen their grip on Taiga’s chest, leaving him hollow and spent. His throat feels raw, eyes burning from the tears that have soaked into Hokuto’s shirt. He should pull away, should be embarrassed by this display of vulnerability, but his body refuses to move.

Hokuto’s fingers continue their gentle path through his hair, each stroke soothing the jagged edges of his pain. The steady thump of Hokuto’s heart against his ear anchors him to the present, keeps him from drowning in memories of empty apartments and unanswered questions.

“You were worth staying for,” Hokuto whispers into his hair. “You’ve always been worth staying for.”

Something cracks in Taiga’s chest at the quiet certainty in Hokuto’s voice. Fresh tears slip down his cheeks, but the crushing weight of his sobs has passed. His fingers slowly uncurl from Hokuto’s shirt, though he can’t bring himself to move away just yet.

“Her weakness wasn’t your fault.” Hokuto’s words vibrate against Taiga’s temple. “Some people... they’re not strong enough to handle the weight of love. But that’s about them, not the people they leave behind.”

Taiga’s breath hitches. He thinks of his carefully ordered life, his resistance to letting anyone too close. All his walls and rules, built from the ruins of his mother's abandonment.

“I do the same thing,” he admits, voice rough from crying. “Run when things get too real. Push people away before they can leave.”

Hokuto’s hand stills in his hair for a moment before resuming its gentle strokes. “But you’re still here,” he says softly. “Even when it’s messy and complicated. Even when it would be easier to run.”

The crumpled letter falls from Taiga’s fingers as he presses closer to Hokuto’s warmth. His mother’s words echo in his head—about drowning in responsibilities, about choosing fear over family. He wonders if she ever regretted it, truly regretted it, or if her letters were just attempts to ease her own guilt.

“I don’t know how to stop being afraid,” Taiga whispers into Hokuto’s shirt. The confession feels like pulling a splinter from his heart—painful but necessary.

“Maybe you don’t have to stop being afraid.” Hokuto’s voice carries that same gentle certainty that drew Taiga to him in the first place. “Maybe you just have to be brave enough to stay anyway.”

Taiga slowly pulls back, though his body protests the loss of Hokuto’s warmth. His eyes are swollen from crying, but when they meet Hokuto’s, something electric sparks in his chest. The gentle concern in Hokuto’s gaze makes Taiga’s heart stutter.

Oh.

The realization hits him with stunning clarity. He’s in love with Hokuto. Has been falling for him between quiet mornings and chaotic dinners, through Ema’s laughter and shared exhaustion. The truth of it settles in his bones, both terrifying and inevitable.

His fingers itch to trace the curve of Hokuto’s jaw, to close the distance between them. The urge to kiss him burns through Taiga’s veins.

But he has unfinished business. One he needs to address before he can even think about acting on these feelings.

“Thank you,” Taiga manages, his voice rough from crying. “For staying. For...” He gestures vaguely at his tear-stained face, embarrassment creeping in now that the emotional storm has passed.

“You don’t have to thank me.” Hokuto’s thumb brushes away a lingering tear from Taiga’s cheek. The touch sends shivers down his spine. “You’ve given us so much more than just a place to stay. You’ve given Ema stability when she needed it most. Given her someone else to trust, to love.”

Taiga’s chest tightens at the mention of Ema. He thinks of her drawings on the fridge, her toys scattered across his once-pristine living room. How she’s carved out space in his heart without him even noticing.

“And me...” Hokuto continues, his voice softening. “You’ve helped me see that it’s okay to need people sometimes. That accepting help doesn’t make me a burden.”

The raw honesty in Hokuto’s words makes Taiga’s breath catch. He wants to surge forward, to pour all his tangled feelings into a kiss. But he forces himself to stay still, to respect the boundaries they need right now.

Soon, he promises himself. Once he’s done things properly.

Hokuto shifts away, the loss of his warmth leaving Taiga’s skin tingling. “Let me get you some water.”

“I’m fine.” Taiga’s voice comes out hoarse from crying. He clears his throat, embarrassed by how raw he sounds. “We should probably get some sleep. Back to work tomorrow.”

His hands shake slightly as he picks up his mother’s letter. The paper feels fragile now, worn thin by the weight of decades-old regret. He smooths out the creases from where his fist had crushed it, careful not to tear the delicate edges.

The box sits accusingly on the coffee table. Twenty-six more letters wait inside, each one holding another piece of his mother’s absence.

Taiga slides the first letter back among its siblings, unable to face any more tonight.

“I can put this back in storage,” Hokuto offers, already reaching for the box.

Taiga’s fingers brush the cardboard one last time before letting Hokuto take it. The touch of their hands sparks something warm in his chest, dangerous and tempting. He quickly pulls back, needing distance from both the letters and the way Hokuto’s presence makes his heart race.

His phone provides a welcome distraction. The EaseWorks app glows familiar and safe on the screen as he navigates through the nighttime routine. Lights dim throughout the house, the gentle hum of appliances powering down filling the silence.

Zoomie returns obediently to its charging station. Taiga watches its progress on the app map, remembering how Ema named it within days of moving in. Such a small thing, but it had marked the beginning of his carefully ordered space becoming their shared home.

Jesse’s unread messages wait in his notifications, talking about his day. Taiga swipes them away, guilt churning in his stomach. A conversation that needs to happen, but not tonight. Not when his eyes still burn from crying and his heart feels cracked open and exposed.

The air conditioning adjusts to sleep mode, its quiet whir matching Taiga’s exhale as he puts his phone down. His fingertips still tingle where they touched Hokuto’s hand, a phantom warmth he can’t shake.

Maybe you just have to be brave enough to stay anyway.

Hokuto’s words echo in his mind as the house settles into its nighttime rhythm around them. The darkness feels softer somehow, less lonely than it used to be before Hokuto and Ema filled these rooms with life.

 Taiga’s feet feel heavy as he climbs the stairs, each step echoing in the quiet house. His body aches from the emotional toll of reading his mother’s letter, but something warm flutters in his chest when he spots Hokuto hovering outside the guest room door.

Hokuto’s hand rests on the doorknob, but he hasn’t turned it yet. The dim hallway light catches the soft fabric of his worn t-shirt, and Taiga’s fingers twitch with the memory of clutching that same material while he cried.

“Good night, Kyomoto,” Hokuto says softly, mindful of Ema sleeping inside.

The formality of his last name suddenly feels wrong after everything they’ve shared tonight. After Hokuto held him through his breakdown, after seeing him at his most vulnerable.

“Wait.” Taiga’s voice comes out rougher than intended. He clears his throat, heat creeping up his neck. “We’ve been living together for months now. Maybe we could... drop the formalities?”

Hokuto’s eyes widen slightly, a flush spreading across his cheeks. The sight makes Taiga’s heart skip, dangerous and thrilling.

“You mean...” Hokuto trails off, his hand falling from the doorknob.

“Taiga,” he offers, his name feeling strange on his own tongue in this context. “Just Taiga is fine.”

The hallway feels smaller suddenly, the space between them charged with something Taiga doesn’t dare name. Hokuto’s blush deepens, visible even in the dim light.

“Taiga,” Hokuto says carefully, testing the shape of it. The sound sends shivers down Taiga’s spine. “Then... you can call me Hokuto.”

“Hokuto,” Taiga echoes, and oh—that feels right in a way that makes his chest tight. Simple and intimate, like the quiet moments they share over breakfast or the way Hokuto’s hand had steadied him earlier.

They stand there for a moment, the weight of this small shift settling between them. Taiga’s skin buzzes with awareness of how close they are, of how easy it would be to step forward and—

“Good night, Taiga,” Hokuto says softly, breaking the spell.

“Good night... Hokuto.”

Taiga turns toward his room, his heart pounding at the way Hokuto’s given name feels on his lips. He catches one last glimpse of Hokuto’s shy smile before closing his door, and the image follows him into the darkness of his bedroom.

🏠

The code blurs before Hokuto’s eyes. He’s been staring at the same function for twenty minutes, his mind wandering to that night when Taiga’s shoulders shook against his chest. The vulnerability in Taiga’s voice as he read his mother’s letter still echoes in his thoughts.

A burst of laughter draws his attention to the marketing area. Taiga leans against Noel’s desk, gesturing at something on the monitor. The sleeves of his white shirt are rolled up to his elbows, and his fingers tap an absent rhythm on the edge of the desk while he speaks.

Stop staring, Hokuto tells himself, forcing his gaze back to his screen. But his eyes drift up again, drawn by the fluid grace of Taiga’s movements.

When their gazes meet, Taiga’s lips curve into a small smile — the kind that makes Hokuto’s chest tighten with a familiar ache.

Hokuto’s phone vibrates. A message from Morimoto-sensei about the upcoming spring recital. He types a quick reply, then checks the time.

12:03.

His stomach growls, reminding him he skipped breakfast rushing Ema to school. The café downstairs will be packed by now.

He glances at Taiga again, still deep in discussion with Noel.

Just ask, he thinks. It’s only lunch.

But lunch feels different now, charged with meaning after that night of shared secrets. His palms grow damp as he pushes back from his desk.

Each step toward the marketing area feels heavier than the last. Hokuto’s throat tightens as he approaches, catching fragments of their conversation about demographic metrics and engagement rates.

“The spring campaign needs more…” Taiga trails off as Hokuto stops beside his chair. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Hokuto’s fingers fidget with his lanyard. “I was wondering if you wanted to grab lunch? Outside, maybe?” The words tumble out too fast, and he forces himself to take a breath. “If you’re not too busy.”

“Sure.” Taiga’s smile brightens, and something flutters in Hokuto’s chest. “Just give me a minute to save this.”

Hokuto nods, hyper-aware of Machu’s not-so-subtle staring from the development area. No doubt this will fuel the Chaos Trio’s gossip mill for days.

“Go ahead,” Noel waves them off, already turning back to his monitor. “The demographics aren’t going anywhere.”

Taiga grabs his phone and falls into step beside Hokuto. The elevator arrives with a soft chime, and they step inside.

As the doors close, Hokuto catches a glimpse of Machu whispering to a passing Shime.

“You know,” Taiga says as they descend, “I just realized we’ve never actually done this before.”

“Done what?”

“Grabbed lunch together.” Taiga leans against the elevator wall, his shoulder brushing Hokuto’s. “Even after living in the same house for months.”

Hokuto blinks. He’s right. Their schedules rarely align for lunch, between meetings and deadlines. At home, dinner is their shared meal, with Ema bridging any awkward silences.

“That can’t be right," Hokuto mutters, but as he thinks back, he can’t recall a single lunch together. Coffee runs, yes. Quick conversations in the break room, definitely.

But never this – just the two of them, deliberately choosing to share a meal.

The elevator doors open to the lobby, and Hokuto’s pulse quickens. Without Ema as a buffer, without work as an excuse, this feels different. Intimate, almost.

“Where do you want to go?” Taiga asks as they step outside. The March air still carries a hint of winter’s chill, and Hokuto watches Taiga tug his sleeves down.

“There’s a new café around the corner,” Hokuto suggests, remembering Wakana mentioning it. “Unless you’d prefer something else?”

“The café sounds perfect.” Taiga falls into step beside him, close enough that their arms occasionally brush. Each touch sends a jolt through Hokuto’s system, and he struggles to maintain his composure.

They walk in comfortable silence, weaving through the lunch crowd. Hokuto sneaks glances at Taiga’s profile, noting how the sunlight catches his eyelashes, how his lips curve slightly upward even in repose.

Stop it, he scolds himself. These thoughts are dangerous, especially now that they’re closer, now that Taiga calls him by his first name in that soft, careful way that makes Hokuto’s heart stutter.

“I can’t believe we’ve never done this before,” Taiga says again, shaking his head. “We literally share a kitchen.”

“Our schedules rarely match up,” Hokuto points out, but it sounds weak even to his ears. They could have made time. They could have tried.

“True.” Taiga’s hand brushes his as they walk, and Hokuto’s fingers tingle with the phantom touch. “But maybe we should change that.”

“We could pick up Ema together too,” Hokuto adds without thinking. His face burns as the implication of his words sinks in — how domestic it sounds, how much like a real family. His pulse thunders in his ears.

But Taiga just chuckles, the sound warm and easy. “I can do that. The spring campaign is wrapping up, and we don’t have any urgent deadlines.”

Relief floods Hokuto’s system, followed by a flutter of anticipation. He focuses on navigating through the crowded sidewalk to hide his reaction.

The café’s interior is cozy, with exposed brick walls and hanging plants. A server leads them to a corner table bathed in natural light. Their knees brush as they settle into their seats, and Hokuto shifts back, hyper-aware of every point of contact.

He opens the menu, grateful for the distraction. The descriptions blur together as he sneaks glances at Taiga over the laminated pages. Sunlight catches in Taiga’s hair, highlighting strands of warm brown, and Hokuto’s fingers itch with the urge to brush them back.

“Ready to order?” The server’s voice startles him.

“I’ll have the tomato bisque,” Taiga says with a mischievous glint in his eye.

Hokuto’s nose wrinkles involuntarily. “You’re doing that on purpose.”

“Maybe.” Taiga’s grin widens. “The face you make when someone mentions tomatoes is too entertaining.”

“I’ll have the curry rice,” Hokuto tells the server, trying to maintain his dignity despite the warmth creeping up his neck.

After the server leaves, Taiga leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “So, what other foods do you hate? Or is it just tomatoes?”

“Just tomatoes,” Hokuto admits. “The texture, the smell — everything about them is wrong.”

“Says the man who can eat natto for breakfast.”

“That’s different.” Hokuto’s defense is automatic, though he can’t explain why. His fingers play with the corner of his napkin. “At least natto doesn’t pretend to be something it’s not.”

“What does that even mean?” Taiga’s laugh echoes through the café, drawing attention from nearby tables. Hokuto should feel embarrassed, but instead, he finds himself fighting back a smile.

Their food arrives, steaming and fragrant. Hokuto watches Taiga take a spoonful of the tomato bisque, fighting back another grimace. The server sets his curry in front of him, and the familiar aroma helps settle his nerves.

A comfortable silence falls as they begin eating. Hokuto realizes with a start that despite living together for months, sharing meals and space and countless moments with Ema, he knows so little about Taiga beyond his struggles — the weight of an unreliable father, the shadow of a manipulative ex.

“What do you do for fun?” The question slips out before he can second-guess himself.

Taiga looks up, surprise flickering across his features. “You mean besides arguing with smart home devices?”

“Besides that.” Hokuto’s lips twitch. “What did you like before... everything?”

Taiga sets down his spoon, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. “Promise not to laugh?”

“No promises.”

“I still have my Yu-Gi-Oh collection.” Taiga’s voice drops to a near-whisper. “The cards are in mint condition, organized by type and attack points.”

Warmth blooms in Hokuto’s chest at this unexpected revelation. He tries to picture a younger Taiga, carefully sorting through cards, and his heart does that familiar squeeze.

“Your turn,” Taiga says quickly. “What does Matsumura Hokuto do when he’s not coding or being Super Dad?”

“I used to love Iwai Shunji films.” Hokuto stirs his curry, remembering late nights with Rui spent dissecting scenes and symbolism. “But I haven’t been to a cinema since Ema was born. These days, it’s mostly Netflix — usually whatever princess movie Ema’s obsessed with that week.”

“Speaking of princesses,” Taiga leans forward, eyes sparkling with mischief, “who’s your favorite?”

Heat creeps up Hokuto’s neck as he remembers Ema’s words about Papa looking at Tiger-san the same way he looks at Mama’s photos. “I, uh...” He takes a bite of curry to buy time. “Haven’t really thought about it.”

“Mine’s Mulan,” Taiga offers. “Though technically she’s not a princess.”

The words hit Hokuto like a physical force. He nearly chokes on his curry, remembering Ema’s tearful confession about being scared of forgetting her mother, about him explaining that he can’t confess to Taiga the same way Mulan had to wait before telling her fellow soldiers that she’s actually a girl. About Ema using his own words against him.

“You okay?” Taiga reaches across the table, concern etched on his face.

“Fine,” Hokuto manages, taking a sip of water. “Just... went down the wrong way.”

Taiga studies him for a moment longer, and Hokuto forces himself to meet that gaze, hoping his face doesn’t betray the chaos in his mind. His heart pounds against his ribs, and he’s acutely aware of how close their hands are on the table.

“You know,” Taiga says, “I’ve never actually watched all the Disney movies. Maybe we should have a marathon sometime, let Ema educate us properly.”

The casual way he includes himself in future plans with Ema makes Hokuto’s breath catch. He remembers Rui’s letter, her words about love growing and expanding, about showing Ema that happiness doesn’t have to be rationed.

“She’d like that,” Hokuto says softly, watching sunlight play across Taiga’s features. “She’s been wanting to rewatch Tangled.” A thought suddenly hits him. “Ema has spring break coming up — a couple weeks before the new term starts in April.” His fingers trace patterns on the condensation of his water glass. “I was thinking of doing remote work,” he continues, studying Taiga’s reaction. “Stay at the house with her, if that’s okay?”

Taiga hums, a noncommittal sound that makes Hokuto’s stomach twist.

But before he can backtrack, Taiga leans across the table, his hand reaching toward Hokuto’s face.

“You’ve got...” Taiga’s thumb brushes the corner of Hokuto’s mouth, gentle and warm. “Curry.”

Heat floods Hokuto’s cheeks. His skin tingles where Taiga touched him, and he can’t seem to remember how to breathe.

Taiga pulls back quickly, his own face flushing. “Sorry,” he mumbles, wiping his thumb on a napkin. “I should have just told you.”

“No, thank you,” Hokuto manages, though his voice sounds strange to his own ears. His heart hammers against his ribs, and he’s certain Taiga must be able to hear it.

Glancing at his watch provides a welcome distraction. “It’s already 13:15.”

“Shit,” Taiga says, reaching for his back pocket. His expression shifts to panic. “I left my wallet at the office.”

“I’ve got it.” The words come out before Hokuto can overthink them. “Consider it a thank you for the curry rescue.”

And for everything else, he thinks but doesn’t say. For making Ema laugh, for being there when memories of Rui threaten to overwhelm him.

“Are you sure?” Taiga’s eyes meet his, and Hokuto’s breath catches at the warmth in them.

“Of course.” He pulls out his wallet, trying to ignore how domestic this feels, how right. “It’s my treat.”

🏠

“—and then Umi said the most adorable thing!” Chaka’s voice carries down the break room hallway before Hokuto even rounds the corner.

Hokuto pauses at the sink, his empty coffee mug dangling from his fingers. The Chaos Trio huddle near the vending machine, their heads bent together like conspirators. His shoulders tense, preparing for the inevitable.

“Matsumura!” Chaka bounces over, eyes gleaming. “How was lunch with our Kyomo today? Pretty cozy, from what I heard.”

Machu elbows Chaka, but his own expression betrays equal curiosity. Shime just grins, phone already in hand as if ready to document any reaction.

“The curry was good.” Hokuto turns on the tap, focusing on rinsing his mug. The ceramic feels cool against his palm, grounding him as his mind drifts to the way Taiga’s thumb felt against his lips.

“Just good?” Chaka leans against the counter. “Because Noel said you two looked pretty friendly. I wonder what Jesse would think about—”

“Jesse knows we're roommates.” The words come easily, surprising Hokuto himself. A few months ago, this conversation would have sent him spiraling into guilt and doubt. But now, he simply continues washing his mug, remembering how Taiga’s eyes crinkled when he talked about his Yu-Gi-Oh collection.

“Roommates who have lunch dates,” Shime sing-songs.

“And pick up Ema together, from what I heard a few minutes ago,” Machu adds, though his tone carries more warmth than teasing.

Hokuto sets his mug in the drying rack, a small smile playing at his lips. “Speaking of Ema, I need to get going. Don’t want to keep her waiting.”

He leaves them gaping, their usual ammunition falling flat against his newfound calm. Their whispers follow him down the hallway, but they feel distant, unimportant.

At Taiga’s desk, familiar fingers fly across a keyboard, finishing up last-minute tasks. Taiga’s brow furrows in concentration, and Hokuto allows himself a moment to watch, to notice how the late afternoon sun catches in his hair.

“Ready?” Hokuto asks, adjusting his laptop bag.

Taiga looks up, that furrow smoothing into something softer. “Just sending this last email.” His fingers tap a few more keys. “There. Let me grab my coat.”

They walk to the elevator together, their shoulders nearly touching. The space between them hums with something unspoken, like static electricity before a storm.

Spring sunlight warms Hokuto’s face as they leave the office building. The walk to First Steps stretches before them, familiar now after months of sharing this route. His shoulder occasionally brushes against Taiga’s, sending little sparks of awareness through him.

“Random question, but how did you meet Yugo and Juri?” Hokuto asks, surprising himself with how natural the question feels.

Taiga’s lips quirk up. “College. Yugo was in my Business Analytics class, always bringing these experimental baked goods to study sessions. Half of them were disasters.”

“And now he owns Golden Hour.”

“Practice makes perfect, I guess.” Taiga chuckles. “You should come by during Ema-chan’s spring break. He’s been experimenting with these new strawberry tarts that she'd love.”

The mention of spring break reminds Hokuto of sunny afternoons spent debugging in university libraries. “Speaking of college, I actually got into Computer Science because I kept trying to automate my sister’s Tamagotchi when we were kids.”

“Seriously?” Taiga’s eyebrows shoot up.

“She’d cry whenever her virtual pet died, so I researched ways to keep it alive while she was at school.” Hokuto smiles at the memory. “Ended up falling in love with programming instead.”

They fall into comfortable silence, broken only by the sound of their footsteps and distant traffic. The familiar route to First Steps feels different today—lighter somehow. Hokuto notices other parents beginning to gather at the preschool gate, their presence a reminder that it’s almost pickup time.

Standing there with Taiga, Hokuto realizes they must look like any other set of parents waiting for their child. The thought doesn’t twist his stomach like it might have weeks ago. Instead, it settles warm and right in his chest, like the last piece of code clicking into place.

Through the fence, he spots Ema emerging from her classroom, her purple backpack bouncing as she walks. She waves goodbye to Shintaro, who follows her out.

When Shintaro spots them, something shifts in his expression—a flicker of understanding, maybe acceptance. He offers a polite smile and nod before turning to help another student with their coat.

“Papa! Tiger-san!” Ema runs toward them, her face bright with joy.

Hokuto kneels down, bracing for impact as Ema barrels into him. Her small arms wrap around his neck, and the familiar scent of crayons and strawberry shampoo fills his senses. These moments—her solid warmth against his chest, her happy giggles in his ear—ground him in ways nothing else can.

“Papa, we practiced so much today!” Ema squeezes tighter, practically vibrating with excitement.

“Did you?” He pulls back to look at her face, flushed pink from running.

But Ema’s already spinning away, launching herself at Taiga with equal enthusiasm. “Tiger-san! You came too!”

Something catches in Hokuto’s throat as he watches Taiga catch his daughter, that familiar smirk softening into genuine warmth. Taiga’s hands are gentle as he steadies her, his eyes crinkling at the corners in that way that makes Hokuto’s chest ache. The late afternoon sun catches in Taiga’s hair, turning the dark strands almost golden, and Hokuto can’t look away.

How did I not see it sooner? The thought hits him as Taiga helps Ema adjust her backpack strap with practiced ease. Every small gesture, every quiet moment of care—they’ve been building to this, haven’t they?

“Ready to go home?” Taiga asks, and the word home sends a fresh wave of warmth through Hokuto’s chest.

Ema grabs both their hands as they start walking, swinging between them with barely contained energy. “Yuki-chan and I got all our moves perfect today! We practiced and practiced until—” She scrunches her face in concentration. “Until we were syn-chro-nized.”

“That’s a big word,” Hokuto says, letting her swing their joined hands higher.

“Mori-sensei taught it to us! It means we move at the same time, like—like when Zoomie follows the mop around!”

Taiga snorts. “I don’t think Zoomie and the mop are quite the same as dancing.”

“But they work together!” Ema insists. Her grip tightens on their hands. “Like us!”

The simple observation makes Hokuto’s heart stutter. He catches Taiga’s eye over Ema’s head, finding his own surprise mirrored there.

“Papa?” Ema’s voice turns serious. “Tiger-san is coming tomorrow, right?”

“Of course I am.” Taiga’s response comes instantly, firm and sure. “I wouldn’t miss your recital for anything in the world.”

The certainty in his voice, the way he doesn’t hesitate or look to Hokuto for confirmation—it hits Hokuto like a physical force. This man who once valued solitude above all else now speaks of Ema’s school events like they’re unmissable priorities.

“Promise?” Ema peers up at Taiga, her expression so earnest it makes Hokuto’s heart clench.

“Promise.” Taiga squeezes her hand. “I even cleared my whole schedule. No plans—just watching you dance.”

Ema beams, satisfied. She launches into a detailed description of their costumes, the special shoes they’ll wear, the way Yuki helped her practice during recess. Her voice carries them home, filling the spaces between them with joy and anticipation.

“Oh.” Hokuto pats his pocket, remembering the grocery list he’d made this morning. “We need to stop by the store. I forgot we're almost out of—” He pauses, realizing the detour might inconvenience Taiga. “Sorry, you probably want to head straight home.”

“I don’t mind.” Taiga shrugs, that casual gesture Hokuto's come to recognize as genuine rather than dismissive. “The grocery store’s on the way anyway.”

Ema bounces on her toes. “Can I ride in the cart?”

“You’re getting too big for that,” Hokuto says, but his heart warms at how she immediately turns her pleading eyes to Taiga instead.

Inside the store, fluorescent lights cast everything in a harsh glow. Taiga grabs a cart, the metal squeaking under his hands. “Where to?”

Hokuto pulls out his phone, checking his hastily typed notes. “We need rice, eggs, and—”

He looks up to find Taiga wrestling with the cart, which keeps veering left despite his efforts to straighten it.

“Why won’t this thing—” Taiga mutters, his usual composure slipping as he overcorrects, nearly crashing into a display of instant ramen.

Ema’s giggles echo through the aisle. “Tiger-san, you’re doing it wrong!”

A flush creeps up Taiga’s neck. “I don’t usually...” He trails off, gesturing vaguely at the cart.

“Here.” Hokuto steps closer, his hand brushing Taiga’s as he demonstrates the proper grip on the handle. “You’re pushing too hard on one side.”

The warmth of Taiga’s skin lingers even after Hokuto steps back. He watches Taiga adjust his stance, determination setting his jaw like this is another coding problem to solve.

“Better?” Taiga asks, managing a wobbly but straight line down the aisle.

“Much better!” Ema claps, skipping alongside them. “Now you won’t crash into everything like Zoomie does!”

“I do not crash like—" Taiga's protest cuts off as the cart veers again, this time toward a stack of cereal boxes. His quick reflexes save them from disaster, but Ema’s laughter only grows louder.

Hokuto finds himself fighting a smile as he leads them toward the produce section. The familiar routine of shopping feels different with Taiga here, transforming mundane choices into something almost entertaining. He catches himself watching Taiga’s concentrated frown as he examines a bag of rice, as if the brand selection requires the same scrutiny as a marketing metric.

“Papa likes that one.” Ema points to Hokuto’s usual choice, and something warm blooms in his chest at how she’s memorized even this small detail.

“The brown package?” Taiga reaches for it, then freezes. “Wait, no—the white one?”

“The white one,” Hokuto says, the words coming out softer than intended. He hands Taiga the correct bag, their fingers brushing again.

Ema’s gasp echoes through the aisle as she spots a display of character-themed snacks. “Papa, look! They have Totoro cookies!” She bounces on her toes, pointing at the pastel packaging adorned with Studio Ghibli characters.

Hokuto checks the price tag, his practical nature wincing at the markup. “Those are three times more expensive than regular cookies, sweetheart.”

“But they’re special.” She clutches the package to her chest, eyes wide and pleading. “And tomorrow’s my recital...”

“The regular ones taste exactly the same,” Hokuto starts, but Taiga’s already reaching for another package.

“These look good too,” Taiga says, examining a box of cat-shaped chocolates. “Want to try these as well?”

Hokuto’s chest tightens. “Taiga, you don’t need to—”

“It’s fine.” Taiga shrugs, that casual gesture that always makes Hokuto’s arguments feel somehow inadequate. “She deserves a treat before her big performance.”

“But we can’t spoil our kid like that every time she—”

The words slip out before Hokuto can catch them, natural and devastating in their implication.

The fluorescent lights suddenly feel too bright. Silence stretches between them, broken only by the distant beeping of checkout counters. Heat crawls up Hokuto’s neck as the weight of his words sinks in.

“I mean—” Hokuto stumbles over his own tongue. “That’s not—I didn’t—”

“Papa?” Ema tugs at his sleeve, unaware of the tension crackling above her head. “Can I get both? Please?”

“Yes,” Hokuto blurts, too quickly. “Yes, of course you can.” He’d agree to buy the entire snack aisle right now if it would erase the last thirty seconds.

Taiga’s face has gone carefully blank, that mask he wears during difficult client meetings. He focuses intently on examining the nutrition label of the cat chocolates, though Hokuto doubts he’s actually reading it.

“Thank you!” Ema hugs both packages to her chest, her joy a stark contrast to the awkwardness suffocating the adults.

Hokuto pushes the cart forward, his movements mechanical. The wheels squeak against the linoleum floor, the sound grating against his nerves. He wants to apologize properly, to explain that he didn’t mean to presume, but the words stick in his throat.

Our kid. The phrase echoes in his mind, taunting him. How easily it had slipped out, as if they were really... as if Taiga was...

“Should we get some fruit too?” Taiga’s voice cuts through Hokuto's spiral, deliberately casual.

Hokuto latches onto the lifeline, grateful for the change of subject. “Right. Yes. Fruit.”

He steers them toward the produce section, praying the ground might still open up and swallow him whole.

🏠

The front door clicks shut behind them, and Hokuto’s shoulders finally release some tension. He toes off his shoes, watching Ema hop on one foot as she removes her own, Taiga steadying her with a practiced hand.

Our kid.

The words still echo in his mind as he carries the grocery bags to the kitchen. His face heats again, remembering how naturally the phrase had slipped out, how Taiga’s expression had gone carefully blank.

Hokuto busies himself with unpacking ingredients, the familiar motions of meal preparation offering a welcome distraction. The chicken needs to marinate, and he should start on the tartar sauce first. His hands move automatically, reaching for the cutting board.

“Need help?”

Hokuto startles at Taiga’s voice, closer than expected. He hadn’t heard him approach over the rustle of grocery bags.

“I could...” Taiga gestures vaguely at the ingredients. “Chop something?”

The offer hangs between them, weighted with unspoken tension. Hokuto’s chest tightens at how carefully Taiga phrases the request, as if afraid of overstepping after Hokuto’s slip-up at the store.

“The pickles,” Hokuto manages. “For the tartar sauce. They need to be diced small.”

Taiga nods and retrieves a knife from the drawer—the correct one, Hokuto notices.

They work in silence for a moment, the steady rhythm of their knives the only sound besides Ema’s footsteps as she sets up her practice space in the living room.

“I’m going to practice now!” Ema announces, her voice carrying clearly from the other room. “Watch me, okay?”

“We’re watching!” Hokuto calls back, grateful for the distraction. He glances up just as Ema takes her starting position, her face scrunched in concentration.

Beside him, Taiga’s knife stills. Hokuto catches him watching Ema with that soft expression he sometimes gets—the one that makes Hokuto’s heart stumble in his chest.

Music starts playing from Ema’s tablet, a cheerful melody filling the space. She begins her routine, all determined focus and slightly wobbly movements.

“Her balance has improved,” Taiga murmurs, resuming his chopping. His knife moves with more confidence now, Hokuto notes. Those days of helping with dinner prep have paid off.

“She practices constantly.” Hokuto measures mayonnaise into a bowl, trying to keep his voice steady. “Even in the bathroom while brushing her teeth.”

A small smile plays at Taiga’s lips. “I noticed. The other day she was doing pirouettes while putting on her shoes.”

The casual observation hits Hokuto hard—how easily Taiga notices these little details about Ema, how naturally he’s slipped into their daily rhythms.

He adds mustard to the mayonnaise, stirring perhaps more vigorously than necessary.

“Papa!” Ema calls out. “Tiger-san! Did you see my jump?”

“Very nice,” they respond in unison, then freeze, catching each other’s eye.

Heat crawls up Hokuto’s neck. He focuses on the tartar sauce, pretending the synchronized response didn’t make his heart race. Beside him, Taiga’s knife moves faster against the cutting board.

“The pickles are done,” Taiga says after a moment, his voice carefully neutral.

“Thanks.” Hokuto takes the cutting board, hyperaware of how their fingers don’t quite touch during the exchange. “Could you start on the chicken? It needs to be cut into—”

“Bite-sized pieces for Ema-chan, I remember.” Taiga reaches for a fresh cutting board, and something warm unfurls in Hokuto’s chest at how he knows this detail too.

Music continues to float from the living room, punctuated by Ema’s occasional counting and the soft thud of her feet landing jumps. The kitchen fills with familiar cooking sounds: the whisper of knife against cutting board, the clink of bowls, their breathing falling into an unconscious rhythm.

Soon, cooking is done. Steam rises from the plates as Hokuto sets them on the table, the familiar ritual of dinner service grounding him after the awkwardness in the kitchen. The chicken gleams golden-brown, perfectly crisp despite his distracted state while cooking.

“All done practicing!” Ema announces, helping arrange the utensils with careful precision. Her movements mirror Hokuto’s usual placement—chopsticks exactly parallel, napkins folded just so.

They settle into their spots—Hokuto and Taiga on opposite sides, Ema between them—a configuration that's become so natural Hokuto can’t remember when it started feeling like their default. The sight of Taiga in what used to be empty chairs makes his chest tight with something he’s not ready to name.

“Let’s eat!” Ema’s voice rings out clear and bright, her earlier exhaustion from practice forgotten.

Hokuto watches as she immediately goes for the tartar sauce, dolloping perhaps a bit too much onto her chicken.

He opens his mouth to comment, but Taiga beats him to it.

“Maybe a little less sauce?” Taiga suggests gently. “You won’t taste the chicken otherwise.”

Ema considers this, then scrapes some sauce back onto the edge of her plate. The easy way she accepts Taiga’s guidance makes Hokuto’s throat tight.

“Papa, can I go to Yuki-chan’s house next weekend?” Ema asks between bites. “She got new art supplies and wants to show me!”

Hokuto glances at Taiga automatically—a habit he’s developed without realizing. “Next weekend?” He tries to recall their schedule, the shared calendar on his phone that now includes three people’s activities.

“We don’t have anything planned,” Taiga offers, that careful tone back in his voice. Like he’s trying not to presume too much after Hokuto’s slip-up at the store.

“Then yes, if Yuki-chan’s parents are okay with it.” Hokuto watches Ema’s face light up, her smile so bright it almost hurts to look at.

“Tiger-san, what do you do with Uncle Yugo and Uncle Juri?” Ema asks, turning her attention to Taiga. “Do you play games like we do?”

Something warm blooms in Hokuto’s chest at how naturally Ema has adopted his friends as uncles. He watches Taiga’s expression soften—that particular softness reserved only for Ema.

“Sometimes,” Taiga says. “But mostly we just talk. Uncle Yugo owns a restaurant, you know.”

“Really?” Ema’s eyes go wide. “What kind?”

“It’s called Golden Hour. He makes really good food there.” Taiga glances at Hokuto, something hesitant in his gaze. “I was thinking... maybe we could all go sometime?”

The invitation hangs in the air, delicate as spun sugar. Hokuto’s chopsticks pause halfway to his mouth.

“Can we, Papa?” Ema bounces in her seat. “Please?”

“I...” Hokuto looks at Taiga, finding that careful hope in his expression. “Yes, I’d like that.”

Relief flickers across Taiga’s face, there and gone so quickly Hokuto might have imagined it. But the way Taiga’s shoulders relax, how his next bite seems less mechanical—these small tells Hokuto has learned to read like lines of code.

“Uncle Yugo makes the best desserts,” Taiga tells Ema, who hangs on every word. “He’s been working on these new strawberry tarts...”

Hokuto lets their voices wash over him, content to watch how animated Taiga becomes describing his friends to Ema. This is what he wants to remember—not the awkward moment at the store, but this: Ema’s delighted giggles, Taiga’s hands gesturing as he talks, the warm glow of their kitchen light making everything feel soft and possible.

When dinner is over, Hokuto takes over by gathering the dishes while Taiga and Ema help. The soft clink of dishes fills the kitchen as Hokuto rinses each plate before loading them into the dishwasher. The routine is soothing, giving his hands something to do while his mind wanders.

Behind him, he hears Taiga and Ema’s voices drift from the dining area as they clear the table.

“And then Yuki-chan did a big twirl,” Ema explains, her voice animated despite her earlier exhaustion from practice. “But she got dizzy and almost fell into Waddles!”

“The penguin survived, I hope?” Taiga’s tone carries that gentle amusement that makes Hokuto’s chest tighten.

“He’s very brave,” Ema assures him solemnly. “Like Flynn Rider!”

“Who’s Flynn Rider?”

Hokuto’s hands still under the running water. He knows what’s coming even before Ema’s scandalized gasp fills the room.

“You’ve never watched Tangled?” Ema’s voice rises in pitch, utterly aghast. “But—but it’s the best princess movie!”

“Is it?” Taiga sounds genuinely curious, and something warm unfurls in Hokuto’s chest at how he always takes Ema’s interests seriously. “I know Princess Rapunzel, but I haven’t watched the movie.”

“We have to watch it right now!” The scrape of Ema’s chair against the floor echoes through the kitchen. “Papa, can we? Please?”

Hokuto can’t help the chuckle that escapes him as he loads the last plate. He turns to find Ema already dragging Taiga toward the living room, her small hand wrapped firmly around his fingers. The sight of them—Taiga allowing himself to be led by a determined five-year-old—makes his heart do that familiar stumble.

Taiga lets Ema push him onto the couch. His usual composure softens as Ema immediately climbs up next to him, wiggling until she’s comfortable.

Hokuto watches Taiga navigate the streaming service, noting how easily he finds the movie.

“Papa, sit here!” Ema pats the space beside her, and Hokuto’s feet move before his brain catches up.

The couch isn’t small, but with three people, the space feels intimate. Ema settles between them like it’s the most natural thing in the world, her warmth pressing against Hokuto’s side. He catches a hint of Taiga’s cologne—something subtle and clean that makes his pulse quicken.

The opening narration begins, and Hokuto finds himself watching Taiga’s reactions more than the familiar scenes. There’s something fascinating about seeing the story through fresh eyes, about catching the slight quirk of Taiga’s lips at Mother Gothel’s dramatic flair.

“See?” Ema whispers as Flynn Rider appears on screen. “He’s like Zoomie!”

Taiga’s eyebrows rise. “The robot vacuum is like a thief?”

“No, silly! He pretends to be tough but he’s actually nice.” Ema snuggles deeper into the couch, her head resting against Hokuto’s arm. “Like how Zoomie acts scary but really just wants pets.”

Hokuto feels more than hears Taiga’s quiet laugh, the vibration carrying through the cushions. He tries not to think about how natural this feels—the three of them curled up on the couch, Ema’s commentary punctuating the familiar scenes, Taiga’s presence warm and solid just beyond her.

The lantern scene begins, and Hokuto sneaks another glance at Taiga. The soft glow from the TV plays across his features, catching in his eyes as he watches the screen with genuine interest. Something about his expression makes Hokuto’s chest ache—how openly he’s letting himself be drawn into Ema’s world, no traces of his usual careful restraint.

“This is my favorite part,” Ema whispers, though she’s said the same thing about at least three other scenes already. Her eyes are heavy-lidded despite her excitement, the day’s activities finally catching up to her.

Hokuto feels her gradually relax against him, her breathing growing deeper. He should probably carry her to bed soon, but he can’t bring himself to move just yet. Not when everything feels so perfectly balanced in this moment—Ema’s trust, Taiga’s presence, the gentle music flowing from the TV.

The credits roll, their soft glow illuminating Ema’s peaceful face against Hokuto’s shoulder. She’d drifted off somewhere between Flynn’s supposed betrayal and Flynn’s dramatic death scene, her small body growing heavier against him with each passing minute.

Taiga’s already moving, his fingers dancing across his phone screen with practiced efficiency. The TV flickers off, plunging the room into the gentler light of table lamps.

Hokuto watches as Taiga navigates the EaseWorks app, setting the house into its nighttime routine. The quiet whir of the air conditioning adjusts, and the remaining lights dim to a warm, sleepy glow.

Hokuto gathers Ema closer, careful not to jostle her as he stands. Her breath puffs warm against his neck, and he catches the faint scent of the strawberry shampoo. The familiar weight of her in his arms grounds him, even as his awareness of Taiga’s presence makes his skin prickle with something unnamed.

The guest room—though it hasn’t felt like a guest room for months now—welcomes them with shadows softened by the nightlight’s gentle glow. Mr. Bunny and Waddles wait patiently on the pillow, their glass eyes gleaming. Hokuto lays Ema down with practiced care, his movements slow and deliberate as he tucks the blanket around her shoulders.

She stirs slightly, mumbling something that might be “Flynn” or “flying.” Hokuto brushes her hair back from her forehead, pressing a kiss there as her features settle back into peaceful dreams.

“Sleep well, princess,” he whispers, the endearment falling naturally from his lips. He glances at Rui’s photo on the desk drawer and smiles at her, too. “Good night, Rui.”

The hallway feels different somehow when he steps out, as if the evening has shifted something fundamental in the air. Hokuto finds Taiga at the bottom of the stairs, his face illuminated by his phone screen. The blue light catches the sharp angles of his face, highlighting the slight furrow between his brows as he reads.

Whatever’s on the screen has Taiga’s full attention, his usual composed expression replaced by something tighter, more troubled. He’s already heading up, his movements distracted and automatic, like his body’s operating on autopilot while his mind wrestles with whatever message has appeared.

Hokuto’s throat tightens at the sight. He knows that look—has seen it enough times during difficult projects or challenging client meetings. But this feels different, more personal somehow. The way Taiga’s shoulders have tensed, how his fingers grip the phone just a fraction too tightly.

Words catch in Hokuto’s throat as he watches Taiga’s troubled expression. The instinct to ask warring with the fear of overstepping—again. His earlier slip at the grocery store still burns fresh in his memory.

“Everything okay?” The question escapes before he can stop it, soft and hesitant in the dimly lit hallway.

Taiga looks up, startled as if he’d forgotten Hokuto was there. His fingers tighten around the phone before he lets out a slow breath. “It’s Jesse.”

Something twists in Hokuto’s chest at the name. He forces his expression neutral, waiting.

“He’s flying back to Tokyo for a few days.” Taiga’s voice is carefully measured, the way it gets during difficult client presentations. “Some variety show appearance. He wants to meet up.”

Hokuto studies Taiga’s face, noting the tension around his eyes, the slight downturn of his mouth. None of the usual brightness that accompanies mentions of Jesse. No trace of the soft smile Hokuto’s grown used to seeing when Jesse’s name comes up in conversation.

“And that’s... not good?” Hokuto ventures, his heart beating a strange rhythm against his ribs.

Taiga’s gaze drops back to his phone, thumb hovering over the screen without actually touching it. The silence stretches between them, heavy with something Hokuto can’t quite name.

“I’m going to end it,” Taiga says finally, the words falling into the quiet like stones into still water.

Hokuto’s breath catches. He grips the stair railing, grateful for its solid presence as his mind struggles to process Taiga’s words. “End...?”

“Things with Jesse.” Taiga’s voice remains steady, but Hokuto catches the slight tremor in his hands as he pockets his phone. “It’s not... I can’t...”

He trails off, and Hokuto finds himself taking a step closer, drawn by the vulnerability in Taiga’s expression. It’s rare to see him this unguarded, this uncertain.

“Is something wrong?” Hokuto asks, hating how his voice catches on the question. “I thought you two were...”

“We were. Are.” Taiga runs a hand through his hair, a gesture Hokuto recognizes as one of his few tells of genuine distress. “It’s just... it’s not fair to him. Or to—” He cuts himself off, swallowing whatever words were about to follow.

Questions burn on Hokuto’s tongue, but he holds them back. Watches instead how Taiga’s fingers fidget with his phone case, how his gaze seems fixed on some point in the middle distance.

“He deserves someone who can give him everything,” Taiga continues, softer now. “Someone who isn’t constantly...”

Another pause, another unfinished thought hanging in the air between them.

Hokuto’s pulse thunders in his ears. He wants to ask what Taiga means, wants to understand the weight behind these half-formed sentences.

But fear holds him back—fear of presuming too much, of reading things wrong, of shattering this delicate moment with his own wishes.

“Constantly what?” The words slip out before Hokuto can stop them, his voice barely above a whisper in the dim hallway.

Taiga’s eyes meet his, and something in that gaze makes Hokuto’s chest tight. There’s a vulnerability there, raw and unguarded in a way that makes his heart stumble.

“Constantly...” Taiga swallows, his fingers still worrying at his phone case. “Constantly wishing I was somewhere else. With...”

The unfinished sentence hangs between them. Hokuto’s pulse roars in his ears, drowning out the soft hum of the air conditioning. He should say something—anything—to fill this charged silence.

But words feel dangerous right now, too likely to shatter whatever’s happening in this moment.

Instead, he watches Taiga’s face in the gentle glow of the hallway lights. Notes how the shadows soften his features, how his usual composed mask has slipped just enough to show something more real underneath.

Something that makes hope flutter dangerously in Hokuto’s chest.

“I should get some sleep,” Taiga says finally, his voice rough. “Ema-chan’s recital tomorrow.”

Hokuto nods, not trusting himself to speak. He steps back, giving Taiga space to pass on the stairs. Their shoulders brush—the briefest contact—but it sends electricity sparking along Hokuto’s skin.

At the top of the stairs, Taiga pauses. “Thanks,” he says softly, not turning around. “For listening.”

“Anytime,” Hokuto manages, the word feeling inadequate for everything he wants to express.

He watches Taiga disappear down the hallway, listening to the quiet click of his bedroom door. Only then does Hokuto let out the breath he’s been holding, sagging against the wall as his mind spins with possibilities he shouldn’t let himself consider.

Don’t read too much into it, he tells himself firmly.

But hope blooms traitorously in his chest anyway, warm and persistent as spring sunshine.

🏠

Good morning, Mama.

Ema glances at the desk drawer, where Mama’s photo smiles at her from inside a sparkly frame she made at preschool. The morning sun peeks through the curtains, painting golden stripes across the carpet. Usually Papa has to wake her up, but today is special.

Today she gets to be a flower.

Her pink dance costume hangs by the wardrobe like a princess dress, complete with petals that twirl when she spins. Papa must have ironed it while she was sleeping. He always does things like that—quiet little kindnesses that make her feel warm inside.

“I’m going to dance really pretty today, Mama,” she whispers to the photo. “Papa and Tiger-san are both coming to watch.”

The thought makes her belly feel fluttery, like when she’s on the swings at recess. Ever since she and Papa visited Grandma and Grandpa, things have felt different.

Better.

Papa smiles more now, especially when Tiger-san is around. And Tiger-san doesn’t look sad anymore when he thinks no one is watching.

Ema wiggles into her dress, only getting a little tangled in the sleeves. She’s almost managed to put on everything correctly when she catches the sweet smell of pancakes drifting up from downstairs.

Her tummy rumbles in response.

“Coming!” she calls out, even though no one has called for her yet. She gives Mama’s photo one last smile before closing the drawer carefully.

The wooden steps are cool under her feet as she tiptoes down, following the pancake smell and the sound of quiet voices from the kitchen. Papa and Tiger-san are probably already up, like they always are now.

It’s different now that she understands. Love doesn’t get smaller when you share it—it grows bigger, like the flowers in Grandpa’s garden. That’s what Mama’s letter said, and Mama was the smartest person ever.

I hope you can see us, Mama, Ema thinks as she reaches the bottom step. I hope you can see how happy we all are now.

She pauses at the kitchen doorway, watching Papa flip pancakes while Tiger-san sets the table. They move around each other like they’re dancing, never bumping or getting in the way. It’s nothing like when Tiger-san first tried to help in the kitchen and almost burned the eggs.

“Good morning!” Ema announces. “Is it time for breakfast?”

Papa and Tiger-san turn at the same time, their faces lighting up like Christmas morning.

“Good morning, princess!” Papa’s smile is extra bright today. He’s already wearing his nice blue shirt—the one Grandma says brings out his eyes.

Tiger-san waves at her. “Look who’s already in her costume! Ready to be the prettiest flower in the garden?”

Ema twirls, letting the pink petals of her dress flutter around her. The fabric makes a soft swooshing sound that reminds her of real flowers dancing in the wind.

Papa sets a plate of pancakes in front of her usual spot—the one between his chair and Tiger-san’s. The pancakes are golden-brown and perfectly round, with a drizzle of syrup making little rivers between them.

Tiger-san brings over a glass of milk. “Nervous about the big show?”

“Nope!” Ema bounces in her seat, watching Tiger-san move to the coffee maker. “I practiced lots and lots. Even Mr. Bunny and Waddles know all the steps now.”

Tiger-san laughs, pouring coffee into two mugs. She watches him add cream and two sugars to Papa’s coffee—exactly how Papa likes it. He never has to ask anymore, just like how Papa always knows to cut Tiger-san’s pancakes into triangles instead of squares.

“Here you go.” Tiger-san hands Papa his coffee, their fingers brushing for just a moment.

Papa’s cheeks turn pink.

They all sit down together, and the kitchen feels warm and cozy, like being wrapped in her favorite blanket.

Tiger-san cuts into his triangle pancakes and says, “So, I was thinking... how about we go to Uncle Yugo’s restaurant after the recital?”

Ema’s fork clatters against her plate. “Really?”

“Really really.” Tiger-san nods, sharing a look with Papa. “Uncle Yugo’s been asking when he’ll get to meet his favorite princess again.”

“Can I get a fancy drink?” Ema asks, already imagining all the different colors it might be.

“Of course,” Papa says, reaching over to wipe a spot of syrup from her chin. “But only if you eat all your breakfast first. Flowers need lots of energy to bloom.”

Ema takes a big bite of pancake, her legs swinging happily under the table. She watches Tiger-san steal a piece from Papa’s plate when he thinks no one’s looking, and how Papa pretends not to notice but smiles into his coffee anyway.

She takes another bite of pancake, remembering the special talk with Papa at Grandma and Grandpa’s house. They had sat in Mama’s old room, surrounded by her books and the pretty curtains.

Papa had held her close, his voice soft like when he reads bedtime stories. He said he loves Tiger-san, but that doesn’t make his love for Mama smaller.

She watches Papa now, the way his eyes follow Tiger-san around the kitchen. It’s the same way Prince Eric looked at Ariel in the movie—like Tiger-san is magic or something special.

Papa had promised he would tell Tiger-san about his feelings “when the time is right,” but Ema doesn’t understand why they have to wait. In her stories, the prince always tells the princess right away. Like when Aladdin showed Jasmine the whole world, or when Beast danced with Belle in the golden ballroom. They didn’t wait for “the right time.”

Tiger-san reaches across the table to wipe a spot of syrup from Papa’s chin, just like Papa did for her earlier. Papa’s cheeks turn pink again, and he ducks his head like he’s shy.

Adults are so silly, Ema thinks, stabbing another piece of pancake. They make everything so complicated.

Papa says Tiger-san is dating Jesse-san, but Ema doesn’t understand that either. Jesse-san is nice and does fun magic tricks, but Tiger-san doesn’t look at Jesse-san the way Tiger-san looks at Papa.

When Tiger-san thinks no one is watching, he stares at Papa like he’s looking at something precious—like how Ema looks at the last cookie in the jar.

“What’s on your mind, princess?” Tiger-san asks, noticing her thoughtful expression. “Worried about the dance?”

Ema shakes her head, her costume petals rustling. She wants to tell Tiger-san that Papa loves him, wants to make them understand how simple it could be. But Papa made her promise to keep it a secret, and Ema never breaks promises.

“Just thinking about the flowers,” she says instead, which isn’t exactly a lie. She’s thinking about what Grandpa said about flowers growing better together, and how maybe people are the same way.

Papa reaches over to smooth her hair, his hand gentle like always. “You’ll be the most beautiful flower on stage,” he says, but his eyes drift to Tiger-san as he speaks.

Tiger-san is looking back at Papa with that special smile—the one that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. It’s different from the smile he uses at work or with Jesse. This one looks more real, like a secret only they know.

Why do grown-ups have to make everything so hard? Ema wonders, watching them dance around each other like the butterflies in Grandpa’s garden. In her stories, people just say what they feel. They don’t pretend or wait for perfect moments.

Papa’s heart is definitely ready.

Adults make everything so complicated, Ema thinks again, watching Tiger-san steal another piece of Papa’s pancake. Papa pretends to scold him, but his eyes are shining with that special light that means he’s happy.

Ema takes a big gulp of milk, wondering how long flowers really need to bloom. Because to her, Papa and Tiger-san already look like the prettiest flowers in Grandpa’s whole garden.

🏠

The preschool auditorium smells like spring, even though it’s just paper flowers and ribbons. Ema bounces on her toes, making her petals rustle as she walks between Papa and Tiger-san. Pretty vines twist around the doorway, and painted butterflies flutter on the walls.

“Look, look!” She tugs their hands, pointing at a giant rainbow arch made of tissue paper flowers. “It’s like a real garden!”

Tiger-san leans down to whisper, “Maybe there’s fairy magic hiding in there.”

Before Ema can investigate, Mori-sensei appears in his green vest that makes him look like a stem. His smile is extra bright today.

“There’s my star flower!” Mori-sensei holds out his hand. “Ready to join the garden backstage?”

Papa kneels to fix her costume one last time, his fingers gentle as he adjusts her petals. “You’ll be amazing, princess.”

“The most beautiful flower in the show,” Tiger-san adds, and Papa looks at him with that special smile that makes his eyes soft.

Ema hugs them both, breathing in Papa’s clean shirt smell and Tiger-san’s shampoo. She wants to tell them to sit together, to talk about their feelings like grown-ups should, but she remembers her promise to Papa.

Mori-sensei’s hand is warm as he leads her backstage. The curtain swooshes behind them, and suddenly everything is different—excited whispers and rustling costumes and the shuffle of little feet on wood floors.

“Ema-chan!” Yuki waves from near the prop box, her butterfly wings shimmering. They’re purple and sparkly, just like the ones in Grandpa’s garden. “Come see what I can do!”

Yuki spins in a circle, making her wings catch the light. Near the back wall, Kenji and Sota are having a sword fight with fake flower stems, even though they’re supposed to be raindrops.

The curtain has a tiny gap where it meets the wall. Ema peeks through it, searching the crowd until she spots them—Papa and Tiger-san sitting together in the third row. Tiger-san says something that makes Papa laugh, ducking his head the way he does when he’s shy but happy.

They look like they fit, Ema thinks, like the matching teacups Grandma keeps in her special cabinet. Papa leans closer to Tiger-san, probably sharing one of his quiet jokes that only Tiger-san seems to understand.

“Everyone to their places!” Mori-sensei claps his hands. “The garden is about to bloom!”

Yuki grabs Ema’s hand, wings fluttering with excitement. “Ready to be the prettiest flower ever?”

Ema nods, but steals one more look through the curtain. Tiger-san is showing Papa something on his phone, their heads bent together like they’re sharing secrets. Papa’s smile is the real one—not the polite one he uses at work or with strangers, but the special one that means his heart is happy.

“Ema-chan,” Mori-sensei calls gently. “Time to take your spot.”

She follows Yuki to their starting positions, her flower petals swishing with each step. The lights dim in the auditorium, and excited whispers ripple through the darkness like wind through leaves.

Through the curtain, she can still see Papa and Tiger-san’s silhouettes, sitting close enough that their shoulders almost touch. Papa reaches over to say something in Tiger-san’s ear, and Tiger-san’s quiet laugh carries all the way backstage.

They’re like the flowers in Grandpa’s garden, Ema thinks as Mori-sensei adjusts her starting pose. The ones that grow better when they’re planted next to each other.

Music starts to play softly—the twinkling sound of their garden waking up. Yuki squeezes her hand one last time before floating to her own spot, butterfly wings catching the first hints of stage light.

“Places everyone,” Mori-sensei whispers. “Let’s show them how beautiful our garden can be.”

The curtain rises with a swoosh that makes Ema’s heart flutter like Yuki’s butterfly wings. Warm lights wash over her, turning her pink petals into sunset colors. The music tinkles like raindrops on windows, and she begins to sway just like they practiced.

One-two-three, stretch and bend.

Her flower dance feels different with all these eyes watching, but she spots Papa and Tiger-san in their seats. Tiger-san holds his phone up, probably catching every twirl and leap. Papa’s hands are clasped tight in his lap—his nervous pose, the one he uses when he’s trying extra hard not to fidget.

Yuki floats past in her purple wings, right on cue. They circle each other, just like the real butterflies in Grandpa’s garden. The music swells, and Ema stretches her arms wide, letting her petals catch the light. She remembers what Papa said about being brave on stage—pretend you’re dancing in the living room.

Through the bright lights, she sees Tiger-san lean closer to Papa, whispering something that makes Papa’s shoulders relax. They both beam at her, and suddenly it is like dancing in their living room, where Zoomie hums in the corner and Papa’s cooking smells fill the air.

The music shifts to the part where all the flowers bloom together. Ema twirls with her classmates, their costumes creating a rainbow garden across the stage. She sneaks another peek at her audience—Tiger-san has lowered his phone now, but his eyes shine. Papa’s hands have unclenched, one of them resting close to Tiger-san’s arm on the shared armrest.

Mama would love this, Ema thinks as she performs her solo spin. She imagines Mama watching from somewhere high up, maybe sitting on a cloud with her own set of wings, smiling down at all of them.

The thought makes Ema’s dance feel lighter, happier.

The final notes sparkle through the air. Ema strikes her ending pose—arms raised like reaching for the sun, just as they practiced.

Through the thunder of applause, she finds Papa and Tiger-san again. They’re both standing, Tiger-san’s phone forgotten as he claps. Papa’s eyes look shiny, the way they get when he’s so happy he might cry.

Looking at them now, Ema sees what Mama meant about love growing bigger instead of smaller. It’s like having two papas, each special in their own way. Papa with his gentle hands and quiet strength, Tiger-san with his silly comments and warm hugs.

And somewhere above, Mama watches over all of them, her love as constant as the stars.

🏠

Ema’s heart flutters like Yuki’s butterfly wings as they hold hands, carefully stepping down the stage stairs. Her pink flower petals rustle with each movement, and she can still feel the warmth of the spotlights on her skin.

“You were amazing!” Yuki whispers, squeezing her hand. “Like a real flower dancing in the wind!”

Before Ema can respond, she spots Papa and Tiger-san making their way through the crowd. Papa’s eyes are still shiny, and Tiger-san keeps showing him something on his phone—probably the videos he took during her performance.

“Papa! Tiger-san!” Ema calls out, letting go of Yuki’s hand to run toward them.

Papa catches her easily, lifting her into his arms like he always does. “My beautiful flower,” he says, his voice soft and warm. He settles back into his seat with Ema in his lap, and she snuggles closer, feeling the familiar scratch of his sweater against her cheek.

Tiger-san sits next to them, his eyes bright with excitement. “Want to see how incredible you looked up there?”

He holds out his phone, showing Ema a video of her solo twirl. The pink petals of her costume catch the stage lights perfectly, making her look like she’s glowing.

“Look at that form,” Tiger-san says proudly. “You’re a natural performer, Princess Ema.”

Ema beams at the praise, watching as more videos play on Tiger-san’s phone. She notices how close Tiger-san sits, his shoulder brushing Papa’s as he leans in to share the screen. Papa’s arm wraps around her waist, holding her steady as she bounces excitedly in his lap.

At the front of the auditorium, Mori-sensei taps the microphone, making a soft thumping sound that echoes through the room. His eyes look watery as he gazes at the older students—the ones who won’t be here next year.

“Our garden has bloomed so beautifully,” Mori-sensei says, his voice wobbling a little. “And while some of our flowers will soon plant new roots elsewhere, they will always be part of our First Steps family.”

Papa’s arms tighten around Ema slightly. She remembers him explaining during breakfast one morning that she’ll be going to a different school next year too—a bigger one with older kids.

The thought makes her stomach feel funny, like when Zoomie spins too fast and bumps into things.

“You did such a wonderful job,” Papa whispers in her ear, his breath tickling her skin. “I’m so proud of you.”

Tiger-san reaches over to straighten one of her flower petals that got crumpled during the hugging. His fingers are gentle, just like when he helps her put on her shoes in the morning or fixes her hair clips.

“The prettiest flower in the whole garden,” Tiger-san adds with a wink.

Mori-sensei’s voice comes through the speakers again, this time sounding less wobbly. “Everyone, please join us in the classroom for refreshments. We have juice and snacks for the children, and coffee and tea for the adults.”

Ema’s tummy rumbles at the mention of snacks. She slides off Papa’s lap and grabs both Papa and Tiger-san’s hands, tugging them up from their seats. Their hands feel different—Papa’s is warm and familiar, while Tiger-san’s is cooler.

“Let’s go!” She bounces on her toes, making her flower petals dance. The classroom isn’t far, but walking there with grown-ups always takes forever.

Papa chuckles, that soft sound he makes when he’s trying not to laugh too much. “Remember what we talked about this morning? We’re going to Uncle Yugo’s restaurant after this.”

Ema’s eyes widen. She loves Uncle Yugo’s cooking, especially the udon he made when she and Papa moved to Tiger-san’s house for the first time.

But the snack table looks so tempting, with its colorful cups and plates.

“I promise I won’t eat too much,” she says, already eyeing the juice boxes. They have the ones with the funny straws that bend in the middle.

Tiger-san raises an eyebrow, looking at Papa with that face grown-ups make when they’re sharing a secret. “You sure about that promise, Princess?”

“I’m sure!” Ema nods firmly, even though her tummy makes another growly sound.

She spots Yuki waving from near the snack table, surrounded by their other classmates still in their costumes—butterflies, bees, and flowers all mixed together like a real garden.

“Can I go?” she asks, bouncing harder now. Papa and Tiger-san’s hands swing with her movement.

“Go ahead,” Papa says, letting go of her hand. “Just remember—”

But Ema is already running toward her friends, her flower petals swishing behind her like a leafy cape. She hears Tiger-san’s laugh mixing with Papa’s, the sound following her as she joins the colorful crowd of her classmates.

Ema grabs a cup with pink juice swirling in it, and she stirs it with the funny bendy straw. The snack table has all her favorites—animal crackers shaped like zoo creatures, little sandwiches cut into triangles, and those yummy cookies that melt in her mouth.

She fills her plate carefully, making sure to leave room for Uncle Yugo’s cooking later. Through the crowd of costumes, she spots Papa and Tiger-san at the grown-ups’ table. Tiger-san hands Papa a cup, and Papa’s eyes crinkle at the corners like they do when he’s really happy.

Tiger-san’s hand lingers on Papa’s when he passes the cup, and Papa’s cheeks turn pink like Ema’s flower petals.

“Is Tiger-san going to be your new Papa?” Yuki asks, munching on a cookie next to her.

Ema’s tummy does that funny flip again. She takes a long sip of juice through her bendy straw, thinking about how Papa looks at Tiger-san the same way he looks at Mama’s pictures. “I don’t know yet,” she says finally. “Papa loves Tiger-san, and Tiger-san loves Papa too, but they haven’t talked about it.”

Yuki’s nose scrunches up, making her face paint whiskers wrinkle. “Why not? Grown-ups are so weird. When I love someone, I just tell them. Like when you told me you loved my new hair clips yesterday.”

“My, my, what little gossips we have here,” Mori-sensei’s voice comes from behind them, warm and teasing.

Ema tilts her head. “What’s gossips?”

“Gossip is when we talk about other people’s private business,” Mori-sensei explains, kneeling down to their level. His smile is gentle, like when he helps them with difficult puzzle pieces.

Private business. Ema rolls the words around in her head like the juice in her cup. She hadn’t thought about Papa and Tiger-san’s love being private. She watches them across the room, how they stand close together but not too close, how their fingers brush when they reach for the sugar at the same time.

“Is it bad?” she asks Mori-sensei, worried now. “Talking about Papa and Tiger-san?”

Mori-sensei’s smile reminds Ema of the way Papa looks when she asks difficult questions about Mama. Kind but a little sad, like he’s trying to explain something that makes his heart hurt.

“It’s not bad at all,” Mori-sensei says, settling onto one of the tiny chairs meant for kids. His knees almost touch his chin. “You’re talking about them because you care about their happiness. That’s actually very sweet.”

Ema fiddles with her bendy straw, watching the pink juice rise and fall. “But?”

“But sometimes,” Mori-sensei continues, “grown-ups need time to figure out their feelings. Like when you’re working on a puzzle—you can’t force the pieces to fit, right?”

Yuki nods sagely, her butterfly wings bobbing. “Like when Ema-chan tried to smash the wrong pieces together and bent them.”

“I was just helping them be friends,” Ema mumbles, remembering how Papa had to buy a new puzzle after that.

For a moment, something flickers across Mori-sensei’s face—a shadow that makes him look like he’s remembering something that hurts. But then he smiles again, bright as the stage lights during their performance.

Ema takes another sip of juice, thinking hard. “But Mori-sensei, why can’t grown-ups just say it? When is the right time to tell someone you love them?”

The question makes her think of Papa’s face whenever Tiger-san does something nice, like buying her favorite snacks or helping with homework. How Papa looks like he wants to say something important but swallows the words instead, like medicine that doesn’t taste good.

Mori-sensei leans forward, his voice soft like when he reads stories during circle time. “You know how sometimes, when you’re drawing, you wait to use your favorite colors until you’re sure about what you want to make?”

Ema nods. She always saves her sparkly purple crayon for special pictures.

“Well, telling someone you love them is kind of like that. You want to make sure the picture in your heart is complete before you show it to someone else.”

“But what if they’re using the wrong colors?” Yuki asks, waving her cookie for emphasis. “Like when Ema-chan used brown for the sky that one time?”

“The sky was brown that day! It was sunset!” Ema protests, but her mind is stuck on what Mori-sensei said about pictures in hearts. She looks over at Papa and Tiger-san again. Tiger-san is showing Papa something on his phone, and they’re standing so close their arms touch. Papa’s face is all soft, like when he looks at Mama’s photos.

“Sometimes,” Mori-sensei says, “grown-ups worry about ruining the picture they already have. They’re scared that if they use new colors, the old ones might fade away.”

Like how me and Papa were worried about forgetting Mama, Ema thinks.

But Mama’s letter said it was okay to make new pictures, to use new colors.

Mori-sensei’s eyes sparkle. “But you know what? When grown-ups are brave enough to try new colors, amazing things can happen. Sometimes the new colors make the old ones shine even brighter.”

Ema’s chest feels warm, like when Papa hugs her extra tight before bedtime. She thinks about how Tiger-san’s silly jokes make Papa laugh more than he used to, how the house feels fuller with both of them there.

“Ema!” Papa’s voice cuts through her thoughts. “Time to go, sweetheart!”

“Coming!” Ema jumps up from her tiny chair, her flower petals rustling. She turns to Yuki, holding out her pinky again. “Remember our promise about being best friends in the big school?”

Yuki links their pinkies together. “Forever and ever!”

Mori-sensei stands up from the tiny chair with a soft grunt, his knees making funny popping sounds. He holds out his hand to Ema. “Let me walk you to your Papa?”

Ema slips her hand into his, feeling the familiar calluses from all the crafts they do in class. As they weave through the crowd of parents and costumed children, she notices how Tiger-san automatically moves closer to Papa when they approach, like they’re magnets.

“Thank you for coming today,” Mori-sensei says, his voice doing that wobbly thing again. “We’ll see you in two weeks for the new school year?”

Papa nods politely, his hand finding its way to Ema’s shoulder. “Of course. Thank you for everything today, Morimoto-sensei.”

Tiger-san echoes the thanks, and Ema watches as Mori-sensei’s smile flickers just a tiny bit, like a candle in the wind. But then he’s beaming again, waving as they head toward the door.

The hallway feels different now—quieter, with just their footsteps echoing against the walls. Ema’s flower petals swish-swish with each step, and she finds herself walking between Papa and Tiger-san, their hands automatically reaching for hers like they do every morning.

🏠

“Uncle Yugo!” Ema bounces through the restaurant door, her flower petals still swishing. The smell of something yummy makes her tummy rumble, reminding her that dancing like a flower takes lots of energy.

Uncle Yugo emerges from behind the counter, his face lighting up like Christmas lights. “If it isn’t our star performer!” He sweeps into a bow that makes Ema giggle. “And still in costume, I see!”

Uncle Juri appears beside him, phone already out. “Strike a pose, flower princess!”

Ema twirls, letting her petals flutter. Other people turn to watch, some of them going “aww,” but Ema only cares that Papa and Tiger-san are smiling that special way again—like they’re sharing a secret without words.

“Come on,” Uncle Yugo says, gesturing toward the back. “I’ve got the perfect spot for our celebration.”

Ema skips after him, her costume making swish-swish sounds against the wooden floor. She notices how Papa and Tiger-san walk close together, their hands almost touching but not quite.

The private room feels magical—all warm wood and soft lights, like being inside a treasure chest. No other people, just their special group.

Perfect.

“Papa, Tiger-san, sit here!” Ema tugs their hands toward the same side of the table. She remembers what Mori-sensei said about not forcing puzzle pieces, but sometimes pieces just need a little help finding where they fit.

Papa hesitates for a second—that familiar pause he does when he’s overthinking things—but Tiger-san is already sliding into the booth, and there’s nowhere else for Papa to go. Their shoulders touch as they settle in, and Ema notices how neither of them moves away.

“I’ll sit with Uncle Juri!” Ema announces, bouncing onto the bench across from them.

Uncle Juri’s eyes sparkle, and he holds out his hand under the table where only Ema can see.

She gives him the quietest high-five ever, proud of her sneaky plan. Uncle Yugo makes a funny sound—like he’s trying not to laugh but some of it escapes anyway—before heading back to the kitchen.

“So,” Uncle Juri says. “Tell me about your performance. Did the butterfly catch the flower?”

“No, silly!” Ema giggles. “Yuki-chan’s butterfly was helping all the flowers grow. Like how—” She stops, suddenly shy about the comparison in her head.

“Like how what?” Uncle Juri prompts.

Ema sneaks a glance at Papa and Tiger-san. They’re looking at the menu together, but she notices how Tiger-san’s pinky finger has crept closer to Papa’s on the table, like it wants to reach out but isn’t sure if it should.

“Like how some people help other people’s hearts grow bigger,” she whispers to Uncle Juri, who gives her a tiny wink.

“Speaking of growing,” Uncle Juri says louder, “I can’t believe you’re close to finishing preschool already. Soon you’ll be taller than me!”

“That’s not hard,” Tiger-san teases, and Uncle Juri sticks out his tongue, making Ema laugh.

Papa shakes his head at their silliness, but he’s smiling that soft smile again. His hand has moved a tiny bit closer to Tiger-san’s on the table, and Ema holds her breath, wondering if today will be the day they finally figure out the puzzle.

Uncle Yugo returns with drinks—juice for Ema in what looks like a special princess cup, and something fizzy for the grown-ups.

“Food will be right out,” he announces.

As Uncle Yugo heads back to the kitchen, Ema notices how comfortable everyone looks in their special room, like pieces of a puzzle that have found their right spots. Even if some pieces are still figuring out exactly how they fit together.

Uncle Yugo emerges from the kitchen with a big tray balanced on his arm like the waiters in those fancy movies Papa sometimes watches. The plates look like art—all pretty colors and shapes that make Ema’s eyes go wide.

“First up,” Uncle Yugo announces, setting down something that looks like tiny clouds on toast, “we have whipped ricotta crostini with honey and lavender.”

Ema wrinkles her nose at the big words, but the little toasts look like they’re wearing fluffy white tutus, just like in her dance recital. She picks one up carefully, trying not to mess up the pretty design.

“And this,” Uncle Yugo continues, placing another plate in the middle of the table, “is my special spring vegetable tempura with himalayan salt.”

The vegetables are wearing crispy golden jackets, and when Ema bites into one, it makes a satisfying crunch that reminds her of stepping on autumn leaves. She doesn’t even mind that it’s broccoli—it tastes like a cloud would if clouds were crunchy.

More dishes appear like magic: something called “truffle” pasta that makes Tiger-san’s eyes light up, and tiny hamburgers that Uncle Yugo calls “sliders” but are just the right size for Ema’s hands.

“And for our flower princess,” Uncle Yugo presents a plate with what looks like a garden made of food, “herb-crusted chicken with rainbow vegetables.”

The carrots and peppers are arranged like flower petals around her chicken, and there’s even a little broccoli tree. It’s almost too pretty to eat. Almost.

“Remember The Great Curry Disaster of 2021?” Uncle Juri says to Tiger-san, grinning like he’s about to tell a funny story.

Tiger-san’s cheeks turn pink. “We agreed never to speak of that again.”

“The fire alarm went off three times,” Uncle Juri continues anyway, making Papa laugh. “And somehow the rice was both burned and raw.”

“At least I’ve never accidentally used salt instead of sugar in a cake,” Tiger-san shoots back, and Uncle Juri gasps like Tiger-san just revealed a big secret.

“That was one time!”

“The birthday boy cried.”

“He was thirty-five!”

Ema giggles at their silly arguing, especially when Uncle Yugo joins in with his own stories about Tiger-san’s cooking attempts. It reminds her of how Yuki-chan and her sometimes pretend to be angry at each other during playtime, but they’re always smiling underneath.

“And Hokuto,” Tiger-san turns to Papa with a mischievous smile, “I saw you picking the tomatoes out of your salad earlier.”

Papa’s ears turn red. “I wasn’t picking them out,” he protests. “I was... reorganizing them.”

“Reorganizing them right onto my plate, you mean?” Tiger-san’s eyes are sparkling with that special light they get sometimes when he looks at Papa.

“Papa doesn’t like tomatoes,” Ema explains importantly. “But he tried to make tomato pasta anyway.”

“Oh?” Uncle Juri leans forward, looking interested. “When was this?”

“Last week! Papa’s face got all scrunchy.”

Tiger-san turns to Papa with raised amused eyebrows, and Papa’s whole face goes pink like Ema’s flower costume.

“It tries,” Papa mumbles, looking down at his plate. But he’s smiling that soft smile that used to be just for Mama’s pictures.

And Tiger-san’s pinky finger finally, finally inches forward to touch Papa’s on the table.

Uncle Yugo appears in the doorway, his face all mysterious like when he’s about to do a magic trick with spices in the kitchen. “And now... for the grand finale!”

He carries in something that makes Ema’s eyes go wide like saucers.

It’s a cake, but not just any cake. It looks like a garden grew right on top of it! Pink and yellow buttercream flowers dance around the edges, and in the middle, written in pretty handwriting: “Congratulations, Ema-chan!”

“Did you make this?” Ema asks Uncle Yugo, her voice coming out in an excited squeak.

“With a little help from my other chefs in the kitchen.” Uncle Yugo winks.

Ema looks around the table at everyone’s smiling faces: Uncle Yugo standing proud like when his new recipe works perfectly, Uncle Juri already reaching for his camera to capture the moment, Papa and Tiger-san sitting close enough that their shoulders touch when they laugh.

Her heart feels like it’s growing bigger, like the Grinch’s heart in that Christmas movie Mori-sensei showed the class. She thinks about Mori-sensei’s words about love being like a garden that keeps growing, and about Yuki-chan who always saves her a spot at the reading corner, and Jesse-san who taught her magic tricks even though he’s super busy being on TV.

She remembers Grandpa’s stories about Mama teaching her first class, and how Grandma says Ema has Mama’s laugh.

Suddenly, Ema realizes something that makes her feel warm all the way to her toes: Mama isn’t gone at all.

She’s right here, in all the love that surrounds Ema like a big, warm hug.

🏠

The bathroom door creaks as Ema pushes it open, still tasting mint toothpaste on her tongue. Her Rapunzel pajamas feel soft and warm against her skin, the fabric worn from many washes but still cozy like a hug.

She hears footsteps in the hallway—not Papa’s quiet ones, but Tiger-san’s, which always sound a bit hesitant, like he’s not sure if he belongs up here yet.

“Tiger-san!” Ema calls out, padding across the carpet. “Can you tuck me in?”

Tiger-san pauses at the doorway, one hand resting on the frame. He’s changed into those soft clothes he wears at home now—the ones that make him look less like the scary work person and more like their Tiger-san.

“Are you sure?” he asks, but he’s already stepping into the room. “Your papa might want to—”

“Please?” Ema climbs onto the bed, pulling Mr. Bunny and Waddles close. “Papa always says it’s okay to ask for help when we need it. And I need help getting all tucked in proper.”

Tiger-san’s face does that funny thing where he’s trying not to smile but can’t help it. “Well, when you put it that way...”

He moves toward the bed, but something catches his eye. Ema watches as he stops by the desk drawer, where Mama’s photo sits in its silver frame.

Tiger-san’s expression turns soft, like when he watches Papa cook but thinks no one notices. His fingers hover near the frame but don’t touch it, like he’s afraid of disturbing something precious.

“Mama was pretty, wasn’t she?” Ema says, hugging Mr. Bunny closer.

Tiger-san startles slightly, as if remembering he’s not alone. “Yes, she was beautiful.” His voice comes out gentle, almost reverent. “Just like you.”

Ema beams at the compliment but notices how Tiger-san’s eyes linger on the photo, filled with something that looks like worry mixed with wonder. It reminds her of how Papa used to look at Tiger-san’s house when they first moved in—like he wasn’t sure if they were allowed to belong there.

“You can look at her picture,” Ema says, patting the bed beside her. “Papa says it’s good to share memories of Mama. It helps keep her love growing, like the flowers in Grandpa’s garden.”

Tiger-san finally turns away from the photo and sits on the edge of her bed. His hand automatically reaches to straighten her blanket, just like Papa does. “Your mama must have been an amazing person,” he says softly. “To have such a wise daughter.”

“She was,” Ema nods, arranging Waddles next to Mr. Bunny. “And Papa says I have her laugh. But you know what else?”

“What’s that?” Tiger-san’s fingers fidget with the edge of her blanket.

“I think...” Ema leans in close, like she’s sharing a very important secret, “I think Mama would like how you make Papa smile now. Not the same way she did, because Grandma says every love is different, like how every flower in the garden is special. But still good.”

Tiger-san’s breath catches, and his hands freeze on the blanket. He looks back at Mama’s photo, then at Ema, his eyes shining with something that makes them look like stars.

“Will you tell me a story?” Ema snuggles deeper into her blankets, watching Tiger-san’s face brighten at her request. She likes how his eyes crinkle at the corners when he’s happy, like Papa’s do.

Tiger-san stands and moves to her bookshelf, running his fingers along the colorful spines. “Which one would you like? We have Cinderella, or maybe—”

“No, not those!” Ema sits up straighter, causing Mr. Bunny to tumble sideways. “Remember that story you were telling me about Zoomie? The one with the coffee maker? I fell asleep before I heard the end.”

Tiger-san’s hand drops from the bookshelf. “Ah, that one.” He returns to sit on her bed, this time settling more comfortably against the headboard. “Where did we leave off?”

“The coffee maker just moved in,” Ema reminds him, repositioning Mr. Bunny and Waddles so they can listen too. “And Zoomie wasn’t sure about sharing his space.”

“That’s right.” Tiger-san clears his throat, and Ema notices how his voice gets softer, like he’s sharing a special secret. “Well, after the coffee maker moved in, something interesting happened. More friends started arriving.”

“What kind of friends?” Ema pulls her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them.

“There was a smart speaker who loved to sing,” Tiger-san continues, and Ema giggles because she knows he means the one that plays her princess songs. “And a very particular rice cooker who liked everything to be just so.”

“Like Papa!” The words burst out before Ema can stop them.

Tiger-san’s lips twitch. “Maybe a little. But you know who really changed things? A bright little night light who moved in last.”

Ema’s heart skips. She has a night light—a star-shaped one that Papa bought her after the fire. “What was the night light like?”

“She was small but full of warmth,” Tiger-san says, his voice growing gentler. “She made everyone’s lives brighter just by being there. At first, Zoomie wasn’t sure about having so many new friends in his space. But the night light...” He pauses, glancing at Ema. “She had a way of making everyone feel like they belonged together.”

“Even Zoomie?” Ema hugs Mr. Bunny closer.

“Especially Zoomie. She helped him realize that having friends around made his home feel more special, not less organized. The coffee maker would brew something warm in the morning, the speaker would play happy songs, and the rice cooker would make sure everyone had dinner together.”

“And the night light?” Ema yawns, feeling her eyelids growing heavy.

“The night light made sure nobody felt scared or alone in the dark. She showed them that sometimes the best families are the ones we build ourselves, one small light at a time.”

Just like us, Ema thinks, but her thoughts are getting fuzzy with sleep.

She wants to ask Tiger-san more about Zoomie’s friends, about how they learned to be a family, but her eyes keep closing... 

🏠

Ema drifts between sleep and waking, remembering the gentle way Tiger-san tucked the blanket around her shoulders and whispered “Good night, Princess.” His footsteps had been soft as he turned off the lights and closed the door, leaving just her star-shaped night light glowing.

She isn’t sure what wakes her—maybe a sound from downstairs or just that floaty feeling when sleep slips away. But something feels different. The space beside her is empty, no Papa’s warmth or familiar breathing.

Curious, Ema slides out of bed, Mr. Bunny clutched tight against her chest. The hallway carpet feels plushy as she tiptoes toward the stairs. A faint blue glow flickers from below.

Voices drift up—Papa’s gentle murmur and Tiger-san’s melodic tone. Ema crouches at the top of the stairs, peeking through the gaps in the railing. The TV bathes the living room in soft light, showing a girl in a school uniform writing letters.

“This is your favorite?” Tiger-san asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

Papa nods. He’s sitting close to Tiger-san on the couch, their shoulders touching. “Something about the way Iwai-san captures memories... how love echoes through time...”

Ema watches Papa’s face in the flickering light. She knows that look—the one he gets when movies make his heart feel too big for his chest.

A tear slips down his cheek, catching the blue light from the TV.

Tiger-san notices too. His hand moves slowly, carefully, like when he’s trying not to startle the birds in their backyard. His thumb brushes Papa’s tear away, so gentle it makes Ema’s chest feel warm and fluttery.

“Sorry,” Papa whispers, but he doesn’t move away from Tiger-san’s touch. “I always get emotional at this part.”

Tiger-san’s hand lingers on Papa’s cheek. “Don’t apologize. It’s okay to cry.”

They sit so close now, Tiger-san’s arm around Papa’s shoulders. It reminds Ema of how Grandma and Grandpa watch TV together, all cozy and warm. Papa leans into Tiger-san’s side, like he’s finally letting himself rest.

Ema watches Papa's face soften in the TV light. The way he looks at Tiger-san reminds her of what Mori-sensei said that morning, when Yuki asked why grown-ups take so long to say “I love you.”

“Sometimes grown-ups need time to figure out their feelings,” Mori-sensei had explained.

But Papa and Tiger-san don’t look like they need more practice. The way Tiger-san’s fingers thread through Papa’s hair seems as natural as when Papa combs Ema’s hair for school. The way Papa curls into Tiger-san’s side looks as right as when Mr. Bunny snuggles with Waddles on her bed.

Ema hugs Mr. Bunny closer, remembering the words from Mama’s letter that Papa read to her. How Mama said love grows bigger when you add more, doesn’t get smaller when you share it.

Looking at Papa and Tiger-san now, she understands what Mama meant. Papa still keeps Mama’s photo on the drawer, still tells Ema stories about how Mama used to sing while working.

But now he also has new stories—about how Tiger-san burns toast but tries anyway, about how he pretends to be grumpy but always remembers to buy Ema’s favorite strawberry milk.

A yawn catches Ema by surprise, making her eyes water. She blinks sleepily at Papa and Tiger-san, who haven’t noticed her watching. They’re too busy being quiet together, like how the flowers in Grandpa’s garden lean toward each other when the sun sets.

They’ll be okay, Ema thinks, rubbing her eyes. Mama’s letter said so, and Mama was always right.

Besides, she’s too sleepy to keep watching them figure out what they already seem to know.

Ema turns away, Mr. Bunny’s ear tickling her chin as she carefully returns to her room. Her star-shaped night light welcomes her back to her room, casting warm shadows that dance like the ones from Tiger-san’s story about Zoomie and his new family.

🏠

“…requires a direct approach,” Taiga mutters, fingers flying across the keyboard. He deletes another line, replacing it with something punchier. The summer campaign mock-ups spread across his second monitor like digital confetti—bright, attention-grabbing, and completely lacking the impact he wants.

Shit.

He glances up from his workstation toward the development section. Machu hunches over his keyboard, headphones on, lost in code. Beside him sits Hokuto’s empty chair, the desk surface bare except for a small cactus and a framed photo of Ema.

The sight of the vacant space creates an old hollow feeling in Taiga’s chest.

Taiga checks his phone. No new messages. Hokuto is probably deep in debugging mode while Ema naps or colors beside him.

The image forms easily in his mind: Hokuto with his reading glasses perched on his nose, Ema sprawled on the floor surrounded by crayons, the afternoon sun filtering through the living room blinds.

Our living room blinds.

The thought comes unbidden, and Taiga tucks it away, returning to the screen. The campaign needs his full attention—this proposal could determine whether EaseWorks’ app downloads spike or flatline during the crucial summer months.

He stares at the mockup of a family using the app together. The slogan reads: “Summer Made Simple.”

It’s decent, but not compelling. Not something that would make him download anything.

His eyes drift back to Hokuto’s empty chair.

Two weeks of Hokuto working from home while Ema’s between school years. Two weeks without Hokuto;s quiet presence at the next department over, without catching his eye across the floor when Chaka says something particularly outrageous.

“Your tagline has a typo.”

Taiga startles as Noel leans over his shoulder, pointing at the screen.

“‘Summar Made Simple’? Unless we're going for an avant-garde spelling approach,” Noel says, his voice carrying its usual calm precision.

“Shit,” Taiga mutters, quickly correcting it. “Thanks.”

Noel lingers, studying the design. “You’re distracted today.”

It’s not a question. Taiga shrugs, uncomfortable with Noel’s perceptiveness. “Just tired. Stayed up late working on these.”

“Hmm.” Noel doesn’t sound convinced. “The concept is good, but it’s missing something. It feels… disconnected.”

Disconnected. The word hits closer to home than Taiga would like to admit.

“I’ll work on it,” Taiga says, eager to end the conversation before Noel’s intuition digs deeper.

After Noel walks away, Taiga checks his phone again. Still nothing from Hokuto. He pulls up their message thread, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

What would he even say? Hey, the office feels weird without you here? I miss seeing your face across the floor?

I miss you?

He locks the screen without typing anything and tosses the phone face-down on his desk.

Focus, Kyomoto.

The campaign. Summer. Families using the app to organize vacation plans, coordinate chores, simplify life during the busiest season. He needs to tap into that feeling of togetherness, of shared experiences.

His gaze drifts to the photo on Hokuto’s desk. Ema with her gap-toothed smile, arms thrown wide as if trying to embrace the world.

Taiga pulls up a new document and starts typing, the words flowing more easily now.

“Summer is for making memories, not making plans. Let EaseWorks handle the details so you can handle the fun.”

Better. More human. Less corporate.

He creates a new mockup—a family at the beach, phones set aside except for one quick check of the app before returning to building sandcastles. Another shows a parent and child in the kitchen, using the app to follow a recipe together.

Taiga pauses, fingers hovering over the keyboard. He’s thinking of Hokuto and Ema again—of finding out how to plant vegetables together with Ema, of Hokuto’s patient explanations, of soil on all their clothes.

His phone buzzes. Taiga grabs it so quickly he nearly knocks over his coffee.

A message from Hokuto: Ema wants to know if which type of curry you’d like for dinner.

Attached is a photo of Ema holding up two boxes of curry, her expression serious as if this is the most important decision of the day.

Something warm unfurls in Taiga’s chest. He types back: Definitely the left one. Tell the princess I’ll be home by six.

Home. Not “your place” or “the house.” Just home.

Taiga sets his phone down and returns to the campaign with renewed focus. The empty chair across the floor doesn’t bother him quite as much now. Hokuto isn’t here, but he’s still there—at home, with Ema, waiting.

He’ll see them in a few hours. Until then, he has work to do.

Taiga leans back in his chair, shoulders cracking as he stretches. The campaign mock-up stares back at him from the screen, no longer a jumbled mess of corporate-speak but something with heart. The families in the images look genuine now—not the plastic-smile stock photos from before, but scenes that feel lived-in.

Real.

Not bad, Kyomoto.

He saves the file and drafts a quick email to Minagawa, attaching the revised campaign proposal. His finger hovers over the send button for a moment—there’s always that second of doubt, that fleeting fear of judgment—before he clicks.

Done. For better or worse, it's in Minagawa’s hands now.

Taiga’s stomach growls, an angry reminder that he’s been hunched over his keyboard for hours. He glances at the time display in the corner of his screen and winces.

2:37 PM. Way past lunch.

“Shit,” he mutters, pushing back from his desk. The office hums around him—Noel’s measured typing, Chaka’s exaggerated phone voice carrying from customer service, Machu still bobbing his head to whatever’s playing through his headphones.

No wonder his neck aches. No wonder his stomach feels hollow.

Taiga grabs his wallet from his desk drawer and heads for the elevator, nodding at Noel as he passes. The trip down to the convenience store on the ground floor takes less than a minute, but it’s enough time for Taiga to realize how stiff his body feels. How long has he been sitting in the same position?

The convenience store’s fluorescent lighting hits his eyes like a physical assault after hours of screen glow. He blinks, adjusting, as the cool air-conditioning washes over him. The place is nearly empty—a couple of office workers in suits browsing the bento section, a tired-looking cashier scrolling on her phone.

Taiga heads straight for the rice balls, grabbing a salmon one without much thought. He adds a can of black coffee from the refrigerated section, then pauses in front of the snack aisle.

Should I bring something back for Ema-chan?

The thought comes naturally now. Three months ago, he wouldn’t have considered anyone else’s preferences while making a quick convenience store run. Now he finds himself scanning the shelves for those little strawberry gummies Ema loves, the ones she insists on sharing even though she clearly wants them all for herself.

They’re out of the strawberry ones. Taiga settles for a small package of chocolate cookies instead, knowing Hokuto will probably frown at the sugar content but allow it anyway because he’s soft when it comes to Ema’s pleading eyes.

Soft in general, Taiga thinks, a small smile tugging at his lips.

At the register, his phone buzzes in his pocket. Taiga pays quickly, nodding his thanks to the cashier, and steps aside to check the message as he tears open the rice ball package with his teeth.

Jesse’s name lights up the screen.

Hey, you free for dinner tonight? Missed you. 🥹

Taiga stares at Jesse’s message, the half-eaten rice ball suspended midway to his mouth. A familiar weight settles in his chest—not dread exactly, but the heavy certainty of knowing what needs to be done.

Tonight. It has to be tonight.

He takes a bite of the rice ball, chewing mechanically as he composes his reply.

Dinner sounds good. Meet you at 7:30?

The message sends with a soft whoosh. Taiga pockets his phone and leans against the wall outside the convenience store, finishing his lunch without tasting it.

The curry. He’d promised to be home for curry.

He pulls his phone out again, this time opening his thread with Hokuto.

Sorry, something came up. Can ’ t make it for dinner tonight. Save me some for breakfast tomorrow?

He adds a rice ball emoji, then deletes it. Too casual for what he’s about to do. He sends the message without it, then immediately feels ridiculous for overthinking an emoji.

His phone buzzes almost instantly.

No problem. I’ll set some aside. Everything okay?

Taiga’s thumb hovers over the screen. Is everything okay? No. Yes. Maybe. He’s about to end things with someone he genuinely cares about because he’s fallen for someone else—someone who lives in his house, who has a daughter he adores, who might not even feel the same way.

Just work stuff. Tell Ema-chan I’ll make it up to her tomorrow.

Not a lie, but not the whole truth either.

Taiga crumples the rice ball wrapper and tosses it in a nearby bin. The coffee can follows, though he’s barely touched it. His stomach feels too tight for caffeine now.

As he walks back toward the elevator, his mind drifts to the last time he ended a relationship. With Shuichiro, it had been different—a desperate break from something toxic, a severing that felt like freedom even through the pain. He’d rehearsed that conversation for weeks, gathering courage like ammunition.

This is nothing like that. Jesse is kind. Thoughtful. Talented. Their relationship lacks the sharp edges and manipulative undercurrents that defined his time with Shuichiro. Jesse deserves better than half-hearted affection. Better than being second choice.

That’s what makes this harder, Taiga realizes as the elevator doors close. I actually care about him.

Back at his desk, Taiga stares blankly at his screen. The campaign mockups stare back, families smiling, enjoying moments together. He minimizes the window and opens his email, checking for Minagawa’s response. Nothing yet.

The last thing he wants to do is hurt Jesse. But dragging this out would be crueler. Leading him on when Taiga’s heart is firmly anchored elsewhere—to a house that feels like home, to a little girl who saves him the crispiest part of the tonkatsu, to a man whose quiet presence has somehow become essential.

I should have ended it sooner.

The thought comes with a stab of guilt. He’s known for weeks now, maybe longer. He felt it that night on the couch when Hokuto had held him while he cried over his mother’s letter.

Or maybe it was earlier—the train ride home when Hokuto had shielded him from Shuichiro, or during the fireworks show in Disneyland when they’d met gazes.

It doesn’t matter when it started. What matters is that it’s real, and it’s not going away, and continuing to date Jesse while harboring these feelings is unfair to everyone involved.

Taiga pulls up the restaurant Jesse suggested and studies the menu. Upscale. Romantic. Perfect for a special night out.

Terrible for a breakup.

He should suggest somewhere else. Somewhere quieter, less public. Jesse’s a celebrity, after all. The last thing either of them needs is to create a scene where someone might recognize him.

Taiga starts typing a message suggesting a change of venue. Jesse’s apartment would be better. It’s the logical choice—private territory, away from prying eyes.

He’s not Shuichiro. He won’t manipulate the situation to his advantage. He’ll be honest, direct, and as kind as possible while still being clear.

Taiga looks at the package of chocolate cookies sitting on his desk—the ones he’d bought for Ema. It’s now a peace offering for missing curry night.

His phone buzzes one more time. Hokuto again.

Ema says she’ll forgive you if you read her TWO bedtime stories tomorrow instead of one.

Something warm spreads through Taiga’s chest, momentarily displacing the knot of anxiety about tonight. He smiles despite himself.

Deal. Tell her I ’ ll even do the voices.

🏠

“...and then the director just yells ‘Cut!’ right in the middle of my emotional monologue because some guy’s phone started playing the Doraemon theme song,” Jesse says, laughing as he scoops curry in his spoon.

Taiga forces a smile, the smell of Jesse’s curry wafting across the low coffee table between them. The scent sends his thoughts racing back to Hokuto’s kitchen—to the pot of curry he’s missing right now, to Ema setting the table with careful precision, to Hokuto’s gentle reminders about properly using the spoon.

“Earth to Taiga?” Jesse waves his hand, grinning. “You still with me?”

“Sorry.” Taiga blinks, focusing on the takeout containers spread across Jesse’s sleek glass coffee table. “Just... processing that Doraemon saved your dramatic scene.”

“The curry's good here, you should’ve gotten some instead of that sad-looking hamburger steak,” Jesse says, nodding toward Taiga’s barely-touched food.

Curry. The word twists something in Taiga’s chest. He wonders if they’re sitting at the table now, Ema chattering about her day while Hokuto listens with that soft expression he reserves just for her.

“I’m not really hungry,” Taiga admits, setting down his fork.

Jesse tilts his head, studying Taiga with a concerned look that makes guilt claw its way up Taiga’s throat. “You’ve been distracted all night. Is it the campaign? Minagawa-san giving you a hard time again?”

It would be so easy to blame work. To nod and launch into complaints about deadlines and revisions. To postpone what he came here to do.

“No, it’s not work.” Taiga’s voice comes out steadier than he expects. He takes a sip of water, stalling.

When should he say it? Now? After dinner? Before Jesse launches into another story about his time in Saga?

Jesse’s expression shifts from playful to concerned. “Okay, now I’m worried. What’s going on?”

Taiga looks at Jesse—really looks at him. His warm eyes, the genuine care in his expression. The way he leans forward slightly, giving Taiga his full attention. Jesse deserves better than half-truths and divided affections.

“Jesse.” Taiga’s fingers find the condensation on his water glass, tracing patterns. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

“Ah.” Jesse’s spoon lowers to his container. “It’s that kind of conversation.”

“I’m sorry.” The words feel inadequate, but Taiga forces himself to meet Jesse’s eyes. “You’ve been so patient with me. So understanding about everything with Hokuto and Ema-chan, about my walls, about—”

“Taiga.” Jesse’s voice is gentle. “You don’t have to list my virtues before breaking up with me.”

The directness startles a laugh from Taiga’s throat. “Right. Sorry. I’m making this worse, aren’t I?”

“A little.” Jesse’s smile is fond, if slightly sad. “But it’s very you – trying to organize your feelings into neat categories before sharing them.”

Taiga’s water glass provides convenient cover as he takes a sip, buying time. “When did you know?”

Jesse leans back, his expression thoughtful. “Remember that day you were telling me about Ema-chan’s art project? The one with the family portrait?”

Taiga nods, remembering the crayon masterpiece now proudly displayed on their fridge. Their fridge. The thought alone speaks volumes.

“Your whole face changed.” Jesse’s voice carries no bitterness, just warm observation. “You get this light in your eyes when you talk about them. It’s different from how you look talking about work, or friends, or...” He gestures between them with his spoon. “Or this.”

Heat creeps up Taiga’s neck. Has he been that transparent?

“And Matsumura-san..." Jesse sets his container down, his lips quirking. “You should see how you watch him when you think no one’s looking. Like he’s a puzzle you can’t quite solve, but you desperately want to.”

Taiga’s throat tightens. Trust Jesse to articulate it so easily.

“That’s partly why I told you to think about our relationship when I went to Saga.” Jesse’s admission comes with a slight shrug. “Thought maybe some distance would help you figure things out. Though I had a pretty good idea how it would go.”

“I didn’t–” Taiga starts, then stops. Because he didn’t know, not consciously, not until recently.

But maybe that’s worse — that Jesse saw it before he did.

“Hey.” Jesse’s foot nudges his under the table. “Stop overthinking. You’re not the villain here. Sometimes things just...” He waves his hand vaguely. “Evolve differently than expected.”

The knot in Taiga’s chest loosens slightly. Leave it to Jesse to make even a breakup feel like a natural progression rather than a failure.

“When did you get so wise?” Taiga asks, managing a small smile.

“Probably around the time I started dating this guy who made me think more about what I really want.” Jesse’s eyes dance with humor. “Turns out introspection is contagious.”

A laugh escapes Taiga’s throat, surprising him with its genuineness.

“You know what’s funny?” Jesse continues, reaching for his water. “I actually thought I could compete with it at first – the way your eyes light up when you talk about them. Figured maybe I could make you look that way too, eventually.”

Taiga’s chest constricts at Jesse’s words. The idea of Jesse trying to compete with what he has with Hokuto and Ema — it makes the guilt sharper, knowing Jesse invested so much while Taiga was slowly building a life with someone else.

“I didn’t mean to lead you on,” Taiga says, his voice rough. “I really thought...” He trails off, realizing how hollow any explanation would sound.

Jesse waves off his attempt. “You were honest about not being ready for anything serious. I’m the one who kept pushing, thinking I could change your mind.” His smile turns wry. “Though I didn’t expect to lose to a domestic fantasy straight out of a romance novel.”

“It’s not–” Taiga starts to protest, but Jesse’s raised eyebrow stops him.

Because isn’t it exactly that? Falling for the single dad next door — or in this case, the coworker sleeping in his guest room?

Except it’s more than that, Taiga thinks. It’s Ema’s drawings on the fridge and Hokuto’s coffee mugs in the cabinet. It’s learning which foods Hokuto hates and watching him eat them anyway because Ema likes them. It’s the way Hokuto’s eyes crinkle when he laughs, really laughs, not the polite chuckle he uses at work.

“There’s that look again.” Jesse’s voice pulls him back to the present. “You’re thinking about them, aren’t you?”

Heat crawls up Taiga’s neck. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Jesse reaches for his water glass, ice cubes clinking. “It’s kind of fascinating, actually. You went from Mr. ‘I-need-my-space’ to practically adopting a family in what, four months?”

“I didn’t–” Taiga stops, because denying it feels dishonest.

He has changed, hasn’t he? The guy who needed smart home devices just to feel in control of his environment now finds comfort in Ema’s scattered toys and Hokuto’s organizational chaos.

“You know what the real kicker is?” Jesse’s eyes dance with something between amusement and resignation. “I actually like them. Ema-chan’s absolutely delightful, and Matsumura-san...” He shrugs. “Well, let’s just say I get it.”

Taiga’s stomach does an uncomfortable flip. “Get what?”

“Why you fell for him.” Jesse’s directness makes Taiga choke on his water. “He’s got that whole competent-but-vulnerable thing going on. Plus, the way he looks at you when you’re not paying attention...”

“He doesn’t—” Taiga starts, but his protest dies as Jesse’s words sink in. “Wait, what do you mean, the way he looks at me?”

Jesse laughs, the sound warm and genuine. “Oh no, I’m not helping you figure that out. You’ve got enough going on in that overthinking head of yours.”

The familiar teasing eases something in Taiga’s chest. Maybe they can salvage a friendship from this after all.

“For what it’s worth,” Jesse continues, his expression softening, “I think you made the right choice. Even if you haven’t actually told him yet.”

Taiga’s fingers find his water glass again, condensation cool against his skin. “I don’t even know if he...” He trails off, unable to voice the possibility that Hokuto might not feel the same way.

“Seriously?” Jesse’s eyebrows shoot up. “Have you seen how he–” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “Nope, not helping. You’ll figure it out.”

Taiga’s phone buzzes against his thigh, interrupting his spiral of thoughts. The screen lights up with Hokuto’s name, and his heart does that annoying skip-flutter thing it’s been doing lately.

A photo loads — Ema eating curry in the dining room, her eyes wide with delight.

Another message follows: Enjoyed the curry too much, but I saved you some, I promise.

“Let me guess.” Jesse’s voice carries a hint of amusement. “Matsumura-san?”

Heat creeps up Taiga’s neck as he realizes he’s smiling at his phone. “He took a picture of Ema-chan.” He turns the screen to show Jesse. “Look at her face.”

“Adorable.” Jesse’s expression softens. “You should go to them.”

“What? No, I’m not going to just—”

“Taiga.” Jesse sets down his water glass with a definitive clink. “We both know you want to. And I think we’ve said what needs saying, yeah?”

Taiga’s fingers hover over his phone screen, torn. “It feels wrong, just leaving like this. After everything you’ve...”

“Done for you?” Jesse’s smile turns playful. “Taught you the art of actually expressing emotions? Showed you that letting people in won’t actually kill you?”

A surprised laugh escapes Taiga’s throat. “Your jokes are still terrible.”

“But they made you laugh.” Jesse stands, stretching. “Even when you tried really hard not to.”

“They did.” Taiga rises too, his chest tight with fondness and regret. “You made a lot of things easier, you know? Even your ridiculous dad jokes.”

“I prefer to call them ‘professionally crafted humor segments.’” Jesse’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “Come here.”

Before Taiga can process the request, Jesse pulls him into a hug. Strong arms wrap around him, and Jesse’s chin rests atop his head. The familiar scent of Jesse’s cologne fills his nose.

“For the record,” Jesse murmurs into his hair, “you’re worth the effort. Even if we didn’t end up where I hoped.” His lips press briefly against Taiga’s crown – a benediction more than a kiss. “Now go to your family.”

Taiga’s arms tighten around Jesse for a moment, memorizing the solid warmth of him. The gesture feels important somehow – an acknowledgment of what Jesse has given him these past months.

When he steps back, his eyes are dry but his throat aches.

“The souvenirs,” Jesse says, reaching for the paper bag.

The weight of the bag settles in Taiga’s hand. Through the paper, he feels the edges of what might be a box – probably some sweets that Ema would have liked.

The elevator doors slide shut with a soft whoosh, and Taiga’s reflection stares back at him from the polished metal. His eyes look darker than usual, his expression caught between relief and something that might be grief.

It shouldn’t hurt this much, he thinks, watching the floor numbers tick down. They only dated for a few months. Jesse was right — Taiga never fully let him in, never gave them a real chance.

So why does his chest feel hollow?

🏠

The front door clicks shut behind him. Taiga stands in his entryway, staring at the soft glow spilling from the dining room.

Home. The word hits him with unexpected force, like stepping into warm water when he expected cold.

He slips off his shoes, the plastic bag from Jesse rustling. Inside sits a bunch of souvenirs from Saga. Gifts that feel both thoughtful and final.

“I’m back,” he calls out, voice rougher than intended.

“In here,” Hokuto answers.

Taiga follows the voice to find Hokuto hunched over his laptop at the dining table, surrounded by a fortress of papers and sticky notes. He’s wearing those reading glasses that make him look like some kind of sexy professor.

Not the time, Kyomoto.

Hokuto looks up, a smile breaking across his tired face. “Hey. How was overtime? You missed some excellent curry.”

The lie Taiga told earlier comes rushing back. Right. He’d texted something about work keeping him late when he left to meet Jesse.

“I didn’t—” Taiga starts, then stops. Sets the plastic bag down on the table. “I wasn’t at work.”

Hokuto’s fingers pause over his keyboard. His eyes flick to the bag, then back to Taiga’s face. Something in Taiga’s expression must telegraph the truth, because Hokuto’s smile fades into something more cautious.

“Oh?” Just one syllable, carefully neutral.

Taiga drops into the chair across from him. The wood creaks beneath his weight. “I had dinner with Jesse.”

“Ah.” Hokuto’s face does that thing where it tries to look unbothered but fails spectacularly. His eyes dart back to his screen, though Taiga doubts he’s reading anything. “How is he? The Saga shoot went well?”

“Yeah, it did.” Taiga drags the plastic bag closer, fidgeting with the handles. “He brought souvenirs. And Castella cake. And some sweets for Ema-chan.”

“That’s nice of him.” Hokuto’s voice is perfectly pleasant, perfectly distant.

The space between them stretches taut, filled with all the things Taiga isn’t saying. He stares at Hokuto’s hands on the keyboard—strong, capable hands that have held Ema through nightmares, that fold laundry with quiet efficiency, that once gripped Taiga’s shoulders on a crowded train to shield him from an ex.

“We broke up,” Taiga says finally.

Hokuto’s head snaps up. “What?”

“Jesse and I. We ended things.” The words come out steadier than Taiga feels. “Actually, I ended things.”

“Oh.” Hokuto blinks rapidly. “I’m... sorry?”

A laugh bubbles up in Taiga’s throat, unexpected and slightly manic. “Are you asking me or telling me?”

“I—” Hokuto’s cheeks flush pink. “I mean, if you’re upset about it, then I’m sorry. But if you’re... not upset, then...” He trails off, clearly lost.

Taiga runs a hand through his hair, suddenly exhausted. “It’s complicated. I’m not devastated, but it wasn’t... it wasn’t nothing, you know?”

Hokuto nods slowly. His laptop screen dims from inactivity, casting shadows across his face. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.” Taiga glances at the plastic bag. “But we should probably eat this castella cake before it goes stale. Jesse would be offended.”

Hokuto closes his laptop with a soft click. “I’ll get plates.”

He rises from the table, and Taiga watches him move around the kitchen with familiar ease. This is Hokuto’s domain now—he knows where every utensil lives, which cabinet holds the dessert plates, how to navigate the space that used to be solely Taiga’s.

“Is Ema-chan asleep?” Taiga asks, just to fill the silence.

“Yeah. Crashed hard after all that curry.” Hokuto sets two small plates on the table, along with forks. “She wanted to wait up for you, but I convinced her you’d still be here in the morning.”

Something warm unfurls in Taiga’s chest. “Sorry I missed it.”

“Don’t be. You had...” Hokuto gestures vaguely. “Important things to handle.”

Taiga pulls the cake box from the bag. The logo of a famous Saga bakery gleams in gold foil against white cardboard. “Yeah. I did.”

Their fingers brush as Hokuto takes the box, and Taiga feels that same electric jolt he’s been trying to ignore for weeks. Hokuto’s touch lingers a fraction too long before he pulls away.

“Why did you end it?” Hokuto asks quietly, not meeting Taiga’s eyes as he opens the cake box. “If you don’t mind me asking. I know you mentioned it a couple of days ago, but …”

The question hangs between them. Taiga watches Hokuto’s hands as he carefully slices the golden-brown castella cake, the knife gliding through with practiced precision.

Because I’m in love with you, Taiga thinks. Because I want this—our messy, complicated life together—more than I’ve ever wanted anything.

“It wasn’t fair to him,” he says instead. “To keep dating when my heart wasn’t really in it anymore.”

Hokuto’s hands freeze mid-slice. “Your heart wasn’t in it,” he repeats, his voice deliberately casual.

Taiga watches him place a perfect square of castella on each plate. The cake looks pillowy and rich, with a honey-brown crust that reminds him of Hokuto’s eyes in certain light. His stomach knots.

“No,” Taiga says. “It wasn’t.”

The confession hangs in the air between them, heavy with implication. Taiga could leave it there—should leave it there.

But something about the quiet of the house, the soft yellow light from the dining room fixture, the way Hokuto’s shoulders hold a tension that wasn’t there before... it pushes him forward.

“Jesse knew,” Taiga continues, accepting the plate Hokuto slides toward him. “He figured it out before I did, actually.”

“Figured what out?”

The fork feels too heavy in Taiga’s hand. He stabs at the cake, watching it compress under the tines. “That I was falling for someone else.”

Hokuto’s breath catches audibly. His glasses slip down his nose, but he doesn’t push them back up. “Oh.”

That single syllable contains multitudes—surprise, caution, maybe a hint of hope. Taiga can’t quite look at him, afraid of what he might see. Or worse, what he might not see.

“Yeah.” Taiga takes a bite of cake, barely tasting its sweetness. “It’s been... developing for a while now.”

“I see.” Hokuto’s voice sounds strained. He hasn’t touched his cake. “Do I... know this person?”

A burst of unexpected laughter escapes Taiga. “Yeah, Hokuto. You know them pretty well, actually.”

When he finally looks up, Hokuto’s face is flushed, his eyes wide behind those stupid, sexy glasses. He opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again.

“Is it—”

The baby monitor on the table crackles to life with a soft whimper. Both men freeze, listening.

Another whimper, then Ema's voice, small and sleepy.

“Papa?”

Hokuto’s chair scrapes back. “I should—”

“Go,” Taiga says, the moment shattered. “It’s fine.”

Hokuto hesitates, looking torn between his daughter and whatever confession was about to happen. “Taiga, I—”

“She needs you,” Taiga says softly. “We can talk later.”

With a reluctant nod, Hokuto disappears upstairs.

Taiga slumps in his chair, exhaling a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. The timing couldn’t be worse, but maybe it’s for the best. What was he thinking, blurting out his feelings like that? After Jesse, after everything?

He pokes at his cake, appetite gone. The house feels different now—charged with potential energy, like the air before a storm. From upstairs, he hears Hokuto’s gentle murmurs, Ema’s sleepy responses. The sounds of his makeshift family, the people who’ve somehow become the center of his world.

Taiga stands, gathering the plates. He’ll wrap the cake for tomorrow. Maybe by then he’ll have figured out what to say, how to explain that somewhere between emergency housing and family outings, he fell hopelessly in love with his roommate and his daughter.

As he’s closing the cake box, his phone buzzes with a text. He expects Jesse, maybe a final goodnight, but instead sees Yugo’s name.

How did it go with the actor boy? Did you confess your undying love for Hokuto yet?

Taiga snorts, typing back: First part done. Second part interrupted by preschooler nightmares. Story of my life.

The reply comes instantly: The universe cockblocking you again. Classic. Try again tomorrow, Romeo.

Taiga slides his phone away as he hears Hokuto's footsteps returning. He looks up, expecting Hokuto alone, but finds him carrying a sleepy-eyed Ema instead.’

“Sorry,” Hokuto says, adjusting Ema on his hip. “She had a bad dream and wanted to make sure you were really home.”

Ema rubs her eyes, her hair sticking up in wild directions. “Tiger-san," she mumbles, reaching one small hand toward him.”

Something inside Taiga melts completely. “Hey, Princess,” he says, moving closer. “I’m right here.”

She grabs his finger, the same way she did that night she cried for her mother. “Don’t go ‘way again,” she mumbles, already drifting back to sleep against Hokuto’s shoulder.

“I won’t,” Taiga promises, his voice thick. “I’m staying right here.”

His eyes meet Hokuto’s over Ema’s head. The look they exchange contains all the words they haven’t said yet—fear, hope, longing, possibility.

“I should get her back to bed,” Hokuto whispers.

“Need help?”

Hokuto hesitates, then nods. “Yeah. That would be nice.”

Together, they walk down the hallway, Ema between them, her small hand still clutching Taiga’s finger. It’s not the confession Taiga planned, not the dramatic moment he half-expected.

Instead, it’s this—quiet footsteps, shared glances, a child’s trust.

And somehow, it feels exactly right.

🏠

Hokuto stares at the jar of tomato sauce, the red liquid glaring back at him like an accusation. He’d spent fifteen minutes in the convenience store aisle debating between brands, as if the difference between Classico and Prego might somehow make tomatoes less revolting.

What am I doing?

His stomach lurches at the thought of the acidic, seedy mess he’s about to unleash.

But then Taiga’s face flashes in his mind—the quiet vulnerability in his eyes last night when he’d said he’d broken up with Jesse. The way his voice had faltered when he’d mentioned having feelings for someone else. The unspoken words hanging between them when Ema’s nightmare had interrupted whatever confession might have followed.

Hokuto sets the jar on the counter with determination. He can do this. For Taiga, he can pretend to enjoy tomatoes.

“Papa, why are you making angry faces at the sauce?”

Hokuto startles, nearly knocking the jar over. Ema stands in the kitchen doorway, Mr. Bunny dangling from one hand, her hair a wild nest of tangles.

“I’m not making angry faces,” he protests, though he can feel the tension in his forehead.

“Yes, you are.” Ema climbs onto a stool at the counter, setting Mr. Bunny beside her. “You look like me when Mori-sensei makes us eat carrots at lunch.”

Hokuto sighs. “That obvious, huh?”

“Mm-hmm.” She nods solemnly. “Are you cooking breakfast? Can I help?”

“Yeah. I’m making pasta.” He gestures to the ingredients he’s gathered: spaghetti, the offending sauce, garlic, olive oil, and herbs he’d found in Taiga’s surprisingly well-stocked pantry (maybe Yugo’s addition).

Ema’s eyes widen. “For breakfast?”

“Yes. For Tiger-san.”

“But Tiger-san isn’t even awake yet.” She peers around as if Taiga might materialize from behind the refrigerator. “And you don’t like tomatoes.”

“I don’t,” Hokuto admits, filling a pot with water. “But Tiger-san does.”

Ema watches him, her head tilted in that way that always reminds him of Rui. The way she used to study him when she knew he wasn’t telling her everything.

“Is Tiger-san sad?” she asks suddenly.

Hokuto pauses, the pot halfway to the stove. “Why do you ask that?”

“Because you’re making his favorite food even though you hate tomatoes.” She hugs Mr. Bunny closer. “Mama used to make your curry extra spicy when you were sad, even though it made her nose all runny.”

The memory catches him off guard—Rui with watery eyes and a red nose, insisting the spices weren’t bothering her at all while she stirred his favorite curry. His throat tightens.

“You’re right,” he says, setting the pot on the burner. “I think Tiger-san might be a little sad. He and Jesse-san aren’t dating anymore.”

Ema’s face scrunches up. “What’s dating?”

Hokuto’s hand freezes on the box of spaghetti. He should have anticipated this question. The pasta drops into the boiling water with a splash, buying him a few seconds to formulate an answer appropriate for a five-year-old.

“Dating is when two grown-ups spend time together because they like each other in a special way,” he says, stirring the pasta. “They go places together, like restaurants or movies.”

“Like playdates?” Ema props her elbows on the counter, chin resting in her palms.

“Sort of, but for adults.” Hokuto opens the jar of tomato sauce, fighting the urge to grimace as the acidic smell hits his nostrils. “And it’s different because when grown-ups date, they’re trying to figure out if they want to be together for a very long time.”

Ema considers this, twisting a strand of hair around her finger. “Like you and Mama?”

The question catches him off guard. He hasn’t talked much about his relationship with Rui beyond the basics. It feels strange to discuss it now, in Taiga’s kitchen, while making Taiga’s favorite food.

“Yes,” he says softly. “Mama and I dated before we got married. We went to coffee shops and walked in parks. We talked about what we wanted in life.”

“And then you loved her?” Ema’s question is simple, direct.

Hokuto stirs the sauce, watching it bubble and pop. Each red splash reminds him of how much he detests tomatoes, but the conversation about Rui distracts him from his disgust.

“I already loved her while we were dating,” he explains. “That’s why we kept dating. And when Mama got pregnant with you, we decided to get married.”

Ema nods, absorbing this information with surprising seriousness. Then her eyes light up with sudden understanding.

“So if Tiger-san and Jesse-san stopped dating, that means they don’t want to be together forever?”

“That’s right.” Hokuto tastes the sauce and adds a pinch of salt, trying not to let his tongue linger too long against the tomato flavor. “Sometimes people date and realize they’re better as friends, or that they want different things.”

Ema kicks her legs against the stool. “Does that mean you’ll tell Tiger-san you love him now?”

The wooden spoon clatters against the edge of the pot. Hokuto feels heat rush to his face that has nothing to do with the steam rising from the pasta.

“Ema, I—” He stops himself, remembering their conversation in Niigata. “It’s complicated, sweetheart.”

“Why?”

Hokuto drains the pasta, giving him a moment to compose himself. When he’s done, Ema is still watching him expectantly.

“Even if I do have feelings for Tiger-san,” he says carefully, “he might need time. His heart might be a little sad about Jesse-san.”

“But you could make him happy,” Ema insists. “You make him tomato pasta even if you hate tomatoes.”

A laugh escapes him, easing some of the tension in his chest. “Relationships need more than cooking someone’s favorite food, princess.”

“Like what?”

Hokuto pours the drained pasta back into the pot, contemplating how to explain adult relationships to a child who sees the world in such straightforward terms.

“Like timing,” he says finally. “And making sure both people are ready. Tiger-san might need some time to feel better about Jesse-san before thinking about someone new.”

“But you’re not new, Papa,” Ema points out. “You live here.”

“That’s true.” He mixes the pasta with the sauce, the red coating every strand. His stomach turns slightly, but he pushes through. “But being roommates is different from dating.”

Ema sighs dramatically. “Grown-ups make everything so complicated.”

“We do,” Hokuto agrees, dividing the pasta between two plates. The smell of garlic and herbs almost—but not quite—masks the tomato scent. “But sometimes that’s because feelings are complicated.”

“My feelings aren't complicated,” Ema declares. “I love you and I love Tiger-san.”

Hokuto smiles, leaning over to kiss the top of her head. “That’s because you have a good heart, Ema.”

He garnishes the plates with fresh basil, admiring his handiwork. Despite his aversion to tomatoes, the pasta looks appetizing. He’s managed to create something Taiga loves, even if the mere thought of eating it himself makes his stomach protest.

“Can I wake up Tiger-san?” Ema asks, already sliding off her stool.

“Let’s let him sleep a little longer,” Hokuto suggests, glancing at the clock. “It’s still early, and he was up late last night.”

“Doing what?”

“Thinking, probably.” Hokuto covers the plates with another dish to keep them warm. “Sometimes when grown-ups have big feelings, they need time to think about them.”

“That sounds boring,” Ema says. “I think he’d rather have pasta.”

Hokuto laughs. “You might be right about that.”

Soon, a soft creak of floorboards overhead makes Hokuto freeze, his hand hovering over the pasta plates.

Ema perks up. “Is Tiger-san awake?”

“Sounds like it.” Hokuto wipes his hands on a dish towel, his pulse quickening. He hadn’t felt this nervous since his first presentation at EaseWorks. “Why don’t you wash your hands while I get these ready?”

Footsteps pad down the stairs, and Hokuto busies himself with removing the covers from the pasta plates, releasing a fresh wave of tomato scent that makes his nose wrinkle.

Taiga appears in the doorway, hair tousled from sleep, wearing sweatpants and an old t-shirt instead of his usual work attire. His eyes are slightly puffy, and Hokuto wonders if he’s been crying or just hasn’t slept well.

“Morning,” Taiga says, his voice rough with sleep.

“Good morning,” Hokuto replies, too quickly. He clears his throat. “You’re not dressed for work.”

Taiga rubs the back of his neck, gaze dropping to the floor. “Called in sick. Didn’t feel like facing everyone after...” He trails off, eyes flicking to Ema before finishing, “You know.”

Hokuto nods, understanding the unspoken. After breaking up with Jesse. After almost confessing to me. After everything changed between us last night.

“Are you sad, Tiger-san?” Ema asks, crossing to Taiga. Her directness makes Hokuto wince, but he doesn’t stop her.

Taiga blinks, clearly caught off guard by the question. “I’m...” He looks at Hokuto, then back at Ema. “A little bit, maybe.”

Before either man can react, Ema wraps her arms around Taiga’s legs in a fierce hug. “It’s okay to be sad,” she says, her voice muffled against his sweatpants. “Papa says sometimes hearts need time to feel better.”

Hokuto watches as something softens in Taiga’s expression. He kneels down to Ema’s level, returning her hug properly.

For a moment, he just stays there, eyes closed, his chin resting on Ema’s shoulder. The vulnerability in his posture makes Hokuto’s chest ache.

“Your papa is very smart,” Taiga says finally, pulling back with a small smile.

Hokuto stands frozen, spatula in hand, captivated by the tenderness of the moment.

Then Taiga’s nose twitches, and his gaze shifts to the counter behind Hokuto. “Is that...” He stands, peering over Hokuto’s shoulder. “Did you make pasta?”

Heat crawls up Hokuto’s neck. “I, uh—yes. Tomato pasta.” He gestures awkwardly to the plates. “I thought you might like it for breakfast.”

Taiga stares at the pasta, then at Hokuto, his expression a mix of confusion and something else Hokuto can’t quite identify.

“You made tomato pasta,” Taiga repeats slowly. “But you hate tomatoes.”

“I don’t hate them,” Hokuto protests weakly. “I just strongly prefer them not to be anywhere near my mouth. Or nose. Or general vicinity.”

A smile tugs at Taiga’s lips. “You’re literally turning green just talking about them.”

“Am not,” Hokuto mutters, though his stomach does feel a bit queasy.

“Papa made your favorite food to cheer you up,” Ema announces, cutting through Hokuto’s floundering explanation. “Because you’re sad about not dating Jesse-san anymore.”

Hokuto wishes the floor would open and swallow him whole.

“Did he now?” Taiga’s gaze locks with Hokuto’s, a spark of something warm and surprised in his eyes.

“I just thought—” Hokuto begins.

“Papa said sometimes when grown-ups have big feelings, they need time to think,” Ema continues, oblivious to Hokuto’s embarrassment. “But I said you’d rather have pasta.”

A laugh escapes Taiga, the sound genuine and bright, cutting through the awkwardness of the moment. “You’re absolutely right, Ema-chan. I would much rather have pasta than think about my feelings.”

He moves closer to inspect the plates, standing near enough that Hokuto catches the scent of sleep-warm skin and mint toothpaste. “This looks amazing,” Taiga says softly. “Thank you.”

Their eyes meet, and Hokuto feels something shift between them—a silent acknowledgment of what remains unsaid.

Of what might have been confessed last night if not for Ema’s nightmare. Of what might still be confessed, when the time is right.

“You’re welcome,” Hokuto manages, suddenly very aware of how close they’re standing.

“We should eat!” Ema declares, breaking the moment. “The pasta will get cold.”

Hokuto blinks, grateful for the interruption. The intensity of Taiga’s gaze leaves him feeling exposed, as if Taiga can read every confused, hopeful thought running through his mind.

“Right,” he manages, stepping back to create some breathing room between them. “Let’s eat.”

They move to the dining table, settling into their usual seats—the ones they’ve naturally claimed over the months of living together. Hokuto at the head, Ema to his right, and Taiga across from her. It strikes him how effortlessly they’ve created this routine, this semblance of family that was never planned.

Hokuto serves Ema first, giving her a small portion with extra basil because she likes the “little green leaves.” His hands move with practiced ease, the muscle memory of countless meals shared at this table.

“Not too much sauce,” Ema instructs, watching critically as he ladles it over her pasta.

“I know, princess,” he says, making sure to keep the sauce-to-pasta ratio exactly as she prefers.

Taiga helps himself next, scooping a generous portion onto his plate. The appreciative look he gives the pasta makes Hokuto’s chest warm with a satisfaction that surprises him. Such a simple thing—cooking someone’s favorite meal—yet the gratitude in Taiga’s eyes makes it feel significant.

Hokuto reaches for the bread basket, pulling out a piece and setting it on his own plate.

“That’s all you’re having?” Taiga asks, pausing with his fork halfway to his mouth.

“I’m not really hungry,” Hokuto lies, though his stomach chooses that moment to growl traitorously.

Taiga’s eyebrow arches. “You’re not eating the pasta you worked so hard to make?”

“I told you, I don’t like—”

“Tomatoes,” Taiga finishes for him. “I know. But you made this.”

There’s something in Taiga’s tone—not quite a challenge, but an invitation. A gentle push.

“I’ll eat Papa's share,” Ema offers magnanimously, already twirling pasta around her fork with the focused determination of a child who hasn’t quite mastered the technique.

“That’s very generous of you,” Hokuto says, ruffling her hair. “But I think you have enough on your plate.”

Ema looks up at him, her expression suddenly serious. “I’ll eat all my vegetables for a whole week if you eat the pasta you made for Tiger-san.”

Hokuto nearly chokes on nothing. His own parenting tactic—bargaining over vegetables—thrown back at him with perfect five-year-old logic. He narrows his eyes at her.

“Are you negotiating with me, young lady?”

Ema nods solemnly. “Mori-sensei says it’s called ‘compromise.’”

Taiga snorts, quickly covering it with a cough when Hokuto shoots him a betrayed look.

“That’s not quite how compromise works,” Hokuto begins, but Ema isn’t finished.

“You always say I should try foods even if I think I don’t like them,” she points out. “You made me try green bell peppers three times.”

Hokuto feels the trap closing around him. The irrefutable logic of his own parenting philosophy used against him.

Across the table, Taiga watches the exchange with undisguised amusement, his earlier melancholy momentarily forgotten.

“She’s got you there,” Taiga says, twirling pasta around his fork. “Practice what you preach, Papa.”

The way Taiga says “Papa”—with a teasing lilt that’s almost... flirtatious?—sends a ripple of warmth through Hokuto’s body.

Get it together, he scolds himself. It’s just pasta.

With a dramatic sigh that makes Ema giggle, Hokuto serves himself a small portion. The acidic smell assaults his nostrils, and he fights the urge to grimace.

He can do this. He’s a grown man. He can eat a food he dislikes without making a face.

“One bite,” he negotiates, pointing his fork at Ema. “And you eat vegetables without complaining for a week.”

“Three bites,” Ema counters. “And I’ll eat all my vegetables for two weeks.”

“When did you get so good at this?” Hokuto mutters, but he can’t help the proud smile tugging at his lips.

“I learned from the best,” she says, mimicking one of his own phrases with such perfect timing that Taiga laughs out loud.

The sound of Taiga’s laughter—open and unguarded in a way it rarely is—makes something twist pleasantly in Hokuto’s chest. He wants to hear that laugh more often. Wants to be the one who causes it.

Fine. If eating tomato pasta is what it takes, he’ll do it.

Hokuto twirls a modest amount onto his fork, steels himself, and takes a bite.

The flavor hits his palate—acidic, slightly sweet, with notes of garlic and herbs. It’s not as bad as he remembered, though his taste buds still protest the unfamiliar assault.

He forces himself to chew, swallow, and not make the face of disgust that’s threatening to emerge.

“Well?” Taiga asks, watching him intently.

“It’s...” Hokuto searches for a diplomatic response. “Edible.”

Taiga snorts. “High praise.”

“I did it,” Hokuto says to Ema. “One bite down, two to go.”

“And?” Ema prompts, clearly expecting more.

Hokuto sighs, taking another small bite. “And it’s actually... not terrible.”

“One more bite,” Ema reminds him, watching with keen interest as Hokuto forces himself to take a final bite of pasta.

He swallows, suppressing a shudder. “There. All three bites. And it was... tolerable.”

Taiga’s smile is worth the discomfort. He’s eating with genuine enjoyment, the tension from earlier seeming to melt away with each bite.

Hokuto finds himself watching Taiga’s expressions, the way his eyes close slightly when he takes a particularly satisfying bite, how he occasionally makes a small sound of appreciation at the back of his throat.

Ema then slides her empty plate forward with a clatter. “All done!” she announces. “Can I be excused?”

Hokuto blinks, pulling his attention back to his daughter. “Yes, but don’t forget to—”

“Say thank you for the meal,” Ema finishes, bowing her head slightly. “Thank you for breakfast, Papa. Thank you for eating tomatoes even though you think they’re yucky.”

Hokuto laughs. “You’re welcome, princess.”

Ema turns to leave, then freezes mid-step, whirling back with wide eyes. “Papa! Today is my sleepover with Yuki-chan!”

“That’s right,” Hokuto says, the appointment suddenly coming back to him. With everything else on his mind, he’d nearly forgotten. “Her mother will pick you up, right?”

“No, no, no,” Ema says, bouncing on her toes. “We decided you’d drop me off, remember? After lunch. Yuki-chan wants to show me her new dollhouse before dinner.”

Hokuto frowns, trying to recall the conversation. “Are you sure? I thought—”

“You promised,” Ema insists, her lower lip starting to jut out in the beginning of a pout.

“Okay, okay,” Hokuto relents, holding up his hands. “If I promised, then I’ll drop you off after lunch.”

Ema’s face brightens instantly. “I need to pack! I need Mr. Bunny and Waddles and my pajamas and my toothbrush and my special pillow!”

Without waiting for a response, she dashes from the room and up the stairs, her footsteps thundering overhead.

“Hurricane Ema-chan strikes again,” Taiga comments with a small smile, setting down his fork. His plate is nearly empty.

“Sorry about that,” Hokuto says, gathering the dishes. “She’s excited for her first sleepover.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s cute,” Taiga says, standing to help. He collects the empty glasses, following Hokuto to the sink. “She has so much energy.”

“Too much sometimes,” Hokuto says, turning on the water. “Especially when she’s excited.”

They fall into their usual rhythm, Hokuto washing while Taiga dries and loads the dishes in the dishwasher, moving around each other in the small kitchen space with practiced ease. This domesticity feels different today, charged with a new awareness that makes each brushing of shoulders or passing of plates feel significant.

Hokuto focuses on scrubbing a stubborn bit of sauce from a plate, conscious of Taiga’s presence beside him, close enough that their arms occasionally touch. He should say something about last night, about the almost-confession interrupted by Ema’s nightmare.

But what? I think I’m falling in love with you feels too abrupt, especially with Taiga still processing his breakup with Jesse.

“So,” Hokuto says instead, keeping his tone casual as he hands Taiga the clean plate, “what are your plans for today?”

Taiga takes the plate, drying it meticulously. “Haven’t thought about it. What about you?” He sets the dried plate in the dishwasher. “Work?”

“Actually, no,” Hokuto says. “Development team got most of the debugging done ahead of schedule. Matsumoto-buchou insisted we take a breather before the next push. I figured I’d drop Ema off and maybe run some errands.”

Taiga is quiet for a moment, taking the next plate from Hokuto’s hands. Their fingers brush under the water, and Hokuto feels his pulse quicken at the contact.

“Would you mind if I come with you?” Taiga finally asks, his voice carefully neutral. “When you drop off Ema-chan, I mean. And maybe after...” He hesitates, then plunges ahead. “Maybe I could take you out. Properly. As thanks for making tomato pasta even though you hate tomatoes.”

Hokuto’s hands still in the soapy water. He turns to look at Taiga, trying to read his expression. “Take me out? Like...”

“Like a thank-you,” Taiga says quickly. Then, more softly, “Or maybe like a date. If you want.”

Hokuto's heart stutters in his chest. He stares at Taiga, water dripping from his suspended hands, the dish forgotten.

“A date?” The words feel foreign in his mouth, as if he’s speaking a language he hasn’t used in years.

Which, in a way, he isn’t. Dating isn’t something he’s thought about since Rui died—it wasn’t even on his radar until Taiga crashed into his carefully constructed world of work and fatherhood.

Taiga’s expression shifts, vulnerability flashing across his features before he masks it with a shrug. “If you don’t like it, that’s—”

“No,” Hokuto says quickly, too quickly. “I mean, yes. I’d like that.”

The smile that breaks across Taiga’s face is worth every awkward second of Hokuto’s fumbling response. It’s open and genuine in a way Taiga’s smiles rarely are—unguarded in a way that makes Hokuto’s chest ache with something that feels dangerously like hope.

“Good,” Taiga says softly. “That’s... good.”

They stand frozen for a moment, both processing this shift in their relationship, until a splash of water from Hokuto’s hands breaks the spell. He realizes he’s still holding the sponge, suds sliding down his wrist.

“I should finish these,” he mumbles, turning back to the sink.

Taiga nods, picking up the dish towel again. “Right.”

They work in silence for a few moments, the quiet punctuated only by the gentle clink of dishes and the distant sound of Ema rummaging through her things upstairs.

Hokuto’s mind races, replaying Taiga’s words. Like a date. If you want.

And he does want. The realization settles into his bones with a certainty that should be frightening but somehow isn’t. He wants this—wants Taiga—with an intensity that catches him off guard.

“I haven’t been on a date in...” Hokuto trails off, calculating. “Almost six years. Not since before Ema was born.”

Taiga glances at him, his expression soft. “We can take it slow.”

Slow. The word implies a beginning, a journey—something with potential to grow. Hokuto’s heart speeds up at the thought.

“What about Jesse-san?” he asks, the question slipping out before he can stop it. “Are you... okay? After everything?”

Taiga’s hands pause in their drying. “It was the right decision,” he says after a moment. “Jesse knew it too. We want different things.” He looks up, meeting Hokuto’s gaze directly. “I want this. Here. With you and Ema.”

The simplicity of the statement, the quiet certainty in Taiga’s voice, makes Hokuto’s throat tighten with emotion. He nods, not trusting himself to speak.

A thundering of footsteps down the stairs announces Ema’s return before she bursts into the kitchen, arms full of toys and clothes.

“Papa! I can’t decide which dress to bring!” She holds up two options—one purple with stars, one pink with flowers.

The normalcy of the question, the everyday crisis of a five-year-old’s social life, grounds Hokuto. He dries his hands on a towel, grateful for the momentary distraction from the intensity of his feelings.

“Why not bring both?” he suggests. “That way you can decide when you get there.”

Ema’s eyes widen as if this is the most brilliant solution she’s ever heard. “You’re so smart, Papa!” She dumps her armload of items on the kitchen floor, counting on her fingers. “So that’s Mr. Bunny, Waddles, my special pillow, my toothbrush, two dresses...”

Hokuto watches her, a familiar warmth spreading through his chest. His brilliant, dramatic daughter, who fills every room with her energy and makes even the simplest decisions an adventure.

He feels Taiga move beside him, their shoulders brushing as Taiga leans against the counter. The contact sends a small thrill through Hokuto’s body.

“Need help packing, Ema-chan?” Taiga asks, his voice warm with affection.

Ema looks up, beaming. “Yes, please! Tiger-san, you can help me pick which books to bring. Yuki-chan likes stories about princesses but I want to bring the one about the robot dog too.”

Taiga nods seriously. “A very important decision. Let’s go look at your options.”

As they head upstairs, Ema chattering the entire way, Hokuto remains in the kitchen, his mind spinning with possibilities.

A date. With Taiga. After months of living together, of building this unconventional family unit, they’re finally acknowledging what’s been growing between them.

The thought terrifies and exhilarates him in equal measure. He hasn’t opened his heart like this since Rui, hasn’t allowed himself to be vulnerable, to want something for himself beyond being a good father.

Love isn’t a zero-sum game, Hokuto.

Rui’s words from her letter echo in his mind, giving him permission to take this step. To try again, to let his heart expand to include someone new without diminishing what came before.

Upstairs, he hears Ema giggle, followed by Taiga’s deeper laugh.

The sound fills the house—their house—with warmth.

🏠

“...and if she gets scared at night, sometimes she likes to have the hall light on, but not too bright or it keeps her awake, and—”

“Matsumura-san,” Mrs. Yanase interrupts gently, her smile warm but tinged with amusement. “I promise Ema-chan will be perfectly fine. We’ve hosted sleepovers before.”

Hokuto’s hands fumble with the zipper of Ema’s overnight bag, heat creeping up his neck. He’s being ridiculous. He knows he’s being ridiculous. But he can’t seem to stop the stream of instructions pouring from his mouth.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, straightening up. “I just want to make sure—”

“Papa,” Ema whines, tugging at his sleeve. “You already told her everything three times.” She emphasizes the number by holding up three fingers, her expression a perfect blend of exasperation and embarrassment that he didn’t know five-year-olds could master.

Beside him, Taiga coughs to hide what sounds suspiciously like a laugh.

The Yanase living room is bright and cheerful, filled with family photos and children’s artwork. Yuki bounces on her toes near the doorway to her bedroom, clearly impatient to whisk Ema away to whatever adventures they’ve planned. Both girls wear matching expressions of barely-contained excitement.

“You have my number,” Hokuto says, directing his words to Mrs. Yanase while his eyes track Ema. “And Taiga’s too, just in case. And Ema knows how to use a phone if—”

“Hokuto,” Taiga says quietly, a gentle hand landing on his shoulder. The touch sends a jolt through Hokuto’s system, momentarily derailing his spiral of parental anxiety. “She’ll be fine.”

The simple reassurance, coupled with the warmth of Taiga’s palm through his shirt, loosens something in Hokuto’s chest. He takes a deep breath and nods.

“You’re right. I know you’re right.” He kneels down to Ema’s level, trying to ignore the way her eyes are already darting toward Yuki’s bedroom door. “Be good, okay? Listen to Yanase-san, and remember to brush your teeth, and—”

“I know, Papa.” Ema cuts him off with the supreme confidence of a child who believes herself fully grown. She throws her arms around his neck in a quick hug, already pulling away before he can properly return the embrace. “Can I go play now?”

The question stings more than it should. Hokuto swallows past the lump in his throat and nods, forcing a smile. “Of course. Have fun.”

Ema beams, then surprises him by turning to Taiga and wrapping her arms around his leg. “Bye, Tiger-san! Take care of Papa while I’m gone!”

Taiga’s eyes widen slightly before his expression softens. He pats her head gently. “I will. Be good, Ema-chan.”

And then she’s gone, racing off with Yuki, their giggles echoing down the hallway as the bedroom door slams shut behind them.

The sudden absence of Ema’s energy leaves the room feeling oddly empty. Hokuto rises to his feet, aware of how silly he must look to Mrs. Yanase—a grown man nearly having a breakdown over a simple sleepover.

“They’ll be perfectly fine,” Mrs. Yanase assures him again, her knowing smile making Hokuto shift uncomfortably. “It’s nice for the kids to have these experiences, and...” her eyes flick between Hokuto and Taiga, lingering on Taiga’s hand that still rests on Hokuto’s shoulder, “... it’s good for adults to have some quality time too.”

Heat floods Hokuto’s face. “Thank you for having her,” he manages, voice slightly strained.

Mrs. Yanase’s smile widens. “Our pleasure. You two enjoy your day.”

Taiga thanks her politely, seemingly unaffected by her implication, though Hokuto notices the tips of his ears have turned pink.

They say their goodbyes, and then they’re stepping out into the late afternoon sunshine, the door closing behind them with a soft click that feels oddly final.

Hokuto stops on the sidewalk, reality hitting him like a physical blow. This is the first time in—he can’t even remember how long—that he’ll be separated from Ema for more than a workday. Twenty-four hours without her chatter, without her endless questions, without her small hand in his.

“She’ll be okay,” Taiga says quietly, misreading his frozen stance. “Yuki-chan seems like a good kid, and her mom has everything under control.”

“I know,” Hokuto says, his voice sounding distant to his own ears. “It’s not that. It’s just...” He trails off, unable to articulate the strange mix of freedom and loss swirling inside him.

“This is the first time,” Taiga realizes, his expression softening with understanding. “Since...”

Hokuto nods, grateful he doesn’t have to explain. “Since Rui died. I haven’t spent a night away from her. Not once.”

Taiga doesn’t push, just stands there beside him on the sidewalk, his presence steady and undemanding. The gentle breeze rustles through the trees lining the residential street, carrying the distant sound of children playing in a nearby park. Hokuto’s chest feels tight, constricted by emotions he can’t fully name.

“I’m being ridiculous,” Hokuto finally says, forcing a laugh that sounds hollow even to his own ears. “She’s just at a sleepover. Kids do this all the time.”

“You’re not being ridiculous,” Taiga says, his voice low and certain. “She’s been your entire world since Rui-san died. Of course this feels strange.”

The simple understanding in Taiga’s words loosens something in Hokuto’s chest. He glances at Taiga, struck by how easily he cuts through to the heart of things. No platitudes, no dismissals—just quiet acknowledgment of the truth.

“I don’t even know how to do this anymore,” Hokuto admits, gesturing vaguely between them as they begin walking toward the train station. “Date, I mean.”

The word feels foreign on his tongue, almost inappropriate. He’s a father, a widower—not some carefree twenty-something with nothing but time on his hands.

“Rui and I tried, after Ema was born,” he continues, the memory surfacing like a bubble from the depths. “We’d get a babysitter—usually Rui's friend—and go out for dinner. But we’d spend the whole time checking our phones, worrying if Ema was okay, if she was eating, if she was sleeping.”

He shakes his head, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. “We gave up after a while. Decided it was easier to have date nights at home, after Ema went to bed. Takeout and a movie on the couch.”

The confession hangs between them as they wait at a crosswalk. Hokuto stares at the red pedestrian signal, suddenly afraid to look at Taiga.

What if he thinks I’m not ready for this? What if he realizes I’m too much work?

“We can take it slow,” Taiga says as the light changes. His shoulder brushes against Hokuto’s as they cross the street, the brief contact sending warmth through Hokuto’s arm. “We don’t have to do anything fancy. Didn’t you mention needing to pick up some things this morning? We could start with that.”

The suggestion is so practical, so perfectly Taiga, that Hokuto feels the tension in his shoulders ease. Not a candlelit dinner with expectations hanging heavy in the air. Not some elaborate outing designed to impress.

Just... life. Together.

“You want to run errands for our first date?” Hokuto asks, unable to keep the amusement from his voice.

Taiga shrugs, the movement casual but his eyes attentive as they study Hokuto’s face. “Why not? No pressure. Just us, doing normal things. Besides,” a hint of mischief creeps into his expression, “I’ve seen you stress-clean the bathroom at midnight. I think I’m past the point of trying to impress you with my sophistication.”

A laugh bubbles up from Hokuto’s chest, unexpected but genuine. “Fair point. I’ve seen you burn eggs.”

“Exactly,” Taiga says with a mock-serious nod. “We’re well beyond the façade stage of dating.”

Dating. There’s that word again, but it doesn’t feel as strange this time. Maybe because what they’re building isn’t conventional. It started backward—living together before they’d even acknowledged their feelings, creating a family unit before they’d had a single date.

They reach the station, joining the stream of people flowing through the gates. The familiar routine of tapping his pass and navigating the platform grounds Hokuto, giving his hands something to do while his mind works through the tangle of emotions.

“I need to pick up a new work shirt,” he says as they board the train, finding seats near the door. “The one I have has a stain that won’t come out. And Ema needs new indoor shoes for school.”

Taiga nods, settling into the seat beside him. Their shoulders touch, a warm line of contact that Hokuto finds himself leaning into slightly.

“Sounds good. I could use a new phone charger too. Mine’s starting to fray.”

The train pulls away from the station, the gentle sway rocking them against each other occasionally. The carriage isn’t crowded—a small mercy—allowing Hokuto space to breathe, to think.

“Is this weird?” he asks suddenly, keeping his voice low. “Going from... whatever we were, to this? Most people date first, then move in together. We did everything backward.”

Taiga considers this, his profile thoughtful as he gazes out the window at the passing scenery. “I don’t think there’s a ‘right’ way to do this,” he says finally. “And anyway, when have either of us done things the conventional way?”

That’s true, Hokuto thinks. His life hasn’t followed any expected path since the day he met Rui in university.

Why should this be any different?

🏠

Hokuto adjusts the collar of the navy blue shirt, fingers moving methodically down the buttons. The fitting room’s harsh lighting accentuates the shadows under his eyes.

He steps back, studying his reflection with a critical eye.

Not bad.

The cut fits his shoulders better than his old one. After living in Taiga’s house for months, he’s gained back some of the weight he’d lost after Rui died. His face looks less hollow now.

He pulls out his phone, checking for messages from Mrs. Yanase about Ema. The screen shows nothing new—no missed calls, no texts.

His thumb hovers over the messaging app, tempted to check in, just to make sure.

She’s fine. If something happened, they would call.

Still, the absence of news creates its own anxiety.

He slips the phone back into his pocket, reminding himself that this is normal. Healthy, even. Ema needs to build independence, and he needs to... what? Learn to exist as more than just Ema’s father?

The thought makes his stomach tighten. Being Ema’s father is the one role he’s certain of, the identity he’s clung to when everything else felt like quicksand beneath his feet.

“How’s it going in there?” Taiga’s voice drifts over the fitting room door, pulling Hokuto from his thoughts.

“Almost done,” he calls back, giving himself one last appraisal in the mirror.

The day has unfolded with surprising ease. After leaving the Yanase house, they’d grabbed coffee and bread from a convenience store, then found indoor shoes for Ema—pink with tiny star patterns that she’d love. They’d picked up Taiga’s new charger, their hands brushing when Taiga passed him the package to hold while paying.

Each small touch throughout the day has sent warmth spreading through Hokuto’s chest, both thrilling and terrifying.

Hokuto takes a deep breath and steps out of the fitting room.

Taiga leans against the wall opposite, scrolling through his phone. He looks up when the door opens, his eyes tracking from Hokuto’s face down to the shirt and back up again.

“What do you think?” Hokuto asks, fighting the urge to fidget under Taiga’s gaze.

Taiga’s expression shifts, something flickering in his eyes that makes Hokuto’s pulse quicken. “It suits you. The color brings out your eyes.”

Heat creeps up Hokuto’s neck. When was the last time someone commented on his appearance like that? Rui used to say similar things, her eyes lighting up when he dressed for work or special occasions.

The parallel should make him sad, but instead, it feels like a continuity—a thread connecting his past to this unexpected present.

“You think so?” Hokuto smooths down the front of the shirt, suddenly self-conscious.

Taiga nods, tucking his phone away. “Definitely. Are you getting it?”

“Yeah, I think so.” Hokuto retreats into the fitting room, closing the door with slightly unsteady hands.

As he changes back into his own clothes, he catches himself smiling at nothing in particular. The day feels both ordinary and extraordinary—just running errands, but with an undercurrent of something new and fragile taking shape between them.

He gathers his things and exits the fitting room, shirt draped over his arm. Taiga stands waiting, scrolling through what looks like restaurant reviews.

“Golden Hour at seven,” Taiga confirms, looking up. “Yugo says he’s got a table for us in the back corner.”

“Sounds good,” Hokuto says, heading toward the register. “I just need to pay for this.”

As they walk, Taiga’s hand brushes against his, a fleeting contact that could be accidental but feels deliberate. Hokuto hesitates, then lets his fingers catch Taiga’s for just a moment before pulling away.

“No messages from the Yanases?” Taiga asks, nodding toward Hokuto’s phone.

“No, which is probably good news.” Hokuto places the shirt on the counter. “I keep telling myself not to check, but...”

“But you’re a dad,” Taiga finishes for him, understanding in his voice. “It’s your job to worry.”

The simple acknowledgment settles something in Hokuto’s chest. Taiga gets it—this constant pull between moving forward and holding on, between building something new and honoring what came before.

The cashier rings up his purchase, and Hokuto hands over his card. Next to him, Taiga points to a display of cufflinks.

“Those would look good with the shirt,” he says casually.

Hokuto follows his gaze, considering. “I haven’t worn cufflinks since—”

He stops himself, the memory surfacing unexpectedly. Since Rui gave me a pair for our third anniversary.

The words hang in the air between them, unspoken but present. Taiga’s expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes softens.

“You don’t have to finish that sentence,” he says quietly. “I get it.”

Hokuto nods, grateful for the understanding.

The cashier hands back his card and receipt, and they step away from the counter.

“We have a few hours before dinner,” Taiga says, checking his watch. “Any thoughts on what to do next?”

Hokuto glances at his phone again—still no messages from the Yanases.

The afternoon stretches before them, open with possibility. It feels strange, this freedom. No schedule dictated by Ema’s needs, no work deadlines looming.

“Actually,” Taiga continues, “I was thinking... You mentioned a while back that you haven’t been to a movie since before Ema-chan was born. There’s that new sci-fi film showing at the theater near the station.”

The suggestion catches Hokuto off guard. He remembers mentioning it when they had lunch together at work for the first time.

“I did say that, didn’t I?” He finds himself smiling at the thought that Taiga remembered such a small detail. “It’s been almost six years.”

“Six years without popcorn and an actual movie ticket? That’s practically criminal.” Taiga’s teasing tone lightens the moment. “What do you think? We have time.”

Hokuto considers it. A movie theater. Darkness, proximity, the subtle intimacy of sharing an experience side by side. His heart beats a little faster at the prospect.

“Sure,” he says, surprising himself with how easily the word comes. “Why not?”

They exit the department store into the bustling shopping district. The afternoon sun casts long shadows between buildings as they walk toward the station, their shopping bags swinging between them. Hokuto feels strangely light, as if the weight of routine has lifted temporarily from his shoulders.

“What was the last movie you saw in a theater?” Taiga asks as they wait at a crosswalk.

Hokuto searches his memory. “Some action movie Rui wanted to see before her due date. She was eight months pregnant, and the baby kept kicking during the loud scenes.” He smiles at the recollection. “The woman next to us thought Rui was having contractions and nearly called for help.”

Taiga laughs, the sound warming something in Hokuto’s chest. “That sounds like Ema-chan. Making her presence known even before she arrived.”

“She’s always been good at that,” Hokuto agrees, the fondness in his voice unmistakable.

The theater lobby smells of butter and artificial sweetener. Hokuto takes it all in—the colorful movie posters, the teenagers huddled around a corner, the couples choosing seats on digital screens. It feels both familiar and foreign, like revisiting a place from a half-forgotten dream.

Taiga purchases the tickets while Hokuto studies the concession menu, marveling at how prices have climbed in six years.

“Large popcorn to share?” Taiga asks, appearing at his side.

“Sounds good.” Hokuto nods. “And maybe some soda?”

They collect their snacks and make their way into the darkened theater. It’s not crowded—a benefit of an afternoon showing on a weekday. They find their seats in the middle section, settling in as previews flash across the screen.

Hokuto becomes acutely aware of Taiga beside him—the subtle scent of his cologne, the warmth radiating from his arm where it rests on the shared armrest.

Their fingers brush as they both reach for popcorn, and Hokuto feels a jolt of electricity run through him.

This is what dating feels like, he realizes with sudden clarity. This hyperawareness, this pleasant tension, this constant dance between comfort and anticipation.

The lights dim further as the movie begins. On screen, stars burst across a digital galaxy, but Hokuto finds his attention divided. Half of him follows the story unfolding before them—something about space exploration and first contact—while the other half remains firmly anchored to the present moment: the theater, the darkness, Taiga.

“You okay?” Taiga whispers, leaning slightly closer. His breath tickles Hokuto’s ear.

“Yeah,” Hokuto whispers back. “Just... taking it all in.”

Taiga’s hand finds his in the darkness, fingers intertwining with a gentle pressure that asks a question.

Hokuto answers by tightening his grip slightly, heart hammering in his chest.

They stay like that, hands linked in the space between their seats, as the story plays out on screen. Hokuto finds himself sinking into the dual experience—the fictional world expanding before him and the very real connection forming beside him.

This is nice, he thinks. More than nice. It’s been so long since he’s allowed himself this kind of simple pleasure, this moment of being present without worrying about what comes next.

His phone remains silent in his pocket. Ema is fine. The world continues turning.

And here, in the dark of a movie theater on an ordinary afternoon, Hokuto feels something long dormant beginning to unfurl within him.

🏠

Hokuto feels the warm weight of Taiga’s hand in his as they step out of the theater and into the early evening light. The connection between them—fingers loosely intertwined, palms pressed together—seems both natural and extraordinary. A simple gesture loaded with meaning.

“That ending,” Taiga says, squinting against the setting sun. “Did you see it coming?”

Hokuto tries to recall the film’s conclusion, but his memory is a blur of impressions rather than details. His attention had been split between the story on screen and the subtle shifts of Taiga’s hand against his, the occasional brush of their shoulders, the shared darkness.

“Not entirely,” he admits. “I might have missed some clues.”

Taiga shoots him a sideways glance, lips quirking. “You weren’t watching, were you?”

Heat rises to Hokuto’s face. “I was watching. Just... not always the movie.”

The confession hangs between them, honest and unembellished. Taiga’s fingers tighten around his, a silent acknowledgment.

They walk toward Golden Hour, passing through streets bathed in the amber glow of sunset. Hokuto marvels at how different everything looks through this new lens—the ordinary transformed by the simple act of holding hands with Taiga. Shop windows, street signs, even the pattern of shadows across the pavement seem sharper, more vivid.

“I keep wanting to check my phone,” Hokuto admits, his free hand hovering near his pocket. “Is that terrible?”

“It's been—” Taiga checks his watch, “—five hours since we dropped her off. That’s practically a lifetime in dad-years.”

The understanding in Taiga’s voice loosens something in Hokuto’s chest. “It is,” he agrees. “Though I’m trying not to be that parent.”

“You’re allowed to worry,” Taiga says. “It’s part of the job description.”

They turn the corner, and Golden Hour comes into view—its warm lights glowing against the deepening blue of dusk. Hokuto feels a flutter of nervousness. This is Yugo’s domain, Taiga’s best friend, the one who knows him best.

What will he think of us? Hokuto wonders, suddenly conscious of their linked hands. Is this too new, too fragile to be exposed to scrutiny?

Before he can voice his concerns, Taiga pulls open the door, and they step into the restaurant’s welcoming atmosphere. The scent of savory dishes and fresh bread envelops them as a server approaches.

“Reservation for Kyomoto,” Taiga says, and Hokuto notices he hasn’t let go of his hand.

The server smiles, recognition dawning. “Of course. Chef Yugo mentioned you’d be coming in. This way, please.”

They follow her through the busy dining room to a table tucked away in a corner, partially screened by a decorative partition. It offers a measure of privacy while still allowing them to enjoy the restaurant’s ambiance.

“Well, well, well.”

Yugo appears as if summoned, wiping his hands on his apron. His eyes immediately drop to their intertwined fingers, and a grin spreads across his face.

“Look what we have here,” he continues, his tone light but loaded with implication. “My favorite customer and his... roommate.”

Taiga releases Hokuto’s hand to pull out his chair. “Don’t start,” he warns, but there’s no heat in his voice.

“Start what?” Yugo’s expression is all innocence as he helps Hokuto with his seat. “I’m just welcoming two completely platonic housemates to my humble establishment.”

Hokuto feels his face warm. “Thank you for accommodating us on short notice,” he says, trying to redirect the conversation.

“For Taiga? Always.” Yugo winks. “I’m just happy to see you both. And may I say, it’s about time.”

Hokuto watches the exchange with a mixture of embarrassment and amusement. There’s something endearing about seeing Taiga flustered, his usual composure disrupted by Yugo’s teasing.

“Don’t you have a kitchen to run?” Taiga asks pointedly.

“I’ll send over some menus,” Yugo says finally. “And maybe a bottle of that Cabernet you like, Taiga. On the house, for special occasions.”

As Yugo departs with a final knowing smile, Hokuto meets Taiga’s eyes across the table.

“Sorry about him,” Taiga says, running a hand through his hair. “He and Juri have been insufferable since I told him how I feel about—” He stops, looking slightly panicked.

“About?” Hokuto prompts softly, heart quickening.

Taiga’s hesitation hangs in the air, and Hokuto feels the weight of the unfinished sentence press against his chest. The restaurant’s ambient noise fades to a distant hum as he waits, pulse thrumming in his throat.

“About you,” Taiga finally says, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “About us.”

The confession sends a rush of warmth through Hokuto’s body. His fingers twitch with the urge to reach across the table and take Taiga’s hand again.

“When did you tell them?” Hokuto asks, trying to keep his voice steady despite the sudden lightness in his chest.

“Yugo’s birthday. After I noticed how strange Ema-chan was acting after Disneyland.” Taiga’s eyes drop to the table. “I was... confused. Worried about her, but also trying to sort through what I was feeling.”

Hokuto remembers those days—Ema’s unusual silence, his own growing panic, the tension that had stretched between him and Taiga like a wire pulled too tight.

“I was a mess,” Taiga continues, a rueful smile touching his lips. “Dating Jesse but thinking about you. Living with you but keeping my distance. Seeing you talk to Morimoto-sensei jolted me into realization.”

A server arrives with menus and a bottle of deep red wine, momentarily interrupting their conversation. Hokuto welcomes the brief respite, using the time to gather his thoughts as the server pours two glasses and recites the evening’s specials.

When they’re alone again, Hokuto takes a sip of wine, letting its rich flavor ground him in the present moment. The taste is complex—notes of dark fruit and something earthy—much like the situation they find themselves in.

“I wasn’t much better,” Hokuto admits, setting down his glass. “I kept telling myself it was just gratitude I was feeling. Or that I was projecting because you were so good with Ema.”

“And now?” Taiga asks, his expression carefully neutral, though Hokuto catches the slight tension in his shoulders.

Hokuto thinks about the past months—Taiga buying Ema’s favorite snacks without being asked, the way he’d tell her bedtime stories, how naturally he’d stepped into their lives, filling spaces Hokuto hadn’t even realized were empty.

“Now I know it’s neither of those things,” Hokuto says softly. “Or rather, it’s those things and... more.”

He remembers Rui’s letter, tucked safely in his nightstand drawer. The heart expands to hold whatever we give it. She’d known, somehow, what he would need to hear after her passing.

Taiga’s expression softens, relief evident in the slight relaxation of his shoulders. “I’m glad,” he says simply.

Their conversation shifts to the menu, though Hokuto finds it difficult to focus on food choices when his mind keeps circling back to the enormity of what’s happening between them. They order—Hokuto barely registering what he selects—and fall into easier topics: work projects, Ema’s upcoming school year, plans for the weekend.

Yet underneath it all runs a current of awareness, electric and new. Hokuto notices things he’s seen a hundred times before but never fully appreciated: the way Taiga’s nose scrunches when he smiles, how he gestures with his hands when explaining something he’s passionate about, the precise angle at which he holds his wine glass.

Their main courses arrive, beautifully plated and aromatic. Hokuto takes a bite, surprised by the burst of flavor. He’s eaten at Golden Hour before, but tonight everything seems heightened, more vivid.

Hokuto feels a buzz from his pocket—his phone. Despite his best intentions, his hand moves immediately to check it, concern for Ema overriding everything else.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, glancing at the screen.

It’s a message from Mrs. Yanase with a photo attached: Ema and Yuki in pajamas, grinning widely as they build what appears to be a blanket fort.

The girls are having a wonderful time. Don’ t worry!

Relief washes over him, followed by a twinge of guilt for interrupting their date. He turns the phone toward Taiga, who leans forward to look.

“See? She’s fine,” Taiga says, his smile fond. “Better than fine.”

“I know, I just—”

“You don’t have to explain,” Taiga cuts in gently. “I get it.”

And that’s the thing, Hokuto realizes. Taiga does get it. He understands the constant worry, the reflexive checking, the way Ema occupies a permanent corner of Hokuto’s thoughts. He doesn’t just tolerate it—he accepts it as part of who Hokuto is.

“Thank you,” Hokuto says, the words inadequate for what he’s feeling.

Taiga tilts his head slightly. “For what?”

Hokuto considers all the possible answers: for understanding, for patience, for making space in his life for a single father and his daughter. For tomato pasta and bedtime stories and quiet moments of support.

“For everything,” he says finally. “For understanding that Ema comes first, but still making me feel like I’m... seen.”

Something shifts in Taiga’s expression—a softening around the eyes, a slight parting of lips—that makes Hokuto’s heart stutter in his chest.

“I see you,” Taiga says simply. “I have for a while now.”

🏠

When they finally step outside Golden Hour, the night air hits Hokuto’s skin with a pleasant coolness. The wine has left him feeling slightly loose-limbed, though not drunk—just relaxed enough that when Taiga’s fingers brush against his, he doesn’t hesitate to capture them with his own.

Taiga’s hand is warm and slightly rough, his grip firm. The simple contact sends a current of awareness up Hokuto’s arm.

“Okay?” Taiga asks, his voice low.

“More than okay,” Hokuto answers.

They walk in comfortable silence for a while, the soft glow of street lamps illuminating their path. Hokuto can’t remember the last time he held someone’s hand like this—not since Rui.

The thought brings no pain, just a quiet acknowledgment.

Different, he thinks. Not replacing, just... different.

“You’re quiet,” Taiga observes.

“Just thinking.”

“About Ema?”

Hokuto smiles. “Not this time, actually.”

Their joined hands swing gently between them as they turn onto their street. The neighborhood is peaceful at this hour, most windows already dark. Hokuto finds himself slowing his pace, reluctant for the walk to end.

“I keep thinking about how strange life is,” Hokuto says after a moment. “If you’d asked me three months ago where I’d be now...”

“You’d never have guessed ‘holding hands with the office recluse after a date’?” Taiga finishes, his tone lightly teasing.

Hokuto laughs softly. “Definitely not. But I’m glad that’s where we are.”

Taiga’s grip tightens briefly. “Me too.”

They reach their house—and it is their house now, in all the ways that matter. Hokuto feels a surge of gratitude as Taiga unlocks the door. This place that once represented Taiga’s carefully constructed solitude now holds all three of their lives.

The house feels different without Ema’s presence—quieter, the spaces somehow larger. Hokuto checks his phone again as they remove their shoes in the entryway.

No new messages from Mrs. Yanase.

No news is good news, he reminds himself.

They move through the darkened house, turning on only the necessary lights. The domesticity of it strikes Hokuto—how easily they navigate this shared space, anticipating each other’s movements. Taiga flicks on the stair light just as Hokuto reaches for it.

At the top of the stairs, they pause. Hokuto’s bedroom—the guest room he shares with Ema—is to the left. Taiga’s is to the right. This is where they typically part ways for the night, with a casual “goodnight” or “see you in the morning.”

Tonight feels different. The air between them seems charged with possibility.

“I had a really good time,” Hokuto says, his voice sounding strangely formal to his own ears.

“Me too,” Taiga replies. He shifts his weight slightly, a gesture Hokuto recognizes as nervousness. “It was nice to just... be together. Without distractions.”

“We should do it again,” Hokuto suggests, heart racing.

“I’d like that.”

They stand there, neither moving toward their respective rooms. Hokuto finds himself studying Taiga’s face in the soft hallway light—the sharp line of his jaw, the slight furrow between his brows, the way his lips part slightly as if he’s about to speak but can’t find the words.

Taiga takes a deep breath, then says, “Do you want to come in?” He gestures toward his bedroom door. “For a while, I mean. We could talk. Or... whatever.”

The invitation hangs between them, weighted with meaning. Hokuto's pulse quickens.

“You don’t have to,” Taiga adds quickly. “It’s just—the house is quiet without Ema-chan, and I thought...”

The house is quiet without Ema. The words echo in Hokuto’s mind. It’s true—the absence of his daughter creates a strange space, one that could be filled with possibility or regret.

“I’d like that,” Hokuto says, his voice coming out rougher than intended.

Taiga opens his door and steps aside, letting Hokuto enter first. The gesture feels intimate somehow—an invitation into a space that has remained firmly Taiga’s own throughout their months of cohabitation.

Hokuto hesitates at the threshold. Despite living under the same roof for months, he’s only glimpsed this room in passing. Now, standing in the doorway, he feels like he’s crossing an invisible boundary that has silently existed between them.

The room is exactly what he expected—and nothing like it at the same time. Clean lines and minimalist furniture dominate the space. A platform bed with crisp navy sheets sits against one wall, while a sleek desk occupies the corner by the window.

No clutter, no excess. Everything has its place, much like Taiga himself.

“You can come in,” Taiga says, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. “I don’t bite.”

Hokuto steps inside, hyperaware of his own movements. The floor doesn’t creak beneath his feet, but it feels like it should. “It’s very... you,” he says.

“Is that good or bad?”

“Good. Definitely good.”

Taiga closes the door behind them—not all the way, leaving it slightly ajar. The subtle consideration doesn’t escape Hokuto’s notice. It’s an exit strategy, a way to ensure neither of them feels trapped.

Hokuto’s eyes travel across the room, taking in details. The desk is organized with geometric precision—laptop centered, a small plant in one corner, a sleek lamp in another. The bookshelf holds a surprising number of mystery novels, their spines arranged by height. The walls are mostly bare, save for a bulletin board above the desk.

Something colorful catches his eye.

Among Taiga’s meticulously pinned notes and schedules is a drawing—bright crayon lines forming what appears to be three stick figures holding hands. One small, one tall with brown hair, one with black hair. Ema’s distinctive style is unmistakable, right down to the exaggerated smiles and disproportionate hands.

“When did she give you that?” Hokuto asks, moving closer to examine it.

Taiga follows his gaze and shifts his weight. “After you got sick. She slipped it under my door one morning.”

Hokuto’s chest tightens. “You kept it.”

“Of course I kept it.” Taiga sounds almost offended at the suggestion he might not have.

The drawing stands out against Taiga’s otherwise monochromatic space—a splash of childish color in his carefully controlled environment.

Just like how Ema herself has brought color into Taiga’s life. How they both have.

“Sorry about the...” Taiga gestures vaguely around the room. “I didn’t really plan to have people in here.”

“It’s nice,” Hokuto says, meaning it. “Peaceful.”

Taiga moves to the edge of his bed and sits, then seems to reconsider and stands again. He crosses to the desk chair, then pauses, clearly unsure where to position himself in his own space now that Hokuto occupies it too.

The awkwardness is endearing. This is Taiga—always so composed at work, so certain in his decisions—looking uncertain about where to sit in his own bedroom.

“You can sit on your bed,” Hokuto says gently. “It’s your room.”

“Right.” Taiga nods and perches on the edge of the mattress. After a moment’s hesitation, he pats the space beside him. “You don’t have to stand there like you’re waiting for permission.”

Hokuto joins him, leaving a respectful distance between them. The mattress is firmer than he expected.

The silence stretches between them, not uncomfortable but charged with possibility.

“So this is what the mysterious Kyomoto Taiga’s bedroom looks like,” Hokuto says finally, attempting lightness. “I was beginning to think it might not exist at all.”

Taiga huffs a laugh. “What did you imagine? A secret lair with multiple screens monitoring the house?”

“Something like that. Maybe a robot charging station.”

“The robot vacuum has its own dock, thank you very much.”

They both laugh, the tension easing slightly.

Hokuto’s eyes drift back to Ema’s drawing. “She really loves you, you know.”

Taiga follows his gaze again, his expression softening. “The feeling’s mutual.”

Hokuto watches the way Taiga’s expression softens at the mention of Ema. Something shifts in his chest—a certainty that’s been building for months now.

“I never expected this,” Hokuto says, his voice quiet in the stillness of Taiga’s room. “Any of it. You and Ema together. The three of us becoming...” He trails off, searching for the right word.

“A family?” Taiga offers, then looks away quickly, as if afraid he’s overstepped.

The word settles between them, perfect in its simplicity. A family. Not traditional, not what Hokuto had planned, but undeniably true.

“Yes,” Hokuto says. “A family.”

Taiga’s fingers twist in the edge of his comforter. “Is that okay? That I think of us that way?”

Hokuto’s heart pounds against his ribs. The moment stretches before him—a precipice he’s been approaching for weeks, maybe months. Since that night he realized his feelings while drinking with Taiga.

Since before that, maybe.

“It’s more than okay,” he says, his voice rough with emotion. “It’s what I want too.”

He shifts on the bed, turning to face Taiga more directly. Their knees touch, a point of warm contact that sends a current through Hokuto’s body.

Say it, he thinks. Just say it.

“Taiga, I—” The words catch in his throat. How strange that three simple words could feel so monumental. He’s said them before, to Rui, to Ema.

But this is different. This is choosing to be vulnerable again, after loss. This is trusting his heart to someone new.

Taiga waits, patient and still. The soft glow from the bedside lamp casts shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the expectant parting of his lips.

Hokuto takes a deep breath. “I’m in love with you.”

The words hang in the air between them, honest and bare. No qualifiers, no hesitation. Just truth.

“I have been for months now,” Hokuto continues, finding courage in Taiga’s widening eyes. “Maybe since that night you took care of me when I was sick. Or when you went all the way to Niigata to bring me my mourning suit. Or—” He laughs softly. “I don’t even know when it started. It just... is.”

Taiga’s hand finds his, fingers intertwining with a sureness that belies the vulnerability of the moment.

“I love you too,” Taiga says, his voice steady despite the emotion shining in his eyes. “That’s why I ended things with Jesse. It wasn’t fair to him when all I could think about was coming home to you and Ema-chan.”

Home. The word resonates in Hokuto’s chest. This house had become home not because of its walls or rooms, but because of the people in it.

“I was scared,” Taiga admits, his thumb tracing circles on the back of Hokuto’s hand. “I’ve never felt this way before. Not with Shuichiro, not with Jesse, not with anyone. I kept telling myself it was just the convenience of our arrangement, or that I was getting attached to Ema-chan, not you.”

“And now?” Hokuto asks, his pulse quickening.

“Now I know better.” Taiga’s free hand reaches up, hesitating briefly before cupping Hokuto’s cheek. “I love the way you hum when you’re cooking. I love how seriously you take Ema-chan’s bedtime stories. I love that you fold my laundry even though I never asked you to.”

Each confession lands like a gentle wave, washing away Hokuto’s lingering doubts. He leans into Taiga’s touch, savoring the warmth of his palm.

“I even love that you check your phone every five minutes when Ema-chan’s away,” Taiga adds with a soft laugh.

Hokuto feels heat rise to his face. “I haven’t been that obvious.”

“You checked it four times during dinner.”

“Three,” Hokuto corrects, then catches Taiga’s knowing look. “Fine. Four.”

They laugh together, the sound intimate in the quiet room. Hokuto’s chest feels lighter than it has in years, as if a weight he hadn’t fully acknowledged has finally lifted.

“I wasn’t sure if I could do this again,” Hokuto confesses, his voice dropping to almost a whisper. “After Rui, I thought that part of my life was over. That I’d just focus on being Ema’s father.”

Taiga’s expression grows serious. “I know. And I would never try to replace what you had with her.”

“You haven’t,” Hokuto assures him. “You’ve created something new. Something different but equally important.”

The space between them seems to shrink, gravity pulling them closer. Hokuto’s gaze drops to Taiga’s lips, then back to his eyes, seeking permission.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, his voice barely audible.

Taiga’s answer is to lean forward, closing the distance between them.

Their lips meet, soft and tentative at first, then with growing confidence. Hokuto’s hand finds the back of Taiga’s neck, drawing him closer as the kiss deepens.

It feels like coming home after a long journey—familiar yet thrilling, safe yet exhilarating. Taiga tastes faintly of the wine they shared at dinner, his lips warm and responsive against Hokuto’s.

When they finally part, Hokuto rests his forehead against Taiga’s, unwilling to move away completely. Their breaths mingle in the small space between them.

“I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” Taiga murmurs.

“Me too,” Hokuto admits.

The confession feels like releasing a breath he’s been holding for months. Hokuto studies Taiga’s face—the slight flush coloring his cheeks, the vulnerability in his eyes that he typically keeps hidden behind cool professionalism. This version of Taiga, open and unguarded, exists only here, in this moment they’ve created together.

Hokuto brushes his thumb across Taiga’s cheekbone, marveling at the permission to touch him this way. Something about the tenderness of the gesture makes his chest tighten with emotion.

“What are you thinking?” Taiga asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

“That I never expected this,” Hokuto says. “When we lost our apartment, when you took us in... I never imagined we’d end up here.”

Taiga’s lips curve into a small smile. “In my bedroom?”

“In your life,” Hokuto corrects, though he can’t help returning the smile. “In your heart.”

His phone vibrates in his pocket—probably another update from Mrs. Yanase about Ema—but for once, Hokuto doesn’t immediately reach for it. This moment feels too precious to interrupt.

Hokuto leans forward, drawn by an invisible pull toward this man who has somehow become the center of his world.

Their second kiss is different from the first—less hesitant, more certain. Taiga’s hand slides up to cup the back of Hokuto’s neck, fingers threading through his hair.

Heat blooms between them as the kiss deepens. Hokuto tastes wine and possibility on Taiga’s lips, feels the solid warmth of him as they press closer together. His hand finds Taiga’s waist, fingers gripping the soft fabric of his shirt.

When they break apart, both slightly breathless, Hokuto feels dizzy with want and wonder. The sensation is both familiar and entirely new—the rush of falling, but with the certainty of being caught.

“Stay,” Taiga whispers against his lips. “Just to sleep,” he clarifies quickly. “I just... I don’t want this night to end yet.”

The request settles in Hokuto’s chest, simple and profound. He thinks of his empty room down the hall, of the space beside him that Ema doesn’t occupy tonight.

“I’d like that,” he says.

As Taiga smiles—a rare, unguarded expression that transforms his entire face—Hokuto feels a certainty wash over him. This isn’t just Taiga’s house anymore. It isn’t just a temporary shelter or a practical arrangement.

Taiga leans in again, his lips meeting Hokuto’s with a tenderness that makes his heart ache.

And in that moment, with Taiga’s arms around him and the promise of tomorrow stretching before them, Hokuto realizes he’s finally, truly come home.

🏠

“I want that one,” Ema declares, pointing to a particularly plump petal drifting down from a cherry tree overhead.

Taiga reaches up, feeling the cool morning air against his fingertips as he tries to snatch the falling blossom before it hits the ground. He misses by inches.

“Too slow, Tiger-san,” Ema giggles, swinging between him and Hokuto, her small hands gripping theirs tightly as they walk the familiar path to First Steps.

“I’ll get the next one,” Taiga promises, squinting up at the canopy of pink above them. The entire street looks dipped in cotton candy, petals swirling in the April breeze.

Hokuto catches his eye over Ema’s head and smiles—that private smile that still makes Taiga’s stomach flip even after a month of waking up to it.

Something warm unfurls in his chest. This—walking to school with Ema between them, cherry blossoms overhead, Hokuto’s gaze meeting his—feels impossibly right.

“You’re holding hands wrong,” Ema announces suddenly, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk.

Taiga blinks down at her. “We’re holding your hands, princess.”

“No, not mine.” She shakes her head empathically. “You and Papa should hold hands too.”

Hokuto coughs, a faint blush creeping his neck. “Ema, we can’t both hold your hands and each other’s. We don’t have enough hands.”

She considers this with the serious contemplation only a five-year-old can muster. “Then you should carry me, Papa so that Tiger-san can hold your hand.”

Taiga barks out a laugh. “She’s got us there.”

“Tactical genius,” Hokuto mutters, but he’s already crouching down to scoop Ema up.

Once settled on her father’s hip, Ema beams triumphantly. “Now you can hold hands. Like at the movies.”

Taiga feels heat rise to his face as he takes Hokuto’s free hand. Their fingers intertwine with practiced ease now, but the novelty hasn’t worn off. He still catalogs every callus, every gentle squeeze.

“You’re very invested in our hand-holding, Ema-chan,” Taiga says, trying to sound casual.

“Because you love each other,” she states with absolute certainty. “Like in Tangled.”

Taiga nearly trips over a crack in the sidewalk. The simple declaration—so matter-of-fact from her lips—still catches him off guard.

A month into officially dating, and sometimes he still can’t believe this is real. That somehow his sterile, lonely house has transformed into this warm, chaotic home filled with Hokuto’s humming and Ema’s laughter.

“You know,” Hokuto says quietly as they turn the corner, “she figured us out.”

“When we picked her up from the Yanases and she yelled ‘Finally!’ in front of everyone?” Taiga winces at the memory. Mrs. Yanase’s knowing smile had been mortifying.

“Before that even. Remember Disneyland?”

“How could I forget? Morimoto-sensei showing up during lunch nearly gave me an aneurysm.”

Hokuto shifts Ema higher on his hip. “A few days later, before we left for Niigata, she asked me if I loved you the way I loved her mother.”

The confession stops Taiga in his tracks, their joined hands pulling Hokuto to a halt beside him. “She what?”

“I was looking at the fireworks, and then I was looking at you,” Hokuto says softly. “Apparently, I had the same expression I get when I look at Rui’s photos.”

“I saw,” Ema nods solemnly. “And Tiger-san was looking at you the same way Flynn Rider looks at Rapunzel.”

Taiga feels exposed, as if this five-year-old has X-ray vision straight into his soul. “You’re too observant for your own good,” he mutters, but squeezes her foot affectionately.

“That’s why I was so quiet after,” she continues, playing with the collar of Hokuto’s shirt. “I thought if Papa loved you, he’d stop loving Mama.”

The confession hits Taiga like a physical blow. He remembers those days—Ema’s uncharacteristic silence, Hokuto’s growing worry, his own confusion. How strange that while he was wrestling with his feelings for Hokuto, this little girl was carrying such a heavy question.

“But Grandma and Grandpa explained,” Ema says brightly. “And Mama’s letter too. Love gets bigger, not smaller.”

They’re approaching the preschool gates now, other parents and children streaming past. Taiga watches a cherry blossom land in Ema’s hair, a perfect pink accent against the dark strands.

“You’re pretty smart for a five-year-old,” he tells her, reaching up to pluck the petal from her hair.

“I’m almost six,” she corrects him seriously.

“My mistake,” Taiga says, biting back a smile. “Almost six.”

The school bell chimes in the distance. Hokuto sets Ema down, crouching to straighten her backpack straps. “Have a good day, sweetheart. Learn lots.”

Ema nods, then turns to Taiga expectantly.

“What, no goodbye for me?” he teases, dropping to one knee.

She throws her arms around his neck, nearly knocking him off balance. “Bye, Tiger-san,” she whispers, then adds, “Thank you for making Papa smile.”

Taiga watches Ema dart toward the entrance of First Steps, her backpack bouncing against her shoulders. The sudden absence of her small hand in his feels strange—like missing a puzzle piece he hadn’t realized had become essential.

“She’s getting more independent every day,” Hokuto says beside him, a note of pride mixed with that familiar parental wistfulness.

“Soon she’ll be telling us to drop her off a block away so her friends don’t see us,” Taiga jokes, though the thought makes something in his chest tighten unexpectedly.

Near the entrance, Shintaro stands chatting with a young woman Taiga doesn’t recognize. Her long hair is pulled back in a neat ponytail, and she laughs at something Shintaro says, covering her mouth with her hand.

The way Shintaro leans toward her, his body angled with unmistakable interest, is a far cry from how he used to hover around Hokuto.

Shintaro spots them and waves, his smile genuine and relaxed. “Matsumura-san! Kyomoto-san! Good morning!”

“Morning,” Hokuto replies, and Taiga nods in greeting.

“Perfect timing,” Shintaro says. “I’d like you to meet our newest staff member.” He turns to the woman beside him, his expression brightening. “This is Morikawa Aoi, she just joined us last week. She’s taking over the Sunflower class while Yamada-sensei is on maternity leave.”

The woman bows slightly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both. The children have already told me all about Ema-chan’s two dads.”

Two dads. The phrase catches Taiga off guard. It’s not inaccurate, but hearing it stated so plainly by a stranger makes it suddenly, startlingly real.

“Ah, well, I’m her father,” Hokuto clarifies, though without the panicked edge such corrections used to carry. “Taiga is my partner.”

Partner. That word still sends a small thrill through him every time Hokuto says it.

“Aoi-sensei has been a godsend,” Shintaro continues, looking at her with undisguised admiration. “The kids adore her already.”

“You’re too kind, Morimoto-sensei,” she replies, her cheeks coloring slightly.

The interaction is fascinating to watch. Shintaro, who once looked at Hokuto with that same barely-concealed longing, now seems completely smitten with his new colleague.

The transition is so complete that Taiga wonders if Hokuto even notices.

“We should let you get to work,” Hokuto says. “It was nice meeting you, Morikawa-sensei.”

“Please, call me Aoi-sensei,” she insists. “All the parents and children do.”

“Aoi-sensei it is,” Taiga says, oddly relieved at how smoothly this interaction is going. No lingering glances from Shintaro toward Hokuto, no awkward tension.

They say their goodbyes, and as they turn to leave, Taiga reaches for Hokuto’s hand without thinking. Their fingers intertwine naturally now, a habit formed over weeks of stolen touches and deliberate contact.

The morning sun filters through the cherry blossoms overhead as they walk toward the train station. Hokuto’s thumb traces small circles on the back of Taiga’s hand, a subtle gesture that still makes his pulse quicken.

“Morimoto-sensei seems different,” Taiga comments, aiming for casual.

Hokuto glances at him. “Different how?”

“He’s not looking at you like you hung the moon anymore.”

A small smile plays at the corner of Hokuto’s mouth. “You noticed that too?”

“Hard not to notice when someone’s crushing on your...” Taiga pauses, still getting used to the terminology. “Your now-partner.”

Hokuto’s smile widens. “Jealous?”

“I wasn’t—” Taiga starts to protest, then catches the knowing look in Hokuto’s eyes. He sighs. “Fine. Maybe a little.”

“You have nothing to worry about,” Hokuto says, squeezing his hand.

“I know that now,” Taiga replies. The admission feels important somehow. “But at Disneyland, when I saw you two talking during lunch... I wanted to drag you away.”

Hokuto looks surprised. “Really? I had no idea.”

“I didn’t either, not consciously.” Taiga kicks at a fallen petal on the sidewalk. “I just knew I hated watching him lean in close to you, touching your arm when he laughed.”

“Is that why Ema asked why you didn’t seem okay?”

“Partly.” Taiga hesitates, still finding it difficult to voice these emotions aloud. “I think that was the first time I realized how much I wanted to be the one making you laugh like that.”

The confession hangs between them, weightier than he intended for a morning walk after school drop-off. But Hokuto doesn’t seem to mind. Instead, he tugs Taiga closer, their shoulders bumping as they walk.

“For what it’s worth,” Hokuto says softly, “I was thinking about you the whole time. Wondering if you were enjoying yourself, if you felt as much a part of our day as I wanted you to be.”

Something warm blooms in Taiga’s chest. “Even then?”

“Even then,” Hokuto confirms. “Though I was still trying to convince myself it was just gratitude for how good you were with Ema.”

Taiga snorts. “We were both pretty oblivious, weren’t we?”

“Hopeless,” Hokuto agrees. “Good thing we had a five-year-old to sort us out.”

“Almost six,” Taiga corrects automatically.

They both laugh.

🏠

The spreadsheet blurs before Taiga’s eyes, numbers and percentages melting into meaningless patterns. He blinks hard, refocusing on the competitor analysis he’s been updating for the past hour. The afternoon sun slants through the office windows, casting long shadows across his desk as he scrolls through social media mentions of rival apps.

Taiga stretches his neck, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension building there. His gaze drifts across the open office layout to the development team’s cluster of desks.

Hokuto sits with his back straight, nodding at something Wakana is explaining. Machu leans in from the side, his expression animated as he gestures at the screen between them.

Hokuto’s focused expression — that slight furrow between his brows, the way his lips press together when he’s processing information — sends a flutter through Taiga’s chest. It’s the same look he gets when Ema asks him particularly challenging questions about how the world works.

Wakana points at something on Hokuto’s monitor. She’s speaking rapidly, her hands moving with precision as she outlines whatever new feature they’re implementing.

Hokuto nods, asking something that makes Machu laugh and Wakana smile.

He’s good at what he does, Taiga thinks, allowing himself a moment of pride that feels foreign and new. This morning they’d walked to work together, shoulders occasionally brushing, and now they’re professionals in their separate domains. The duality feels right somehow.

Wakana straightens, apparently satisfied with whatever instructions she’s delivered.

As she turns to leave, Hokuto’s eyes lift, scanning the office until they land on Taiga. The connection is brief — a flicker of recognition, a subtle softening around Hokuto’s eyes — but it sends heat crawling up Taiga’s neck.

Hokuto’s lips curve into a small smile before he returns his attention to his screen. The entire exchange lasts seconds, practically invisible to anyone not looking for it.

Anyone except Machu, apparently.

The developer’s head swivels between Hokuto and Taiga, his expression shifting from confusion to curiosity. His eyes narrow slightly, head tilting like he’s trying to solve a particularly tricky coding problem.

Taiga keeps his face neutral, turning back to his spreadsheet with practiced indifference. Let Machu wonder. Let them all figure it out gradually, piece by piece. There’s something satisfying about that approach — no grand announcements, no awkward explanations, just the natural evolution of understanding.

His phone vibrates against the desk, the screen lighting up with a notification from the group chat with Yugo and Juri. Taiga glances at it, a welcome distraction from the competitive analysis.

Yugo: Closing early tonight. Rare Wednesday miracle. Drinks at mine after?

Juri: I can bring that wine I’ve been saving

Yugo: The one from that gallery opening?

Juri: That’s the one

Yugo: @Taiga you in? Or are you and Hokuto too busy making heart eyes at each other?

Taiga snorts softly, earning a curious look from Noel at the next desk. He adjusts his position, angling the phone away from potential onlookers.

Taiga: We’re professionals, unlike some people I know

Yugo: That’s not a no

Juri: Leave him alone, he’s probably calculating the optimal time to sneak a kiss in the break room

Taiga rolls his eyes, but can’t fight the smile tugging at his lips.

Taiga: I’m in. But I need to check with Hokuto about Ema-chan

Yugo: Bring them both. Ema-chan can have ice cream while we hang out

Juri: She can help me with my new sketch series

The offer is tempting. These moments — when all three of them are free at the same time — have become increasingly rare. Between Yugo’s restaurant hours, Juri’s exhibitions, and Taiga’s new family life, their schedules rarely align.