Show & Tell
Origami Around
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
izzy's playlists!
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
⁂
Discoholic 🪩
Game of Thrones Daily
will byers stan first human second
blake kathryn
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
styofa doing anything
Aqua Utopia｜海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
One Nice Bug Per Day
Jules of Nature
ellievsbear
JBB: An Artblog!
seen from United States
seen from Spain
seen from Poland
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
seen from Norway
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Venezuela
seen from Bangladesh
seen from Venezuela
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from Japan
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
@an1m320v3r
Blue Lock ---- >
Haikyuu ---- >
My Hero Academia ---- >
Gachiakuta ---- >
[REQUESTS OPEN!!!<3]
I am also willing to write for:
Naruto
Jujutsu Kaisen
Kuroko's Basketball
Horimiya
Wolf's rain
Yuri on ice
Dandadan
Frieren
Hell's Paradise
(Request if interested)
About me
Under construction!
Things might be missing or out of place.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
So I found my English book from the tenth grade 😂
that till drabble was so good .. 🥺 do u have anything for luka ..? and ivan?
Thank you!! And I'd love to! Any Ideas?
I don't need therapy. I need a few uninterrupted hours, a dark room, and a ceiling to stare at while I run the same scenario through my head 47 times until it's perfect.
But apparently that's "odd."
My roommate sees a person staring blankly into space, from their perspective I'm just silently decomposing.
The first time Till kissed you, it wasn't romantic. You were both bleeding.
The aliens had thought it would be funny. A punishment. A spectacle. Two contestants locked in a room after a failed rehearsal. No food. No water. No windows.
Just concrete walls and cameras. So many cameras. Tiny black lenses embedded in every corner of the room, little red lights blinking steadily. Watching. Waiting.
The room smelled like sweat and old blood.
Till sat against one wall with his knees pulled to his chest.
You sat against the opposite one.
The distance between you wasn't large. It still felt impossible to cross.
Hours passed. Then more. Nobody spoke.
The cameras hummed. Sometimes one rotated. Sometimes an automated voice crackled through hidden speakers just to remind you someone was listening.
By the second day your head felt stuffed with cotton. Your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth. Every bruise hurt. Every breath hurt. Everything hurt.
Till looked worse. His split knuckles had crusted over with dried blood. There was a purple mark spreading across one side of his face. His eyes looked sunken. Empty. Like he'd already left and forgotten to take his body with him.
Then you started laughing. A tiny sound at first. A breath. A choke.
Till glanced up.
You covered your mouth. The laughter came harder. Your shoulders shook. A smile stretched across your face despite yourself. Nothing was funny. Nothing at all.
The room blurred. The cameras stared. The laughter spilled out anyway.
Till's stomach twisted. He knew that sound. He'd heard it before.
People cracked in different ways. Some screamed. Some went quiet. Some begged. Some laughed.
The laughter got louder. Then tears started running down your face. Then you were crying. Then laughing again. The sounds tangled together until neither of you could tell which was which.
"Stop."
Your laughter hitched. Then continued.
"Stop it."
You pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes. A broken noise escaped your throat.
The room felt too small. Too loud. Too hot.
You couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't stop.
Your head hit the wall. A dull crack. The pain barely registered.
You did it again. Harder.
The third time never landed.
Because suddenly someone was there.
Till had crossed the room and his hand was wrapped around your jaw.
His fingers dug into your cheeks. Hard. Too hard.
The laughter stopped. Silence crashed down.
Your eyes were wide.
His breathing sounded ragged.
Neither of you moved.
Above you the cameras continued their soft mechanical whirring. Watching.
His stomach turned.
You looked awful. Eyes bloodshot. Face wet. Lip split. A bruise blooming along your temple from where you'd hit the wall.
You looked exactly how he felt.
Your voice came out small. Barely audible.
"I'm tired."
Something inside him folded in on itself. Not snapped. Just... gave up.
Because everyone was tired. The contestants. The children. The people dragged onto stages and dressed up and made to sing while strangers voted on whether they deserved to keep breathing. Everyone.
Nobody was allowed to say it. Nobody was allowed to admit they were drowning.
His grip loosened. But he didn't let go.
Your face remained trapped between his hands. Warm. Human. Alive.
The realization hit him with sudden, nauseating force. Alive.
For now. Tomorrow maybe not. Maybe one of you would be dead next week. Maybe both. The cameras would keep recording either way.
Your eyes met his. There was no comfort in them. No hope. Just exhaustion. Raw and ugly. The kind that hollowed people out.
Till couldn't stand looking at it. Because it looked exactly like his own.
Then he kissed you. Not gently. It was almost violent. An act of desperation more than affection. A collision.
His mouth crashed into yours before either of you could think. Your teeth knocked together painfully. Someone made a startled noise.
Till tasted blood immediately. His split lip reopened. Warm copper flooded his mouth.
You jerked in surprise. For a second it seemed like you might shove him away.
Instead, your hand grabbed his shirt. Wrinkled fabric twisting in your fist.
The kiss stayed clumsy. Wrong. Two people who didn't know what they were looking for trying to find it anyway.
Your noses bumped.
His breathing hitched.
Blood smeared between your mouths. The metallic taste got stronger.
Till hated it. Hated that the only comfort he'd found in months was happening directly beneath a dozen recording lenses.
You made a small sound. A wounded sound.
The sound went straight through him. His hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck. Holding on. Not wanting. Holding.
Like if he let go, something terrible would happen. Like you’d disappear. Like he would.
The kiss deepened for a second only because neither of you knew how to stop. Your foreheads bumped. Breaths tangled.
Someone's tears ended up on the others face.
The room spun. The hunger. The thirst. The exhaustion. Everything blurred together.
You weren't kissing because you wanted each other. You were kissing because you were trapped. Because you were scared. Because the universe had become so unbearably cruel that touching another living person felt like the only thing left.
When it finally broke apart neither of you moved. Your faces stayed inches apart. Both breathing hard. Both staring.
Till could see the horror settling into your expression. What had just happened. His own stomach twisted. He looked away first.
Hours later the aliens would replay the footage.
Days later it would circulate. A funny clip.
Two damaged pets locked in a box. Starving. Breaking.
Finding comfort in each other like frightened animals.
How cute. How tragic. How human.
I don't know :)
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
I haven't picked up this pen since last year.
Not the best, but enjoy <3
Took 8 hours :)
WAHHH 8 HOURS!!??! IT'S AMAZING QUEENNNN!!!
Thank youu<3
It felt like more time though 😵💫
I'm starving for Marc snuffy hcs pls I love your lavinho, pls make one for snuffy 🥺❤️
Terreno Stabile
Steady ground
Blue Lock! Marc Snuffy x Reader
Warnings: Fluff; NOT PROOFREAD!!!
[Google translate was used, Italian readers you have been warned.]
You met him in Italy, but not on a pitch.
It was a quiet café near a training facility in Turin—one of those places that smelled like espresso and toasted bread. You were there first, laptop open, clearly stressed. He asked, very politely, if the chair across from you was taken.
“È libero?” Is it free? he asked.
You nodded. “Yeah. Go ahead.”
He thanked you, sat, and didn’t say another word for a solid ten minutes. Comfortable silence. That was the first thing you noticed.
The friendship started because neither of you tried too hard.
You dropped your pen. He picked it up without a word and slid it back to you.
“Grazie,” you said automatically.
He smiled faintly. “Prego.” You’re welcome.
Later, when you muttered about deadlines and burnout, he didn’t interrupt—just listened.
“Il lavoro ti sta mangiando viva,” Your job is eating you alive. he said calmly.
It wasn’t judgmental. Just observant.
You didn’t know he was that Marc Snuffy at first.
He introduced himself as “Marc.” Nothing more. No ego.
When you casually complained about modern soccer players being treated like machines, he stirred his coffee and replied,
“Il problema non è lo sport. È dimenticare che siamo persone.” The problem isn’t the sport. It’s forgetting we’re people.
You paused. Looked at him. “You sound like you’ve thought about that a lot.”
He shrugged. “Abbastanza.” Enough.
Your conversations became routine.
Same café. Same time. No planning.
You talked about work, stress, expectations—never dreams, never romance, never anything dramatic.
One morning you joked, “You’re weirdly calm all the time.”
He smiled behind his cup.
“Non sempre. Solo quando serve.” Not always. Only when it matters.
The truth came out accidentally.
A TV behind the counter showed a sports segment. His face appeared on screen.
You blinked. Looked at him. Looked back at the TV.
“…That’s you.”
He sighed, like someone caught forgetting to lock the door.
“Sì.” Yes.
You laughed once. “You could’ve mentioned you’re one of the best soccer players in the world.”
He tilted his head.
“Me l’hai chiesto?” Did you ask?
After that, nothing changed—and that mattered.
You didn’t ask for stories. You didn’t fan out.
One day he said quietly,
“Apprezzo che tu non mi guardi diversamente.” I appreciate that you don’t look at me differently.
You replied, “You’re still just the guy who steals my sugar packets.”
He smirked. “E continuerò.” And I will continue.
He respected your boundaries instinctively.
When you were exhausted, he didn’t push conversation.
When you were angry, he didn’t try to fix it.
“Vuoi parlare o stare in silenzio?” Do you want to talk or stay quiet? he asked once.
You chose silence. He stayed anyway.
He never treated you like a distraction—never like an escape.
Just a person.
One evening, as you packed up to leave, he said,
“Domani potrei non venire. Allenamento lungo.” I might not come tomorrow. Long training.
You nodded. “That’s fine.”
He hesitated, then added,
“mi piace parlare con te.” I like talking to you.
Your friendship settled into something steady and unspoken.
No expectations. No labels.
Just coffee, conversation, and a man who believed—quietly, firmly—that before soccer, before success, before anything else…people mattered.
He realized that he liked you on a day that felt painfully ordinary.
You were late. Fifteen minutes, then twenty.
He told himself it didn’t matter—training ran long all the time. People had lives.
Still, he kept glancing at the café door.
When you finally rushed in, breathless and apologetic, you said, “Sorry—work exploded.”
He felt the tension leave his chest so fast it startled him.
He thought, Ah.
Then, quieter and more alarming: Questo non è normale. This isn’t normal.
Liking you didn’t arrive as excitement. It arrived as concern—and stayed.
The confirmation came when he caught himself planning around you.
He turned down an optional sponsor dinner without hesitation.
Later, when a teammate asked why, Snuffy answered flatly, “Avevo un impegno.” I had an appointment.
That night, sitting across from you, he watched you talk with your hands, animated and alive, and realized:
He wasn’t protecting his schedule.
He was protecting this.
“Sei importante per me,” he almost said—then stopped himself. You’re important to me.
He needed to be sure.
It took him longer than most people would expect to ask you out.
Not weeks.
Months.
He treated liking you the same way he treated soccer strategy—carefully, responsibly.
He asked himself hard questions in silence:
Can I be honest? Can I be stable? Can I walk away if this hurts you?
One evening, after you laughed at something small and stupid, he decided:
“Non voglio essere un rischio per lei.” I don’t want to be a risk to her.
Only then did he allow himself to want you openly.
The moment he chose came after a loss.
Not on the pitch—but personal.
You told him you were considering leaving Italy for work. Not dramatic. Just factual.
“It’s probably nothing,” you said.
He went quiet. Too quiet.
Later that night, alone, he admitted the truth:
The idea of you not being in his life didn’t feel professional.
It felt unbearable.
“Basta,” Enough he murmured to himself. .
He asked you out the way he did everything else—directly, calmly, without games.
Same café. Same table. No bandana today.
“Posso dirti una cosa senza rovinare quello che abbiamo?” Can I tell you something without ruining what we have? he asked.
You nodded, cautious.
He met your eyes, steady and serious.
“Mi piaci. Non come amica.” I like you. Not as a friend.
He gave you an exit immediately—because he respected you too much not to.
“Se non è lo stesso per te, va bene,” If it’s not the same for you, that’s fine. he continued.
“Non cambierò il modo in cui ti tratto.” It won’t change how I treat you.
You stared at him. “Is this you asking me out?”
A small smile. Nervous, rare.
“Sì. Con calma. Se vuoi.” Yes. Slowly. If you want.
When you said yes, he didn’t celebrate. He exhaled.
Like a man who’d been holding his breath for months.
“Allora,” he said softly, standing and offering his hand,
“andiamo a fare una passeggiata.”
(Then… let’s go for a walk.)
No grand gesture. No rush.
Just two people stepping forward—deliberately, honestly, together.
Your first kiss didn’t happen when either of you expected it to.
Not on the first date. Not even the second.
It happened after a long walk that turned into sitting on a low stone wall near the river, shoulders almost touching, the city quieting around you.
He noticed the silence first—and didn’t rush to fill it.
You swung your feet lightly, staring at the water.
“You’re thinking too loud,” you said.
He huffed a small laugh.
“Colpa mia.” My fault.
There was a pause where he clearly decided something.
He turned slightly toward you, resting his forearms on his knees.
“Posso chiederti una cosa?” Can I ask you something?
You nodded.
“Se ti bacio… vuoi che sia adesso?” If I kiss you… do you want it to be now?
“Yeah,” you said quietly. “Now’s good.”
He didn’t touch you immediately.
That was the most him part of it.
He searched your face one last time, like checking the field before a pass.
“Dimmi se cambio idea,” Tell me if you change your mind. he murmured.
When he leaned in, it was slow—deliberate.
One hand came up to your jaw, warm and steady, thumb resting just below your ear.
The kiss itself was gentle, almost restrained, like he was proving to himself that he could stop if needed.
You were the one who closed the distance fully.
You leaned in, pressing closer, and he made a quiet sound against your lips—surprised, not upset.
The kiss deepened, still calm, still controlled, but unmistakably real.
He pulled back first. Not abruptly—carefully.
Foreheads touching, breath warm.
“Così va bene?” Is this okay? he asked softly.
You smiled. “More than okay.”
He smiled too—small, genuine, a little dazed.
“Bene,” Good. he said, exhaling.
Then, almost amused at himself:
“Ho aspettato troppo.” I waited too long.
You shook your head. “No. You waited right.”
He took your hand as you stood to leave, thumb brushing over your knuckles.
Not possessive. Just present.
As you walked, he said quietly,
“Non dimenticherò questo.” I won’t forget this.
Dating him feels calm in a way that’s almost disorienting at first.
No emotional whiplash. No guessing games.
He texts when he says he will. He shows up early.
“La coerenza è rispetto,” Consistency is respect. he says once.
Being with him feels like standing on solid ground.
He treats you like an equal, not an accessory.
He asks your opinion—on tactics, on life, on stupid things like which restaurant is overrated.
When you disagree, he listens without interrupting.
“Continua,” Go on. he says, hand lifted gently.
You never feel talked over. Ever.
Affection is quiet but constant.
A hand at your lower back in crowds.
Fingers brushing yours when he passes behind you.
He doesn’t perform love—he maintains it.
“Non devo dimostrarlo agli altri,” he murmurs once. (I don’t need to prove it to others.)
He is protective without being possessive.
If someone crosses a line, he steps in calmly.
No raised voice. Just presence.
“Va bene così,” That’s enough. he says firmly, ending conversations.
People listen.
When he gets jealous, it’s subtle—and rare.
He doesn’t snap or accuse.
He goes quiet. Observant.
Later, alone, he admits it plainly.
“Non mi piace come ti guardava,” I didn’t like how he looked at you. he says.
Then, immediately: “Ma è un mio problema, non tuo.” But that’s my issue, not yours.
Jealousy makes him more attentive, not controlling.
He checks in more.
Sits closer.
Asks, “Tutto bene?” Everything okay? with a softness that means more than suspicion.
He never makes you responsible for his insecurity.
Your fights are quiet—and heavy.
No shouting. No insults.
The tension sits between you like a weight.
He struggles most when he feels you’re minimizing yourself.
“Perché ti sminuisci?” Why do you downplay yourself? he asks, frustrated.
That’s when his composure cracks.
The biggest arguments come from opposite coping styles.
You want to talk things through immediately.
He wants time to think.
“Fammi ordinare i pensieri,” Let me organize my thoughts. he insists.
Waiting frustrates you. Rushing overwhelms him.
When he’s hurt, he withdraws—not to punish, but to protect.
Silence is his shield.
But he always comes back. Always.
“Scusa per prima,” Sorry about earlier. he says, meeting your eyes.
He never lets pride win.
Making up is intentional.
He doesn’t smooth things over—he resolves them.
“Cosa possiamo fare meglio?” What can we do better? he asks.
The fight becomes a lesson, not a scar.
Being with him teaches you something unexpected:
Love doesn’t have to be loud to be unshakeable.
Sometimes, it’s steady hands, honest words, and a man who chooses you— every day, on purpose.
He decides he wants to marry you long before he says the word out loud.
It happens quietly, during an unremarkable evening.
You’re both tired. Dinner is simple. You’re talking about something practical—insurance, work schedules, the future in a very unromantic way.
He watches you explain your thoughts carefully, making room for his opinion without shrinking yourself.
Something settles in his chest.
Questa è la persona con cui posso fallire. This is the person I can fail with.
For Marc Snuffy, that certainty is everything.
The moment it becomes non-negotiable is when he imagines life after soccer—and you’re already there.
Not as a question. Not as a hope.
As fact.
One night he says, almost absentmindedly,
“Quando smetterò di giocare…” When I stop playing…
And then pauses, frowns, and corrects himself.
“No. Quando smetteremo di costruire la nostra routine.” No. When we stop building our routine.
He realizes he’s already planning forever.
He doesn’t rush the proposal.
He prepares the same way he prepares for a match—with intention.
He considers timing, pressure, your mental state.
“Deve essere una scelta, non una sorpresa forzata,” It has to be a choice, not a forced surprise. he tells himself.
He asks you to marry him without spectacle.
No crowd. No cameras.
It’s on a walk—your walk—one you’ve taken dozens of times.
He stops, turns to face you fully. Takes both your hands.
“Voglio essere chiaro,” I want to be clear. he says.
His voice is steady, but his thumbs move against your knuckles. Nervous.
“Ti scelgo. Ogni giorno. Anche quando sarà difficile.” I choose you. Every day. Even when it’s hard.
He doesn’t kneel immediately.
He waits until you’re looking at him, fully present.
“Vuoi costruire la tua vita con me?” Do you want to build your life with me?
Only then does he reach into his pocket. Simple ring. Thoughtful. Practical. Perfect.
“Vuoi sposarmi?” Will you marry me?
When you say yes, he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years.
He presses his forehead to yours.
“Grazie per avermi scelto,” Thank you for choosing me. he murmurs.
Your wedding is intentional, warm, and grounded.
No excess. No obligation invites.
People who matter. People who know you.
Italy, of course—but somewhere quiet.
Sunlight. Stone. Olive trees.
He wears his bandana tucked into his jacket pocket, not on his head.
He’s calm the entire day—until he sees you.
Then his composure finally cracks.
His eyes soften. His jaw tightens.
“Sei bellissima,” You’re beautiful. he whispers when you reach him.
It’s the only moment he forgets everything else.
His vows are simple and devastatingly sincere.
“Prometto di non fuggire dal silenzio.” I promise not to run from silence.
“Prometto di proteggere la tua vita, non solo i tuoi sogni.” I promise to protect your life, not just your dreams.
At the reception, he stays close.
Hand on your back. Fingers laced with yours.
No speeches about legacy or glory.
Just gratitude.
“Sono fortunato,” I’m lucky. he tells anyone who listens.
That night, when it’s finally just the two of you, he smiles—soft, satisfied.
Not like a man who’s won something—but like a man who’s exactly where he’s meant to be.
Married life with him is steady, grounding, and quietly intimate.
There’s no dramatic shift after the wedding—just a deepening.
You wake up beside him and feel, very clearly, this is home.
He treats marriage like a partnership, not a finish line.
Shared calendars. Shared decisions. Shared responsibility.
“Siamo una squadra,” We’re a team. he says easily.
Mornings are soft and practical.
He wakes earlier than you most days.
Coffee is already made. Your mug is always the same one.
If you’re still half-asleep, he presses a kiss to your temple instead of waking you.
“Dormi,” Sleep. he murmurs.
He’s more affectionate in private than he ever was in public.
Arms around you while you cook.
Forehead kisses when he passes by.
His hand settles at your waist like it’s muscle memory—because it is.
He doesn’t announce love. He practices it.
Communication becomes even more intentional.
He checks in, especially after hard days.
“Come stai davvero?” How are you really?
He waits for the real answer. He always has time for it.
Disagreements still happen—but they’re handled with care.
He doesn’t raise his voice.
When things get heavy, he suggests pauses instead of distance.
“Torniamo a parlarne tra un’ora,” Let’s come back to this in an hour. he says.
And he means it.
He’s deeply respectful of your independence.
Marriage doesn’t make him clingy.
If anything, it makes him more trusting.
“So chi sei,” I know who you are. he tells you simply.
Jealousy fades into protectiveness.
Not control—awareness.
He stands a little closer in crowds.
Listens a little sharper when someone crosses a line.
You never have to ask him to notice.
He plans for the future constantly—but never alone.
Finances. Health. Life after soccer.
You’re part of every conversation.
“Dimmi cosa vuoi,” Tell me what you want. he says.
And he listens without correcting.
At night, he unwinds with you.
No phone. No noise.
Sometimes you talk. Sometimes you don’t.
His arm around you, thumb tracing slow, absent patterns.
Silence with him feels safe.
On difficult nights, when old scars resurface, he’s honest instead of shutting down.
“Oggi è stato difficile,” Today was hard. he admits.
He leans into you instead of away.
Marriage gives him permission to be human.
Loving him as his wife means being chosen—daily, deliberately, without spectacle.
He doesn’t promise forever loudly.
He shows it, in a thousand small, unbreakable ways.
You tell him your pregnant on an ordinary evening—because that’s how your life together works.
Dinner dishes are still on the counter. He’s reading something on the couch, glasses low on his nose.
You sit beside him, closer than usual.
“Marc,” you say, voice steady but soft.
He looks up immediately. “Dimmi.” Tell me.
You place the test in his hand without ceremony.
“Sono incinta.” I’m pregnant.
His first reaction is silence.
It’s processing.
He stares at the test, then at you, then back again, like confirming a formation on the field.
His jaw tightens. His eyes shine.
“…Davvero?” Really?
When you nod, his breath breaks on the exhale.
He sits the test down carefully, like it’s something sacred.
He pulls you into him—slow, firm, grounding.
One hand cradles the back of your head.
“Grazie,” Thank you. he murmurs into your hair.
Not shock. Not panic. Gratitude.
The emotion hits him in layers.
Pride first.
Awe second.
Fear last—and he doesn’t hide it.
He presses his forehead to yours.
“Ho paura,” I’m scared. he admits quietly.
Then, immediately:
“Ma ci sono. Sempre.” But I’m here. Always.
From that moment on, he shifts into care mode—deliberately.
Not hovering. Not overwhelming.
Intentional.
“Cosa ti serve adesso?” What do you need right now? he asks.
And he waits for your answer.
He becomes obsessively attentive to your well-being.
He researches quietly. Doctors. Nutrition. Rest.
He doesn’t bombard you—he filters information first.
“Questo è utile,” he says, handing you one article.
“Questo no.” This isn’t.
Physically, he’s gentle in a way that’s new even for him.
He walks on the street side of the sidewalk.
Keeps a hand on your back on stairs.
If you wince even slightly, he notices.
“Dimmi dove,” Tell me where. he says instantly.
Emotionally, he anchors you.
On days you feel sick, tired, or overwhelmed, he never minimizes it.
“Il tuo corpo sta lavorando più del mio,” Your body is working harder than mine. he reminds you.
Rest is never framed as weakness.
He talks to the baby before you do.
Late at night. Quietly.
His hand resting on your stomach.
“Ti stiamo aspettando,” We’re waiting for you. he murmurs.
You pretend to be asleep. He knows you’re not.
When anxiety creeps in—for either of you—he names it.
“Non dobbiamo essere perfetti,” We don’t have to be perfect. he says.
Then, softer:
“Solo onesti. E insieme.” Just honest. And together.
Loving you while you’re pregnant looks like this:
Meals adjusted to what you can stomach.
Appointments never missed.
A man who kneels in front of you to tie your shoes without comment.
A hand that never lets go when things feel uncertain.
To him, this isn’t a disruption to his life.
It’s a continuation.
A new role—one he chooses with the same quiet certainty as everything else.
“Prima di tutto,” First and foremost, he says one night, holding you close,
“sei tu. Poi il nostro bambino.” it’s you. Then our child.
[REQUESTS OPEN!!!]
Who's next?
Noel Noa
Chris Prince
Julien Loki
•Masterlist•
©an1m320v3r
Hands you the perfect Krabby Patty for making this piece of art:
OMG! Thank youuuuu
And it came with a Krabby Patty.
Dreams really do come true.
I am the anon who said I'm going to steal your toes. I have not read the other characters yet. But the ending angst hurt. Bc how is he ever gonna find out he has a child??? I read Reos and that was amazing. But my little strawberry boy. 🥺. I should read Ness and kaisers. It's pain after pain with chigiri ending 🥲
You came back!👀 Hiiii
Your first message had me cackling! And when I saw this one I nearly choked on my coffee (Not necessarily from what you said, but the fact that you came back)
But if your coming for my toes after the Chigiri fic— then I don't want to know what's going to happen after you read the rest.🫣 Personally I thought that Chigiri's fic was bittersweet and not that angsty.
Your going to have to stay tuned to so how or if he ever meets his child.
But go read the rest and lmk what you thought!
https://vt.tiktok.com/ZSxwCpbL5/
Chigiriiii <3
My next fic:
Pick! :)
Hyoma Chigari - You Have My Eyes Pt. 2
Reo Mikage - You Have My Eyes Pt. 4
Micheal Kaiser -You Have My Eyes Pt. 3
Oliver Aiku - You Have My Eyes - Spin off piece
Yoichi Isagi - Lost In Translation
Bunny Iglesias - Lost In Translation
Eita Otoya - Her Dad, My Heart
Charles Chevalier - In Every Version Of Us Pt. 3
I've been jumping between most of these, which one should I give more attention too?
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
hola!! are there any updates for part 3 of You Have My Eyes - Michael Kaiser? thank you 🥲👉👈 it was sooo nice & i rlly loved it!
Uhmmm...
My planning for the fic is mostly done, so currently, I'm still in the writing process.
But the other day, I talked to the boyfriend about the fic to ask for his opinions and such. Let's just say he helped me realize new possibilities and the fact that not all my fics have to end the same way.
Do what you will with that information✌️
Hii i just read the, "You have my eyes" with chigiri. And all i can say is. If u dont make a part two with a happy ending at some point. I'm going to come for ur doorknob, and your toes.
MY TOES?! 😭 And here I thought Chigiri’s fic was sunshine and rainbows compared to the others. Have you read the ones I wrote for Alexis Ness and Michael Kaiser?
Could you write another 'You have my eyes' but with Hyoma and a little girl please? If you can - love your writing lovey! 💞😽
You Have My Eyes
The first time you met Hyoma Chigiri, he almost ran you over. Not with a car. With himself.
It had been one of those evenings where the air still carried the warmth of the day, the sun hanging low enough to paint everything gold. You were cutting through the public athletics track on your way home, taking the shortcut you always took when you couldn't be bothered to walk around the sports grounds.
Your earbuds were in. Music humming softly. Your attention split between the path ahead and the messages on your phone. The track wasn't particularly busy. A few joggers. A couple of teenagers kicking a football near the fence. The distant whistle of a coach somewhere beyond the bleachers. Normal. Quiet. Then suddenly—
Something moved. Fast. A flash of red. No, pink?
Before your brain could properly register it, a powerful gust of wind rushed past your shoulder. You startled so violently your foot caught against the edge of the pavement.
"What the—" The words barely left your mouth.
The blur had already disappeared halfway down the track. For a moment you simply stood there, staring. Then the figure slowed. One lap farther ahead, he gradually came to a stop near the bend. Hands braced against his hips. Chest rising and falling steadily. Even from a distance, he didn't look exhausted. Just warming up.
The setting sun caught against his hair first. Long strands of reddish-pink swayed behind him, escaping from a loose tie. The colour looked almost unreal beneath the evening light, vibrant enough to stand out against the muted tones of the track. Then he turned. And you forgot entirely about nearly getting flattened. Because the guy was unfairly attractive. Sharp enough to catch your attention. Soft enough to keep it. Long lashes framed striking pink eyes. His features were delicate in a way that should have made him look gentle, yet there was something undeniably athletic about him. Every movement carried confidence. Like he belonged exactly where he was. Like running that fast was the most natural thing in the world.
You realized you were staring. Unfortunately, so did he. His gaze met yours across the track. Then, to your horror, he pointed directly at you.
"You looked terrified."
You blinked. "What?"
He laughed. The sound carried surprisingly well across the distance.
"You." He gestured again. "You looked terrified."
You scoffed. "I thought a sports car just passed me."
The corner of his mouth twitched. Then his smile widened. And that smile—That smile changed everything. The intimidating athlete vanished. In his place was someone mischievous. Someone entirely too aware of his own charm. "Oh?" he said, walking closer. "Then my training must be paying off."
You stared at him. He stared right back. Neither of you looked away. Up close, he was even worse. Beautiful, really. The kind of beautiful that felt rude. You hated that your first thought was wow.
"You're insane."
His grin only widened. "I get that a lot."
"I almost died."
"You did not."
"You appeared out of nowhere."
"I've been running laps for twenty minutes."
"Well excuse me for not expecting a human bullet."
That earned another laugh. One that seemed genuine. Easy. Like laughing came naturally to him. For some reason, that surprised you more than his speed.
The conversation should have ended there. Normally it would have. A stranger. A few jokes. Then both of you move on with your lives. Instead, you found yourself standing there talking. About running. About the track. About why anyone would willingly sprint for fun. He informed you that your opinion on athletics was offensive. You informed him that willingly suffering wasn't a hobby. He informed you that sitting around reading books wasn't exactly thrilling either. You demanded to know how he knew you read books. He pointed at the novel sticking out of your bag. You called him annoying. He looked entirely too pleased by that.
Eventually your phone buzzed. Reality returned. You had somewhere to be. He had training to finish. The conversation ended as abruptly as it had started. You learned his name. Hyoma. Just Hyoma. He learned yours. And somehow that felt sufficient. No more information exchanged. No promises to meet again. Just a casual wave before he jogged back toward the track. You genuinely assumed that was the end of it.
Then the next evening, he was there again. This time he spotted you first.
"There you are." As if he had been expecting you. As if seeing each other again was the most natural thing in the world. You ended up talking for ten minutes. The evening after that became twenty. Then thirty.
You would cut through the athletics grounds. Hyoma would be finishing training. One of you would start a conversation. The other would stay.
The track became familiar. The smell of rubber and fresh-cut grass. The rhythmic pounding of runners' feet. The orange glow of sunset spilling across empty lanes. You learned that Hyoma was competitive about everything. You learned he was sarcastic. That he rolled his eyes constantly. That he could go from completely relaxed to intensely focused in a heartbeat. That despite appearing effortless, he worked harder than anyone you'd ever met.
One evening you found yourselves sitting on the bleachers after practice. A convenience-store bag rested between you. You had bought drinks. He had bought snacks.
Without discussion, everything became communal. The sky overhead glowed with streaks of gold and pink. The track below sat mostly empty now. The world felt quieter. Smaller. Comfortable.
Hyoma leaned back against the metal bench, long legs stretched out in front of him. You stole one of his snacks. He complained. Then immediately stole yours. The argument lasted all of thirty seconds.
When it ended, neither of you could stop smiling. The next—
"I'm leaving at the end of the month."
You nearly choked on your drink. "What?"
Hyoma didn't even look up from where he was unwrapping a piece of candy. "I'm only here temporarily." His tone remained maddeningly calm. Matter-of-fact. As though he'd just informed you that tomorrow's weather forecast predicted rain.
You stared. The words took a moment to settle. Leaving? The end of the month? That was only a few weeks away. For some reason, you hadn't considered that possibility. You didn't know much about Hyoma, if you were being honest. Not really. But somehow, despite knowing so little, you'd unconsciously started assuming he'd simply... continue being there. Apparently not.
Hyoma stretched his legs out in front of him, leaning back against the metal bench. "I've got overseas training after this."
The breeze shifted, stirring loose strands of reddish-pink hair around his shoulders. The setting sun caught against them, turning them almost copper. You hated how unfairly pretty he looked while casually dropping this information.
"Overseas?" you repeated.
"Mm."
"And you're just saying this now?"
"I am."
You stared harder. He stared right back. Completely unbothered. Honestly, it was impressive.
"Do you tell everyone this immediately?"
One corner of his mouth lifted.
"No."
"Then why tell me?"
His gaze shifted toward the track for a moment. Runners moved below, their footsteps echoing faintly through the cooling evening air. Then he looked back.
"Because I plan on spending time with you."
Your heart immediately betrayed you. A single stupid flutter. You hated it. You hated it even more because he wasn't flirting. Hyoma wasn't the type to play games. Everything about him was painfully straightforward. If he wanted something, he said it. If he thought something, he said that too.
You quickly looked away. Trying—and failing—to ignore the warmth suddenly spreading across your face.
"That's a weird thing to say."
"It isn't."
"It kind of is."
"It isn't."
"You sound very confident about that."
"I am."
Of course he was. You rolled your eyes dramatically.
"You're impossible."
"I've heard that before."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
You glanced over. Unfortunately, Hyoma looked completely sincere. Not teasing. Not smirking. Just watching you with that calm certainty that seemed to define everything he did. The same certainty that probably let him sprint toward impossible goals without questioning whether he'd succeed. The same certainty that made him look at a future overseas and simply accept it. Like there was never another option. You looked away first. Again.
"Well," you said, trying for casual and failing miserably, "what if I decide you're annoying and stop hanging out with you next week?"
A laugh escaped him. Soft. Amused. Hyoma shook his head. "You won't."
You immediately frowned. "The confidence is unbelievable."
"It isn't confidence."
"Then what is it?"
His smile appeared slowly. "I know you."
The answer landed somewhere directly beneath your ribs. Because somehow, despite only knowing him for a bit more than a week... He kind of did. And the worst part? The absolutely infuriating part? You knew he was right. Next week would come. And you'd still take the shortcut through the athletics grounds. You'd still glance toward the track. You'd still look for a flash of pink hair racing around the bend.
Because somewhere between almost getting run over and sharing convenience-store snacks beneath sunset skies, Hyoma Chigiri had quietly become someone you looked forward to seeing.
The agreement formed naturally. A quiet understanding. A month. That's all this was. A handful of sunsets. Then Hyoma would leave. And life would continue. Simple. Reasonable. Safe. No promises. No expectations. No plans for what came after. You wouldn't ask him to stay. He wouldn't ask you to wait. The finish line already existed.
Maybe that's why neither of you were afraid to keep showing up. Because there was an expiration date attached to everything.
At first it felt harmless. Maybe because neither of you were treating it like something important. Just two people with time to kill. The city became your playground.
One day it was street food stalls tucked between crowded alleyways, both of you arguing over which vendor made the best skewers. Another day it was wandering through night markets lit by strings of warm lights, weaving through crowds while Hyoma somehow managed to attract attention everywhere he went without trying. Or maybe he was trying. You never could figured that out.
There were bookstores. Tiny cafés. A second-hand record shop neither of you knew anything about. You spent nearly forty minutes inside anyway. Hyoma picked up random albums and judged them entirely based on cover art. You informed him that wasn't how music worked. He informed you that if people didn't want to be judged by the cover, they should have made a better cover. You left before the store owner could kick him out.
Slowly, you learned things about him. Little things. The important things. Like how he loved novels and always carried one in his bag. How he got strangely passionate during arguments. How he could be incredibly laid-back right until competition entered the picture. Then all common sense disappeared.
One evening, while wandering through an arcade, you challenged him to a game of air hockey. Mostly because you thought it would be funny. It was. Just not for the reason you expected. You won. Barely. The puck slipped past his defense during the final seconds. The machine flashed your victory. You cheered. Hyoma stared at the scoreboard. Silent. Motionless. Then he pointed at the table. "Again."
You laughed. "No way."
"Again."
"You lost."
"It was luck."
"It was skill."
"It was luck."
"It was skill."
His eyes narrowed. "Again." So you played again. And won. Again. This time by two points. Hyoma looked so offended.
The third game somehow went even worse. You beat him again. By then he was standing with his sleeves pushed up and the intensity of someone preparing for a championship match.
Across the table, children were winning stuffed animals and couples were taking photos in photobooths. Meanwhile Hyoma looked ready to declare war.
"One more."
"You said that last time."
"This one counts."
"They all counted."
"They clearly didn't."
You laughed so hard you nearly missed the opening shot. By the fourth game, Hyoma was glaring at the table itself. As if the machine had betrayed him.
"You are taking this way too seriously."
"I'm taking it exactly seriously enough."
"It's air hockey."
"It's competition."
The response came so quickly you almost choked. You doubled over laughing. The kind that made your stomach hurt. The kind that made tears gather in your eyes. Across from you, Hyoma looked deeply unimpressed. Which only made it worse.
"You've lost four times."
"Three."
"Four."
"The fourth game isn't over."
"You're losing by six."
His jaw tightened. "It can recover."
You laughed harder. A nearby kid laughed too. Hyoma looked genuinely wounded.
For the next ten minutes he attempted to recover what remained of his dignity. Unfortunately, every time he tried to explain why the losses didn't count, he somehow made himself sound worse. And for the first time since you'd met him, the unbeatable athlete who could outrun almost anyone looked completely, hilariously defeated. You would never let him forget it.
About eight days later.
The rooftop bar sat high above the city, tucked between office buildings and apartment towers. Music drifted softly from hidden speakers. Glasses clinked. People laughed at nearby tables. Far below, headlights flowed through the streets like rivers of light. The entire city glittered beneath the summer night.You should have been paying attention to the view.
Instead, you were watching Hyoma. Again. Across from you, he was halfway through explaining something about football. Something important. You assumed. His hands moved as he spoke. His eyes were bright. Animated. Every now and then a smile would appear when he talked about a goal he'd achieved or something he still wanted to accomplish. And that was the problem. You'd always known he was attractive. Anyone with functioning eyesight knew that. But this was different. Because it wasn't his face that had your attention.
It was the way he lit up when he talked about his future. The way his entire posture changed. The certainty in his voice. The ambition. The absolute conviction that he was going to become something extraordinary. You couldn't stop watching. At some point you completely lost track of whatever he was saying. Words became background noise. You were too busy staring. Unfortunately, Hyoma was observant. Mid-sentence, he stopped. "What?"
You blinked. "What?"
His eyes narrowed. "You've been staring at me."
"No, I haven't."
"You absolutely have."
You took a sip of your drink. A terrible attempt at distraction.
"I was listening."
"Liar."
"I was."
"What did I just say?"
"..."
His eyebrow lifted.
You sighed. "I don't know."
"I know." A grin tugged at his mouth.
"You haven't heard a single word I've said for the last five minutes."
"That's not true."
"It is."
"It might be a little true."
"A little?"
You laughed. He shook his head. And suddenly something shifted. The music seemed quieter. The city lights softer. The conversation fading around the edges.
Neither of you looked away. For a moment, nobody spoke. His gaze lingered. Then his eyes flicked briefly to your mouth. Back to your eyes. A tiny movement. Your heart stumbled. The corner of his mouth twitched. Slowly, Hyoma leaned forward. An invitation. A question. His movements were careful. Giving you every opportunity to stop him. Every opportunity to pull away. You didn't.
The distance disappeared. The kiss was soft. Unexpectedly so. No urgency. Just curiosity. Warmth. The simple realization of oh. So that's what this is. The world seemed to pause for a second. Or maybe that was just your imagination. Either way, when he pulled back, neither of you spoke. The city returned gradually. You stared at each other. Breathing. Processing. Trying and failing to look unaffected.
Hyoma was the first to break. "Well."
You laughed immediately. A nervous little sound. "Well."
He rubbed the back of his neck. Something you had noticed he did whenever he felt awkward. Which wasn't often.
"We probably should've expected that."
The seriousness of his tone made it infinitely worse. You burst out laughing. Actually laughing. Head dropping forward. Across from you, Hyoma stared for exactly three seconds before he started laughing too.
The two of you sat there beneath the city lights, laughing over the most predictable first kiss in human history. Neither of you mentioned that it had only taken eight days. Neither of you mentioned that it probably should have happened sooner.
After that, everything accelerated. Like both of you had spent the past week pretending not to notice what was happening between you. And now there was no reason to pretend anymore. The affection that had been hiding beneath every conversation suddenly had somewhere to go.
There were late-night walks through streets glowing with neon signs and streetlamps. The kind where conversations drifted from serious to ridiculous without warning. One minute discussing dreams. The next arguing over whether cereal counted as soup. Your shoulders brushed. Then stayed touching.
Eventually, his hand found yours. As though it had always belonged there. Neither of you made a big deal out of it. Hyoma simply intertwined your fingers with his and kept walking. You never let go.
There were movie nights that barely qualified as movie nights. Entire films passed without either of you remembering the plot. Hyoma would make sarcastic comments throughout the first twenty minutes. You'd tell him to be quiet. He'd tell you the movie was bad anyway. Then somehow you'd both end up talking instead. By the time the credits rolled, neither of you knew what had happened on screen. Not that either of you cared.
There were mornings spent in cafés before training. Coffee warming your hands while Hyoma complained about his schedule.
"You chose this."
"I know."
"So stop acting surprised."
"I'm not surprised."
"You've been complaining for ten minutes."
"I'm expressing frustration."
"You're complaining."
"They're different."
"They're literally the same thing."
Hyoma glared into his coffee. You laughed. He stole one of your pastries in retaliation. There were afternoons where he dragged you to training facilities because apparently your hobbies weren't active enough.
"You spend too much time inside."
"I go outside."
"Walking to bookstores doesn't count."
"It counts."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because you immediately go back inside another building."
"That's still outside."
"It isn't."
"It literally is."
Hyoma shook his head. The expression on his face suggested he was losing faith in humanity.
"You're impossible."
"Yet here you are."
He couldn't even argue with that. The teasing never stopped. If anything, it became worse. Every conversation somehow turned into an argument. Just the kind that made both of you laugh.
"You are unbelievably dramatic."
"I'm not dramatic."
"You just spent ten minutes explaining why a football formation personally offended you."
"Because it was stupid."
"That sounds dramatic."
"It's not dramatic if I'm right."
"That's not how that works."
"It's exactly how it works."
You snorted. Across the table, Hyoma pointed at you. "You're dramatic."
"That doesn't even make sense."
"It makes enough sense."
"No, it doesn't."
"It does to me."
"That's concerning."
He smiled. That slow, satisfied smile that always appeared when he knew he was winning. Even when he absolutely wasn't. And somewhere in the middle of all of it, you stopped counting the days.
At least for a while. Because it was easy to forget. Easy to get caught up in stolen kisses, shared coffee, and endless conversations. Easy to pretend there wasn't a deadline waiting at the end of all this. Easy to look at Hyoma sitting beside you and think only about the present.
Until every now and then, you'd catch sight of a plane crossing the sky. Or hear him mention overseas training. And the reality would return. The clock was still ticking. Neither of you talked about it. But both of you heard it.
Sometimes the attraction deepened into something quieter. More private. There were evenings that ended with neither of you wanting to say goodnight. One movie becoming another. One kiss becoming several. The clock creeping past midnight unnoticed.
Eventually, one of you would glance at the time and realize neither of you had any intention of leaving. There were hotel rooms after long days exploring the city. His apartment, where football boots were somehow always in the way. Your apartment, where he constantly complained that your blankets were too small despite stealing most of them.
Doors locked. Phones ignored. The rest of the world left outside for a few precious hours. Neither of you talked much during those moments. You didn't need to. The attraction between you had stopped being something either of you could joke away. It lived in lingering touches. In the way his hand settled automatically at your waist. In the way he looked at you when he thought you weren't paying attention. In the way every goodbye seemed to take longer than the one before. But afterward was always your favorite part. The rare moments when Hyoma stopped moving. Stopped chasing.
Tonight, he was sprawled across the bed beside you, one arm tucked beneath his head. The sheets were tangled. The room was dark except for the city lights filtering through the curtains. His hair was a complete mess. Long reddish strands scattered across the pillow. You knew he would complain about it later. He was annoyingly particular about his hair. For now, though, he was too comfortable to care. His eyes were half-closed. His breathing slow. Sleep tugging at the edges of him.
And somehow, in moments like this, he always looked younger. Softer. Less like the athlete everyone admired. Less like the person chasing impossible dreams across countries and continents. Just a twenty-something year old who was exhausted and pretending he wasn't. You traced absent-minded circles along his forearm. His skin warmed beneath your fingertips.
For a while neither of you spoke. The silence felt comfortable. Familiar. His hand found yours beneath the blankets. Fingers intertwining lazily. The city glowed outside the window. The clock continued ticking toward the end of the month. But in that moment, with Hyoma warm beside you and his hand tangled with yours, it was easy to pretend time wasn't moving at all.
You went dancing once. Calling it dancing was generous. Neither of you knew what you were doing. Hyoma had rhythm. You had enthusiasm. Together, it somehow balanced out.
The music was loud enough to rattle your ribs, lights flashing across crowded bodies packed shoulder to shoulder. At some point, both of you gave up trying to look cool. Which was exactly when it became fun. You laughed. He laughed. You stepped on his foot. He accused you of attempted murder. You informed him that athletes healed faster. He spent the rest of the night dramatically limping whenever you looked at him.
You went to bars. Tiny places tucked down side streets. Rooftop places overlooking the city. Places neither of you remembered the names of afterward.
You shared drinks. Stole sips from each other's glasses. Talked until staff started stacking chairs around you. Conversations drifted endlessly. Books. Music. Childhood stories. Dreams. Fears. The kind of things people usually took months to share. Maybe because you both knew time was limited. Maybe because pretending felt pointless.
Some nights ended with no destination at all. Just walking. Wandering. Following whatever street looked interesting. Eventually, watching the sunrise became a habit. The city looked different before dawn. Like the world hadn't fully woken up yet.
One morning, after being awake for far too long, you somehow ended up sitting on a nearly empty beach. Neither of you could remember how. There had been a convenience store somewhere. Bad decisions. Terrible sandwiches. And now you were here. The sky glowed pale gold at the horizon. Waves rolled lazily onto shore. A cool breeze carried the scent of salt through the air.
Beside you, Hyoma sat with his knees drawn up slightly, one arm draped across them. His hair danced wildly in the wind. The rising sun painted faint gold through the reddish strands. For once, he wasn't talking. He looked exhausted. You watched him for a moment. Then nudged his shoulder. "What are you thinking about?"
For a while, he didn't answer. The silence stretched. Waves breaking against the shore. Seagulls calling somewhere overhead. The distant hum of a city beginning to wake. Then—
"I think I'm scared."
You turned immediately. That answer surprised you. "Of what?"
His eyes remained fixed on the ocean. The horizon. Something far beyond it. "Not making it."
The words were quiet. Barely louder than the waves. You looked at him. Really looked at him. At the uncertainty hidden beneath years of confidence. At the pressure he carried every day. The impossible standard he held himself to. The dream he had built his entire life around. It would've been easy to reassure him. Easy to tell him he'd succeed. That he was talented. That he'd be fine. Most people probably would have. But Hyoma didn't need empty comfort.
So instead you said: "Then be scared."
His head turned. "What?"
"Be scared."
He frowned. Clearly not following. You nudged his shoulder again. Gentler this time. "People who care about something are always scared." His expression softened slightly. You continued.
"If you weren't scared, it would mean you didn't care whether you succeeded." The breeze swept between you. "You want this." You looked out at the ocean too. "So of course you're terrified."
Silence settled again. Long. Comfortable. The kind that didn't need filling. Eventually, Hyoma let out a small breath. Almost a laugh. Almost not. Then he smiled. Not the teasing grin. The kind of smile that appeared when his guard slipped.
His hand found yours in the sand. Warm fingers threading through yours. Then he squeezed. Once. A silent thank you.
The sun finally broke over the horizon. Golden light spilled across the water.
By the third week, the countdown had stopped feeling theoretical. Because somewhere along the way, the arrangement stopped feeling temporary. The rules hadn't changed. Neither of you had broken the agreement. A month. No promises. No future. No expectations. But feelings didn't care about rules. They slipped through cracks.
Until suddenly they were everywhere. You noticed it first in crowds. You'd enter a room and immediately look for him. The moment you found him, something inside you relaxed. That realization terrified you.
You started noticing other things too. How easily his laugh could improve your mood. How often you reached for your phone to tell him something stupid. How every funny story became something you wanted to share with him first. And perhaps worst of all—How quiet everything felt when he wasn't there. Just... off. Like a song missing part of its melody. Like a sentence ending too early.
Sometimes you'd catch him looking at you. His expression unreadable. Thoughtful. Like he was trying to solve something. Like he was standing at the edge of a thought he didn't quite want to have. Whenever you noticed, he'd immediately look away. Or start talking about something else. Or make a sarcastic comment. Anything to redirect attention.
The days continued shrinking. Three weeks became two. Two became one. Suddenly there weren't endless tomorrows anymore. There were numbers.
Three days left. You found yourself counting without meaning to.
Two days. You woke up with the thought already sitting heavy in your chest.
One. One day. One last sunset. One last breakfast. One last walk. The countdown attached itself to everything. Every laugh. Every touch. Every kiss. Neither of you talked about it. You both pretended things were normal.
A tension lived beneath everything now. Like holding water in your hands and knowing it was slipping through your fingers. One moment there had been a month ahead of you. The next, there was barely any time left at all.
So you did what people often do when faced with an ending they don't want. You ignored it. You laughed harder. Held each other longer. Pretended tomorrow wasn't coming.
The night before he left felt unreal. Outside the window, the city shimmered beneath the darkness. Streetlights glowed. Cars drifted through distant roads like rivers of gold. Somewhere beyond the apartment building, music floated faintly through the warm night air. The world continued moving. People continued living. Yet everything beyond those walls felt impossibly far away. Like the rest of the city had stepped back and left the two of you alone.
Neither of you mentioned tomorrow. Neither of you acknowledged the suitcase sitting by the front door. Instead, you talked. For hours. About everything. About nothing.
Hyoma admitted he still believed he'd become one of the best players in the world. The certainty in his voice hadn't changed since the day you'd met him. You smiled. "I'd be disappointed if you believed anything less."
That earned a laugh. One of those softer laughs. The kind that only appeared when he was tired. The kind reserved for quiet moments and lowered defenses. The kind very few people got to hear.
Hours passed unnoticed. The clock continued moving. Neither of you looked at it. Neither of you wanted to know what time it was. Because every glance would only confirm the same thing. There wasn't enough of it left. Eventually, words became unnecessary.
The conversation slowed. Then faded. Until silence settled comfortably between you. You sat together on the couch. Close enough that there was no space left between your bodies. Foreheads resting together. Eyes closed. Breathing the same air. Neither of you asleep. Neither of you speaking. Holding onto something that had never belonged to either of you in the first place. The closeness felt different that night.
Because what hurt wasn't that the night was ending. What hurt was knowing there would be a tomorrow. And tomorrow would take him away anyway.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. Then Hyoma tilted his head slightly. His nose brushed yours. A small thing. Barely noticeable. Yet your chest tightened instantly.
You opened your eyes. He was already looking at you. The city lights reflected faintly in deep pink irises. For once, there was no teasing. No sarcasm. No attempt to lighten the mood. Just him. Looking at you like he was trying to memorize every detail. Then he kissed you. Slowly. Not rushed. A continuation of every moment that had come before it.
One kiss became another. The conversation disappeared somewhere between them. Words becoming touches. Touches becoming something softer. Something more intimate. Neither of you said stay. Neither of you said don't go. But there were other ways people held on to each other. Other ways people tried to make a moment last. Other ways people said goodbye.
Hours later, the apartment had gone completely quiet. The city lights painted pale gold across the ceiling. The blankets were tangled. A discarded shirt lay abandoned somewhere near the foot of the bed. Neither of you had bothered to pick it up. For a long time, you simply lay there together. The air carried the lingering warmth of shared skin. The kind of warmth that only existed after hours spent wrapped around another person.
Outside, the city continued breathing. Inside, everything felt still.
You rested against him, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear. One of his arms was draped loosely around your waist. His fingers traced absent patterns against your side. Neither of you spoke. There was nothing left to say.
Eventually, you felt him shift slightly. A hand rose to your face. Your eyes opened. He was already watching you. His hair was a mess now. Long pink strands falling across his forehead and into his eyes. The carefully composed athlete had disappeared somewhere during the night.
His fingers slipped through a loose strand of your hair before tucking it carefully behind your ear. The gesture was so small. So simple. Yet it nearly broke your heart. Because it felt deliberate. Like he was trying to memorize you. Every detail. Something to carry with him when you became a memory instead of a person. Your chest tightened painfully.
For one dangerous moment, the words sat right there.
Balanced on the tip of your tongue.
Stay.
It would've been easy.
One word.
One request.
One selfish attempt to hold onto something slipping away.
You almost said it. Almost. But you didn't. Because you knew what his dream meant to him. You knew how hard he had worked for it. You knew asking him to stay would never be fair. And perhaps most importantly— You knew some things were beautiful precisely because they couldn't last. Some moments existed only for a season. Some people entered your life for a chapter instead of the whole story. And trying to force them to remain often destroyed the very thing you loved about them.
So instead, you reached for his hand beneath the blankets. His fingers immediately intertwined with yours.
The next morning came anyway. Cruel thing. Morning always does. The sunlight arrived first. Slipping through the curtains. Turning everything gold. Making the apartment look painfully ordinary. As if it hadn't just held one of the most important months of your life.
For a few moments, neither of you moved. Eventually, reality won. It always did. The morning passed too quickly after that. Coffee. Quiet conversation. Long pauses. The strange awareness that every mundane thing was becoming a last. The last cup of coffee. The last joke. The last time hearing his laugh from across the room. Then suddenly there were no more things left to delay.
Only goodbye.
Outside the apartment building, the city was already awake. People hurried down sidewalks. Cars rolled through intersections. Life continued as if nothing important was happening.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The words felt too small. Too inadequate for everything the month had become.
Then Hyoma stepped forward. And wrapped his arms around you. You immediately held him back. Tightly. The hug lasted longer than either of you intended. Long enough that letting go started feeling impossible. You could feel his heartbeat. Feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing. Feel how reluctant he was to pull away. Just like you.
Eventually, though, he did. Slowly. Reluctantly. The space between you returned. And suddenly it felt enormous.
Hyoma looked at you for a moment. Really looked. As if committing you to memory one final time. Then he smiled. The smile from the track. The one that had appeared after he'd nearly run you over. The smile that had started everything. The smile that made him look impossible. Your chest tightened.
"Take care." His voice was steady.
Yours almost wasn't. "You too."
For a second, neither of you moved. Then Hyoma nodded once. A small gesture. Simple. Final.
And before either of you could change your minds, he turned. And walked away. No looking back. Just forward. The way he'd always done everything. Toward the next goal.
You stood there watching. Watching the familiar pink hair disappear farther into the crowd. Watching the distance grow. Watching until he became another stranger among strangers. Until eventually the city swallowed him whole. And there was nothing left to see.
Silence settled around you. For a moment, the ache arrived. Sharp. Heavy. The kind that sat directly behind your ribs. The kind that made breathing feel different. You let yourself feel it. Just for a moment. Then something unexpected happened.
You smiled. Small. Bittersweet. Because despite everything... You couldn't regret it. Not a single second. Not the track. Not the rooftop bar. Not the sunrises. Not the arguments. Not the late-night conversations. Not him.
For one impossible month, life had felt different. Brighter. Larger. Like the universe had briefly decided to be kind. And maybe that was enough. Maybe some people weren't meant to stay forever. Maybe some stories weren't meant to become lifelong romances. Maybe some chapters existed simply because they were beautiful while they lasted. A fairy tale didn't stop being magical because it ended. It became a memory. And memories, sometimes, lasted longer than anything else.
So you took one final look at the crowd. At the place where Hyoma Chigiri had disappeared. Then you turned. And walked forward too. Carrying an impossible month with you.
About six weeks later, you threw up in the parking lot of a grocery store. At first, you blamed the coffee. Then stress. Then the fact that you'd barely been sleeping properly lately.
Life had returned to normal after Hyoma left. Or at least, it had pretended to. Back to routines. Back to ordinary days.
But grief had a strange way of lingering. It settled into quiet moments. Into empty evenings. Into the instinctive urge to send someone a message before remembering they were halfway across the world.
So when the exhaustion started, you blamed grief. When your appetite changed, you blamed grief. When you started feeling nauseous in the mornings, you blamed grief. Apparently, grief wasn't the problem.
The positive test sat on the bathroom counter. Unmoving. Silent. Life-altering. You stared at it. Then stared some more. Certain it would somehow change if you looked long enough. It didn't. The small room suddenly felt too warm. Too quiet.
You sat down heavily on the edge of the bathtub. One hand covering your mouth. The other gripping the pregnancy test so tightly your knuckles hurt. Pregnant. The word echoed strangely inside your head. Pregnant. Not possible. Except apparently very possible.
A nervous laugh escaped you. Then another. Halfway to tears. Halfway to disbelief. Because this hadn't been part of the plan. None of this had been part of the plan. A month-long romance wasn't supposed to end like this.
You and Hyoma had existed inside a beautiful, temporary chapter. And somehow that chapter had left something behind. Your hand drifted unconsciously toward your stomach. Nothing had changed yet. But suddenly everything felt different.
A hundred thoughts crashed into each other. Fear. Shock. Confusion. Practical concerns. Questions. So many questions.
You sat there for almost an hour. Thinking. Crying a little. Laughing once because the entire situation felt absurd.
And somewhere during that hour, one thing became clear. You weren't upset. Overwhelmed? Absolutely. Terrified? A little. Maybe a lot. But upset? No.
Because Hyoma hadn't abandoned you. He hadn't lied. Hadn't made promises he couldn't keep. From the very beginning, he'd been honest. A month. Then he'd leave. That had always been the deal. And now?
Now he was chasing the dream he'd talked about every single day. The dream that lit up his entire face whenever he spoke about it. The dream he'd sacrificed years of his life for.
You could still picture it. That certainty. That determination. The absolute conviction that football was where he belonged. And you couldn't bring yourself to interrupt that. Not when he was finally living the future he'd worked so hard to reach.
Slowly, your gaze lowered to the test again. Then to your stomach. Your chest tightened unexpectedly. Not with fear this time. Something else. Something softer. A small smile appeared before you even realized it. Trembling. Uncertain. Because despite the shock...
Despite how impossible this was...
Despite everything...
A tiny piece of him was still here.
The month had ended. The fairy tale had ended. Hyoma had walked away and disappeared into a crowd. Yet somehow, a part of him remained. Not as a memory. Not as a photograph. Not as a message saved on your phone. Something real. Something alive.
Your smile widened slightly as tears gathered in your eyes. "Hi," you whispered quietly to the empty bathroom. Or maybe not to the empty bathroom. Your hand rested gently against your stomach.
And for the first time since he'd left, the ache in your chest felt a little different. A little less like loss. A little more like hope. You still missed him. You suspected you always would. But sitting there on the bathroom floor, staring at two pink lines that would change everything, you realized something unexpected. The fairy tale hadn't disappeared completely. It had simply left you with its most precious souvenir.
[You Have My Eyes Series] I'm loving this one. I can't believe it's already June. Taglist: @suckingsaesdihh @shorttiredasian @maryj0yy @shezuannn Lmk if I missed or if you want me to add you <3
i wanted to know if you were gonna finish the “you have my eyes” series? If so pls add me to the tag list🙏
Hi. I would love to add you, but... who are you?
You Have My Eyes Pt.3
[You Have My Eyes Series] [Part 2] Nagi adjusted the convenience store bag in one hand while Reiji tightened his grip slightly around his fingers.
“Nervous?” Nagi asked absently.
Reiji thought very seriously about it.
“…Little.”
“That’s fair.”
Then Nagi walked forward and knocked once against the apartment door. Silence. A few seconds passed. Then footsteps approached slowly from inside. Reiji looked up curiously. Nagi stared ahead blankly. The lock clicked.
And the door opened.
Reo Mikage looked tired.
The kind of exhaustion that settles into someone slowly over years until it starts living behind their eyes permanently. Like sleep no longer touched it. Like rest stopped reaching the parts of him that actually hurt. His hair was messy in a careless way that immediately told Nagi he’d been running frustrated hands through it for hours. Reading glasses sat crookedly in pale purple strands, forgotten there entirely. Grey sweatpants hung low on his hips, compression shirt clinging tightly to broad shoulders.
For one brief second, something unpleasant twisted in Nagi’s chest seeing him like this. Because this wasn’t the polished version the world saw. Not the smiling athlete from interviews. Not the composed heir everyone expected. This was just Reo. Alone. Looking like he hadn’t slept properly in years. He blinked slowly at Seishiro Nagi from the doorway, confusion softening the sharp exhaustion in his face.
“Nagi?” His voice sounded rough with sleep and disorientation. “What are you doing her—”
Then he noticed the child standing beside him. The silence that followed didn’t feel normal. Reiji stood half-hidden behind Nagi’s leg, tiny fingers gripping the fabric of his hoodie while staring upward openly at the stranger in front of him. And Reo stared back. At first, it was only confusion.
Reo’s eyes flicked automatically over the child in quick observation — little sneakers, dinosaur hoodie, tiny hand clutching crackers. Then they landed on his face. And stayed there. Something in Reo’s expression changed instantly. Like his brain had abruptly stopped moving. Because the resemblance was immediate. It looked like someone had taken Reo’s face and softened it carefully into something smaller. Younger. Rounder with baby fat still lingering in his cheeks. Purple eyes staring into identical purple eyes. Same lashes. Same mouth. Even the slight tilt of Reiji’s head while he studied people looked horrifyingly familiar. Reo went completely motionless.Nagi actually saw realization beginning to flicker slowly behind his eyes. Confusion first. Then disbelief. Then something far more dangerous. Panic.
“Nagi,” Reo said slowly, carefully, like speaking too fast might somehow change reality, “whose kid is that?”
His voice sounded different suddenly. Thin. Unsteady. Reiji immediately shrank a little behind Nagi’s leg at the unfamiliar tension in the room. Not frightened exactly. Just cautious. Children sensed emotions too easily. Nagi sighed softly through his nose. Too tired for subtlety anymore.
“Yours.”
The word landed like a gunshot. Reo laughed once. Short. Sharp. Disbelieving.
“What?”
Nagi stayed calm. “He’s three.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
But even while saying it— Even while denying it— His eyes never left Reiji. Because deep down, some instinct already knew. Reiji blinked up at him curiously from behind Nagi. Then pointed suddenly.
“You pretty.”
Nagi snorted quietly before he could stop himself. The sound echoed strangely through the apartment. Reo looked like he might genuinely collapse.
“Nagi.”
“He’s your son.”
“That’s not funny.”
“I know.”
Reo’s eyes dropped downward again immediately. To Reiji. And this time he looked longer. Really looked. Nagi watched every tiny detail hit him one by one. The soft purple hair curling near his ears. The shape of his eyes. The pouty little expression forming while he studied strangers. Even the way he clung cautiously to Nagi while still peeking around him curiously— Pure Reo. Reiji tugged gently at Nagi’s sleeve.
“Sleepy?”
“Mhm?”
“Why pretty man crying?”
Reo froze. Like the words physically struck him. Only then did he seem to realize tears were already falling down his face. Slipping steadily downward while he stood there staring at a child who looked exactly like him. His hands started shaking. And slowly— Very slowly—he crouched down. Carefully. Like approaching something sacred. His knees hit the hardwood floor hard enough to make a dull sound through the apartment. He didn’t seem to notice. Up close, the resemblance became unbearable. Reiji stared back curiously while clutching dinosaur crackers in one hand. And suddenly Reo’s entire face crumpled.
This was his son. His child. Alive. Breathing. Standing right in front of him. Three years old already. Three years. Reo’s eyes moved over him helplessly, like he couldn’t absorb enough fast enough. Tiny fingers. Tiny shoes. A small scratch near one knee. He wondered suddenly, violently, who kissed those injuries better. Who held him during nightmares. Who taught him words. Who heard his first laugh. And then another thought hit so hard it visibly knocked the breath from his lungs: Someone else had been there for all of it. Not him. Three years of sleepy little hands reaching for comfort. Three years of hearing mama instead of papa. Gone. All gone. Reo made a soft sound suddenly. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sob. Something broken in between.
“Hi,” he whispered hoarsely.
The word sounded fragile. Like he was terrified even speaking might make this disappear somehow. Reiji blinked once. Then very seriously:
“You cry a lot?”
Nagi looked away immediately because he absolutely was not laughing during this emotional disaster. Reo let out one shaky breath that almost sounded like a laugh.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “I think maybe I do.”
Reiji studied him carefully for another long second. Then slowly held out the dinosaur cracker clenched in his tiny fist. Offering. “Snack?”
Reo stared at it. At the tiny hand holding it toward him so earnestly. And something inside him finally gave way completely. Because nobody had prepared him for this. Nothing could have prepared him for his son offering him a dinosaur cracker while he sat shattered on his own penthouse floor. His shoulders shook violently once. Then again. Reo covered his mouth with trembling fingers like he was trying desperately not to fall apart in front of the child already watching him with wide curious eyes. But tears kept coming anyway. For a long moment, nobody moved.
The city lights beyond the penthouse windows glittered silently across the dark glass, gold and white reflections stretching endlessly into the night. Far below, traffic hummed through the streets in soft distant waves, like another world entirely. Somewhere deeper in the apartment, a forgotten kettle clicked softly in the kitchen. The sound felt strangely loud. Reo stayed kneeling on the floor. Still staring at the tiny dinosaur cracker being offered toward him in a chubby little hand.
Like it was something sacred. Carefully—he reached out and took it. His fingers brushed Reiji’s accidentally. Tiny fingers. Warm. Real.
“Thank you,” he whispered unsteadily.
Reiji immediately looked pleased with himself. “You welcome.”
Nagi watched Reo’s expression crumble all over again at the sound of his voice. Reo swallowed hard enough that Nagi could see it from where he stood near the doorway. Then, hesitantly:
“What’s your name?”
Like he needed to hear it himself. Like maybe saying it aloud would finally force this impossible moment to become real. Reiji straightened proudly.
“Reiji!”
Reiji. Close enough to Reo to ache. Your choice. Your love still lingering quietly inside the name itself. For one terrible second, Reo looked like he might completely fall apart again. Instead, he repeated it softly.
“Reiji.”
His voice cracked around the name. Like it hurt to say. Reiji tilted his head curiously.
“You know my name now.”
Another broken sound escaped Reo before he could stop it.
“Yeah,” he whispered helplessly. “I do.”
Silence settled again afterward. Reo kept looking at him. Like he physically could not stop. Every few seconds his eyes moved helplessly toward another tiny detail. The messy purple hair curling slightly near his ears. The tiny dinosaur hoodie zipper sitting crooked. One shoelace already half undone. The way Reiji absentmindedly kicked one sneaker against the floor while thinking. And with every observation came another realization crashing down behind it. I missed all of this.
The grief hit him in waves. Because every tiny thing about Reiji carried history inside it. Habits formed over years Reo had never witnessed. Expressions learned without him there to see them develop. A whole little personality already existing independently from him. Reo glanced briefly toward the hallway suddenly. Instinctive. Like some desperate part of him still expected you to appear there and explain everything. To laugh shakily and say surprise. To tell him this was some misunderstanding. But you weren’t here. Just him. His son. And three years of absence sitting between them like broken glass. Reiji seemed completely unaware of the emotional destruction unfolding in front of him. He studied Reo openly for another few seconds before announcing very seriously:
“You look like me.”
Nagi actually had to bite the inside of his cheek. Because holy shit. Reo stared at him like he’d just been shot directly through the chest. Then, impossibly—He laughed. A real laugh. Tiny. Broken apart by tears.
“Yeah,” he whispered shakily. “I do.”
Reiji considered this deeply. Then slowly stepped out from behind Nagi for the first time. The movement was tiny. But the effect it had on Reo was catastrophic. Because suddenly his son was close. Close enough for Reo to see the faint pink flush in his cheeks from the cold outside. Tiny scuffs on the toes of his shoes. Cracker crumbs stuck stubbornly to the sleeve of his hoodie. Reo’s hands trembled harder. He tucked them quickly against his knees like he was afraid of scaring him. Like he didn’t trust himself with this miracle standing inches away.
“What’s your name?” Reiji asked suddenly.
Reo blinked rapidly. “My name?”
Reiji nodded seriously. “You pretty man.”
Another shaky laugh escaped him. This one wetter. Softer.
“My name is Reo.”
“Re-ohh,” Reiji repeated proudly.
The first time his son had ever said his name. Not papa. Not dad. But still—It belonged to him. The very first thing Reo had ever truly received from his child. And after three years of having absolutely nothing— Reo looked downward abruptly, pressing trembling fingers harder against his mouth. His shoulders shook again.
“Whoa,” Reiji whispered softly.
Concern replaced curiosity almost instantly.
“Mama cries like that.”
The words slammed into Reo so hard his entire body stilled. Mama. You were his comfort. His safety. His whole world. The realization hurt strangely. Beautifully. Because while Reo had spent three years hollowed out by your absence—You had spent those same years building a life around this tiny boy. Reo swallowed hard before speaking again.
“You live with Mama?”
“Mhm!”
Reiji brightened instantly.
“We have cactus.”
Nagi nodded solemnly from above them.
“Two, actually.”
“They babies,” Reiji explained seriously.
“I see.”
“And Sleepy come over.”
“I noticed.”
“Sleepy eat our snacks.”
Nagi looked completely unashamed. For a second, Reo glanced toward him. And something raw flickered across his face. Because Nagi knew this child. Nagi had heard these stories already. Jealousy twisted briefly through the grief before disappearing just as quickly beneath something heavier. Loss. Reo looked back toward Reiji almost immediately, unable to keep his attention anywhere else for long. Like every second spent not looking at him already felt wasted.
“You like dinosaurs?” he asked quietly.
Reiji gasped dramatically.
“You know dinosaurs?!”
“A little.”
That was apparently enough to completely win him over. Reiji immediately launched into an enthusiastic explanation about dinosaurs that changed subjects halfway through and somehow became about juice boxes instead. Reo listened to every single word like it mattered more than oxygen. Like this tiny rambling conversation was the most important thing he had ever heard. Nagi had never seen him look at anything this way before. There was desperation inside it. Like Reo was trying to absorb three missing years in the span of a few minutes. Trying to memorize everything before someone took it away again.
At one point, Reiji climbed clumsily into his lap without warning. Probably because children naturally moved toward warmth once they decided someone was safe. But the second his tiny body settled against him—Reo froze completely. Panic flashed across his face. Like he was terrified to hold him wrong. Terrified this might disappear if he moved too suddenly. Meanwhile, Reiji got comfortable instantly. Tiny hand grabbing loosely at the fabric of Reo’s shirt.
“Comfy,” he declared.
Reo made another broken sound beneath his breath. Because his son was in his arms. Warm and alive and trusting him automatically despite being a complete stranger. And suddenly the grief became unbearable again. Because this should not have been the first time. He should’ve held him as a newborn. Should’ve carried him half-asleep through dark apartments at three in the morning. Should’ve learned how to warm bottles. Should’ve been there for first fevers and first birthdays and first words. Instead— He was learning how heavy his child felt in his arms three years too late.Reo lowered his head suddenly, pressing his face briefly into Reiji’s soft hair while his shoulders shook silently again.
Reiji shifted slightly in Reo’s lap, completely comfortable now that he’d apparently decided this strange crying man was safe. Tiny fingers still clutched loosely at the front of Reo compression shirt. Reo could feel the warmth of him through the thin fabric. Reiji leaned back slightly to look up at him.
“You okay?”
The concern in his tiny voice nearly destroyed Reo all over again. Reo swallowed hard, trying desperately to steady his breathing before answering.
“Yeah,” he whispered hoarsely. “I’m okay.”
Reiji narrowed his eyes immediately. “No you not.”
Nagi snorted softly from the couch. Reo laughed weakly through tears.
“Okay,” he admitted quietly. “Maybe not.”
That seemed acceptable enough. Reiji nodded once, deeply satisfied with winning the argument. Then immediately got distracted by the reading glasses tangled in Reo’s messy hair.
“Oh.”
Tiny fingers reached upward curiously.
“Fancy.”
Reo blinked in surprise when Reiji carefully tugged the glasses free. The frames slid crookedly into tiny hands. Nagi actually looked mildly alarmed for the first time all evening.
“Those are expensive.”
Reiji gasped dramatically.
“Rich people glasses?”
Reo made another helpless sound halfway between a laugh and a sob.
“Yeah,” he managed weakly. “I guess so.”
Reiji immediately shoved the glasses onto his own face. They slid halfway down his nose instantly. Nagi turned his head toward the windows because he was absolutely laughing now. Reiji pushed the glasses back up importantly before looking at Reo.
“I hansome?”
And there it was again. That confidence. That dramatic demand for praise. That need for attention spoken like absolute fact. Pure Reo.
“You’re very handsome,” he whispered.
Reiji beamed proudly. Then, apparently deciding this man required comfort now, he reached forward and clumsily patted Reo’s cheek.
“Okay.”
Reo closed his eyes briefly at the touch. Small hand. Trust given so freely it almost hurt to hold. He had missed everything before this. And now suddenly there was this little person already talking to him like they’d known each other forever. Something sharp twisted inside his chest. Because immediately he wanted more. Greedily. Desperately. He wanted every missed moment back at once.
“What’s your favorite color?” he asked suddenly, voice still rough.
“Green.”
“Favorite dinosaur?”
“T-Rex.”
“Favorite snack?”
“Cookies.”
Nagi nodded.
Reiji pointed immediately. “Sleepy eat cookies too fast.”
“That's a lie.”
“You take seven!”
“It was six.”
“Liar.”
Reo stared quietly at the two of them. Something painful flickered across his face again. Because they had history together. Comfort. Nagi knew how Reiji argued. What snacks he liked. Which dinosaur was his favorite. Reo should’ve known those things first. The jealousy hit ugly and immediate before guilt drowned it out just as quickly. Because none of this was Nagi’s fault. None of it was Reiji’s fault. And somewhere beneath the grief and joy tearing through him— Reo already knew exactly whose fault he would blame. His own. He should’ve searched harder after the breakup. Should’ve gone after you instead of collapsing in place. How had he missed this? How had the universe allowed him to miss something this important? Reiji suddenly touched the corner of his eye curiously.
“Wet.”
Reo blinked quickly. “Oh.”
“You cry lot.”
Nagi answered lazily from nearby. “He’s emotional.”
“I can hear you,” Reo muttered weakly.
“Mhm.”
Reiji seemed fascinated by the tears now. “You sad?”
The question settled heavily into the room. Because how were you supposed to explain grief to a three-year-old? How were you supposed to explain that seeing him felt like simultaneously experiencing the greatest joy and worst heartbreak of your entire life? Reo looked at him helplessly for a second. Then answered honestly.
“A little.”
Reiji considered this carefully. Then, with all the certainty in the world, he announced: “Mama make sad go away.”
Nagi visibly winced. Reo looked like someone had reached directly into his chest and squeezed. Because of course. And suddenly Reo wanted to know everything. Like what you looked like now when you smiled at your son. He wanted all of it.
“What’s Mama like?” he heard himself ask before he could stop it.
Nagi glanced toward him. Reiji brightened at the question.
“Mama pretty.”
Reo’s breath caught softly. “Mhm?”
“And soft.” Reiji leaned sleepily against his chest while talking. “Mama sing bad.”
Nagi nodded solemnly. “True.”
Reo laughed unexpectedly. “She still sings?”
“Oh yeah,” Nagi answered. “Terribly.”
Reiji giggled. “Mama say Sleepy no talent.”
“That’s rude,” Nagi muttered. “I’m gifted.”
“No you not.”
Reo stared down at the sleepy little boy curled trustingly against him while laughter and grief tangled painfully together inside his chest. Because suddenly your absence felt enormous again. You should’ve been here. Because somehow the existence of this child made one thing horrifyingly obvious: He had never stopped loving you. Not really. And judging by the way Reiji talked about you—warmly, securely— You had built something beautiful despite everything. A world centered around this little boy.
For the first time since opening the apartment door, fear finally crept coldly beneath the overwhelming joy. Because suddenly one horrifying possibility surfaced above all the others. What if you didn’t want him there now? What if he was already too late for you too? Reo’s arms tightened around Reiji instinctively at the thought, subtle enough not to wake concern. And for the first time all night—Beneath the grief and awe and desperate love—He felt terrified.
—RINGGGGGGG—
The phone rang so loudly in Nagi’s hand that it startled everyone in the room. The bright screen lit up the dim penthouse softly. Your name. For one long second, nobody moved. Then Nagi sighed.
“Oh. Your mom.”
Beside him, Reiji immediately perked up from where he sat curled comfortably in Reo Mikage’s lap.
“Mama!”
Reo’s entire body tensed instantly. Mama. You. The mother of his son. The woman he still loved so badly it felt fused permanently into his ribs. Nagi answered before the phone could ring again. He didn’t even get the chance to speak.
“SEISHIRO NAGI!”
Your voice exploded through the speaker so loudly Reiji jumped. Reo physically flinched. You sounded terrified. Pure panic sharpened every word until your voice shook violently around the edges.
“WHERE IS MY SON?!”
Nagi held the phone slightly away from his ear.
“Mhm.”
“DON’T ‘MHM’ ME, YOU ABSOLUTE PSYCHOPATH—”
Reo stared at the phone like it might detonate. Your voice. He hadn’t heard your voice in three years. And it sounded exactly the same. Maybe rougher around the edges now. More exhausted. Like motherhood and loneliness and sleepless nights had settled quietly into it. But still you.
“I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU DON’T TELL ME WHERE HE IS RIGHT NOW—”
“Mama?”
Instant silence. Like someone had cut the wire mid-panic. Reiji leaned toward the phone immediately, tiny face crumpling with concern.
“Mama?”
The shift in your breathing was audible instantly. Sharp inhale. And when you spoke again, your voice sounded wrecked.
“Baby?”
“Mhm!”
Relief hit so hard through the speaker it almost felt tangible inside the room.
“Oh my god,” you whispered shakily. “Are you okay? Did he feed you? Are you hurt? Did Sleepy fall asleep while driving because I swear I’ll kill him—”
“I adventure!”
Nagi looked deeply unbothered.
“That’s technically true.”
“SEISHIRO—”
“You’re loud.”
“You kidnapped my child!”
“Borrowed.”
“You STOLE him!”
Reiji gasped dramatically, looking mildly alarmed.
“Sleepy thief?”
“Apparently.”
Even Reo almost laughed at that. Almost. Because underneath everything else, his pulse was pounding violently now. You were right there. Just beyond the phone. Close enough to hear breathing. Close enough that he could almost imagine you standing in front of him again. Then your voice changed suddenly. Suspicion creeping carefully beneath the panic.
“...Where are you?”
Silence. Nagi glanced lazily toward Reo. Reo’s stomach dropped instantly.
“Nagi,” you said slowly. Dangerously. “Where is my son?”
Another silence. Then:
“With Reo.”
Everything stopped. Even through the phone, Reo heard your breathing catch. No sound came afterward. Just silence stretching painfully long enough that Reo’s chest started hurting. Then suddenly—
“SEISHIRO NAGI YOU ABSOLUTE—”
The insults came so fast afterward Nagi had to pull the phone away slightly again. Reo heard every single one. And underneath the fury—panic. You hadn’t been ready for this. Hadn’t prepared yourself emotionally. And now suddenly the two most important people in your life were sitting together in the same room without you there to control anything.
“I TOLD YOU NOT TO—”
“Mama?”
Immediately your voice softened again. Cracked softer.
“Yes baby?”
“Pretty man cry a lot.”
The apartment went dead silent. Reo closed his eyes briefly.
“Oh my god,” you whispered weakly.
Reiji continued happily, completely oblivious to the emotional devastation unfolding around him.
“He have rich people glasses.”
Nagi snorted quietly.
“And he know dinosaurs.”
“Mhm.”
“And comfy.”
Reo’s heart almost stopped. Because Reiji had said it so casually. Like trusting him already made perfect sense. Like his tiny heart had opened without hesitation despite the fact that Reo was technically a stranger. You went quiet again. Too quiet. And suddenly, sitting alone in your apartment miles away, everything around you felt unreal.
The kitchen light was still on. Groceries remained abandoned across the floor where you’d dropped them earlier. One of Reiji’s tiny socks still sat near the couch from this morning because you never got around to picking it up. The apartment still smelled faintly like his baby shampoo. Your hands were shaking so badly you nearly dropped the phone. You pressed your free hand hard against your mouth because suddenly your entire body felt weak.
In the background through the phone, you heard movement. Fabric rustling softly. Then Reiji laughing quietly at something. And your chest physically ached because you could hear it already—The softness in his voice around Reo. Children knew.
“You took him to Reo?” you whispered in disbelief.
“Mhm.”
“Nagi I’m going to actually kill you.”
“That’s fair.”
“You had absolutely no right—”
“I know.”
On the other side of the call, Reo looked down instinctively at the little boy still sitting trustingly in his lap. Your son was tracing absentminded circles against the fabric of his shirt while listening curiously to your voice through the speaker. Completely relaxed. Then suddenly, before he could stop himself—
“Can I—”
His voice came out rough. Barely recognizable even to himself. Reo swallowed hard.
“Can I talk to her?”
Nagi looked at him for one long second. Then silently handed him the phone. Reiji immediately brightened.
“Phone!”
Your entire body went numb the second you heard him breathe. On the other end of the line, you heard fabric shift softly. Someone inhaling sharply like they were trying desperately to steady themselves before speaking. Then—
“...Hello?”
Your heart shattered immediately. Because he sounded terrified. You couldn’t speak. You stood frozen alone in your apartment while tears blurred your vision completely. And through the phone—You could hear him breathing. Uneven. Shaky. You could hear Reiji humming softly somewhere in the background. Safe. With him. Then Reo spoke again. This time his voice cracked apart completely.
“You had my son?”
The words gutted you instantly. Just devastation. Like he still couldn’t believe something so precious had existed all this time without him knowing.
You slid slowly down against the kitchen cabinets until you were sitting on the floor. Your knees finally gave out beneath the weight of everything. Tears spilled hard down your face while one trembling hand pressed against your mouth to stop the sound coming out. Because there was no answer you could give that would undo this. No explanation big enough for three missing years. You sat on the kitchen floor with your knees pulled tightly to your chest, tears drying against your skin only to be replaced by new ones moments later.
On the other end of the call, Reo was quiet. Not the comfortable quiet you used to share. This silence felt fragile. Like one wrong word could shatter whatever was left of either of you. Somewhere in the background, Reiji hummed to himself. A soft, sleepy little tune. Your heart clenched painfully. Because in the span of a single night, your world had been turned completely upside down. Finally, Reo broke the silence.
"Why?"
The single word hit harder than any accusation ever could. There was no anger in it. No bitterness. Just confusion. Heartbreak. You squeezed your eyes shut.
"I was scared."
Silence. Then a slow inhale.
"Of me?"
"No."
The answer left you immediately. Too fast.
"No, Reo, not of you."
Your voice cracked around his name. For another moment, neither of you said anything. Then Reo swallowed.
"Then why?"
Your gaze drifted across the apartment. Past Reiji's tiny shoes beside the door. Past the blanket abandoned on the couch. Past the life you had built piece by piece with shaking hands and stubborn determination.
"Because your parents hated me."
The words came out barely above a whisper.
"They looked at me like I'd ruined your future before there was even a baby involved."
The silence that followed was immediate. Heavy. You could practically hear Reo processing it.
"I kept thinking about what would happen if they found out," you continued. "The lawyers. The headlines. Custody battles. Your career getting dragged through another scandal because of me."
"You thought I'd let that happen?"
"No."
The word broke apart as soon as it left your mouth.
"That was the problem."
A painful understanding settled between you. Because you both knew. Reo would have chosen you. Without hesitation. Without regret. And if it came down to protecting his child? There wasn't a single thing in the world he wouldn't sacrifice.
"You loved me too much," you whispered.
The silence on the other end became absolute.
"I knew what you would've done, Reo. You would've chosen us immediately. And maybe someday, years later, you would've looked back and realized how much it cost you."
A broken laugh escaped him.
"You really think I'd regret him?"
The hurt in his voice made your stomach twist.
"No."
"Then what?"
Your throat tightened.
"I thought eventually you'd regret me."
The response came so fast it startled you.
"No."
Sharp. Certain. You froze.
"No," Reo repeated, his voice trembling now. "Don't do that. Don't decide how I love you for me."
Fresh tears burned behind your eyes.
"Reo—"
"For almost four years," he whispered, "I thought you left because loving me hurt too much."
Your chest caved inward.
"And now I find out you were carrying our son while I was tearing myself apart."
A rough sound escaped him. Not quite a sob. More exhausted. More broken.
"I missed everything."
You lowered your head. The grief in those words felt unbearable.
"I know."
"No."
His voice cracked.
"You don't."
The silence stretched. Then, quietly—
"I held him tonight." He laughs, "I'm holding him now."
You covered your mouth.
"And all I can think about was how I should've known what that felt like years ago."
Tears slipped down your cheeks.
"He climbed into my lap like it was normal."
Reo laughed weakly. A sound filled with disbelief and pain.
"Do you understand what that did to me?"
Before you could answer, a sleepy voice interrupted.
"Pretty man?"
Everything went still. Reo inhaled sharply.
When he spoke again, his voice changed completely. Softer. Gentler.
"I'm here."
"You sad again?" Reiji asked.
A wet laugh escaped Reo.
"Maybe a little."
"You need hug."
You closed your eyes. Of course. Of course that was his solution. A hug. A kiss on the cheek. A badly drawn picture. Anything to make someone smile again. You heard rustling through the speaker. Tiny sleepy babbling. And suddenly you could picture it perfectly—Reiji wrapping his small arms around Reo's neck while Reo held him like something precious. Like something he'd spent years searching for without even knowing it.
"I'm sorry."
The words tore themselves from your chest. Raw. Desperate.
"So sorry."
This time the silence felt different. Then, finally—
"I know."
Not forgiveness. Not blame. For a while, neither of you spoke. You simply breathed. Grieving everything that had been lost. Trying to understand everything that had just been found. Then Reo asked quietly,
"Can I see him again?"
Your breath caught. The question shouldn't have surprised you. And yet it did. Because the moment you said yes, there would be no going back. No more pretending this was only your life. No more carrying everything alone. You looked down at your trembling hands.
"He already likes you."
A sharp inhale echoed through the phone.
"I know," Reo admitted. "And I don't deserve how easily he trusted me."
Your chest ached. He still sounded exactly like the man you'd fallen in love with.
"I don't know how to do this," you admitted.
"We'll figure it out."
The certainty in his voice nearly made you cry again. Some things, apparently, never changed. When Reo loved something, he loved it completely. And now—That included your son. Before you could respond, a loud yawn sounded through the speaker.
"Mama?"
"I'm here, baby."
"When home?"
Your vision blurred. He sounded so small.
"Soon," you whispered.
Reiji hummed contentedly. Then, after a moment—
"Pretty man visit?"
Silence. The question hung between all three of you.
Across the city, Reo stopped breathing. You closed your eyes. And somewhere beneath the fear, beneath the grief, beneath every reason you had spent three years running—You already knew. This had become inevitable the moment Nagi knocked on Reo's door. Slowly, you exhaled.
"...Okay."
The sound Reo made was quiet. Barely audible.
Beside him, Reiji immediately brightened.
"Yay!"
A small, innocent celebration.
Eventually, even Reiji ran out of energy. You could hear it happening through the phone. His words got slower. Softer. Stories about dinosaurs turned into half-finished thoughts. Questions about whether clouds slept at night dissolved into yawns before he could finish asking them. Through it all, Reo answered every single one. Patiently. Like nothing in the world mattered more.
You sat curled up on your couch, phone pressed to your ear, listening. Listening to your son and the man you'd spent three years trying not to think about. At some point, there was a rustle of fabric. A sleepy hum. Then—
"Mama?"
You smiled despite yourself.
"Yeah, baby?"
"Pretty man's warm."
Your chest tightened.
Across the city, Reo froze.
Nagi watched from the couch as Reo instinctively adjusted Reiji against his chest, one hand moving to support the back of his head. The motion was effortless. Natural. Like his body knew exactly what to do even if his heart was still trying to catch up.
You swallowed hard.
"Baby, it's getting late."
A tiny groan came through the speaker.
"Nooo."
"You need to come home."
"Wanna stay here."
Reo's eyes immediately dropped to Reiji. The words had been said so casually. So naturally. As if he'd already decided this was a place he belonged. Your throat burned.
"You have bedtime."
"So does pretty man."
Nagi barked out a laugh. Reiji blinked sleepily.
"What?"
"Nothing," Nagi said.
Reo laughed too. Quiet. Tired. The sound hit you like a punch. You missed him. You hated that you missed him. But hearing him laugh still felt like finding something you'd lost years ago.
Eventually, Nagi pushed himself off the couch with a dramatic sigh. "Alright. Field trip's over."
Immediately, Reiji wrapped both arms tighter around Reo's neck.
"No."
"Yep."
"No."
"Unfortunately, yes."
Reiji frowned. Reo looked like he was trying very hard not to smile.
"You gotta go home, buddy."
"No."
"You do."
"No."
Reo laughed softly. The kind of laugh that carried exhaustion and affection and heartbreak all at once.
"You can come back."
The words slipped out before he could stop them. Silence. The room seemed to pause. Reo swallowed. Then looked down at Reiji.
"If your mama says it's okay."
Reiji considered that. Seriously. Like he was negotiating a business contract. Then he nodded.
"Okay."
Nagi snorted.
"Glad that's settled."
He stepped forward and reached for him.
"C'mere."
Reiji made a face but eventually allowed himself to be picked up. The second he left Reo's arms, something changed. Reo's hands stayed where they were for a moment. Like he hadn't quite processed that Reiji wasn't there anymore. Reiji rested his head on Nagi's shoulder. Then suddenly lifted a hand.
"Bye-bye, pretty man."
Reo smiled. A real smile. Small. Shaky.
"Bye, Reiji."
"Sleep when you get home, okay?"
"Okay."
"No causing trouble."
"Okay."
"No staying up all night."
"I'm little." Reiji pouted.
Reo laughed. Reiji yawned. His eyes were already drifting closed. For a second, Reo just looked at him. Taking him in. Memorizing him. Then quietly—
"Thanks for hanging out with me today, buddy."
Reiji smiled sleepily.
"Welcome."
A pause. Then— "Don't cry."
Nagi immediately looked away. Absolutely refusing to be part of whatever emotional disaster this had become. Reo laughed through a shaky breath.
"I'll try."
Very carefully, he reached forward and tapped two fingers against Reiji's sneaker. The smallest goodbye imaginable. Nagi adjusted Reiji higher on his shoulder.
"You okay?"
"...No."
Reo stared toward the elevator long after the doors had closed. Then he rubbed a hand over his face. The drive home was quieter than expected. Rain slid across the windows. Streetlights blurred gold against the glass. Reiji sat in the backseat clutching the zipper of his dinosaur hoodie. Half-asleep. Nagi drove in silence for a while.
"Your mama cried a lot today."
"Mama cries when sad."
"Yeah."
A pause.
"You make Mama sad?"
Nagi thought about it.
"Probably."
"You shouldn't."
A few minutes later, Reiji spoke again.
"Pretty man sad too."
Nagi glanced in the mirror.
"Yeah."
"Why?"
Nagi stared out at the rain. How exactly were you supposed to explain this?
"He missed you."
Reiji blinked.
"Oh."
That was apparently enough information. A minute later he mumbled,
"He can come next time."
Something twisted unexpectedly in Nagi's chest. Kids really were ridiculous.
By the time they reached your apartment, you were already outside. You hadn't even bothered bringing an umbrella. Rain misted against your clothes as you paced beneath the awning, arms wrapped tightly around yourself. The second the car pulled up, you were moving. The door hadn't even fully opened before Reiji spotted you.
"Mama!"
Relief hit so hard it almost made your knees give out. You reached for him immediately. Pulling him into your arms. Holding him so tightly he let out a tiny surprised noise.
"Oh my God."
"Mama."
You buried your face in his hair.
"Mama."
You squeezed him tighter.
"Sorry."
"Mama squishing."
A laugh escaped you. You kissed the top of his head anyway. Then you looked up. Straight at Nagi. The relief vanished instantly.
"Nagi."
He visibly paused.
"Yeah?"
"What the fuck is wrong with you?"
For once, he didn't immediately answer. You stepped forward. Still holding Reiji. Still shaking.
"You took my son."
Nagi rubbed the back of his neck.
"I brought him back."
"Don't."
Your voice cracked. The single word came out sharper than intended.
"Don't do that."
Nagi went quiet.
"You took my child."
The panic from earlier was suddenly back.
"You disappeared with him for hours."
Your breathing was becoming uneven again.
"I didn't know if he was okay."
You laughed. The sound was awful. Borderline hysterical.
"Do you have any idea what that felt like?"
Nagi looked away.
"You weren't answering your phone."
"I—"
"You took him."
"You took my son without telling me."
"He was safe."
"That's not the point!"
The shout echoed louder than you meant it to. Reiji startled slightly. Immediately your voice softened.
"Sorry, baby."
You kissed his forehead. Then looked back at Nagi. Eyes shining.
"You don't get to decide that."
Nagi swallowed. For the first time all night, he actually looked uncomfortable. Maybe even guilty. You pointed at him.
"What if something happened?"
"Nothing happened."
"What if it did?"
"It didn't."
"What if it had?"
Nagi opened his mouth. Then closed it again.
The silence stretched.
Rain tapped steadily against the pavement. Finally, Reiji yawned against your shoulder.
"Mama."
You immediately looked down.
"Yeah, baby?"
"Pretty man said bye."
Your entire expression cracked.
"Mama sad?"
You pressed a kiss against Reiji's temple.
"No, sweetheart."
But your voice wobbled.
And Reiji frowned. Because even at three years old, he knew you well enough to know that wasn't true. You looked back at Nagi.
"Go home."
"What?"
"Go home, Nagi."
His eyebrows lifted.
"You're kicking me out?"
"Yes."
"It's raining."
"I genuinely don't care."
"That's a little harsh."
"You introduced my son to his father without asking me."
The words hung there. Heavy. Ugly.
For once, Nagi didn't just shrug.
"...Yeah."
You stared at him. Waiting. Waiting for him to defend himself. To argue. To tell you he was right. Instead, he shoved his hands into his pockets. And looked away. That only made you angrier.
"How could you do that?"
Nagi was quiet for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer.
"Because I saw what he looked like after you left."
You froze. The rain suddenly sounded very loud.
"Nagi—"
"And I saw what he looked like tonight."
You immediately looked away.
"No."
"He didn't even deny that Reiji was his."
Your throat tightened.
"He looked at him once and knew."
"Stop."
Nagi ignored you.
"He couldn't stop staring at him."
Your eyes burned.
"Nagi."
"I'm serious."
His voice was quiet now.
"It was like he was scared he'd blink and miss something."
The tears came immediately.
Nagi looked at you for a moment. Then shook his head.
"He loves him."
Simple. Certain. Final.
Your grip tightened around Reiji. Because that was exactly the problem. Because love made people stay. And if they stayed—Everything would have to change.
The next morning felt wrong. Too quiet. Too loud. Too much. You barely slept. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw Reo holding Reiji. By nine in the morning, you'd already cleaned the apartment twice. By ten, you'd reorganized Reiji's toy shelf. By eleven, you'd checked your phone so many times you were starting to hate yourself for it. Nothing. No message. No call. No warning.
And somehow that was worse. Because now you didn't know. Maybe he'd changed his mind. Maybe yesterday had been too much. Maybe he'd realized this wasn't something he could actually do. The thought made your stomach twist. You hated how much it bothered you.
"Mama."
You looked up. Reiji sat cross-legged on the living room floor surrounded by dinosaurs.
"What?"
"When pretty man coming?"
Your heart immediately sank. You stared at him.
"Who said he's coming?"
Reiji blinked.
"You said okay."
Your mouth opened. Then closed. Because you had. You rubbed your forehead.
"I don't know if he's coming today."
"Oh."
Reiji considered that. Then returned to his dinosaurs. Like this information barely mattered. Children were terrifying. They adapted to life-changing events in under ten seconds. Meanwhile you felt like you were having a slow-motion breakdown. The doorbell rang at exactly 11:47. You froze. The sound echoed through the apartment. Once. Twice. Your pulse immediately shot into your throat. No. No way. He wouldn't actually— The bell rang again.
"Mama!"
Reiji jumped up so fast one of his dinosaurs went flying.
"Pretty man!"
You hadn't moved. Couldn't move. Your hands suddenly felt numb. Because up until this moment, Reo had been a phone call. Now he was standing outside your apartment. Real.
"Mama!"
"I'm coming."
Your voice sounded strange. You barely recognized it. Reiji was already halfway to the door. You caught him before he could open it himself.
"Absolutely not."
He pouted. You ignored him. Your hand shook slightly as you reached for the handle. You opened the door. And there he was. For a second neither of you spoke. God. Hearing him through a screen hadn't prepared you for this.
Reo stood awkwardly in the hallway. One hand shoved into his pocket. The other holding a small paper bag. His hair was slightly messy. Like he'd run his hands through it too many times. His eyes looked tired. Like he hadn't slept either. The moment your eyes met, something tightened painfully in your chest. Three years. Three years and he still looked like home. You hated that.
Neither of you said anything. The silence stretched. Awkward. Painful.
"Hi."
Reo's voice came out rough.
Your throat tightened.
"Hi."
Silence again. This was awful. Neither of you knew what to do. What to say. How to stand. How close was too close. How far was too far. Then suddenly—
"PRETTY MAN!"
Reiji launched himself directly between you. The tension shattered instantly. Reo barely had time to react before a tiny body collided with his legs. His entire face changed. Everything softened.
"Hey, buddy."
The smile that appeared on his face was so genuine it physically hurt to look at. Reiji wrapped both arms around his leg.
"You're here."
"Yeah."
"You came."
The simple certainty in Reiji's voice made something flicker across Reo's expression. Because to Reiji, of course he came. Why wouldn't he? Reo swallowed.
"Yeah."
His hand settled carefully on Reiji's hair.
"I came."
The hallway suddenly felt too small. You looked away first. Because watching them together felt odly intimate. Reo finally glanced back up. And immediately met your eyes again. The tension returned. Neither of you knew how to be around each other anymore. The familiarity was gone. But somehow the feelings weren't. Which made everything worse.
Reo cleared his throat. "I brought snacks."
You stared at the paper bag. "...Snacks."
His ears turned slightly pink.
"Yeah."
"Why?"
"I panicked."
The answer surprised both of you. A reluctant laugh escaped your mouth. Reo looked startled. Then he laughed too. Quietly. And for one brief second everything felt painfully familiar. Until both of you remembered why it wasn't. The laughter died. The silence returned. Reiji grabbed Reo's hand.
"C'mon."
Reo blinked.
"Huh?"
"Dinosaur emergency."
A pause.
Then: "Oh."
Reiji nodded seriously.
"Very serious."
You watched as Reo let himself be dragged into the apartment. Like he'd always belonged there. Like he hadn't spent the last three years missing from it. The thought made your chest ache. Because yesterday, this apartment had only been yours and Reiji's. Now Reo was walking through the front door. Looking around. Taking in the photos. The toys. The tiny shoes by the couch. The life he'd never gotten to see. And suddenly you found yourself unable to breathe. This was Reo seeing the evidence of every year he'd lost.
For a little while, things were surprisingly easy. Mostly because Reiji didn't give either of you a choice. The second Reo sat down on the living room rug, he was handed three dinosaurs, a toy truck, and a very detailed explanation about why the green T-Rex was currently in jail. Reo accepted all of it with alarming seriousness.
You stayed in the kitchen longer than necessary. Pretending to make coffee. Pretending you weren't listening. Pretending your heart didn't jump every time Reiji laughed. Pretending it didn't mean anything when you heard Reo laughing too.
Eventually, Reiji decided he needed to show Reo his room. Then his drawings. Then the collection of rocks he'd apparently been hiding under his bed. The apartment filled with his voice. Constant. Excited. Happy. It should've made you feel better. Instead, it somehow made everything harder. Because he looked so natural there. Like he'd always belonged.
You were staring blankly into your coffee when the apartment suddenly went quiet. A dangerous silence. The kind that only existed when a toddler was either asleep or plotting something. You immediately looked up. And found Reo standing in the kitchen doorway. Alone. Your pulse jumped. The air changed instantly. The easy atmosphere disappeared so fast it almost gave you whiplash.
"Oh."
You hated how stupid that sounded. Reo looked equally uncomfortable.
"He found crayons."
You blinked. "What?"
"He found crayons."
A pause.
"I think we're safe for five minutes."
You let out a small laugh despite yourself. Reo smiled. Just a little.
And suddenly it was just the two of you. Again. The silence stretched. Neither of you seemed willing to break it. You focused on your coffee. Reo focused on literally anything else. The counter. The fridge. The floor. Anywhere except you.
"You never moved."
You looked up.
"What?"
His eyes flicked around the apartment.
"This place."
"Oh."
Your stomach tightened.
"Yeah."
Reo nodded. The conversation died instantly. You took a sip of coffee. It had gone cold.
"How much did Nagi tell you?"
The question slipped out before you could stop it. Reo's eyes found yours immediately. You already regretted asking.
"Not much."
You looked away.
"Reiji doesn't know."
"I figured."
Silence. You picked at the edge of your mug.
"He knows you're important."
Reo swallowed. Hard.
"He asked if you were my friend."
A tiny smile appeared despite yourself.
"And?"
"I told him yes."
Something complicated flickered across Reo's face. Not disappointment. Just grief.
"Oh."
You hated that sound. The quiet hurt in it.
"He'll have questions eventually."
"I know."
Another silence. He looked exhausted. Like he was carrying too much and didn't know where to put any of it. Your eyes drifted lower. To the dark circles under his eyes. The wrinkled shirt. The fact that he'd clearly forgotten to shave. You'd known Reo enough to recognize the signs. He hadn't slept. Not really. Neither had you. His eyes lifted. Caught yours. For a second, neither of you looked away. The kitchen suddenly felt too small. Too warm. Too full of things neither of you were saying.
"You okay?"
The question left his mouth quietly. You almost laughed. Actually laughed. The audacity.
"Am I okay?"
Immediately, Reo looked like he regretted asking. "You know what I mean."
"No, actually."
The words came out sharper than intended. Reo flinched. The sight made guilt stab through you instantly. But it wasn't enough to stop. Because now that you started talking— Everything you'd been holding back was coming with it.
"You show up after three years."
His face fell.
"You meet your son." Your voice cracked. "You meet him and suddenly everybody expects me to be okay."
"No one's expecting—"
"Nagi does."
You laughed bitterly.
"My phone won't stop going off."
Reo stayed silent.
"I don't even know what happens now."
The confession came out smaller. More honest. You didn't know. You genuinely didn't know. The future felt like standing at the edge of something enormous and dark. You looked away.
"You weren't supposed to be here."
The second the words left your mouth, you wished you could take them back. The hurt on Reo's face was immediate.
"Oh."
Your chest tightened.
"That's not—"
"No."
Reo nodded once. Slowly.
"I get it."
"No, Reo—"
"I do."
He looked down.
"I know I wasn't."
The guilt hit immediately. Heavy. Suffocating. You squeezed your eyes shut.
"That's not what I meant."
Reo laughed once. Softly. Without humor.
"Then what did you mean?"
You opened your mouth. Nothing came out. Because how were you supposed to explain it? How were you supposed to tell him that you'd spent all these years building your life around his absence? That you'd learned how to survive without him. That seeing him standing in your kitchen again felt like somebody had ripped the floor out from under you. You looked at him. Really looked at him. And suddenly he didn't look like Reo Mikage. Not the one from magazines and interviews. He looked tired. Heartbroken. Scared. Just as lost as you were.
Your voice came out barely above a whisper. "I don't know how to fit you into this."
The honesty landed between you. Reo stared at you.
Neither do I."
Your breath caught. The vulnerability in his voice shocked you.
"I don't know what I'm doing."
His eyes were red.
"I just know I missed everything."
The words broke something inside you.
"And every time I look at him..."
His voice cracked. He looked away.
"...I keep wondering what else I missed."
The kitchen became painfully quiet.
Neither of you noticed the tiny footsteps creeping closer from the hallway. Neither of you noticed the small figure standing there.
"Why you both sad?"
Both of you jumped. Reiji stood in the doorway holding a purple crayon. Frowning. Looking offended. Reo looked like he’d been caught doing something wrong, which somehow made everything worse, because there was only concern and confusion on Reiji's little face. You swallowed hard and crouched a little lower so you were closer to Reiji’s height.
“We’re okay, baby.”
Reiji did not look convinced. His eyes moved between you and Reo.
“You sad.”
“I know,” you whispered, because lying to him would have been impossible. “I’m just tired.”
He accepted that more easily than you thought he would. Then his gaze shifted to Reo.
“Pretty man sad too?”
Reo blinked, clearly thrown off by the directness of it. His mouth opened, then closed again before he gave a small nod.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I guess I am.”
Reiji frowned harder.
“Why?”
The question landed between all of you, small and blunt and devastating. Reo looked at you. You looked away. Reiji stepped closer, still holding the crayon.
“Did mama make you sad?”
Your head snapped up. Reo answered before you could.
“No,” he said immediately, too fast, almost startled by the idea. His voice softened. “No, bud. Your mama didn’t do anything wrong.”
Reiji seemed to think about that. Then he looked at you again.
“Did pretty man make mama sad?”
Your laugh came out weak and watery. “Baby…”
But Reiji had already turned back to Reo, waiting for the answer like it mattered. Reo was quiet for a second. He looked tired. Too tired. Like he had spent the whole night carrying a feeling too big for his chest and still had no idea where to put it.
Then he said, carefully, “Maybe a little.”
You looked at him sharply. Not because he was wrong. Because he was honest. Reiji considered that seriously, then walked right up to you and held out the purple crayon.
“Draw?”
You stared at him. Reo stared too. Reiji’s little face remained solemn, as if this was the most obvious solution in the world.
“If sad, draw.”
A breath of laughter broke out of you before you could stop it. Reo’s shoulders loosened a fraction at the sound, and he let out a quiet, shaky exhale that sounded almost like relief. Reiji immediately brightened.
“See?”
He seemed very pleased with himself. Then, after a pause, he added, “No more sad.”
Because that was the problem, wasn’t it? How could you stay properly angry when he was standing there trying to fix both of you with a crayon? Reo crouched slowly, careful, like he did not want to spook either of you.
“Can I draw with you?”
Reiji nodded once, very seriously.
“Yes.”
So Reo took the crayon.
You watched him sit on the floor with Reiji, cross-legged and awkward at first, then a little less so when Reiji began talking fast and excitedly about dinosaurs and rocket ships and why purple was a very important color. You stayed standing in the kitchen doorway for longer than you meant to. Watching them. The way Reo laughed when Reiji said something ridiculous, like the laugh had been dragged out of him by force and he did not mind at all. At some point, Reiji climbed into Reo’s lap without asking. Casual. Confident. And Reo froze for half a second before his hands came up automatically to steady him, one arm around Reiji’s back, the other supporting his little legs.
Reo looked up at you then. Caught you staring. Neither of you said anything. The silence stretched between you again, but this time it was different. He looked at you like he wanted to say something and did not know if he was allowed. You looked back at him and realized with a sick twist in your stomach that you wanted the same thing. Finally, Reiji yawned loudly. The sound was enormous for such a small body. He blinked twice, then pressed his face into Reo’s shoulder.
“Sleepy,” he mumbled.
“Yeah,” Reo said quietly. “I can tell.”
Reiji made a tiny noise and clutched Reo’s shirt.
“Pretty man stays?”
The question made your throat close. Reo went still. You went still. He looked at you over Reiji’s head, careful now, like he was testing the edge of something fragile. You should have said no. But Reiji was half-asleep in his arms, and the apartment was warm, and the sight of Reo holding your son like he had been made for it undid you in places you had not realized were still raw.
So, all you said was, “He’s tired.”
Reo nodded once.
“I can go.”
Reiji heard that and immediately frowned, even while fighting sleep.
“No.”
Reo blinked.
“No?”
Reiji shook his head against his shoulder.
“Stay little more.”
Your heart sank and lifted all at once. Reo looked at you again, waiting. You could feel everything neither of you were saying pressing at the edges of the room. Finally, you exhaled.
“Just for a little while.”
Reo’s shoulders loosened almost imperceptibly.
“Okay.”
That one word made your chest ache. Because he said like he would take whatever he could get.
Later, when Reiji was properly asleep, you carried him to his room and tucked him under the blanket while Reo waited awkwardly in the doorway. When you came back out, he was still there. Standing like he was afraid moving too quickly might break something. The apartment felt too quiet without Reiji’s voice filling it. The silence returned immediately, sharper this time because there was nothing left to hide behind. Reo looked at you. You looked at the floor. Then at the wall. Then anywhere but him.
“I should go soon,” he said.
Your eyes lifted before you could stop them. He was already watching you. Neither of you moved.
“Right,” you said, though the word came out flatter than you intended.
Reo’s jaw tightened slightly. He nodded once.
“I don’t want to push.”
The honesty in that almost made you flinch. Because there it was again. That thing he did when he was hurt. The quiet, careful restraint. Like he had learned how to keep himself in check long before this. You folded your arms tightly across your chest. The movement was defensive. Habit.
“I didn’t know if you’d even want me to come.”
The words were so quiet you almost missed them. You looked at him then. Really looked at him. There it was again — the uncertainty, the caution, the way he was trying so hard not to assume he had any right to be here. You had spent the whole morning waiting for him to show up, and he had spent it wondering whether you would let him.
“I didn’t know if you would,” you admitted.
His eyes held yours for a beat longer than necessary. Then he let out a slow breath.
“Yeah.”
That was all. Just yeah. But it carried too much. The missed years. The fear. The fact that neither of you knew what this was supposed to look like now. He reached for the paper bag he had left on the counter earlier.
“I brought snacks Reiji might like.”
You stared at the bag, then back at him.
“Of course you did.”
His mouth twitched, almost a smile, but not quite.
“I didn’t know what else to bring.”
That should have been funny. Maybe it was. But the ache in your chest did not ease. You moved before you thought about it and crossed to the counter, taking the bag from him. Your fingers brushed his. Both of you felt it.
“Thanks,” you said quietly.
He nodded. Then, after a pause, “I should go.”
The words landed with a strange heaviness. You had been waiting for them. And now that they were here, you found yourself standing perfectly still, unable to decide whether relief or disappointment hurt more.
“Okay.”
Reo looked like he wanted to say something else. Something that might change the shape of the moment if he could only make himself say it. Instead, he just looked toward Reiji’s room. Then back at you.
“Can I come by again?”
Your breath caught. He kept his voice careful, but there was something under it now. A tension. A hope he was trying very hard not to let show too much. You thought of the way you had been waiting by the window this morning. Thought of the way your heart had almost stopped when the doorbell rang. Thought of the way your son had looked at him like he belonged there. Your answer came out smaller than you meant it to.
“Yeah.”
He looked almost relieved, and that somehow made the whole thing worse, because it meant he had really been scared you would shut the door in his face. He nodded once.
“Okay.”
Then he hesitated. Your pulse kicked hard.
“Goodnight,” he said.
You held his gaze for one more second.
“Goodnight.”
He turned toward the door. You stood there and watched him walk to the hallway. Watched him pause with his hand on the handle. Watched him glance back one last time. And even from where you stood, you could see it plainly. He did not want to leave. You did not know whether that comforted you or ruined you. Maybe both. The door opened. He stepped out. Then he was gone. And the apartment, still and quiet around you, felt larger than it had all day.
The first few weeks were awkward. Painfully, unbearably awkward. Reiji adapted to the biggest change of his life with the kind of terrifying ease only a three-year-old could manage. One day there had been no Reo. The next day there was. And apparently that was enough information for him. The adults struggled significantly more.
At first, Reo only came by for a few hours at a time. Usually after training. Usually carrying something. Snacks. Juice boxes. Tiny dinosaur stickers. Once, a dinosaur encyclopedia that was very obviously meant for children at least twice Reiji's age. Reiji adored it. Reo looked absurdly pleased about that.
The visits quickly settled into a routine. Reiji would hear the doorbell and immediately abandon whatever he was doing. Toys. Cartoons. Food. Nothing mattered. The second he realized Reo was there, he was gone. Every single time. And every single time, Reo would light up in a way that made your chest hurt. The rest of the visit usually followed the same pattern. Reiji attached himself to Reo like a shadow. You pretended not to watch. And Reo tried very hard not to look overwhelmed by the fact that his son existed.
You knew what he looked like when he was trying to hide something. And Reo spent those first few weeks hiding a lot. Sometimes you would catch him staring. Not in a strange way. More like he couldn't help himself. Like he was trying to memorize things before they disappeared. The way Reiji laughed when something genuinely surprised him. The way he held crayons in his fist instead of properly. The way he dragged the last syllable out of certain words when he was tired. The way he scrunched his nose when he was concentrating. Tiny things. Meaningless things. Things most parents took for granted.
One afternoon, you walked into the living room carrying a basket of laundry. The apartment was unusually quiet. Immediately suspicious. You rounded the corner and found Reiji asleep on the couch. One sock missing. A half-finished cartoon still playing softly in the background. And Reo standing in front of the bookshelf. Completely still. Your steps slowed. His attention wasn't on the television. Or the toys.
It was fixed on one of the photographs. A picture taken the summer after Reiji turned two. His cheeks were covered in melted ice cream. His shirt was stained. His smile was huge. You remembered taking at least twenty photos that day because he wouldn't stop laughing long enough to sit still. Reo didn't notice you. He just stood there. Looking. His expression unreadable. Then his eyes moved to another photo. And another. Months. Years. Moments. An entire childhood compressed into frames. You watched his throat move. Like he was trying to swallow around something painful.
For a second, you thought about saying something. Calling his name. Breaking the silence. Instead, you quietly backed away. Returning to the kitchen before he noticed you'd been there at all. And when you stood at the counter a minute later, staring blindly out the window, you hated the fact that your eyes were burning.
The first time Nagi came over with Reo was a disaster. An absolute disaster. The doorbell rang just after lunch. You opened it without thinking. And immediately regretted everything. Reo stood there holding a paper bag. Behind him stood Nagi. Looking exactly as tired as usual. Your eye twitched. Nagi noticed.
"...Uh oh."
"You."
"Hi."
"You."
Reo sighed instantly. The kind of sigh that suggested this conversation had already happened several times in the car.
"Nagi."
"What?"
"You brought him here?"
"He has legs."
"Nagi."
"Mhm."
Your eye twitched again. Nagi took one slow step backward. Pure self-preservation.
"You kidnapped my child."
"Borrowed."
You lunged. Actually lunged. Nagi's eyes widened.
"See? This is what I was talking about—"
Before you could reach him, an arm wrapped around your waist. Then another. Stopping you immediately. You froze.
"Whoa."
"LET ME GO."
"No."
"NAGI."
"REO."
"You are not helping."
"She's being unreasonable."
You made a sound that suggested murder was still very much on the table. Nagi retreated another step. Reo tightened his hold slightly.
"No.", "Yes.", "No.", "Yes.", "N—"
A loud gasp interrupted everything. All four of you turned. Reiji was standing in the living room doorway. For one second he just stared. Then his entire face lit up.
"SLEEPY!"
Nagi immediately relaxed.
"Oh. Hey."
Reiji launched himself across the room at alarming speed. The second he reached him, he wrapped both arms around Nagi's leg.
"You back!"
"Mhm."
"You gone forever."
"It was like a month."
"Forever."
"That's fair."
Reiji looked delighted. Like Christmas had arrived early. Like he'd just discovered both his favorite people had shown up at the same time. Meanwhile you were still trying to commit a felony.
"Mama angry."
"Very."
Reiji looked up at Nagi. Then at you. Then back at Nagi.
"You do bad thing?"
Nagi thought about it.
"Mhm."
"What bad thing?"
"Took you on an adventure."
Reiji gasped dramatically. His eyes got huge.
"You mean BEST day?"
Nagi pointed at him immediately.
"See? He gets it."
"You are teaching him the wrong lessons."
"Mhm."
Reiji grabbed Nagi's hand.
"C'mon."
"Where?"
"Dinosaur."
"What kind?"
"Dinosaur kind."
Nagi accepted this explanation.
"Okay."
The traitor actually followed. Allowing himself to be dragged into the apartment. You stared after them in disbelief.
"Unbelievable."
Reo finally let go of you. Slowly. A little awkwardly. Neither of you acknowledging the fact that he'd still been holding your waist. From the living room came Reiji's excited voice.
"Sleepy!"
"Mhm."
"You horsey."
"No."
"You horsey."
"I'm not."
"You tall."
"That's not the same thing."
"It horse."
A pause.
"...That's actually offensive."
Reiji dissolved into laughter. Pure delighted toddler laughter. Nagi sighed heavily. The long-suffering sigh of someone who had somehow become best friends with a three-year-old. You rubbed your forehead.
"I can't believe he likes you this much."
From the carpet, Nagi glanced up briefly. Reiji was already climbing into his lap like it belonged there.
"I gave him snacks."
"That's all it took?"
"Mhm."
Reiji looked horrified.
"It's because Sleepy nice."
Nagi blinked. You blinked. Reiji immediately returned to stacking dinosaurs.
"...Don't start."
A smile tugged at your mouth despite yourself. And across the room, Reo watched the entire interaction quietly. Because while Reiji was laughing and climbing all over Nagi like a jungle gym... Reo was seeing something else. The trust. The comfort. The history. And even though he smiled when Reiji grabbed his hand a second later— The ache behind it never quite disappeared.
Slowly, Reo stopped feeling like a visitor. His shoes started appearing beside the door. His favorite mug somehow became part of the dish rack rotation. He knew where the spare blankets were. He knew which dinosaur belonged to which ongoing soap opera Reiji had invented. He knew where the juice boxes were kept. The weeks kept passing. And somehow, without anyone noticing, Reo became woven into the apartment. Into your routines. Into Reiji's. Into yours.
One evening, after a particularly long visit, Reiji fell asleep halfway through a movie. Curled up against Reo's side. One small hand tangled in the fabric of his shirt. The credits rolled quietly across the television. Neither of you moved. Because moving meant waking him. Eventually, Reo looked down at the sleeping child pressed against him. The expression on his face made something ache deep inside your chest. Love. The kind that had nowhere to go except deeper. After a while, Reo carefully lifted him. Reiji stirred immediately. Tiny arms wrapping instinctively around Reo's neck.
"Mhm..."
"It's okay," Reo whispered.
Half-asleep, Reiji pressed his face into Reo's shoulder. Reo carried him down the hallway toward his bedroom. And for one brief moment, watching the two of them disappear around the corner— You found yourself imagining what it would have looked like if he'd been there from the beginning. An entire life. A family. The thought hit hard enough to steal your breath. Because for the first time since all of this started, you weren't imagining Reo fitting into your life. You were imagining the life you could have had.
Sometimes they happened in the kitchen while dishes sat forgotten in the sink. Sometimes on the balcony with the city lights glowing below. Sometimes on opposite ends of the couch, both of you pretending the distance between you mattered. The topics changed. The pregnancy. The breakup. The years apart. His parents. Money. Fear.
The things you'd both spent years avoiding. There were no screaming matches. No dramatic confrontations. No moment where everything was suddenly fixed. Just conversations. Long ones. The kind that started with one question and somehow ended at two in the morning. The kind that left both of you emotionally exhausted. The kind that hurt. The kind that helped. Bit by bit, pieces of old wounds stopped bleeding. Because they were finally being looked at.
The first sleepover happened almost three months after Reo came back into your lives. Reiji treated it like he was preparing for an international expedition. A tiny backpack sat by the front door before breakfast. By lunch, it had been unpacked and repacked twice. By dinner, you'd given up interfering.
When Reo arrived, Reiji proudly presented the final inventory. Three dinosaurs. One sock. A banana. And somehow your television remote.
Reo stared into the bag. Then looked at you. Then back at the bag.
"...How?"
"I don't know."
"Fair."
It still took nearly twenty minutes to repack everything properly. Mostly because every item Reo removed immediately got put back by Reiji. The banana caused the most disagreement.
"It's coming."
"It absolutely is not."
"Nanna!"
Reo looked at you. You looked at Reo. Neither of you had a counterargument for that. The banana stayed. When it was finally time to leave, Reiji practically vibrated with excitement.
"BYE MAMA!"
You laughed despite yourself.
"Bye, baby."
"BYE!"
"I can still see you."
"BYE!"
The elevator doors began closing. Reiji waved so hard his entire body moved with it. Then the doors shut. And suddenly—
Silence. The apartment felt enormous. The toys were still there. The blanket was still on the couch. One tiny sneaker sat abandoned near the coffee table. But somehow the entire place felt empty anyway. You wandered into the living room. Stared at the television. Turned it on. Turned it off. Walked into the kitchen. Opened the fridge. Closed it again.
Then stood there feeling ridiculous. Because your son was perfectly safe. He was with Reo. You trusted Reo. So why did the apartment feel wrong?
Exactly forty-seven minutes later, your phone rang. Video call.
REO <3 Calling
You answered immediately. Reiji's face filled the screen.
"MAMA!"
You smiled despite yourself.
"Hi."
"LOOK."
The camera immediately spun. The image lurched wildly for a few seconds before settling. Reo was sitting on the floor surrounded by blankets. A half-built fort occupied most of the living room. He looked up.
"Oh."
"You called already?"
Reo glanced at the phone. Then at Reiji. Then back at the phone.
"He's been asking every six minutes."
"I miss Mama."
"It's been less than an hour."
"I know."
The dramatic sigh that followed belonged entirely to your son. Reo pinched the bridge of his nose.
"You inherited every ounce of drama from your mother."
"I heard that."
"Good."
Reiji gasped.
"Sleepy say same thing."
Somewhere off-screen, Nagi groaned.
The call ended shortly afterward. Then another came. And another.
The blanket fort. The pizza. A very important update about dinosaurs. A less important update about pizza. An emergency regarding which movie to watch. Every tiny development apparently required immediate reporting.
By the time the final call came, the lights in Reo's apartment had dimmed. The movie was still playing quietly in the background. And Reiji was asleep. Curled against Reo's side on the couch. One small hand tangled tightly in the front of his shirt. As if even asleep, he wanted to make sure Reo stayed there. Reo had one arm around him. Careful. Protective.
You looked at the screen for a second too long. And when Reo noticed, neither of you said anything. The call ended a few minutes later. The image stayed in your head long after.
And somehow, without anyone noticing exactly when it happened—Things became normal. Reo stopped knocking and started letting himself in after sending a text. Reiji automatically saved him a seat during dinner. There was always an extra toothbrush in the bathroom now. An extra coffee mug. An extra pair of shoes near the door.
The apartment no longer felt tense whenever he walked inside. It just felt... expected. Sometimes you'd look up from whatever you were doing and find Reo already watching you. Not saying anything. Just listening while Reiji talked. Just existing in the same space.
The night happened like any other. Reiji had been half-asleep on the couch, his cheek pressed into Reo’s shirt while some cartoon droned softly in the background. By the time Reo stood up to carry him to bed, Reiji was already limp with sleep, one tiny hand fisted in Reo’s sleeve like he was afraid of losing him if he let go. You watched from the kitchen doorway as Reo moved carefully down the hall. Not carefully because he was afraid of waking him. Carefully because he still looked a little amazed every time he was allowed to do this. Like carrying your son to bed was something he should not have been trusted with, and yet somehow was. A minute passed. Then another. You turned back to the sink, rinsing a mug you had already washed twice. You were trying not to listen. Trying not to think. Trying not to feel the strange, soft ache that had started living in your chest ever since Reo became part of your nights.
Then you heard it. Just Reiji, sleepy and warm from the bed, his voice dragging somewhere between dream and waking.
“Night, Papa.”
Everything in the apartment stopped. You did too. The mug nearly slipped from your fingers. For a moment, you thought you had imagined it. Thought maybe sleep had twisted the word into something else. Then you heard Reo make a sound from the bedroom. A sudden, shattered inhale. You went still. There was a long silence after that. Then the soft creak of the mattress. The faint rustle of blankets. Reiji, already gone again into sleep, mumbling something small and nonsensical into Reo’s shirt. And Reo— Reo didn’t say anything back.
When you pushed open the bedroom door a little while later, the room was dark except for the weak amber of the streetlights bleeding through the curtains. Reiji was asleep on his side, one arm stretched above his head, his face peaceful in the way only children ever were. Reo sat on the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees and both hands clasped over his mouth. His shoulders were shaking. Completely silent. The sight stopped your heart in your chest. You shut the door behind you as softly as you could and took a few steps closer. Reo didn’t look up. He looked like if he did, whatever was holding him together would finally break. So you crossed the room and stopped in front of him. Still, he didn’t move. His breathing was uneven, controlled only by force. You could see the tears on his face even in the dark. Your own throat tightened.
“Reo.”
That was all it took. His head bowed lower. One hand dropped from his mouth and covered his eyes instead, like he could hide from the feeling that way.
“I’m okay,” he said, but the words were useless. Ruined before they even finished leaving him.
You sat down beside him without a word. He still didn’t look at you. So you didn’t ask questions. You just opened your arms. For a second, he didn’t move. Then he folded. Fast and helpless, like his body had been waiting for permission to fall apart. He leaned into you so hard it almost knocked the breath from your lungs, one arm wrapping around your waist, his face burying into your shoulder. His grip was tight enough to hurt. You held him anyway. One hand went to the back of his head. The other steadied him at the shoulder. He made a sound then, something painfully small and broken, and after that the silence was over. He was crying now. Still quietly. Still trying not to wake Reiji. Trying not to make it worse. Trying not to make any sound at all. But his whole body kept shaking against yours. You held him through it. Let him breathe into your shoulder. Let him hide there. Let him take up as much space as he needed. A long time passed before he managed to speak. When he did, it was rough enough to barely count as a voice.
“I thought I was prepared for this,” he whispered.
You pressed your lips together and kept holding him. He swallowed hard.
“I thought I was prepared for… him.”
The word broke on his tongue. He gave a weak, disbelieving laugh that turned into another sob before it could finish.
“I’m not.”
Your chest tightened painfully. Reo clung to you harder, like he needed to keep himself anchored to something real.
“I don’t know what I thought this would feel like,” he admitted. “Seeing him. Hearing him. Being here.”
He shook his head against your shoulder.
“But not this.”
You said nothing. You could feel how carefully he was trying to keep himself together even while he was falling apart. His voice lowered.
“I’ve been angry at you for so long.”
That made you go still. Not because you were surprised. Because you weren’t. Because you had carried that anger too. He let out another shaky breath.
“I was so angry,” he said again, quieter this time. “I was furious. I kept thinking you’d left because you didn’t want me anymore. Or because it got too hard. Or because I wasn’t enough to make you stay.”
Your eyes burned instantly. His hand tightened at your back. “And now I find out you were doing this alone,” he whispered. “You were carrying all of it alone.” His voice cracked on the last word. You lowered your forehead against his hair.
He kept talking anyway, like he had been holding these words in too long to stop now. “My parents…” He swallowed. Hard. “I hate how much they got into your head.”
Your breath caught. Reo’s jaw tightened against your shoulder.
“They made you feel like you didn’t belong anywhere near me.”
He sounded sick when he said it.
“Like loving me was supposed to be something you had to earn.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you then. His eyes were red. Swollen. Exhausted. And still there was nothing polished about him now. No distance. No control. Just raw guilt sitting open on his face.
“I should have seen it,” he said.
You shook your head slightly. “Reo—”
“No.” His voice sharpened, not with anger, but with pain. “No, let me say it.”
So you did. He stared at you for a second, swallowing hard again.
“I should have seen how scared you were,” he said. “I should have known they were making it worse.” His expression broke.
“I just kept thinking you were leaving because of me.”
A wet laugh escaped him, utterly ruined. “I was so angry at you.”
He covered his face for a moment and dragged in a shaky breath.
“So angry.”
The confession hurt more because it was honest.
“I hated that you could just disappear like that,” he went on. “I hated that I had no idea where you went. I hated that you didn’t trust me enough to stay.”
You closed your eyes. There it was. The wound underneath everything. The one neither of you had been able to speak around without bleeding.
“And now,” he whispered, voice going smaller, “you were trying to protect him.”
The word him cracked through the room. Your son. Your child. His child. Reo looked down at the floor for a second as if he could not bear to say the next part while looking at you.
“I never imagined this,” he said quietly.
When you didn’t answer, he looked back up.
“Not once.” His voice trembled. “I imagined you leaving. I imagined being alone. I imagined being furious for the rest of my life if I had to be.” His mouth twisted, bitter and broken. “I never imagined a child.”
Your throat closed. He blinked hard.
“I never imagined he’d call me that,” he whispered. “Papa.”
The sound of it coming from him was almost too much. He shook his head, tears slipping again before he could stop them.
“I don’t deserve that.”
You moved before you thought about it. You cupped his face in both hands, forcing him gently to look at you. His eyes were wrecked. Completely wrecked. And suddenly you were crying too. Because he looked young then. Not like Reo Mikage. Not like the person everyone watched. Just someone unbearably human, standing in the middle of a dark room with his heart in pieces.
“You do,” you said.
His breath hitched.
“You do deserve him.”
He made a broken sound at that and looked away immediately, like he didn’t trust himself to hear any more. You pulled him back into your arms. He came willingly this time. His face pressed into your neck, hands gripping you like he had nowhere else to put the grief.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
You shut your eyes.
“I know.”
“No.” The word came out against your skin, rough and desperate. “No, you don’t. I’m sorry for how angry I was. I’m sorry for thinking the worst of you. I’m sorry I let them make me—” His voice caught. “For letting them drive you away.”
You held on tighter. He kept going, words spilling now that he’d started and could not stop.
“For not fighting harder. For not going after you sooner. For every time I convinced myself you’d come back on your own. For acting like I wasn’t breaking when you were gone.” His grip tightened painfully around your back.
“And I’m sorry,” he said, voice turning ragged, “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.”
He buried his face deeper into your shoulder. “I should have been there,” he said again, like if he repeated it enough it might become true somehow. “His first words. His first steps. All of it. I should have been there.”
You kissed the top of his head. He shuddered.
“I would have held him,” he whispered.
You closed your eyes. “I know.”
“I would have known his laugh.”
“I know.”
“I would have known what he liked, what scared him, what made him mad, what made him clingy.”
Your hand moved over his back in slow, steady strokes.
“And now,” he said, voice barely there, “he called me Papa like it was normal.” The tears came back hard.
A long silence passed between you. The kind where all the years sat between your bodies and neither of you had the strength to move them.
Then Reo whispered, almost too quietly to hear, “I don’t know how to be this.”
You pulled back just enough to see his face. He looked helpless.
“Be what?”
His eyes flicked toward the bedroom door. A father. He didn’t say it. He didn’t need to. Your chest ached.
“You’re already doing it,” you told him softly.
He laughed once, broken and disbelieving. “No, I’m really not.”
“Yes, you are.”
He shook his head. “I’m trying not to fall apart every time he looks at me.”
“That still counts.”
That made him look at you properly. Really look. And for a second, the devastation in his expression eased into something even more painful. A quiet, stunned tenderness. He reached for you again then, like he couldn’t help himself. Not desperate this time. Just needing. You let him. He rested his forehead against yours, breathing unevenly.
“I thought I lost everything when you left,” he whispered.
Your own eyes stung. “I know.”
“But this…” His voice cracked again. “This is so much worse and so much better and I don’t know what to do with it.”
A watery laugh escaped you before you could stop it. He gave one too, barely. Then his face crumpled all over again.
“I love him so much already.”
The words came out like a confession and a wound at the same time. You shut your eyes because that was the part that hurt the most. It was that Reo loved so completely it seemed to undo him. And now he had something tiny and real and precious in his life to love. Something that had already claimed him. Something that had made him cry silently in the dark after hearing one sleepy little word. Your arms went around him again, and this time he held on like he was afraid the feeling itself might vanish if he let go. Your son slept peacefully. His father cried quietly into your shoulder. And for the first time, the shape of your family felt like something real.
Part 4? I wanted to make this part longer, but i ran out of blocks :(
Taglist: @suckingsaesdihh @shorttiredasian @maryj0yy
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Just had a HORRIBLE idea for Kaiser's 'You Have My Eyes' Part 3
Anyways,
Goodnight, Love you - AL <3
Names
For Rin's 'You Have My Eyes' fic
(Not saying that it's coming soon, I'm just toying with ideas)
Possible boy or girl names:
Rui / Rumi
Ryota / Rika
Ryuuji / Rei
If you have any other suggestions, please let me know! (:
THESE ARE SUCH CUTE NAMES QUEEN!!!!
AWW THANK YOUUUU!!!!
