#dad au

“It's not that you weren’t nice about it, it’s just—” sighing, you finish packing a second lunch box for Oliver, already agreeing to Jason’s plea before even saying yes to him. “—I literally just watched him yesterday. I have a life too, you know.”

“You do?” You hear a pained groan on the other side as Jason huffs into the phone. He’s definitely out fighting crime again. “When was the last time you went on a date again?”

“Don’t remind me, asshole.” Rolling your eyes, you have a feeling that Jason could sense your sass through the phone, he has a sixth sense when it comes to your attitude.

“Don’t roll your eyes at me.”

“How’d you—?” You twist around as if there is a hidden camera around your apartment. “Can you please just fucking beat the guy, you breathing on the phone is annoying me.” On the contrary, you feel your cheeks warm just from the familiar sound.

“What, I can’t even breathe?”

“Oi, what the fuck, lady!” A stranger’s voice adds amidst the sound of a metallic clang.

“Am I on speaker?”

“So demanding as always.” You could just tell that he said that with a smirk. With the muffled sound of fist hitting skin, you finish packing. Waiting for Jason to answer, you grab the bags and head outside. The key fob clicks with a beep as you get inside your car. “You little shit.” Heaving, Jason returns to the call a minute later. “You’re already in your car aren’t you?”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Placing the phone on the dashboard, you stifle a chuckle. “That depends if you’ll pay me my regular fee.”

“Please, you like watching Ollie.”

“I do, but times are tough and I gotta pay bills too, ‘Mr. I have a billionaire for a dad.’ My regular nine to five isn’t cutting it much anymore.”

His soft chuckle has you grinning to yourself like a madwoman. Cheeks aflame, and hands suddenly clammy, even after all these years he still has that effect on you as if you’re a school girl having a crush.

“Fine, I never skimp out on your fees, I’m not going to start now.” His boots thump on the ground, “And you wouldn’t be having that problem if you agreed to stay with us.”

“And have your son question the nature of our relationship again?” Starting the car, you head out of the driveway towards the familiar road to Jason’s apartment that you have driven a thousand times before that you could practically drive there with your eyes closed.

“It’s not my fault that he could sense the tension.” There’s keyboard clacking on his end, as Jason puts the phone in between his shoulder and cheek that you could tell from the rustle of clothing. “He’s a smart kid, and smart kids see through everything.”

“If that’s you saying that our friends with benefits situation needs evaluating then tell that to yourself.” You say with a clear bite to your tone, knowing that you have tried several times to be more than his friend, not just to occasionally warm his bed. “You’re just making Ollie confused.” Your tone falls as you hear him shift on the other end.

He stops typing for a moment, a chill running in between the two of you as if he sits beside you in the car. There have been conversations about the exact same subject, and Jason would almost always segue out of it, or wave the topic away casually. Recently though, the tension is running higher than ever, you’ve been staying at their place more frequently, longer even.

You have a space in his closet where you always have fresh spare clothes tucked inside, your clothes smell like the citrus fabric conditioner he uses because Ollie can’t stand the smell of lavender. You have your own toothbrush in his bathroom, your own loofah, a bathrobe that he bought in your favorite color on a random day because you were complaining of using his towels. You even have an extra pair of shoes, your own mug in the kitchen that Oliver painted at school for you, and a bunch of hair ties left scattered in Jason’s bedroom, all belonging to you.

There is a routine now at his apartment whenever you stay the night or two, sometimes longer than in your own place where you only go home to grab new clothes. In the morning you’d make the boys breakfast, chocolate pancakes for Oliver, shaped like bats of course, and the usual egg and sausage for Jason that he always shares with you, chopping up pieces of the meat for you whilst you cut Oliver’s pancakes for him. Little Ollie, all toothy smiles and giggles, rambles on about some show that he forced you two to watch last night whilst you wiped the syrup from his cheek. The three of you would always have breakfast together that it’s basically ingrained in Ollie’s routine. It’s domestic bliss, but it’s all an act when you always leave. And Jason will only kiss you back when you’re both tangled under the sheets.

Over the years, you’ve found yourself becoming closer to Oliver, you met him when he was just a year old, barely walking straight, still teething as he seemingly imprinted on you like a little duckling. The poor kid has grown fond of you too, but now that he’s a bit older, he’s asking a lot of questions. Questions that you don’t even know the answer yourself.

You read him bedtime stories, you help him get ready for school, you kiss him goodbye, and you tell him that you love him. And yet you’re not his mom, his aunt or anyone important in his life, you’re just the woman who takes care of him and yet loves him like he’s your own.

You’ve left your mark in their lives, your life rotates around them, and yet, you’re still an outsider.

“Yeah, I know. I’ll talk to him.” Jason sounds defeated, tired and utterly conflicted.

“Good,” your tone snags at the end as you clear your throat. “I’m almost there, is he still with your neighbor or is Tim watching him now?”

“Tim,” Jason simply says through clenched jaw as he continues his work. “I told him that you’re coming.”

“You’re always so damn presumptuous, Jason Todd.”

“I know you couldn’t resist Ollie, even if you could resist me, only sometimes that is.”

You park the car as you shake your head with a small smile. “One of these days, I’ll say no.”

“I know,” he softly says, almost melancholic. “I’ll be back before his bedtime. Try not to eat all my yogurt this time.”

—

“Where’s my favorite guy?” Opening your arms, Ollie bolts out of the couch as he runs in between Tim’s legs, and launches himself into your arms within a second of his uncle opening the door.

“Here!” Oliver giggles and kicks his feet happily as he wraps his arms around your neck. “I missed you!” He grins toothily, voice squeaky as he tightens his hold on you with all of his five year old might.

“I missed you too, buddy!” Squeezing him, you start to stand up but struggle a bit. “Oh, what is your dad feeding you? You’re getting so big!”

Tim helps you up with his hand on your elbow whilst gathering your bags in his free hand. “I think he got into Jason’s protein powder again.” He jokingly says, but not too farfetched when you once caught him trying to open the big jar.

“You did!” Leaning away, you feign a shocked gasp, smiling at Ollie as he giggles and nods wildly, already distinguishing a joke. He has a striking resemblance to his dad, from his dark hair and brilliant green eyes, it’s as if someone cloned Jason. “What! You could go to jail for that!”

“No, you can’t!” Little Ollie answers in his adorable Robin Hood costume, complete with a green hood that has a bell at the end. It jingles whenever he moves his head, adding to the cuteness.

“Yes, you can!” You tickle his tummy, garnering a laugh that you’re familiar with that never fails to bring a laugh from your throat. “It’s illegal!”

“It’s not ill–gal!”

Tim closes the door behind you as you carry a squirming Oliver into the living room. You could just feel Tim’s eyes watch the two of you pensively. You already know what he’s thinking though, the same as his brothers and sisters that has driven you and Jason to question the relationship the moment Ollie called you ‘mommy’ for the first time.

You toss Ollie on your shoulder, garnering a happy squeal from him. “I’m surrendering you to the police!”

“That’s wrong!” He pats your back, “dad said to not be a…be a smitch!”

You snort a laugh, ruffling his hair whilst he kicks about. “It's snitch, baby.”

Seeing the mess they’ve made during playtime with all the plastic medieval weapons and shields around the place has you wincing if not for the mess you’ve grown accustomed to whenever you’re around their place. There’s even a handmade cardboard dragon, complete with green shimmery scales made from glitter that is sitting on the couch alongside a toy bow and arrow, courtesy of his aunt, Barbara. It seems that uncle Tim wants to overshadow uncle Damian’s arts and crafts skills when you could see the evidence of the art supplies laying on the coffee table.

You feign an offended gasp. “You’ve been playing Robin Hood without me.” Placing him down gently, Ollie looks up at you with his big green eyes. “What’s the story this time?”

“Lord Tim called his banners against me just ‘cause I ate an apple from his tree! But I won by calling my dragon!” He enthusiastically reenacts, arms wide around him, lifting off the fierce dragon as he ‘flies’ around the apartment.

“He cheated, he means.” Tim defends himself from the kitchen, opening the tupperware filled with cookies that you brought as he looks at it like he wants to marry the sweet treat.

“I did not!” Ollie abruptly stops and stomps his foot. “You had your own ogre forces!” He then points an accusing finger at his uncle. “Tell him that it was fair!” Turning to you, he flutters his lashes and pouts, the expression he always pulls whenever he wants you on his side, which is almost always. Especially when it’s against his dad, or in this case, against his uncle.

“How many knights did you have, Robin Hood?” Going around the fuming Ollie, you sidle beside Tim as you pick up a cookie, not taking a bite of it, just brandishing it around like a piece of meat in front of a lion. “Because it’s all in the numbers, you know.”

You know the kid well as he follows the cookie in between your fingers with his gaze. “I think…ten?” Pursing his lips, Ollie lets go of the paper dragon and steps forward. “Can I have some?”

“That depends, did Tim give you any sugar today?”

The boy contemplates, nose scrunching, and fingers flexing, just like a certain someone. It’s almost the exact same face Jason makes whenever he watches you go, as if he’s resisting the urge to ask you to stay.

“...no?”

“That sounds like a question, doesn’t that sound like a question?” You turn towards Tim, who is on his third cookie as you tilt your head at him and snatch the fourth one from his hand. “Did you give him any sweets today?”

“He had a popsicle because he was complaining about his tooth.” He looks offended, eyeing the cookie desperately. You relent with a sigh and give it back to him. Tim immediately perks up and devours it whilst Ollie looks at him with jealousy.

“Is your tooth still hurting, buddy?” With worry in your tone, you crouch down and Oliver crosses the short distance to embrace you. You know this reaction well enough, he’s embarrassed. You pat his back lovingly, moving some stray hair away from his eyes as you peck his temple. “I told your dad that you should go to the dentist—”

“No dentist!” He flinches, but doesn’t move away from you. “I’m okay, sweetheart.” Sweetheart, he calls you sweetheart just because he has heard his dad call you that a million times before that it just stuck. Better than ‘mommy’ that has opened Pandora’s box. “I really am.” Cheek laying atop your chest, you hold him close.

“Yeah, but your tooth will keep hurting if you don’t go. Dad will be there the whole time.” You reassure him, giving him a loving squeeze.

“I know…” he raises his head, looking up at you worriedly. “Susie said that they have drills and knives and scary masks— and it will hurt more.”

“What does Susie know?” Tim adds, cookie crumbs all over his shirt and cheek. “Susie eats glue.”

That garners a laugh from Ollie as you stifle a chuckle. “How about I come with you and dad, hm? Then you can have all the cookies and ice cream you want after the dentist.”

“All I want?” His eyes sparkles. “Even rocky road? And— and your triple chocolate cookies?”

“Of course.” You might regret it later but at least you finally got him agreeing when no one else could.

“Okay, deal!” In true Jason Todd form, Ollie stretches his hand for you to shake. Taking his smaller hand in yours, you then shake it with a smile. “Can I have one now, please?”

Jason’s right, you cannot say no to his son. “Fine, just half though. And if your tooth starts hurting again you have to stop eating.”

“Okay!” He hops in place until you give him half a cookie. “Can I watch TV now?”

“Go, thirty minutes and then dinner for you.” Patting him in the back, you watch him skip over to the living room, clutching the cookie like it's the most precious thing he has. You turn towards the tupperware as it’s almost half empty thanks to Tim. You glare at him whilst you close the lid right in front of him.

“He can’t even eat it!” He protests.

“It’s for Jason.”

Tim groans and goes to wash the crumbs off his hands. “Just get married already, damn.”

“Tim, c’mon.” You slap his bicep, palm meeting a wall. “Ollie might hear you.”

“Fine, I’m just saying…” Sighing, Tim gathers his things from the kitchen counter and shoves them inside his backpack. “Four years together, if you even call it that, and you’re still around after all the ‘will they won’t they’ situation you two got going on.” He zips up the bag, and slings it over his shoulder with a huff. “I mean, shit, I’d go fucking crazy.” He utters lowly, for your ears only as Bluey echoes around the living room.

Your eyes wander towards Ollie as he kicks his legs on the couch happily, then over to the framed picture on the mantle where the three of you smile at the camera during Ollie’s third birthday. “It’s not like that. Jason and I are happy like this. It just…works.”

“Sure, keep telling yourself that.” Hand in his pocket, he lets out a breath, eyes flicking from Ollie then back to you. “Look, I just don’t want you to be miserable and feel like you’re being strung along by my idiot brother. You’re a fucking saint, honestly. Just… just know when to say no and leave. Ollie’s the one who’s going to get stuck in the middle of this. He’s getting older, and we both know that he doesn’t just see you as his babysitter when you’ve been here since he was in diapers.”

Arms crossing over your chest, you look at your socked feet. “Yeah, I know that.”

“If Jason keeps being a hardass to you after all the talks you’ve had with him then you don’t deserve this.”

Your jaw tightens, inhaling deeply as you look Tim in the eyes and shrug. “I guess I’m the idiot then.”

“I did not say that, but kind of yes. Just like him.” He chuckles and grasps your elbow gently. “Good luck with the gremlin.”

“One talk.” You say just as he’s putting on his shoes.

“What?”

“Jason and I had one talk about our situation. The others…well, never even finished.”

“Well, keep talking to him. Maybe he’ll wake the fuck up.”

With the click of the door, you deflate and thump your head against the wall. Tim’s heart was in the right place, and you understood his words. Just like all the other words his siblings have told you about your complicated relationship with Jason. Every holiday and birthdays, at least one of them would tell you almost the exact same thing, or you see one of them sidle beside Jason and whisper about the same topic. You knew it was getting serious when Alfred and Bruce had to step in after Dick’s wedding.

“I can see the way he looks at you.” Alfred whispered amidst the sound of the first dance music. “I have seen it on them,” he gestured to the happy married couple, then back to you as you gripped your champagne flute. “And on master Bruce’s parents. Jason’s complicated, but with you, the look just comes easy.”

You remembered the moment you looked at Jason across the room as he carried a sleeping Ollie in his arm, and a drink in the other, the way his gaze immediately gravitated to you was a shake to your core. If Alfred was wrong, then everyone else was. And that’s impossible when they’re the smartest family you’ve ever grown to know. And it’s Alfred, he has never been wrong the whole time you’ve known him.

Running a hand over your face, you turn your gaze over to someone you love without any complications.

“Alright, Robin Hood, grilled chicken for tonight or mac and cheese?”

“Mac and cheese!”

—

Jason comes home to a dark apartment, but unlike the time when he used to go home to an empty barely furnished place where it always feels cold and dim, this one is a comfortable darkness, where the warm lamplight from the living room spills over the couch where his two loves reside. He doesn’t feel alone, on the contrary, he feels complete.

The moment he sees you both sleeping peacefully that calms his anxious mind, he places his equipment quietly inside the closet. Unlacing his boots, he then takes off his jacket and mask, all without making a single peep, especially when his skin pulls at the movement, bruises aching, injuries flaring up as the adrenaline that masks the pain ebbs away.

When he goes around the corner, the TV’s lights flashes across your sleeping face whilst Ollie sleeps soundly on your lap. The sound of the show is quieted down in favour of sleeping. Your cheek is pressed against the back of the sofa, neck tilted uncomfortably as you cradle Ollie lovingly in your arms. He’s curled against you in his dinosaur pajamas, arms clinging onto a Batman plushie you made for him when he was only three after he begged you relentlessly.

The two of you look like any other mother and son pair, and Jason sighs longingly at the sight.

Smiling softly, he reaches for your face, until he realizes that he’s still wearing the same bloodstained gloves. His jaw tightens, how could he hold you with those hands?

You stir awake as you feel his presence, so used to the smell of copper on his suit, and the warmth that feels like home to you. “Jay?” Your voice crackles whilst you blink blearily at his large looming shadow. Some would be intimidated or even terrified of the sight, but not you, you reach out to the shadow softly, fingers wrapping around his outstretched wrist. “You’re late.”

“Hey, sweetheart.” Jason laughs through his nose, chortling under his breath. “Sorry, I ran into some trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?” Concern knits your brows as you pull him closer into the light to survey his appearance. “You okay?”

He feels your eyes rake around his face and his form, swallowing thickly when you have no idea the effect you have on him. “Yeah, I’m good, just need a shower and sleep.”

When your hand pulls away, Jason feels the longing come back in waves.

“Come sit with me for a bit.” You pat the space beside you, tucking Ollie’s feet further into the couch to make space for his dad. If it was anyone else asking him, he’d brush them off, but it’s you, so he obliges without a peep, groaning as his knees pop. “Need medical attention? The nurse is on call.” Lashes fluttering, cheek resting atop your shoulder, you smile fondly at him.

Jason shakes his head with a chuckle, yanking off his gloves and shoving it inside his pockets. “No, I’m good, nothing I can’t handle. The nurse can keep holding the little prince.” His head droops back over the backrest of the couch, corded neck in full display whilst he swallows thickly as his fingers rake through his dark tresses. If only he knows the effect he has on you. “How was your day?” His green eyes flutter open, gazing at you with tenderness.

“Well,” clearing your throat, you fix your hold on Oliver to disguise your flustering. “We played Robin Hood for two hours, got him to eat some grilled chicken with his mac and cheese. And get this, I actually talked him into going to the dentist.” You grin victoriously, tapping his broad chest proudly.

“Shit. How’d you manage that?” His brilliant green eyes glimmer with pride. “I’ve been trying to get him to go for weeks.”

“That’s the thing though,” you bite your lip, wincing as if you’ve done something wrong, or stepped over the line. “I promised him that I’d come along.”

“Why does it sound like you regret it?” Brows furrowed, he has the look of bewilderment. “I’m fine with that, Ollie’s fine with that if he agreed.”

“I mean, I thought it’s a dad and son exclusive thing. Like a bonding thing.”

“Sweetheart,” he sighs with a smile. “It’s the fucking dentist. If my son wants you there then the more I want you there with us.”

You let out a sigh of relief that he could feel. “That’s good then. Also I sort of promised him that he could have lots of sweets after.”

“Well that’s where we’re going to have a problem.” A growing teasing smile appears on his lips whilst you stifle a laugh. “He’d be up until dawn and that means we’d be up until dawn.”

“Who said I’ll be there after? I’m out after the dentist.” You scooch closer as he loops his leg around your own like usual, pulling you close, like how he always does during movie nights and days spent together whilst watching his energizer bunny of a son. “You’re on your own, Jay.”

“Oh, c’mon, not even for double the pay?” Jason takes Ollie’s legs gingerly and rests them above his lap so he could move closer to your side.

“No amount of money is worth it for running after a sugar high Oliver Todd.” You get the message as you place your head atop his shoulder. He winces before you could even rest fully on him. “Shit, you okay?”

“Yeah,” his face twists in pain. “Just— just give me a sec.” With his large palm covering his shoulder, he pushes in harshly as you hear a loud pop that has you reeling and covering your mouth in shock. Ollie stirs in his sleep but with Jason patting his back sweetly, he goes back to sleep. “There, you were saying?”

“That was…the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Thought you’d be disgusted.” The corner of his lips tug up into a smirk.

“Shocked, but I got over it when I realized that you fixed a dislocated shoulder without vomiting in pain.” You stifle a laugh, nudging his knee with yours. “Seriously though, do you need to go to the hospital to get that checked out?”

“No, I’m good. I’m used to this.”

“That’s not a good thing actually.” Nose scrunched, he scoffs out a chortle, rolling his eyes at your expression. “I still remember the first time the hospital called me years ago, I didn’t even know I was your emergency contact. I thought you’d have a gunshot wound or your face all melted but it was for a broken knee.” Your tone softens, eyes meeting his own. “You really scared me back then.”

“That was such a long time ago,” Jason still remembers the frantic look on your face when you pulled open the hospital curtains. “I told Dick that I was fine but he had to fireman carry me to the hospital, said something about having fucked up knees of an eighty year old. He got a black eye from me then.”

“I remember the selfies he took. While you were on the hospital bed in the hospital gown with the opened back.” You shake your head at the memory. “Has anyone told you that you have a nice ass?”

“Of course.” He says almost immediately with pride that makes you roll your eyes. “Say that again when I get Ollie to bed.”

“Noting that in, boss.” You tap your forehead comedically, tiredness forgotten as your shoulder presses against his comfortably.

“You know I…” Clearing his throat, fingers flexing on his thigh, Jason looks at Ollie before gazing back at you. “you’re still my emergency contact.”

You scoff. “Why? Alfred’s more reliable, he’ll be there on a heli or something. If you guys still do the whole hospital thing when it’s been years.”

“Because you’re not Alfred.” He says softly.

“I don’t have a sick mustache so.”

“Sweetheart, I’m trying to tell you something here.”

“Then tell me, Jason.” You inhale, smelling the iron on his suit and the baby powder that still clings to your hand. “We’ve known each other for years, practically co-parenting this gremlin together and have seen each other naked a million times before so just tell me.”

“I did it.”

“Did what?” Brows furrowed, your worry grows from his heavy expression. “Eat the lasagna I left in the freezer for Ollie?” You joke to ease him.

“No— actually that might be me, but no that’s not what I’m trying to say.” Jason fully turns to you, arm thrown over the back of the couch as his bruised knuckles brush along your neck.

“Okay.” You hold the back of his hand that rests atop his thigh. “I’m here. You can tell me.”

“Remember when you told me that you thought you were being followed?”

“Yeah, but that was,” you wrack your brain. “shit, that was years ago. Literally when Ollie was still a baby.”

“I love how we determine time with Ollie.” He takes a breath, wiping away a stray glitter from your cheek.

“BO, before Ollie, AO, after Ollie.” Sucking in your teeth, you wince. “Actually, BO doesn’t sound as nice.”

He pauses, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of your lips that has you quieting down.

“What was that for?”

“Just ‘cause.” His brilliant green eyes glance down at your lips, resisting the urge to kiss you.

“Right, sorry, I’m not taking this seriously, what were you saying, Jay? You can tell me, I won’t judge, whatever it is.”

“This isn’t like the mole I had.”

“I still think it looked like a hidden Mickey.” He chuckles, forehead resting on your temple before inhaling deeply and leaning away. “You’re acting weird, Jaybird. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Sweetheart,” pursing his lips, he squeezes your hand. “You were being followed that day. It wasn’t your imagination.”

“Shit.” You suddenly feel winded. “You found out about it? How—? Who would even do that? I’m no one.”

“You’re more than that. And someone figured it out too.”

He tells you how that simple passing comment that you told him once as you helped with unloading groceries you got him while he was too busy and sleep deprived with baby Ollie— and that he managed to uncover a whole crime syndicate hell bent on taking the Red Hood down and everyone who is associated with him. He tells you how he’s been tracking and taking them down for years, and occasionally with his siblings. But it got harder, he used his own methods when they got too close to you and Ollie one day in the playground. Unbeknownst to you, your life was in danger together with his son, he couldn’t just let them roam around freely and wait for them to strike, no, Jason had to eliminate every single one of them. Even though it would take him years, it has taken him years. But as of today, he has finished what he started, and he can finally do what he wanted to do from the start.

“You’ve been hunting them down for years? All this time?” Your eyes search his emerald eyes, looking for a joke or a lie, but you don’t find it.

“When I asked you to move in with us, they were getting too close to you, and I wanted to protect you as best I could.” Jason leans forward, elbows atop his knee, as if he’s in pain. His hair falls over his face, a dark curtain that hides his fatigue. “Thought that it might’ve helped if you were near. But it only led to an argument.”

“I said no because it would’ve confused Ollie.” Reaching for him, you retract your hand with hesitation as your brows furrow, holding onto Oliver as if he’s about to be taken. “Even then— I don’t know, you still felt so far away from me, Jay.”

“I know,” he sighs, shoulders taut as his shirt stretches from the movement. “I wanted to put an end to them before I could commit because I was fucking terrified that they’d get you, but at the same time I couldn’t let you go. I don’t know which one was harder.”

For a moment you have no words, as you could only hear Ollie’s soft breathing and Jason’s strained one. So with love in your heart for the man before you, you place your palm atop his nape, thumb pressing gently along his taut skin, caressing softly, right where you know a scar lies, one that he hasn’t told you the truth about how it came to be. That he got it for protecting you and his son.

Jason doesn’t pull away, it took him years to learn to not move away from your touch. A lot of unlearning too, that the whole world isn’t out to get him. That someone could love him enough to just be there and hold him for comfort. His muscles relax on instinct from your hand gently gliding along his shoulder blades.

“All I know is that I couldn’t lose you.” He finally says after a breath, fists clenching in front of him. His neck cranes to you, cheek pressed right atop your hand, eyes soft, and fully leaning into your touch. “But now that’s done, and I could— we could… I don’t know.”

You encourage him with a genuine sweet smile, one that you only reserve just for him and the boy you cradle in your arms. “Tell me, Jason, I’ve stuck around this long.”

His lips brush along the length of your fingers. “Together. If you want.”

“Jason Peter Todd, I’m cradling your son in my arms after running after him for hours on end and I still want to do it all over again. My clothes are in the dryer, my hair is stuck in your hairbrush. And I’m going to the dentist with you and Ollie even though I fucking hate it there too. What do you think?”

“That’s the clearest yes I’ve ever heard without someone actually saying it.” Chuckling, he mirrors your smile. “I think I should ask you out first. An actual date without eating mac and cheese while watching Bluey.”

Cheeks aflame, stomach doing somersaults, you scoff that is akin to a laugh. “I would love that.”

“Yeah?” His expression brightens, eyes glimmering as he sits up, taking your hand in his and intertwining his fingers around yours.

“Yeah, just kiss me, Jaybird.”

Jason does some maneuvering around Oliver that makes you bite your lip to stifle a laugh. He finally gets close to your lips as Ollie is completely on his lap and yours, still sleeping soundly as he kisses you chastely, and yet tender, enough to be a promise for more later. It’s the kind of kiss he gives you whenever everyone else is looking away, a simple kiss that reminds you that he’s there, quietly telling you to wait, and wait you did.

When he leans away, he has forgotten about all the aches. All the while your eyes stay on his parted lips with longing, then back to his eyes that you love unconditionally. “I’ll take your clothes out of the dryer and then take Ollie to bed. Meet me at our usual place?”

Your brows pinch together, but the smile on your face remains. “The bar downtown? It’s a bit too late for a drink.”

“No,” he laughs, cradling your cheek in his rough hand, gently rubbing away the sleep tucked in the corner of your eye. “The bedroom, my idiot.” Jason says it affectionately, moving closer as he gives you a peck, and another, and another until you’re both smiling into the kiss.

You whisper teasingly. “Ah, to continue our conversation, right?”

“Yeah,” Standing up, Jason sheds his body armour, and shirt with one swift movement that has you mesmerized. Just so he doesn’t dirty his son’s favorite pajamas, he then gently takes Ollie in his hold, pressing a quick peck on his temple, before tapping your foot with his own. “It’ll be a very productive conversation.” He bends at the waist, still carrying Ollie as if he weighs nothing just to kiss you as if he couldn’t help himself.

“I’ll be there.”

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"No, it's not. The ice absorbs the heat around it, and as it absorbs the heat, it melts into the water. Ice is water that has been frozen."

"...no, my teacher telled me."

"Told."

"My teacher told me."

"In what circumstance?"

The small child blinks, giant owl eyes peering up to meet the gentle gaze of equally giant owl eyes. "It's that- that the cirs-can-stand was that we put the ice on a pan and heated it up, and the ice turned into air."

"Ah, I see. When ice heats, it melts into water, and when water gets hot enough, it evaporates into steam."

"Yeah, it exasperated."

"Evaportated."

"Yeah."

L stops walking down the park path, and sits on a nearby bench. Quickly realizing his son was practically two apples tall, he lifted him up by his shoulders, and plopped him down next to him.

"Mama brusheded my hair this morning."

"Did she?"

"Yeah. But she says I got hair like you 'cause it doesn't sit right even if she puts the good gel in it."

L curls his legs up to his chest, and the small child imitates him. They ought to head home soon, you would be back from work in the hour. L's told you countless times that you could quit, but you always wave him off. "I'll be endlessly bored if I don't have any work to do," you'd say.

It was true, especially during the school year, when your son spent most of the day out. You were so hesitant to send him to pre-school, but L knew he'd only get into trouble without anything to entertain him.

"We do have similar hair types, yes."

"Dad, can I tell you something?"

L looks to the boy. So serious. He nods, a quick jerk of his head.

His son stands on the bench to whisper in his ear.

L cups the shell, and and leans in. The child circles his mouth with his small hands, and gets as close to L's ear as possible.

"I think that we can get ice cream before dinner without mama even knowing, cause she'll be out and about, and she won't even know that we got it."

L frowns. "Your mother is very adamant about her opinions of dessert before dinner."

"But she won't even know that we did."

"...I suppose...just this once."

He did make a very compelling argument.

L picks him up, and let's him rest on his hip, careful not to let any of his skin touch the fabric of his jeans. The poor thing would scream and cry at the feeling of jeans. L vaguely remembers having similar distastes to velvet.

He makes quick work of the walk to the ice cream parlor, the boy on his side pointing to everything he sees.

"Look! That's a brown-eared bulbul!"

"That's right."

"That cedar tree is taller than you."

"So it is."

"When mama was getting the groceries, she had a argument at that store and said we can't go in there anymore."

"Yes, they gave her a fee for using self check-out."

When they arrived at the shop, L orders a scoop of strawberry ice cream, and looks down at his mirror-image. "What would you like?"

The boy stands on his tiptoes, eyes peaking over the countertop to stare down the lady taking their order. "Uhhhhhhhhhh can I have....a....childses sized scoop...of...."

Christ.

"Chocolate ice cream? With gummy bears and gummy worms and rainbow sprinkles?"

L confirms the order, and the woman hurries off to scoop.

"The reason you put an 's' at the end of 'child' is to show that the word is possessive of the word following it. You do not need to say childses, because the word is singular, and the plural form of child's is children's."

"Okay."

He didn't understand.

The ice cream was served, and after paying, father and son went on their way home. Hopefully they had enough time to finish, clean up, and pretend nothing happened.

As soon as you arrived home, your son, clad in his favorite ducky pajamas, ran into your arms. He always put on his pajamas when he got home, he preferred the texture to any day clothes.

"Hi baby! How was your day?" You lifted him up, and pressed a thousand kisses to the side of his head.

L rounded the corner, barefoot with hands in his pockets, watching the domestic, picturesque sight.

"Good! Dad and I had secret ice cream."

Your eyes met L's, sharp. Uh Oh. "Is that right?"

"Mine had gummy bears and gummy worms and rainbow sprinkles!"

"That's nice, baby. Why don't you go play with your new blocks, isn't that fun?"

"'Cause you're holding me."

You set him down. "Go play!"

"Okay!"

And he runs off, leaving L alone with you.

"Ice cream?"

"It was his idea," he reasons.

"Our four year old's idea?"

"Yes." You raise a brow, he steps closer, and suddenly his hands are sliding up and down your hips. "He was very convincing. How was work?"

You fiddle with the hair on the nape of his neck. When did you put your arms on his shoulders?! "Fine," you scoff, crossing your arms. "You know how I feel about dessert before dinner!"

He takes your hands in his, and kisses your wrists.

"I missed you, my love."

Your face heats. "Cut it out, I'm serious!"

He kisses your cheek, pulling you into a tight, loving embrace. "I'll 'apologize' after dinner," he shrugs.

"..."

He pulls back to look at your face. His most beautiful wife, pouting because she's been bested once more.

"Don't let it happen again. I mean it, L Lawliet."

"Yes, of course."

He plants a kiss on your nose, then your lips, gentle but searing.

Somehow, your arms are on his shoulders again. You don't move them this time. "You're acting like you want another," you tease.

"Another might be nice."

"Another what," your son asks, grabbing at the fabric of your pant-leg. He was quiet when he wanted to be, wasn't he?

You pick him up, and kiss his cheek. "Another ice cream," you exclaim, your tone light and preformatory. "Too bad you can't have ice cream for the rest of the week."

"A week," L asks.

"Consequences," you shrug. You press your forehead to the boy's, and hold him still. "Never lie to your mama."

He giggles, and wiggles around until you set him down.

"A week is a little excessive," L murmurs, watching as his son runs back to his room.

"How does two sound? Better yet, no ice cream and no 'apologies' for two."

"A week is gracious of you."

You stretch, ready to start cooking dinner. Before you head for the kitchen, you smack his butt, and walk away. "Never lie to your wife," you warn, giving him a playfully stern smirk.

Shoes on, list in hand, calm afternoon.

You bend to tie your laces and say:

“Alright sweetheart, wait your turn. I’ll move in just a sec—”

Your kid pushes your leg with both hands and snaps:

“MOVE! You’re always slow! Daddy wouldn’t make me WAIT!”

The room goes silent.

Kita is kneeling by the door, tying his own laces with neat, precise motions. He pauses mid-knot.

He rises.

Not fast. Not dramatic. Just with quiet, controlled purpose.

Your kid freezes.

Kita looks down at them — not angry, not loud, but with that steady, unblinking calm that makes grown adults rethink their life choices.

“Try that again,” he says.

Your kid glares, doubling down.

“No! I don’t WANT you in the way! And I don’t want to go with YOU! Daddy said I get a treat and you’re ruining everything!”

You feel the sting, but before you can respond, Kita steps closer — slow, deliberate.

“That is enough.”

Your kid stomps hard. “I don’t LIKE you right now!”

Kita’s jaw tightens a fraction.

Then he looks at you.

“Go on,” he says quietly. “Go to the store.”

You blink. “Shinsuke—”

“I will handle this,” he repeats, gentler but firm. “You go. Take your time.”

Your kid gasps, horrified.

“No, no, NO! I’m supposed to go! Daddy, I EARNED a treat! I EARNED it!”

Kita doesn’t flinch.

“You lost that privilege,” he says calmly. “When you spoke to your mother that way.”

Your kid breaks.

Full nuclear meltdown.

Screaming. Sobbing. Sliding down the wall like their life is ending. Kicking the floor in pure betrayal.

“I HATE THIS! I HATE YOU! MOMMY MADE YOU SAY THAT!”

You step back, startled, but Kita raises one hand — subtle, steady — signaling you not to intervene.

“I will not tolerate disrespect in this home,” he says. “Not toward me, and certainly not toward your mother.”

Your kid wails louder, the kind of meltdown that echoes off the walls.

Kita gives you a small nod.

“Go,” he says gently. “Truly. I’ve got it.”

So you go.

You slip your shoes on, open the door, step outside.

As the door closes behind you, you hear:

Your kid: “NOOOOOOO! I WANT TO GOOOOO!” Kita, firm and composed: “You do not raise your voice at your mother. Sit. Now.”

You wince — not in fear, but in sympathy. Kita rarely raises his voice. He doesn’t need to.

His tone alone is enough to reset a household.

A little over an hour later, you arrive back home from the grocery store.

The house is quiet.

Not suspiciously quiet — just… calm.

You set the groceries down and peek into the living room.

Your kid is sitting cross-legged on the couch, eyes puffy, face blotchy, holding a coloring book like it’s a peace offering.

Kita sits beside them, one arm resting behind the cushions.

He lifts his gaze when he sees you.

“We were waiting for you,” he says softly.

Your kid slides off the couch and walks over — slow, hesitant, shoulders hunched.

They stop in front of you.

Their lower lip trembles.

“I’m… I’m sorry, Mommy,” they whisper. “I shouldn’t have pushed you. Or yelled. Or said I hated you. I didn’t mean it. I was just… mad.”

You kneel down and pull them close. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

They cling to you like their life depends on it.

Kita steps closer, resting a warm hand on your back.

“We talked about consequences,” he says. “There won’t be a treat today. And they will help me with extra chores to make up for their behavior.”

Your kid nods against your shoulder. “Okay…”

Kita kneels beside both of you, one hand gentle on your child’s shoulder.

“And tomorrow,” he adds softly, “we will try again. With better manners.”

Your kid sniffles. “Yes, Daddy…”

Then Kita presses a kiss to the top of their head — a quiet, grounding gesture — before meeting your eyes with a small, reassuring smile.

No anger. No resentment. Just love, structure, and steadiness.

Because with Kita, discipline isn’t punishment — it’s protection. And every consequence comes with a lesson, a moment of growth, and a gentle return to peace.

Aran Ojiro

Your kid has been buzzing all afternoon about their playdate. It was perfect — no arguments, no drama, just endless running and laughter. But now the sun is dipping low, it’s getting late, and you crouch to help them with their shoes.

“Alright sweetheart, time to say goodbye. We’re heading home.”

Your kid stiffens instantly.

“No.”

You blink. “Honey, it’s late. We’re going.”

“No!” they shout louder. “I don’t WANT to go! I’m not DONE yet!”

You try again, still patient. “We’ll come back soon. But we’re leaving now—”

That’s when it detonates.

“You’re RUINING EVERYTHING!” Their voice cracks. “Daddy would let me stay! Daddy is NICER!”

It hits you hard. You open your mouth, but before you can say a word, someone moves behind you.

Aran steps into the doorway from the patio, towel in one hand from drying his hands after watering the plants. He pauses, looks at your kid, then at you. His expression doesn’t change, but the air shifts.

He walks in calmly, each step quiet and steady.

“Say it again,” he says softly.

Your kid doubles down, frustration boiling through their tiny body.

“Daddy is NICER! I don’t want YOU! Daddy would let me stay!”

Aran lifts one hand — just a small gesture — and your kid’s voice falters on instinct.

“You do not speak to your mother like that,” he says, tone firm but controlled.

Your kid stomps hard, tears spilling. “I LIKE DADDY BETTER!”

They throw their shoe at the floor and try to kick the wall. Aran catches their ankle before it hits, steady but gentle.

“Enough,” he says.

Your kid screams louder, a messy, exhausted meltdown grinding through them: yelling, crying, swinging their arms, trying to run toward the door.

Aran calmly scoops them up — not roughly, not angrily, just with unshakeable dad-strength — and carries them outside to the car despite the kicking and thrashing.

You follow, heart heavy.

Aran sits them in the backseat, blocking another attempt at stomping with one quiet move of his hand. Their sobs get louder, big and desperate, face blotchy and hot.

He kneels next to them and speaks calmly over the crying.

“You’re disappointed,” he says. “I understand that. But you don’t get to hurt people because of it.”

Your kid wails again. “But I wanted to STAY—”

“I know,” Aran says gently. “But blaming your mother? Speaking to her like that? That’s not acceptable.”

They hiccup violently, shoulders shaking.

“You lost your sleepover privilege for this weekend,” he continues. “We’ll try again next week if your behavior improves.”

Your kid breaks into another round of sobs — loud, heartbroken, overwhelmed.

Aran lets them cry it out for several seconds, then puts one big hand covering the back of their head as he rocks them slowly, protectively.

“I know you’re tired,” he murmurs. “I know today was a lot. But none of that makes it okay to speak to your mother that way.”

The sobs soften. Your kid melts into him completely, fingers curled into his shirt.

“Now,” he says, nodding toward you, “you’re going to apologize.”

Your kid looks over, tears streaking their cheeks.

“I’m s-sorry, Mommy… I didn’t mean it… I just… I was mad…”

You kneel and gather them gently into your arms. “Thank you for apologizing. I know you were upset.”

Your kid clings to you desperately, face buried in your shoulder.

Aran stands behind you both, one warm hand on your back, grounding the moment.

“We’re a family,” he says quietly. “We treat each other right, even when we’re frustrated.”

Your kid nods miserably.

Aran leans down and presses a soft kiss to your temple, whispering just for you:

“You didn’t ruin anything. They just needed a boundary.”

And with Aran, boundaries are never harsh — they’re steady, loving, and exactly what holds the whole house together.

Ginjima Hitoshi

You spent the last ten minutes carefully ironing your kid’s little sports jersey — making it crisp, neat, and warm for practice. They love wearing it. You even folded it just the way they like, smoothing the front with your palm.

You set it on their bed.

“Alright sweetheart,” you call, “your jersey’s ready!”

Your kid storms in a second later, full of excited energy… which freezes the moment they see the jersey.

Their face crumples.

“No. No, no, NO,” they say, voice rising. “I wanted the OTHER one!”

You turn around. “Sweetie, the other one is in the wash. It wasn’t clean enough to wear today.”

They stomp once. Hard.

“I don’t WANT this one!” Their voice cracks. “You didn’t even listen to me!”

You open your mouth to soothe them, but before you can—

They grab the freshly ironed jersey, crush it in their fists, and hurl it onto the floor.

Then they stomp on it.

Hard.

Three times.

You freeze.

So does the man standing in the hallway, bending to lace his shoes.

Ginjima straightens up slowly, fingers still hooked loosely around one shoelace. He looks at the crumpled jersey, then at your kid, then at you.

He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t flinch. He just… straightens fully, spine long and expression unreadable.

Your kid notices him and stiffens, eyes widening.

“I see,” Ginjima says quietly — which somehow hits harder than any yell.

Your kid swallows, already wobbling.

You kneel, picking up the jersey gently. “Sweetheart, that wasn’t okay. Mommy worked hard to—”

“I DON’T CARE!” they scream, snatching one last stomp at the shirt. “Daddy lets me wear whatever I want!”

Ginjima steps forward.

Not fast. Not angry. Just certain.

“That’s enough,” he says, voice deep and calm.

Your kid tries to back away, but there’s nowhere to go.

“You don’t throw things your mother prepared,” Ginjima continues. “You don’t stomp on them. And you especially don’t shout at her.”

Your kid’s chin wobbles. They try to look anywhere except his eyes.

“But— but I wanted—”

“No,” he says. “You don’t get to talk like that.”

Your kid finally breaks — a messy, loud sob that shakes their entire body. They cover their face, ashamed, overwhelmed, disappointed, and angry all at once.

Ginjima doesn’t soften yet. He crosses his arms and waits until their crying quiets enough for him to speak again.

“First,” he says, “you’re wearing this jersey today.”

Your kid gasps, devastated. “B-but it’s… it’s wrinkly now…”

“That’s because you stomped on it,” Ginjima replies evenly. “Actions have consequences.”

You place the jersey in their hands, gentle but firm. They clutch it miserably, tears dripping onto the fabric.

“Second,” he continues, “you will help wash the other jersey later. I’ll show you how.”

Your kid sniffles hard. “O-okay…”

“And third,” he says, stepping closer, “you owe your mother an apology. She did something kind for you, and you disrespected her.”

Your kid swallows, breath trembling as they walk over to you.

“I’m… I’m sorry, Mommy…” they whisper, barely audible. “I shouldn’t have… thrown it… or yelled…”

You pull them into your arms, hugging them softly. “Thank you. That was a good apology.”

Only then does Ginjima step forward, resting a warm hand on your shoulder and gently brushing a thumb across your kid’s back.

“We’ll all get ready for practice now,” he says quietly. “But next time, you speak with respect. Disappointment doesn’t give permission for unkindness.”

Your kid nods into your chest.

Ginjima presses a small kiss to your forehead, steady and reassuring.

Because with Ginjima, calm isn’t weakness — it’s the kind of strength that resets a whole room.

Miya Atsumu

Game days are always loud in your house.

Atsumu is in full pre-match mode — pacing the hallway with one knee pad halfway up his thigh, jersey untucked, hair gelled just enough to look intentional but messy enough to look effortless. He keeps muttering to himself:

“Serve strong… don’t let Sakusa bully ya… focus, Miya, focus…”

Meanwhile, you’re trying to get the twins dressed in their cute matching cheer outfits — soft little dresses with tiny volleyballs embroidered on the collar. You even put coordinating bows in their hair.

At least, you tried.

The moment Ayaka looks in the mirror, her entire face collapses into insulted diva outrage.

“I don’t WANT this one!” she shouts, yanking at the dress.

Emi gasps dramatically, gripping her own skirt like a scandalized housewife.

“Yeah! Where’s the sparkly one Daddy picked?! We wanna wear the SPARKLES!”

You sigh. “Sweethearts, the sparkly ones are too scratchy for sitting through the whole match. These are comfortable—”

Ayaka stomps her foot. “You never let us be CUTE!”

Emi joins in, doubling the volume. “Daddy picks BETTER clothes!”

You open your mouth— and that’s when it happens:

Atsumu himself turns the corner.

Knee pads still halfway up. Jersey sleeve half on. Water bottle under his arm.

He sees the twins — screaming, half dressed, pointing at you — and freezes mid-stride.

“What,” he says, blinking, “did my girls jus’ say t’ their mama?”

Ayaka crosses her arms, glaring at you.

“You’re ruining game day!”

Emi dramatically gestures at their outfits. “This is UG-LY!”

Atsumu drops his water bottle.

Just—drops it.

Hits the floor. Rolls away. He doesn’t even notice.

“HEY,” he snaps, pointing at both girls with wide scandalized eyes. “HEY. Absolutely not. No ma’am. No ma’am times TWO.”

The twins look at him, confused by the sudden betrayal.

“But Daddy—”

“No.” Atsumu cuts them off, voice sharp with disbelief. “First off, yer mother makes ya look cute every day. Second, this ain’t a fashion show! It’s VOLLEYBALL!”

Emi gasps. “It IS a fashion show!”

Ayaka nods vigorously. “We wanna be SPARKLY like the cheerleaders!”

Atsumu runs both hands through his already-gelled hair, practically ripping it back out.

“Lord help me,” he mutters.

Then he squares his shoulders and gets down to business.

“Girls,” he says, kneeling so he’s eye level with both divas, “I love sparkles. I love glitter. But ya don’t talk to yer mama like that. Not ever. She picked outfits. You wear ‘em.”

Ayaka: “Noooo!”

Emi: “You don’t understand!”

Atsumu places one large palm on each tiny shoulder.

“I understand PLENTY. Yer bein’ disrespectful. And that stops right now.”

Both girls shrink a little.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” Atsumu says, holding up a finger. “Yer wearin’ these outfits.” Another finger. “No sparkly bows today.” Third finger. “And no fancy glitter shoes neither.”

Ayaka’s jaw drops. “BUT—!”

“Ah-ah!” he says sharply. “Actions. Consequences.”

The twins wobble, eyes filling fast.

“Now,” Atsumu says, gesturing toward you, “ya both go say sorry t’ yer mama. Separately. Properly.”

Ayaka walks over first, lip trembling.

“I’m sorry Mommy… I didn’t mean… I just… I wanted sparkles…”

You pull her close. “Thank you. I know you were excited.”

Emi shuffles over next, hiccupping. “I’m sorry… I said it wrong… I didn’t mean you’re not cute…”

Atsumu snorts but covers it with a cough.

You hug her too. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

Atsumu stands, claps twice like a chaotic coach, and beams.

“Alright! Team Miya! Uniforms on, attitudes fixed, let’s go cheer for Daddy!”

The twins cheer weakly.

You pick up the dropped water bottle, shaking your head with a smile.

Atsumu leans close, whispering:

“We 100 percent created two little monsters.”

You grin. “Two sparkly monsters.”

He kisses your cheek fast before jogging back to fix his knee pad properly.

“Yeah,” he says proudly, “my sparkly monsters.”

And with Atsumu, even diva meltdowns get handled with loud love and louder loyalty.

Miya Osamu

It’s late. Onigiri Miya is closed, the chairs flipped, the hum of the fridge the only sound in the shop.

Osamu is in the kitchen wiping down counters and portioning rice for the morning. You’re at the front, closing out the register, punching in numbers with tired eyes. It’s been a long day, and all three of you feel it.

Your kid is sprawled in a booth, face pressed to the table dramatically.

“Mamaaaaa, can we go home now?” They groan. “This is sooo boring.”

“I know, baby,” you murmur, not looking up. “I’m almost done. Go sit with Daddy if you need something to do.”

“No.” They kick their heel against the seat. “Daddy’s the one who makes good food. You just… do boring stuff.”

You pause at that, but Osamu doesn’t hear — he’s in the back, humming quietly while he seals a container.

You take a breath. “That’s not very nice. You know I help run this place too.”

They roll their eyes so hard their whole head moves. “Yeah, well Daddy cares about this place more than us anyway. You do too. All you guys do is WORK.” Their voice spikes, sharp and bratty. “Maybe you love this stupid restaurant more than me!”

You blink, stunned. “Hey—”

“And Daddy only lets YOU help because he feels bad. He always says you mix everything up! You’re not good at cooking like him!”

Osamu’s name hasn’t even fully left their mouth before he’s already sliding the kitchen door open, towel tossed over his shoulder, expression cutting straight through the mood like a blade.

“Come again?” he asks, voice so calm it chills the air.

Your kid stiffens immediately.

Osamu steps into the dining room, wiping his hands as he goes, eyes locked on your child — and then on you. His jaw ticks.

“Repeat what ya just said to your mama.”

Silence. Heavy and stubborn.

Osamu nods once. “Alright. Since ya don’t wanna say it again, I will. I heard enough.” He crouches down to eye level, voice low and unshakably firm. “You do not talk to your mama that way. Ever.”

They pout, lip wobbling. “But—”

“No.” His voice sharpens. “Your mama works her tail off for this shop. And for you. She handles orders, keeps customers happy, runs numbers that’d make your head spin. I couldn’t do half of this without her.”

You swallow hard.

He continues, voice steady as stone. “You think I’m the only reason this place runs? I ain’t. Your mama’s the backbone of this shop — and this family. And I won’t let you disrespect her. Not once. Not ever.”

Your kid sniffles, shoulders trembling. “I just… I just wanted to go home.”

“And sayin’ somethin’ hurtful fixes that how?” Osamu stands, arms crossing. “Go sit in the back and calm yourself down. Right now. After that, you’re cleanin’ the booth you kicked around. Then you’re apologizin’ to your mama properly.”

They drag themselves off the seat, trudging toward the back with tiny, guilty steps.

Osamu waits until the door shuts.

Then he exhales, stepping behind the counter and slipping his arms around your waist, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

“Y’r alright?” he asks quietly.

You nod. “Yeah. Just surprised.”

He kisses your temple. “Ain’t nothin’ to be surprised about. They’re tired. But that’s no excuse.” His grip tightens gently. “You keep this place runnin’ when I can’t. And I ain’t ever lettin’ ’em talk like that to you. Not in my shop. Not in our home.”

You lean back into him, exhaustion melting a little.

In the back room, small sniffles start to settle into silence.

Osamu kisses your cheek again. “Finish up the register. I’ll handle the rest.”

And he does — including making sure your kid comes back out, cleans up their mess, and offers you the softest, most remorseful little “I’m sorry, Mama” you’ve heard all week.

Suna Rintaro

You’re standing by the front door, arms crossed gently, watching your kid tug their Raijins hoodie over their head in furious, jerky movements. Suna’s away game is tonight — a late one, and over two hours away — and you’ve already explained three times why they can’t go.

“It’s a school night,” you remind softly. “You’ll get home at midnight. Daddy wouldn’t want that either.”

They whip around, cheeks blotchy, eyes blazing.

“Yes he would! Daddy actually likes me!” they shout. “You just wanna ruin everything! You don’t want me to have ANY fun!”

You inhale slowly, taken aback by the sting in their voice.

Before you can answer, they stomp toward the door, clutching the too-big hoodie like a lifeline.

“Mama’s always ruining stuff! I’m going with Daddy!!”

The words hit you hard — but the reaction comes from behind you.

The bedroom door clicks open.

Suna steps out, half in uniform, kneepads still dangling from one hand. His expression isn’t dramatic or loud. It’s the opposite — flat, unimpressed, and frighteningly calm.

“Hey,” he says, voice low. “What did you just say to your mom?”

Your kid freezes like their blood turns to ice.

Suna walks over slowly, setting his kneepads on the counter with deliberate quiet. He crouches down, eyes level with theirs, expression unreadable.

“I’m gonna say this once,” he begins, voice calm in a way that makes the walls stand still. “You do not talk to your mama like that.”

They look down, lips trembling.

Suna lifts their chin gently but firmly. “Look at me.” They do. “Your mama doesn’t ruin anything. She keeps you safe. She takes care of you. She’s the one who gets you to school on time, helps with homework, packs your lunches, and keeps our whole home running while I’m gone for games.”

He leans a little closer, voice dropping. “You owe her respect. Always.”

Their eyes start to water. “But I just… I wanted to go.”

Suna nods once. “I know you did. And I get why you’re upset. But you don’t get to take that out on her.” His tone doesn’t waver. “You don’t yell at your mama. You don’t blame your mama. And you definitely don’t say she doesn’t want you to have fun.”

Your throat tightens, watching him step so solidly between you and the storm.

“Go cool off in your room,” Suna says quietly. “And when you’re ready, you’re gonna come back out here, clean up the mess you made, and apologize to your mama properly.”

Your kid sniffles, wiping their nose with their sleeve. “Yes, Daddy…”

They walk toward the hallway, shoulders slumped, hoodie practically swallowing them whole.

Suna watches until they’re gone, then sighs and stands up, rubbing a hand over his face. He turns toward you, his expression softening completely.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah. Just… didn’t expect that.”

He steps forward, sliding a hand to your hip, pulling you close with quiet certainty. “They crossed a line. They needed to hear it.” He presses a kiss to your forehead. “You don’t deserve that. Not ever.”

In the bedroom, you hear the muffled sounds of tiny sobs settling into sniffles.

Suna glances toward the hallway, then back at you. “I’ll talk to them again before I leave. Make sure they understand you’re not the bad guy.”

You smile faintly, leaning into his chest. “Thank you.”

He kisses the side of your head, thumb brushing soothing circles at your waist. “Always.”

Later, when your kid emerges — eyes red, voice small, apology soft and sincere — Suna stands behind you the whole time, one hand resting on your shoulder, making sure the message lands:

Mama is never someone you talk to like that. Mama is someone you respect.

He kicked off his shoes, stretching his sore shoulders after a long day of schedules and recording. Usually the moment he opened the door he’d hear tiny running footsteps or your voice calling from the kitchen.

But today—

silence.

Then he heard it, a tiny squeak, followed by a soft giggle coming from the kitchen

He walked slowly down the hallway, curiosity creeping in as the sound got clearer.

Little hands slapping something, a puff and more giggle

When he reached the kitchen doorway, he froze.

“…Oh.”

There was flour everywhere.

On the counters, on the floor, on the cabinets.

Even on the little stool your daughter used to reach the sink.

And in the middle of it all sat your daughter, happily patting piles of flour like it was sand at the beach. Her cheeks were dusted white, her hair looked like it had snow in it, and every clap of her hands sent a soft cloud into the air.

“Pff!” she giggled.

Dokyeom blinked slowly.

Then his eyes moved to the corner of the kitchen.

You were sitting on the floor, back resting against the cabinet, legs stretched out in front of you. Your hair was messy, there was flour on your shirt, and you looked completely drained.

You weren’t stopping her.

You were just watching.

Like you had accepted defeat.

When you noticed him standing there, you sighed softly.

“Oh… you’re home.”

Dokyeom gestured to the entire kitchen.

“…What happened?”

Before you could answer,

Your daughter spotted him.

Her eyes lit up.

“Appa!”

She scrambled to her feet and ran toward him, leaving tiny flour footprints on the floor. Halfway there she slipped and landed on her butt with a soft puff.

A cloud of flour rose around her.

Dokyeom tried to hold it in.

He really did.

But the sight of his tiny daughter looking like a powdered donut broke him.

He burst out laughing.

“Oh my god—”

Your daughter giggled along with him, completely proud of herself.

You closed your eyes briefly.

“She found the flour cabinet.”

Dokyeom glanced at the open cabinet.

Then the disaster zone.

“…When?”

You stared at the ceiling.

“Thirty minutes ago.”

“Thirty minutes?”

“I tried stopping her.”

A pause.

“She cried.”

Another pause.

“So now we have a flour playground.”

Dokyeom laughed again, crouching down to pick up your daughter.

The moment he lifted her, she grabbed his cheeks with flour-covered hands.

Now he had flour on his face.

“Appa play!” she demanded.

You watched the scene with half-lidded tired eyes.

“Don’t encourage her.”

Dokyeom looked between you and the flour-covered floor.

Then he slowly rolled up his sleeves.

You immediately narrowed your eyes.

“Seokmin.”

He crouched down and grabbed a handful of flour.

“Seokmin.”

He tossed it lightly above your daughter’s head.

“SEOKMIN—”

Your daughter shrieked with laughter.

“Snow!”

You dropped your head against the cabinet.

“I’m raising two children.”

Dokyeom sat down on the floor beside you, still holding your daughter. Flour puffed up around him when he landed.

He wrapped one arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer.

“You look tired,” he murmured softly.

You leaned your head against him instantly.

“I am tired.”

He kissed the top of your head gently.

“Thank you for taking care of her all day.”

Your daughter started patting his hair with flour like she was decorating him.

“Appa white!”

Dokyeom chuckled.

You watched them quietly for a moment — the messy kitchen, your giggling child, your husband willingly turning into a flour-covered mess just to make her laugh.

Your heart softened.

“…We’re ordering food tonight.”

Dokyeom nodded immediately.

“Yes. Absolutely.”

Your daughter clapped.

“Pizza!”

You and Dokyeom exchanged a look.