mocha .ᐟ

PAINT ME YOURS

painter!toji x rich!reader modern au fluff slow burn

synopsis: a broke toji is desperately in need of a job, when he gets assigned to paint your fancy house; he ends up with an odd feeling in his chest ＞ω＜ wc 3.4k

toji had been struggling with money for the past few months. after quitting his job at the docks, he'd been bouncing from one odd job to another—construction, moving furniture, even some sketchy night shifts at a warehouse that paid under the table. but none of it stuck long enough to keep the bills from piling up.

“giselle,” he muttered into his phone, pressing it between his ear and shoulder as he rolled a cigarette between his fingers. he was currently on the phone with his boss, a woman who ran a small contracting business and who he knew would give him work when she could. “i need somethin’. anything.” the line crackled for a second before she sighed.

“luck’s on your side today,” she said, sounding amused. “got a client with a big house in the hills—needs the whole exterior repainted. you ever held a brush before?” toji scoffed, flicking his lighter open and letting the flame catch the end of his cigarette. “obviously? who do you think i am?” he groaned into the speaker, “a dumbass who can’t keep a job if his life depended on it, obviously.” an annoyed giselle replied, and he resisted the urge to cuss her out.

and that is how he ended up at your doorstep at 7:30 in the morning, cigarette dangling from his lips, a dented ladder slung over one shoulder, and the distinct air of a man who had not slept enough. the house was—well, it was something. sprawling, white-walled, with manicured hedges framing the walkway like something out of a magazine. toji blinked at it, exhaling smoke through his nose. “rich people,” he muttered, then flicked the cigarette into the gravel before knocking.

the door swung open before his knuckles could make contact a second time, and—shit. he wasn’t expecting you. he had found many women pretty before, but none of them had ever made his brain stutter to a halt like this. your hair was mussed from sleep, your sweater slipping off one shoulder, and your eyes still heavy-lidded from waking up too early. toji’s mouth went dry.

“you’re the painter?” you asked, voice still rough with sleep, and he realized he’d been staring too long. he cleared his throat, adjusting the ladder on his shoulder like it could hide the way his pulse had kicked up. “yeah. toji. 's a pleasure to be workin' on your…” he gestured vaguely at the house behind you, “...mansion.”

you snorted, leaning against the doorframe. “it’s not a mansion. just a house.” he raised an eyebrow at the four-car garage peeking out from the side. “uh-huh.”

you rolled your eyes but didn’t argue, stepping aside to let him in. “come in! we can have some tea while i tell you my plan for the colors.” toji hesitated at the threshold, suddenly hyperaware of his scuffed boots against your pristine hardwood floors. “uh, i should probably keep ‘em off,” he muttered, nodding at his shoes. “don’t wanna track dirt.” you waved a hand dismissively, already padding toward the kitchen. “please, like i care. it’s just floors.”

toji blinked, then toed off his boots with a quiet thud, following you through the foyer. the inside of the house was just as intimidating—high ceilings, art that probably cost more than his entire life savings, and a kitchen that looked straight out of a home renovation show. he resisted the urge to whistle, shoving his hands into his pockets instead. “so,” he said, leaning against the marble countertop while you filled the kettle. “what’re we paintin’? pink? neon green? some artsy shit with triangles?”

you laughed, the sound warm and effortless, like you’d done it a thousand times before. “god, no. something pastel, but not too boring. maybe a soft sage green?” you turned to face him, hip resting against the counter as the kettle began to hum. “you think that’d look good?”

toji shrugged, but his eyes traced the curve of your fingers around the mug you handed him—chipped at the rim, clearly well-loved despite the rest of the house’s perfection. “sage green’s fine,” he said, the steam from the tea curling between them. “better than that beige shit rich people usually pick.”

you grinned, nudging the sugar bowl toward him. “bold of you to assume i’m rich.” he snorted, pushing it away with a shake of his head. “bold of you to assume i don’t got eyes.”

the banter came easy, surprisingly so. toji wasn’t used to clients who laughed at his jokes instead of stiffening at his rough edges, but you just sipped your tea like this was normal—like he wasn’t some underpaid laborer tracking sawdust onto your million-dollar tiles.

because of this, he was looking forward to the first day of painting, which was weird—normally, he hated painting. it was tedious, messy work that left his shoulders aching and his hands stiff. but something about the way you'd leaned against the counter, your socked foot nudging his boot under the table like you'd known him forever, made the idea of spending hours on a ladder outside your house feel... different.

the morning sun was already warm when toji unloaded his supplies from the back of his truck, the paint cans clanking together as he hauled them onto the driveway. he could hear the faint sound of music drifting through an open window—something jazzy and low, the kind of thing he’d never admit to liking but couldn’t help tapping his fingers along to.

you appeared at the front door, holding two mugs. “brought you coffee,” you said, handing one over. “figured you’d need the caffeine.” he took it, fingers brushing against yours just long enough to notice how warm they were. “you’re gonna spoil me,” he muttered before taking a sip—black, no sugar, exactly how he liked it. he blinked. "how’d you know?"

you shrugged, sipping your own drink—something creamy and sweet-smelling that made his nose wrinkle. “lucky guess.” he didn’t believe you, but he let it slide, opting to stretch his arms over his head instead. “alright, where do you want me to start?”

“the trim first, maybe?” you gestured toward the eaves, already pulling your hair into a messy bun. “i’ll help. i’ve got nothing better to do today.”

toji nearly choked on his coffee. “you’re helpin’?”

“yeah? it’s my house.” you grinned, already grabbing a brush from his toolbox like you hadn’t just upended his entire understanding of rich people. “unless you’re too proud to let me.”

he scoffed, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows. “pride’s got nothin’ to do with it. just never met a client who wanted to get paint in their hair.”

“first time for everything,” you said, and then you were climbing the ladder beside him, close enough that he could smell your shampoo—something floral, but not overpowering, the kind of scent that lingered in the air after someone left a room.

the work was slow, methodical. toji usually rushed through jobs like this, but today, he found himself taking his time, making sure each stroke was even. you didn’t talk much, but the silence wasn’t uncomfortable—just the occasional hum along to the music, the scrape of brushes against wood, the way your elbow bumped his when you reached for the same spot.

at one point, you leaned back too far, wobbling on the ladder, and toji’s hand shot out to steady you, his fingers wrapping around your wrist. “careful,” he said, voice lower than he meant it to be.

you didn’t pull away. "thanks," you murmured, your pulse jumping under his thumb.

the afternoon heat settled heavy over the house, making the paint dry faster than toji liked. he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, leaving a faint smear of sage green across his temple. “you’re gonna ruin that sweater,” he muttered, nodding at the paint splatters creeping up the cuff of your sleeve. you shrugged, dipping your brush back into the tray. “it’s just a sweater.”

“so,” you said suddenly, breaking the quiet, “why painting?”

toji paused mid-stroke, brush hovering over the trim. “why painting?” he echoed, voice rough from disuse. he hadn’t expected the question—clients usually didn’t care about the why of him, just the how fast. he shrugged, dipping the brush again to hide the way his fingers tightened around the handle. “needed the cash. ain’t exactly picky these days.”

“needed the cash,” you repeated, voice softer than before, like you were turning the words over in your mouth. toji kept his eyes on the trim, but he could feel your gaze on him, warm and steady as the sunlight. “that’s it?”

he shrugged again, the motion tight. “what else is there?”

you didn’t answer right away. instead, you leaned back against the ladder, brush dangling from your fingers, and looked out over the yard—the hedges, the fountain bubbling quietly near the porch, the way the light filtered through the leaves of the oak tree shading the driveway. “i don’t know,” you said finally. “something that makes you happy, maybe.”

toji barked out a laugh, the sound rougher than he meant it to be. “happy’s a luxury.”

ironically, when he kept coming to your house to paint—he soon realised that happiness wasn’t a luxury.

it wasn’t something he could afford, not when rent was due next week and his fridge was empty save for a half-eaten pack of stale ramen. but there was you, handing him coffee at dawn like it was nothing, laughing at his stupid jokes like they were worth something, staining your expensive sweaters with paint because you couldn’t sit still long enough to let him do the job alone

toji didn’t know what to do with that.

he’d spent his whole life shouldering through shit jobs, through cold apartments and colder people, through the kind of exhaustion that seeped into his bones and never left. happiness wasn’t in the cards for guys like him. but then there was you, standing too close on the ladder, your socked foot nudging his boot under the table like you’d known him forever, like he wasn’t just some guy getting paid to repaint your rich-people house.

and maybe that was the worst part—you didn’t treat him like he was just anything.

“you ever think about doing something else?” you asked one afternoon, both of you taking a break under the shade of the oak tree. you were peeling an orange, the citrus scent sharp in the warm air, and handing him half without even looking. “like, not painting houses forever.”

toji took the fruit, fingers brushing against yours, sticky with juice. “nah,” he said, popping a wedge into his mouth. “what else would i do?” he meant it to sound dismissive, but it came out softer, almost curious.

you hummed, leaning back against the tree trunk. “i don’t know. something that doesn’t leave your hands all cracked.” you reached out, thumb grazing over the rough calluses on his knuckles before he could pull away. "

“you’ve got good hands. they should be holding something better than a paintbrush.”

“good hands?” he laughed, but it caught in his throat when your fingers lingered, tracing the ridge of his knuckles like they were something precious. toji swallowed hard, the orange suddenly too sweet on his tongue. “ain’t never heard that one before.”

you didn’t pull back. “well, now you have.” your voice was light, but your eyes were steady, holding his in a way that made his chest ache. the breeze rustled the leaves above you, dappling sunlight across your face, and for a wild second, he thought about kissing you—right there, with paint smudged on your cheek and his hands still sticky from the fruit.

the moment stretched, taut as a wire, until a car door slammed somewhere down the street, startling you both apart. you cleared your throat, brushing imaginary lint off your jeans. “we should—uh, finish the trim before it gets too dark.”

toji nodded, standing abruptly, his knees popping. “yeah. trim” he sounded stupid, even to himself.

the rest of the afternoon passed in a haze of half-finished sentences and stolen glances. every time your hands brushed his while reaching for the paint tray, every time you leaned too close to point out a missed spot, his pulse kicked up like a spooked horse. it was ridiculous. he was a grown man, not some teenager with his first crush.

by the time the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the lawn, the house was finally done. toji stepped back to survey their work, hands on his hips. “not bad,” he admitted. the sage green looked softer in the fading light, almost glowing against the white trim.

the thought that the job was over hit toji like a bucket of ice water. no more mornings with your coffee, no more shared lunches under the oak tree, no more excuses to linger in your orbit like some lovesick idiot. he wiped his hands on his jeans, the paint already drying into stubborn cracks across his knuckles. “guess that’s it,” he said, voice gruffer than he meant it to be.

you tilted your head, studying him with that look—the one that made him feel like you could see right through his bullshit. “guess so,” you agreed, but you didn’t move to go inside. instead, you leaned against the ladder still propped against the house, the metal creaking under your weight. “i mean—unless you don't want it to be. i could always find another room that needs painting.”

toji swallowed, the back of his neck prickling with something he couldn’t name. “that so?” he said, voice rough. he kicked at a loose pebble on the driveway, watching it skitter across the pavement. “thought rich people hired professionals for that kinda thing.”

you laughed, the sound curling around him like the evening breeze. “maybe i like amateur work.” your grin was crooked, teasing, and it did something stupid to his ribs—like they were too tight, like they might crack open if he breathed wrong. “besides, you’re not that bad.”

he scoffed, but his chest felt warm. “high praise.”

the silence stretched between you, toji could hear the distant hum of cicadas, the rustle of leaves overhead, the way your breath hitched just slightly when he stepped closer. your fingers twitched at your sides, like you wanted to reach for him but didn’t. he knew the feeling.

the ladder creaked when you shifted your weight, one foot slipping off the rung. toji’s hands shot out before he could think, fingers digging into your hips as he steadied you—your body pressed flush against his, your breath warm against his collarbone. neither of you moved. the paintbrush clattered to the ground, forgotten.

toji didn’t know who moved first—maybe it was him, maybe it was you, maybe it was the way your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt like you were afraid he’d disappear if you let go. all he knew was that one second, he was holding you steady on the ladder, and the next, your mouth was on his, warm and insistent, tasting of oranges and cheap coffee.

he froze for half a heartbeat, his brain short-circuiting—because you were kissing him, paint-smeared hands fisting in his shirt like he was something worth holding onto. then instinct took over, and he was kissing you back, rough and desperate, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head, the other still gripping your hip like he might float away if he didn’t.

the ladder creaked dangerously beneath you, but neither of you cared. your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, and he groaned into your mouth, the sound low and hungry. you kissed like you’d been waiting for this, like you’d thought about it just as much as he had—all those stolen glances, the way his pulse jumped every time your fingers brushed his.

when you finally pulled back, breathless, his lips felt raw, like he’d been burned. your chest rose and fell rapidly, your cheeks flushed, your mouth still parted like you wanted to say something. toji’s thumb brushed your bottom lip, wiping away a smudge of paint he’d left there. “shit,” he muttered, voice wrecked.

you didn’t let him finish. your hands fisted in the front of his shirt, dragging him back down before he could overthink it—before he could remember that this wasn’t supposed to happen, that he was just the guy who painted your house, that he didn’t get things like this. but your mouth was insistent, your teeth grazing his lower lip, and toji forgot how to think altogether.

the ladder groaned under your combined weight, tilting dangerously to the side. toji barely had time to curse before it tipped, sending you both tumbling onto the soft grass below. he twisted mid-fall, taking the brunt of the impact, your body landing sprawled across his chest with a startled laugh. “fuck,” he wheezed, the air knocked out of him, but you were already pushing yourself up on your elbows, your hair falling into your face, grinning down at him like he’d hung the stars.

“you okay?” you asked, breathless, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw.

toji stared up at you, grass sticking to his back, paint smeared across your cheek, and something wild clawed its way up his throat. “never better, sweets.” he huffed, his voice rough.

“you damn dog,” giselle's voice crackled through the room, muffled slightly by the crumpled receipt toji was pinning between his ear and shoulder as he rifled through the supply closet. he'd been counting out brushes, half-distracted by the way his phone kept sliding down his cheek, when her words registered. “heh?”

“don't 'heh' me,” she snorted, the sound tinny through the speaker. “heard you got yourself a sugar mama with that last gig. paint her house real good, huh?” toji nearly dropped the bundle of rollers in his hands, heat crawling up the back of his neck as he fumbled to grab the phone properly. “the fuck—who told you that?”

“oh please,” giselle drawled, the smirk audible in her voice. “you think i don't hear things? whole crew's talkin' about how you came back from that job smelling like expensive perfume and grinning like a dumbass.”

toji clenched his jaw, shoving a paint-stained rag into his back pocket with more force than necessary. “ain't like that,” he muttered, “i actually like her.” the admission slipped out before he could stop it, rough around the edges but unmistakably sincere. the line went quiet for a beat too long—giselle never shut up unless she'd struck gold.

“oh-ho-ho," she crooned, dragging out each syllable like she was savoring the taste of his embarrassment. “so it's serious serious. tell me, does she make you use the good china when she feeds you caviar, or do you still eat takeout off paper plates like the plebeian you are?”

he could picture her leaning back in her office chair, boots propped on the desk, that shit-eating grin she got when she knew she'd won. toji exhaled through his nose, counting the ceiling tiles to keep from biting back too hard. “fuck off. can't you be happy for your employee gettin' some action?”

“oh, toji,” giselle sighed, the overdramatic pity in her voice making his eye twitch. “i'd be happier if you weren't whipped after one job. what's next, matching tattoos? picking out curtains?”

toji's thumb hovered over the call-end button. “i'm hangin' up now.”

“wait, wait—” she cackled, clearly enjoying herself too much. "bring her around sometime. i wanna see the woman who turned toji fushiguro into a blushing schoolboy.”

he hung up before she could finish, tossing the phone onto the counter with a clatter. the silence of the supply closet was suddenly suffocating. he scrubbed a hand over his face, the ghost of your laughter still echoing in his skull—how you'd rolled your eyes when he'd tried to pay for lunch, how your fingers had lingered on his wrist when you handed him the coffee that morning.

and yeah, that was your love story. even today, when he wakes up in your shared bed—still getting used to the absurdity that he isn't living in a shitty apartment anymore—he rolls over and stares at you like you're some impossible dream. he wouldn't trade your pretty eyes and soft hands for all the money in the world.

♯ guess who is back 👀 from this request, thank you dear anon for requesting this, hope you enjoy it! the fic didn't meet my expectation but i hope y'all still like it 😔 love you guys!

water dripped from the edge of Satoru's umbrella as he followed you through the daycare's front door, shoes squeaking slightly against the floor. the building was quieter now that most of the kids had gone home.

your daughter sat alone in one of the tiny tables near the window. her arms crossed and her face scrunched into a glare.

Satoru leaned down beside you. "She looks just like you," he murmured.

you ignored him with an eye roll.

the teacher spotted the both of you and gave a small, tired smile.

"Thank you for coming," she said. "There was a little incident during art time."

"Little?" you repeated, eyeing your daughter, who sank lower into her chair.

the teacher sighed softly. "Another student commented on her drawing and she reacted.. physically."

"Physically? Like what?" you asked.

the teacher blinked at you. "She pushed another student."

"Oh."

beside you, Satoru crouched beside her chair immediately, resting his chin against his hand. "Okay, sweetie," he started. "In your defense, was he annoying?"

your daughter nodded without hesitation. "Really annoying!"

the teacher sighed again before gesturing toward the table nearby. "It started because of her drawing."

both you and Satoru looked toward the table at the exact same time. the drawing in question sat crumpled there. it was.. definitely something.

Satoru tilted his head slightly. "Is that supposed to be a cat?"

your daughter gasped. "It IS a cat!"

"Ohh," he nodded slowly. "Okay, i see the vision now."

you snorted loudly beside him.

"He laughed at it," your daughter continued. "And then he crumpled it!"

Satoru looked down at the wrinkled paper on table. then back at her. "... that's actually kind of disrespectful," he admitted.

she nodded vigorously. "He said it didn't even look like a cat!"

"It does look like a cat, sweetheart."

"It does?"

"Mhm," he picked up the paper, studying it for a moment. "A weird one."

"Dad!"

"But still a cat," he grinned.

you looked between the two of them and sighed. "Satoru."

"Right, my bad," he set the drawing down before crouching in front of your daughter again. "You still can't push people, though."

her shoulders immediately slumped.

"But he ruined it," she said quietly.

for the first time, she sounded more upset than angry. kids cried over things adult would forget in minutes. broken toy, lost crayon, a drawing they'd spent all afternoon.. to them, those things were important.

and Satoru noticed too.

"I know," he said softly.

Satoru reached over and cupped her cheek for a moment. "But next time," he continued. "You tell the teacher first."

"What if they're still mean?"

"Then you come tell me and mom."

your daughter's shoulders relaxed ever so slightly, the stubborn frown she'd been wearing started to disappear.

your daughter reached over and smoothed one of the crumpled corners of the drawing before clutching it against her chest.

"Can we frame this?" she looked up at him.

"Of course, sweetheart."

♯ guess who is back 👀 from this request, thank you dear anon for requesting this, hope you enjoy it! the fic didn't meet my expectation but i hope y'all still like it 😔 love you guys!

water dripped from the edge of Satoru's umbrella as he followed you through the daycare's front door, shoes squeaking slightly against the floor. the building was quieter now that most of the kids had gone home.

your daughter sat alone in one of the tiny tables near the window. her arms crossed and her face scrunched into a glare.

Satoru leaned down beside you. "She looks just like you," he murmured.

you ignored him with an eye roll.

the teacher spotted the both of you and gave a small, tired smile.

"Thank you for coming," she said. "There was a little incident during art time."

"Little?" you repeated, eyeing your daughter, who sank lower into her chair.

the teacher sighed softly. "Another student commented on her drawing and she reacted.. physically."

"Physically? Like what?" you asked.

the teacher blinked at you. "She pushed another student."

"Oh."

beside you, Satoru crouched beside her chair immediately, resting his chin against his hand. "Okay, sweetie," he started. "In your defense, was he annoying?"

your daughter nodded without hesitation. "Really annoying!"

the teacher sighed again before gesturing toward the table nearby. "It started because of her drawing."

both you and Satoru looked toward the table at the exact same time. the drawing in question sat crumpled there. it was.. definitely something.

Satoru tilted his head slightly. "Is that supposed to be a cat?"

your daughter gasped. "It IS a cat!"

"Ohh," he nodded slowly. "Okay, i see the vision now."

you snorted loudly beside him.

"He laughed at it," your daughter continued. "And then he crumpled it!"

Satoru looked down at the wrinkled paper on table. then back at her. "... that's actually kind of disrespectful," he admitted.

she nodded vigorously. "He said it didn't even look like a cat!"

"It does look like a cat, sweetheart."

"It does?"

"Mhm," he picked up the paper, studying it for a moment. "A weird one."

"Dad!"

"But still a cat," he grinned.

you looked between the two of them and sighed. "Satoru."

"Right, my bad," he set the drawing down before crouching in front of your daughter again. "You still can't push people, though."

her shoulders immediately slumped.

"But he ruined it," she said quietly.

for the first time, she sounded more upset than angry. kids cried over things adult would forget in minutes. broken toy, lost crayon, a drawing they'd spent all afternoon.. to them, those things were important.

and Satoru noticed too.

"I know," he said softly.

Satoru reached over and cupped her cheek for a moment. "But next time," he continued. "You tell the teacher first."

"What if they're still mean?"

"Then you come tell me and mom."

your daughter's shoulders relaxed ever so slightly, the stubborn frown she'd been wearing started to disappear.

your daughter reached over and smoothed one of the crumpled corners of the drawing before clutching it against her chest.

"Can we frame this?" she looked up at him.

"Of course, sweetheart."

♯ guess who is back 👀 from this request, thank you dear anon for requesting this, hope you enjoy it! the fic didn't meet my expectation but i hope y'all still like it 😔 love you guys!

water dripped from the edge of Satoru's umbrella as he followed you through the daycare's front door, shoes squeaking slightly against the floor. the building was quieter now that most of the kids had gone home.

your daughter sat alone in one of the tiny tables near the window. her arms crossed and her face scrunched into a glare.

Satoru leaned down beside you. "She looks just like you," he murmured.

you ignored him with an eye roll.

the teacher spotted the both of you and gave a small, tired smile.

"Thank you for coming," she said. "There was a little incident during art time."

"Little?" you repeated, eyeing your daughter, who sank lower into her chair.

the teacher sighed softly. "Another student commented on her drawing and she reacted.. physically."

"Physically? Like what?" you asked.

the teacher blinked at you. "She pushed another student."

"Oh."

beside you, Satoru crouched beside her chair immediately, resting his chin against his hand. "Okay, sweetie," he started. "In your defense, was he annoying?"

your daughter nodded without hesitation. "Really annoying!"

the teacher sighed again before gesturing toward the table nearby. "It started because of her drawing."

both you and Satoru looked toward the table at the exact same time. the drawing in question sat crumpled there. it was.. definitely something.

Satoru tilted his head slightly. "Is that supposed to be a cat?"

your daughter gasped. "It IS a cat!"

"Ohh," he nodded slowly. "Okay, i see the vision now."

you snorted loudly beside him.

"He laughed at it," your daughter continued. "And then he crumpled it!"

Satoru looked down at the wrinkled paper on table. then back at her. "... that's actually kind of disrespectful," he admitted.

she nodded vigorously. "He said it didn't even look like a cat!"

"It does look like a cat, sweetheart."

"It does?"

"Mhm," he picked up the paper, studying it for a moment. "A weird one."

"Dad!"

"But still a cat," he grinned.

you looked between the two of them and sighed. "Satoru."

"Right, my bad," he set the drawing down before crouching in front of your daughter again. "You still can't push people, though."

her shoulders immediately slumped.

"But he ruined it," she said quietly.

for the first time, she sounded more upset than angry. kids cried over things adult would forget in minutes. broken toy, lost crayon, a drawing they'd spent all afternoon.. to them, those things were important.

and Satoru noticed too.

"I know," he said softly.

Satoru reached over and cupped her cheek for a moment. "But next time," he continued. "You tell the teacher first."

"What if they're still mean?"

"Then you come tell me and mom."

your daughter's shoulders relaxed ever so slightly, the stubborn frown she'd been wearing started to disappear.

your daughter reached over and smoothed one of the crumpled corners of the drawing before clutching it against her chest.

"Can we frame this?" she looked up at him.

"Of course, sweetheart."

♯ guess who is back 👀 from this request, thank you dear anon for requesting this, hope you enjoy it! the fic didn't meet my expectation but i hope y'all still like it 😔 love you guys!

water dripped from the edge of Satoru's umbrella as he followed you through the daycare's front door, shoes squeaking slightly against the floor. the building was quieter now that most of the kids had gone home.

your daughter sat alone in one of the tiny tables near the window. her arms crossed and her face scrunched into a glare.

Satoru leaned down beside you. "She looks just like you," he murmured.

you ignored him with an eye roll.

the teacher spotted the both of you and gave a small, tired smile.

"Thank you for coming," she said. "There was a little incident during art time."

"Little?" you repeated, eyeing your daughter, who sank lower into her chair.

the teacher sighed softly. "Another student commented on her drawing and she reacted.. physically."

"Physically? Like what?" you asked.

the teacher blinked at you. "She pushed another student."

"Oh."

beside you, Satoru crouched beside her chair immediately, resting his chin against his hand. "Okay, sweetie," he started. "In your defense, was he annoying?"

your daughter nodded without hesitation. "Really annoying!"

the teacher sighed again before gesturing toward the table nearby. "It started because of her drawing."

both you and Satoru looked toward the table at the exact same time. the drawing in question sat crumpled there. it was.. definitely something.

Satoru tilted his head slightly. "Is that supposed to be a cat?"

your daughter gasped. "It IS a cat!"

"Ohh," he nodded slowly. "Okay, i see the vision now."

you snorted loudly beside him.

"He laughed at it," your daughter continued. "And then he crumpled it!"

Satoru looked down at the wrinkled paper on table. then back at her. "... that's actually kind of disrespectful," he admitted.

she nodded vigorously. "He said it didn't even look like a cat!"

"It does look like a cat, sweetheart."

"It does?"

"Mhm," he picked up the paper, studying it for a moment. "A weird one."

"Dad!"

"But still a cat," he grinned.

you looked between the two of them and sighed. "Satoru."

"Right, my bad," he set the drawing down before crouching in front of your daughter again. "You still can't push people, though."

her shoulders immediately slumped.

"But he ruined it," she said quietly.

for the first time, she sounded more upset than angry. kids cried over things adult would forget in minutes. broken toy, lost crayon, a drawing they'd spent all afternoon.. to them, those things were important.

and Satoru noticed too.

"I know," he said softly.

Satoru reached over and cupped her cheek for a moment. "But next time," he continued. "You tell the teacher first."

"What if they're still mean?"

"Then you come tell me and mom."

your daughter's shoulders relaxed ever so slightly, the stubborn frown she'd been wearing started to disappear.

your daughter reached over and smoothed one of the crumpled corners of the drawing before clutching it against her chest.

"Can we frame this?" she looked up at him.

"Of course, sweetheart."