#blush ‘n squirt

Your body bore the story of it all—muscles aching, arms heavy, your skin still marked with stains that no amount of scrubbing under scalding water had erased. Your clothes were stiff where blood had dried, somewhere between grayish red and a ghost of white, carrying the sour smell of disinfectant laced with iron. The scent followed you like a shadow. You no longer noticed the world around you—your legs simply carried you forward until you found yourself at your own front door.

The moment the lock clicked open, everything shifted. A different scent washed over you—warm, familiar, the faint sweetness of something simmering in the kitchen. The air felt softer, almost golden, wrapping around you like a blanket after a storm. “I think I heard the door!” a small, eager voice rang out, followed by the quick patter of tiny feet rushing toward you.

You had barely kicked your shoes off before a sudden weight collided with your waist—small arms circling you tightly, pressing with all the strength they could muster. “You’re finally home!” Eri’s little voice trembled, muffled against your uniform. For the first time in forty-eight hours, you felt the world slow, as if her embrace had pulled you back into your own body.

“O-Oh Eri, sweetheart.. my clothes don’t smell nice. They’re dirty, you shouldn’t—”

“I missed you,” she whispered fiercely, her little hands clutching your shirt. “You’ve been gone forever. Like.. ten whole days!”

From the hallway, another presence approached. Shota’s figure appeared, familiar and grounding, his hair tousled yet catching faint sparkles under the light. His tired eyes softened the moment they found you. Just the sight of him was enough to make your lips twitch into a weary smile.

“She’s right,” he said quietly, his voice a low rumble threaded with exhaustion, “it feels like forever since you were here.” He leaned in, pressing his lips gently against your forehead. His kiss lingered just long enough for warmth to bloom where fatigue had carved hollows. Eri’s bright eyes darted between you both, her joy practically vibrating in the air.

“It’s only been two days,” you tried to laugh, though it came out hoarse, your throat rough from too many shouted instructions, too many reassurances whispered over broken bodies.

Shota’s hands moved with care, his touch slow, deliberate. He slipped the coat from your shoulders as if he could peel away your burdens with it. The faint scrape of fabric against your skin sent shivers down your spine. Eri hurried off, carrying your bag to its place with determined concentration, her little feet padding quickly across the floorboards.

You could try to hide it, but Shota didn’t need words. He read your body the way others might read a book—the slope of your shoulders, the heaviness in your movements, the dimness in your gaze. He knew too well the cost of your work. Once, he had doubted whether this life could make room for raising a child. And yet, here you were, pouring yourself into both worlds without hesitation. To him, you were still the rarest, most irreplaceable gift.

“We made your favorite dinner tonight! And dessert! And I got you flowers!” Eri piped up, tugging your hand with a grin that lit up her whole face. Shota chuckled lowly, the sound vibrating against your bones, soft and fond.

“That was supposed to be a surprise, Eri,” he teased, amusement flashing briefly across his tired features. She turned crimson, ducking her head, and you felt the edges of your chest loosen.

He guided you to the table, pulling out your chair with gentle insistence. The dining room glowed under warm light, dishes laid out like small works of art, steam carrying rich, comforting aromas. You inhaled deeply, and for the first time in days, something other than antiseptic and iron filled your lungs. Another night, you might have teased them for overdoing it, but tonight, the bright colors and careful effort felt like therapy, like medicine crafted just for you.

“So,” you asked, voice softer, “how were your days?”

Eri erupted with excitement, words tumbling out faster than she could chew. Her little hands waved dramatically, her cheeks puffing as she tried to talk and eat at once. Shota’s gentle reminders about manners only made her beam harder, unbothered. Watching her like that—so full of life, unburdened—brought something inside you to ease and expand, filling every hollow space with warmth.

Then, a quiet pressure—a hand sliding into yours, strong and steady. Shota’s thumb traced lazy circles over your knuckles, anchoring you. His gaze caught yours, and the whole world seemed to still.

“Eri,” he said, voice low but carrying, “why don’t you go grab the last surprise?” Her eyes grew impossibly wide before she dashed off, laughter trailing behind her.

“Another surprise?” you asked, a small smile tugging at your lips. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

“She missed you every second,” Shota murmured. “So did I.” His words vibrated against your skin as he stepped behind you, his hands settling onto your shoulders.

His fingers pressed gently into the tense knots in your muscles, drawing soft circles that sent heat spreading across your back. The contrast of his warmth against your sore body was intoxicating. Your head tipped back into him, eyelids heavy, surrendering to the safety he offered. Each knot unwound beneath his touch until exhaustion pulled you under like a tide.

You didn’t realize you had fallen asleep until a cool dampness startled you awake.

Shota’s arms still held you, but strands of blue hair tickled his face. It took you a moment to realize Eri had climbed onto you in her sleep, sprawled across your chest, drool slipping down your cheek in an unbroken trail.

“Do something—she’s drooling on me,” you hissed, eyes wide with alarm. You didn’t dare move, afraid to wake her.

Shota cracked one eye open, hair falling messily across his forehead, and the corner of his mouth quirked.

“A brilliant doctor like you scared of a little drool?” His voice was rough but teasing, the rare sound of amusement coloring it.

“It’s cold—and it tickles!” you whispered back, your body betraying you with laughter bubbling up. Your lips curved into a grin too wide to hide.

That grin undid him. To Shota, you were radiant like this—smiling despite exhaustion, your spirit shining through. He remembered every spark that had led you here—your smile on your first date, the way you had said yes to him, the day you had promised to be Eri’s mother. In his eyes, you had never been more beautiful. Tired, messy, with a streak of drool glistening across your cheek.

Carefully, he shifted Eri off you, laying her gently on the couch, her little body curling instinctively into the cushions. Then his arms wound back around your waist, his lips brushing butterfly-soft kisses along the sensitive line of your neck, each one a quiet promise.

“Thank you,” he whispered against your temple, his breath warm. “I don’t think I could ever be happier than I am right now—with you.”

Later, when you finally slipped into the bedroom, you found the final surprise waiting on the nightstand. A photo frame rested there, catching the soft glow of the lamp. Inside was a picture of your little family, all three of you wearing clown accessories—Eri and you pulling ridiculous faces while Shota stood behind, arms wrapped around you both, holding you close as if you were the most precious gems in his world.

The sight made your chest ache, your throat tighten with tears you hadn’t realized you’d been holding back. In that instant, you understood—home wasn’t a place. It was them.

And then, when Baro was convinced to be happy having a lovely life with his wife (you) and his daughter, you gave life to his son, a real copy of you. The little boy looked nothing like Baro and his sister. He was calm, introverted, and feared his sister’s energy (she was such an excited little gremlin). And he hated sports. While his sister was shocked, telling him how much of a loss, Baro didn’t make it a big deal to your surprise. Instead, he’d always go to his son to find out his interest in the moment and then buy him books and toys related to the said interest. One time, he offered his son to paint on his face instead of the walls so that he could experiment with his painting skills.

Baro knew how to balance his time between his children and love them equally while loving you a little more. He was so different when spending time with his daughter or son, and you must admit, you love him more every day. He is such a good dad.

“Are y’all kids as smart as mine? I don’t think so, peasants,” he’d send to the group chat, a photo of the grades and degrees decorated with teddy bears of his son for winning the Maths and English national competition. ”Got the best kids here, and you all don’t.”

“I knew I should’ve removed him from this group chat when his wife got pregnant again.”

“You mad, huh? Looser.“

Baro’s kids were perfection to him. Although his kids would throw tantrums (which Baro found normal since they were just kids, but god, he hated it when it happened in a public place), Baro hated going out without his children. It was hard for him to leave them with his mother and sisters, even if it was just for the evening.

Baro kept family pictures everywhere he could: a picture of you in his wallet, many of those kids on his car, on the walls of the house, on his keychain, and even a painting of them (that he painted when he spent time with his son) at his mother’s house.

You made Baro’s life so much better, for nothing in this world he’d leave you. You brought life to him, and he’d be forever grateful for that.

SINGLE DAD!OLIVER was late one day and couldn’t pick up his son, Frans, on time. That day, little Frans accidentally wet himself and felt terrible about it all day long. You decided to stay with him as long as it took, working together on a coloring book in class. Frans wasn’t very talkative and didn’t have many friends—he may looked like his dad, but he certainly hadn’t inherited his dad’s outgoing personality.

SINGLE DAD!OLIVER who bursts into the classroom with a big smile on his lips, greeting you warmly. Frans doesn’t run into his dad’s arms with excitement—he just looks up at you with doe eyes. “Can I take the drawing, miss? So I can finish at home,” his little voice almost breaking, eyes watery. You give him a reassuring smile, brushing his hair gently. “Of course you can. And you’ll show me when it’s done, hm? I’m sure it’ll look great.” A small smile reappears on his face as he packs up his colored pencils.

SINGLE DAD!OLIVER who winks at you when you get closer, making sure Frans is far enough not to hear. “How are you, miss?—You know that’s your color, right? Your eyes look prettier,” he teases, pointing at your clothes. For the first time, you roll your eyes, irritated. Fuck—she’s sexier.

“We need to talk about Frans,” you say seriously. “He doesn’t smile as much lately, he’s alone during breaks, and.. he wet himself today.” You tried to stay professional, but he could still hear the worry in your voice as you handed him a small plastic bag with what looked like Frans’s clothes inside.

SINGLE DAD!OLIVER whose only response is to shrug. “Yeah, so what? Any child can randomly wet themselves,” he says flatly, his words stripped of warmth. So different from everything you’d seen of him before. “Frans is just a shy kid. Nothing’s wrong with that.”

SINGLE DAD!OLIVER who suddenly hides inside his shell. He wasn’t a bad father if that’s what you thought—and fuck—you could believe whatever bullshit you wanted. He was far from neglecting his son. They were just depressed since the divorce, that’s all—and his ex-wife hadn’t gone easy on him, saying things their son should’ve never heard. The way she bragged about not having full custody was probably what made Frans so sad. How could a mother say something so cruel to her little child?

This wasn’t even about Oliver’s mistakes.

SINGLE DAD!OLIVER had feelings too and unfortunately, he didn’t know how to handle his and his son’s emotions at the same time. Frans was just a kid; he shouldn’t have to live through that. So maybe, yeah, being in love with his wife (well, he loved her at some point) and devastated at now having to call her his “ex-wife” did make him a bad father.

“I’m not judging you,” you say, cutting into his inner torment. Your voice calms the storm inside him, much like the ocean settles after rain. “It’s my responsibility to tell you what’s wrong when I feel it. You don’t have to share what’s happening in your personal life, Sir Aiku, but Frans.. He’s kind and talented, he shouldn’t—” Here you are—always so caring and warmhearted.. being this considerate should’ve been illegal.

You had no idea how hearing those words heals something in him—they meant to him. And the way you praised his child—it was so touching—the kind of support that make all the difference.

“I’m done, dad.” Frans joins his father’s side, who immediately brushes his hair gently. His little eyes glance at you again with a shy smile as he says, “Thank you, miss.” Your heart nearly implodes from how cute he is.

SINGLE DAD!OLIVER who gets his loyal grin back. “Next time you want to talk about my parenting flaws, we should do it over a drink instead.” He winks before scooping Frans into his arms to leave.

Stubborn as a mule..