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sp0o0kylights · 10 months ago

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“Dustin isn’t coming.”

“What?” Eddie says, all frantic and jovial movements freezing instantly.

His eyes narrow on Lucas--the bearer of bad news. “Why?”

“Family emergency.”

Mike makes a face. “I saw his mom yesterday and she was fine, so is this a…?”

He makes a gesture that is entirely incomprehensible to anyone who isn’t Sinclair and his terrifying girlfriend.

(At least, Eddie thinks Max is Lucas’s girlfriend this week. It got a little hard to keep up after the third break-up-make-up marathon, and he frankly, stopped bothering to try.

It helped that she barely spoke--The only time notable being when Eddie had mockingly asked Sinclair if he needed a cheerleader when she’d first sat in, upon which she’d asked Eddie if he needed new kneecaps with a look in her eye that said she was serious.)

Wheeler Jr.’s gesture however, made her put her book down.

“You think he’s having migraines again?” She not so much asked as demanded, which had Mike shrugging.

“Dunno." Lucas says. "Dustin didn’t say.”

“Gotta be, if he called Dustin.” Mike mutters, Lucas shuffling his papers about as he begins to set up for Hellfire. He was the last in the room, practically late, which Eddie had planned on harassing him for had he not announced Henderson’s absence.

(Fucking freshmen. They just weren’t terrified of Eddie like they used to be.)

“Robin must be sick or something, otherwise he’d call her.” Lucas finishes as he finally sits down.

“Didn’t the Marching Band go on some trip?” Mike turns to address the rest of the table, and gets nods from Jeff and Gareth both.

“Yeah they’re marching in some parade in Indianapolis.” Jeff confirms.

“So his last resort was Dustin?” Max is getting that tone in her voice, the one that makes everyone at Hellfire very uncomfortable. “Typical.”

She pushes away from the table, making a show of gathering up her things before rising easily to her feet.

Eddie trades looks with the elder Hellfire members as she makes her exit--the kind that says they’re all going to be talking about this later.

They knew their freshmen had some weird obsession with the former King, of course, but Mayfield too?

What the hell was up with that guy?

At least Eddie thinks, right before things are once again shot to shit, they can go back to playing the game.

He can make it work this early into things, and if Henderson isn't’ a fan of what he��s about to do to the kid’s character in his absence, well.

Maybe he shouldn’t be fucking absent then.

“So what, Max, you're gonna go over there and make it worse?” Mike snorts.

Fatal mistake.

Eddie almost strangles him for it, if only because it prolongs this entire unnecessary conversation.

Max performs a military perfect heel turn, coming straight back for Wheeler Jr., which makes him right about fall out of his seat in panic.

“What was that, Wheeler?”

“I’m just saying--!”

“We don’t know Steve’s having migraines.” Lucas reiterates, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Maybe it’s something else.”

“Does Steve get migraines a lot?” Grant asks, because despite all appearances he’s a terrible gossip and gets sucked in far too easily.

Eddie throws a pencil at him for it.

“Hel-looo, we have a game!?” He thunders, but unfortunately for him, precious Stevie-Weavies headache now has everyone’s attention.

“Yeah, though he’s really good at pretending he doesn’t.” Lucas answers with a put upon sigh.

“There’s a whole pattern--he ignores it until it gets super bad, then he has to call Robin or Dustin to come get him when he inevitably gets stranded at work or the like, grocery store.”

“Well who else do you think he’d call?” Mike scoffs again. He does a lot of that, when discussing Harrington. “It’s not like his parents are--Ow, Max!”

“Close your mouth before I close it for you.” She hisses and Mike, shockingly, does just that.

To Eddie, she says;

“Your ass isn’t any better, or did you forget I live across from you?”

Eddie--who had an insult primed and ready--promptly shuts his mouth.

(Fucking! Asshole! Freshmen!)

“Maybe I should go too.” Lucas says, hedging a look between his girlfriend and his DM.

“No.” She snaps, pointing a finger at him.

“If you go, then this idiot,” she flicks her finger to Mike, “will go and then we really will make it worse. Stay here before your bichon frise has a fit about all his sheep abandoning him.”

Then she’s turning on her heel again, storming out.

“What the hell’s a bichon frisé?” Gareth asks in the aftermath, frowning.

“It’s a type of ahhhh--” Jeff clearly thinks better of the explanation, eyes sliding to Eddie.

Who’s scowling.

“I know what a bichon frisé is, Jeff.” He snaps.

“I don’t.” Grant loudly complains.

Jeff attempts to both calm Eddie and explain while Mike and Lucas spend far too many minutes looking after Max.

“Enough!” Eddie howls, temper finally getting the best of him. “Are we playing or do you also need to go sit by the King’s bedside?”

“Thank you,” Mike says, like he wasn’t a third of the entire problem. “Let’s play!”

They make it about ten entire minutes before getting knocked off track again.

In fairness, not that Eddie would ever admit it--the second meltdown is his own fault.

xXx

Hellfire is Eddie’s domain.

It’s one of the few places where he could relax without getting harassed or hounded, and having his freshmen--his!--abandon him for King Fucking Steve had set him off.

So he’d made a few comments about it.

Maybe introduced an NPC who sounded suspiciously similar to Harrington, only to instantly kill him off.

Made another couple of nasty comments.

Who cares? It worked him through his snit rather nicely, and his boys all knew to leave him be.

Except, apparently, for Lucas.

“Dude, would you lay off?” The kid finally snaps, pencil slamming down on the table.

Which is the most backbone-like thing anyone has ever heard Sinclair say, and he gets far more whistles for it than he should.

Eddie pins him in place with a glare.

“What was that Sinclair?” He snarls, voice as menacing as he can make it.

(It’s pretty terrifying, he’s practiced quite a bit with it.)

Sinclair flinches, but doesn’t back down.

“I said lay off. Steve has migraines because of--” He stops, before seeming to come to a decision. “Because of me. He took a hit for me, and I owe him a life debt for it.”

To Eddie, he says; “You get what those are, right?”

Mike rolls his eyes. “It wasn’t just for you--”

“That time with Billy was!” Lucas is quick to snarl. “But you know what Mike, you’re right. It wasn’t just for me. He T-boned a car for all of us!”

Sinclaire is on his feet now, which is the unfortunate moment that Eddie realizes he has once again lost control of the room.

A situation he firmly blames on Steve Harrington, because he’s petty.

“Or did you forget that part? That’s you, me, Will, Nancy and Jonathan right there! Nevermind the tunnel. Or the junkyard!

“We had the junkyard handled--”

Lucas scoffs.

“We absolutely did not.”

“I don’t get why you’re all making such a big deal out of this. He’s the fighter. That’s what he does. That’s why we brought him to the tunnel.”

“You recall what happened at Starcourt, right?” Lucas challenges, furious. “You did see him after, right?”

This, finally, seems to shut Mike up.

“Shouldn’t you be mad at him for that?” He says after a moment, and the rest of Hellfire has completely put aside all actual gaming to watch this play out with a morbid sort of fascination.

Eddie allows it, only because he’s trying to breathe the way Wayne taught him to before he loses it entirely and throws both of the idiot kids out of the drama room.

“He pulled your sister into it.”

“Have you met Erica!? You can’t pull her into shit!” Lucas spits furiously. “That wasn’t D&D, Mike. It was the Upsi--real life.”

Lucas is quick to correct himself, even in the heat of the moment--as all the kids are, like the entire school hasn’t clocked that they have some weird ass secret they’re terrible at hiding.

“And if we’re playing those games, then who pulled him into the tunnels? Who made him come to the junkyard?”

“Dustin.” Mike says snidely.

“You don’t get to blame Dustin when Steve was the only person around.”

“There were people around! They just weren’t people who--weren’t--who couldn’t--”

“Finish that sentence.” Lucas demands

“Be trusted.” Mike spits out, like it hurts him.

“Exactly.”

“El went through way more than Steve ever has! El--”

“El was using her po--doing mage things! And also, she shouldn’t have had to go through all this shit either! We can’t rely on her to save the day every single time, Mike--and look at how hurt she gets!”

“She--”

“She hides it from you, you know. How bad she hurts. Cause she wants to put your feelings first.”

“I--”

“Will does too.” Is Lucas’s parting shot. His backpack is in his hands in a blink, papers and character figure shoved wildly into it, before he’s storming out the door in a poor mimicry of Mayfield.

“Harrington T-Boned a car?” Grant says, in the resounding silence.

“That BMW of his hasn’t had a scratch on it--” Jeff says, with an inquisitive tilt to his head.

“He didn’t use the Beamer.” Mike interrupts, angry and sulking. “Are we playing or not?”

“I’m gonna say not, given we are down two players.’ Eddie tells him through clenched teeth.

“I’m going to be so mad if Steve doesn’t have a migraine.” Mike grumbles, as he begins packing up his stuff.

The rest of Hellfire follow his lead, after one look at Eddie’s face convince the lot of them that it’s best to flee now, before Eddie unleashes all his pent up rage.

“Not as mad as I’ll be, Wheeler.” Eddie promises darkly.

And it is a promise--because now, he’s going to follow all his stupid (sans Mike, who isn’t in his good graces either but at least stayed) freshmen--and go visit one fallen King.

If Harrington doesn’t have a headache now, he will when Eddie’s done with him.

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prettylilyanime · 3 months ago

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Our Blessing ♡ Chapter 04

♡ Pairing: Toji Zenin x reader

♡ Synopsis: in which your ex boyfriend left you with your biggest blessing in life, or- a bundle of a blessing. And he doesn’t even know it.

♡ tags/warnings: 18+, (explicit content in later chapters) angst, and drama, exes to lovers, hidden baby trope, Toji is an asshole (but we love him), Reader just wants to raise Megumi in peace, CEO Toji, possessive Toji, emotionally constipated Toji, Tension, misunderstandings, Flashbacks to past relationship, Heavy themes of abandonment, trust issues, and redemption, baby Megumi is a cutie, Megumi is a mama’s boy, reader works at a flower shop, Hidden Baby Trope

♡ Masterlist ♡ Previous ♡ Next

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Winter is in full swing, and a small snowstorm has draped Tokyo’s streets in soft white. Classes have been suspended for the week, and though Megumi’s birthday isn’t until the end of the month—just a few days shy of Christmas, you’re grateful this mini blizzard hasn’t disrupted your plans.

In fact, you’ve been quietly enjoying it. Having your baby home for a few extra days has brought a kind of warmth that’s helped keep your mind off other things.

Off him.

It’s ridiculous, the way Toji’s managed to creep back into your head after all this time.

Years of silence, and yet here you are, thinking about him more than you should. His number still tucked away under the lamp on your nightstand. And those photos of him holding hands with that woman outside some exclusive Tokyo bar, now etched behind your eyelids no matter how hard you try to forget them.

The power he still holds over your heart terrifies you.

But Megumi being home has helped. You haven’t gone into work either, not that there’s been much foot traffic in your flower shop lately. The snow has slowed down everything, sales included. But thankfully, you’d planned for quiet seasons like this. Years of careful saving and smart investments have cushioned the blow.

You’re no Toji, casually dropping six figures at a bar like it’s nothing, but you’re doing your best. You’re building a good life for your son, one full of love, comfort, and stability.

Today’s comfort comes in the form of homemade cookies. It’s a simple activity, but it beats another afternoon of TV or the dreaded iPad. One of your biggest fears is raising Megumi to be an iPad kid.

“Okay honey, remember to roll the cookie dough into little balls. And no tasting! The stomach bug could get you,” you warn, watching him from the corner of your eye.

To your surprise, Megumi actually listens. Ever since he got his first real cold at the start of the school year, complete with aches and nausea—he’s been a little traumatized by the idea of getting sick again.

Still, when he’s not looking, you sneak a guilty spoonful of dough. You know it’s probably fine, but what if he is the one percent that gets salmonella? You shake the thought off.

Your spiral is interrupted by the painfully adorable sight of your son rolling cookie dough into near-perfect balls. His pajama sleeves are pushed up, his little brows furrowed in concentration, and the tip of his tongue pokes out in focus.

Your heart clenches.

You lean down without thinking and press a kiss to the top of his head, wrapping your arms around his small frame and earning a soft little groan from him.

“Mama, my cookies...” he whines, more dramatic than upset.

You laugh softly. “Sorry, sorry. You’re doing such a good job, though,” you say, and his cheeks flush pink from the praise.

The two of you move through the rest of the dough like a well-oiled machine. There’s a rhythm to it, and for a fleeting moment, you wonder if you missed your calling. Maybe you should’ve opened a bakery instead of a flower shop.

“Okay, honey. Stand behind me—the oven’s hot,” you say, slipping on oven mitts.

Megumi clings to the fabric of your pants as you slide the tray in. His eyes are wide, like he’s trying to protect you with his gaze alone.

“No burns,” you announce playfully as you shut the oven. “Success.”

You lift him easily under the arms and settle him on your hip, ignoring the slight strain in your back. You don’t let yourself think too long about how much heavier he’s gotten or how fast time is flying.

“Let’s wash our hands and pick a movie while the cookies bake,” you say, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

Soon, the two of you are curled up on the pale blue couch you’ve had for years, tucked under one of your favorite plush blankets. Megumi fits snugly in your lap, his freshly cleaned hands tangled in the fabric of your shirt.

It’s the kind of moment you want to bottle forever.

And yet... something feels off.

Just a whisper of unease in the back of your mind. A memory. A ghost.

No matter how perfect this moment is, you can’t quite shake it.

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Memory: Six Years Ago

“Doll, you’re breaking my heart.”

You’ve always loved the sound of Toji’s voice—low, raspy, and just a little bit rough. It wraps around your spine like velvet, makes your stomach flutter every time. Tonight is no exception.

You glance over your shoulder to find him standing in the doorway, tall and broad, already shrugging off his coat. He hooks it on the wall like he lives here. Like it’s second nature.

“It’s only a week, Toji. And I invited you to come, remember?” you say, lips curved in a soft smile. A spark of warmth blooms in your chest when he leans down to press a kiss to your lips—careless and casual, but still enough to send your pulse skipping.

His gaze drops to the open suitcase on your living room floor, then shifts to you. “What am I supposed to do while you’re gone?” he groans, flopping back onto the couch with a dramatic sigh.

The pale blue cushions creak beneath his weight, the fabric dipping slightly to cradle his frame. The sight of a man that massive lounging in your tiny apartment, limbs sprawled and comfortable, never fails to make you grin.

You slide closer and lean against his leg as you fold a sweater into your bag. “I don’t know… pick up a hobby that isn’t me. Pottery? Painting?” You perk up. “Ooh, what if you finally give in and try floral arranging? I have books I can lend you!”

Toji snorts. “Doll, you’re not a hobby,” he says, voice quieter now, more honest. “You’re my life. Can’t say flowers are gonna fill that void.”

Your fingers pause mid-fold, heart catching in your throat at the softness in his voice. You don’t look at him—just smile to yourself and keep packing.

“I think you’ll manage,” you say quietly.

You don’t know yet how wrong you are.

He sighs, all pouty and petulant in that rare, vulnerable way he only ever shows you. You glance up, snickering at the exaggerated look on his face.

“What? A week with your dad got you that bummed?”

“You’ve got no idea, doll. The old man’s gonna be up my ass,” he groans, spreading his thighs instinctively and reaching out as you rise from the floor. You let him pull you into his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Your arms wrap around his neck; your head rests easily on his shoulder. His big arms fold around you in turn, holding you close like he needs to memorize how you feel. You breathe him in—that addictive scent of clean spice and something unmistakably him, the cologne you’ve loved from the very beginning.

“I’m sorry he always gives you a hard time,” you murmur, fingers gently combing through the back of his hair, twirling locks of raven strands between them.

He’s quiet for a while, gaze locked on the black screen of the TV. Then, without saying a word, he grabs the remote, flicks it on to some random movie neither of you care about, and shifts you both deeper into the couch. He tosses a blanket over your legs—he always remembers how easily you get cold.

“Don’t worry about the old man,” he mutters. “He’s dying soon anyway. Won’t be my problem for much longer.”

You sigh, soft and weary. “Don’t say things like that. He’s your father.”

“And? You want me to list off all the shit he’s pulled?” Toji scoffs, the edge in his voice sharpening. “I don’t get why you keep defending him. The man trashes your name every chance he gets.”

His words are blunt, too blunt—and they sting, even though you know he’s trying to deflect the real pain underneath. Of course you hate that his father despises you. You’ve been with Toji for five years now, and every interaction with his family has felt like walking on broken glass.

You frown, not wanting to ruin this quiet moment before your trip, but the tension is already curling tight in your chest. “He’s never taken the time to get to know me.” you murmur against his shirt. “So I’m not putting too much weight into anything he says.”

Toji exhales, long and slow, then pulls you closer like he’s trying to shield you from something invisible.

“He doesn’t know you at all, my perfect girl. And I want to fucking keep it that way. He ruins everything he touches.”

You snort softly, tapping his shoulder. “I’m not perfect, Toji.”

He huffs and grabs your face as gently as those big hands allow, palms warm as they cradle your cheeks. He squishes them just enough to make your lips pout, then bumps his forehead against yours.

“Most perfect girl in the whole damn world,” he mutters. “And I won’t let anybody say otherwise. Not even you.”

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Current day

In his high-rise penthouse, the city below blanketed in white, Suguru exhales slowly, the smoke from his cigar curling through the air like a ghost of a thought he can’t shake.

Across from him, Ryomen Sukuna lounges on a leather chair with a beer in hand, pink hair mussed, eyes half-lidded but unmistakably sharp.

The two of them have been through hell and back, especially with Satoru and Toji in the mix. Boarding school years, globetrotting misadventures, a few too many nights in Amsterdam that landed all four of them in jail as teenagers—

But nothing ever has, or ever will compare to this. To the quiet, heavy weight of the thing they’ve both been carrying in silence.

“So… you know,” Suguru finally says. Not a question. He knew the second Sukuna looked at him during that last meet-up at Horizon.

Sukuna takes a long swig like the alcohol might soften the edge. He’s never done well with serious shit.

“Yeah. Yuuji’s best friends with the kid.”

Suguru’s eyes snap to him, disbelief etched across his face. “Seriously? That’s how you found out?”

Sukuna groans, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Jin begged me to take Yuuji on a playdate. I was expecting some married, middle-aged lady with a brat. Imagine my surprise when I show up and it’s Y/N—who, by the way, is even sexier now, with a mini-Toji in light up sneakers.”

He snorts, amused at the memory. Seeing Toji’s permanently pissed-off face on an adorable kid is a surreal kind of comedy.

Suguru pointedly ignores the comment about you being sexier, though, if he’s honest, he agrees. Motherhood did something to you.

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. If his hair weren’t tied back in its usual bun, he’d be gripping it by the roots out of stress.

“I ran into her a few months ago. Her and the kid. Pizza place by her old shop. Satoru didn’t notice them, but I did. She looked pretty terrified when she saw me.”

Sukuna lets out a low chuckle. “Yeah? She looked like she wanted to choke me out. The kid too, honestly. Gave me this nasty glare. Kid’s got dark vibes already—very Toji.”

Suguru nods, gaze distant. “Too much like Toji. I don’t know how she wakes up every day and doesn’t think about him.”

“She probably does,” Sukuna says, casually. “Especially now. Now that she knows we know.”

Silence settles between them. The only sound is the soft hum of the heater and the quiet clink of Sukuna’s bottle against the marble tabletop.

“You think she’ll tell him?” Suguru asks eventually, voice low. “I gave her his number. Thought maybe… I don’t know. I feel like an asshole keeping this from him.”

Sukuna doesn’t answer right away. Just stares into the amber of his drink like it holds a timeline he can’t fix.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “She’ll tell him.”

Suguru waits for more. Sukuna sighs.

“Jin mentioned Yuuji got invited to the brat’s birthday party. It’s in like two weeks.”

Suguru raises a brow. “Shit. That’s right around Toji’s birthday.”

Sukuna nods. “Guilt’s gonna eat her alive. I bet she’ll crack any day now.”

Suguru scowls. “We are not betting on Toji’s baby mama finally confessing she’s been hiding his kid for five years.”

Sukuna smirks, raising his bottle. “You’re only saying that ‘cause you know I’d win.”

The door swings open without so much as a knock, the echo of it bouncing off the marble floors of Suguru’s penthouse.

From where they sit, low on dark leather chairs near the floor-to-ceiling windows, the sprawling city of Tokyo glows in soft gray tones beneath a blanket of snow.

Neon lights blink in the distance, diffused by the frost-kissed glass. It’s serene, in a heavy, expensive kind of way.

That peace is shattered immediately.

“Helloooo!”

Satoru Gojo strides in like a man with a mission and zero boundaries, wool coat flapping behind him, sunglasses still obnoxiously on despite the gloomy sky outside. His shoes squeak slightly against the polished marble as he kicks them off and makes a beeline for the liquor tray like he pays rent.

“I know I gave you access to my house,” Suguru mutters without looking up, “but would it kill you to knock for once?”

“Nah,” Satoru grins, grabbing a crystal tumbler and inspecting the bottle of whiskey before pouring generously. “Then it wouldn’t be a surprise.”

Sukuna slouches further into his chair, stretching out his legs like a cat who wants everyone to know he's deeply inconvenienced. “Your existence is a surprise. A tragic one.”

Satoru ignores the jab with a grin. “You say that now, but you’d miss me the moment I stopped showing up.”

He flops theatrically onto the white sectional, the ice in his glass clinking like punctuation. Stretching out like he owns the place, he props his feet (still dusted with snow) on the edge of the marble coffee table.

Suguru shoots him a cold glare. Predictably, Satoru pretends not to notice.

“What were you two whispering about, anyway?” he asks, voice far too casual to be innocent.

“You shut up like I walked in on a cartel meeting. If there’s any snow involved, you know I want a cut.”

Suguru, back in his chair, swirls the amber in his glass and stares out the window like the answers might be hiding somewhere in the drifting snowflakes.

“Nothing you need to concern yourself with,” he says smoothly, the weight behind his words dulled by exhaustion.

Satoru squints, lips pursed. “Lame. You guys always act weird when I’m not around. Just admit it, you’re planning Toji’s birthday without me again.”

Sukuna snorts, eyes still on the snow-covered skyline. “Yeah. Full clown theme this year actually.”

“You joke, but strippers in clown outfits could be magical,” Satoru says, deadpan, leaning back with a pleased sigh like he’s cracked a genius idea.

Suguru gives him a sideways look. Sukuna takes a sip of his beer and mutters, “Yeah, real magical.”

Outside, the snow starts up again. Thick, slow flakes falling against the glass, smudging out the neon sprawl of Tokyo Tower.

Suguru sips his drink, the familiar, suffocating weight of what he knows pressing heavier now. But he says nothing more.

Because if there’s one thing they all know beyond a doubt :

You don’t tell Satoru Gojo a secret unless you’re ready for Toji to know it five minutes later.

Like clockwork, Satoru shifts upright, eyebrows raised in gleeful disbelief. “Speaking of Toji, can you believe he sent that girl from the bar home in an Uber? Didn’t even hook up with her!”

Suguru arches a brow, unimpressed. “Honestly? Not shocked.”

Satoru lets out a dramatic scoff. “We’re watching our hot bachelor bestie spiral into eternal celibacy, and everyone’s just fine with that?!”

Sukuna exhales slowly, lifting his glass. “He’s a grown-ass man, Satoru. Let him make his own choices.”

Satoru rolls his crystalline blue eyes from behind his ever-present shades. “That’s no fun.”

Satoru starts rambling again. Some half-baked scheme about dragging Toji to a club to “reawaken his libido”—but Suguru’s already tuning him out.

He doesn’t say it out loud. Not with Satoru here. Not with Sukuna sipping his beer like nothing matters.

But in the back of his mind, the thought lingers stubbornly—quiet and sharp.

Please just call him, Y/N.

He closes his eyes briefly, letting the silence stretch as far as it’ll go before Satoru shatters it again.

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The sun has long dipped below the skyline, leaving Tokyo cloaked in a deep navy hue. The city lights outside your window glitter more vividly than usual, wrapped in the glow of the approaching holidays. Neon signs blink in festive colors, red and green twinkling against glass and steel.

Inside, your apartment feels warmer than usual—not just from the heater, but from the familiar comfort of December. The Christmas tree in the corner glows softly, its deep green branches dotted with glittering ornaments and rainbow lights that flicker gently against the walls. The scent of freshly baked cookies still lingers in the air from earlier.

You carry Megumi to bed with ease, his body relaxed and heavy in your arms, freshly showered and with his little belly full of warm cookies. He’s drowsy, blinking slowly as his head hits the pillow, his cheeks still faintly rosy from the heat of the oven and the laughter you shared in the kitchen.

He curls into the covers easily, the kind of sleepiness only little kids know. So full, so satisfied, so safe.

You kneel beside his small twin-sized bed, letting your eyes linger on the way his lashes rest against his cheeks. You would stay here forever if you could, watching him drift into dreamland.

But then—

“Mama,” he murmurs, tugging at your sleeve again with drowsy fingers.

“Yes, honey?” you whisper, brushing his soft black hair gently from his face.

He doesn’t open his eyes right away. “Is my dad coming to my birthday party this year?”

Your entire body stills, muscles coiling instinctively beneath your skin. Even in the warmth of the room, it’s like someone’s poured ice water down your spine.

Your gaze drops to him, and your heart aches. He’s still half-asleep, lashes fluttering as he stares at the ceiling, but his voice carries something heavy. Something unspoken.

“My friends keep asking me��” he trails off, small fingers fidgeting with his blanket now. “I don’t care if he comes or not. I just wanna know.”

It’s the pout that gives him away. The slight downturn of his mouth. The hesitation in his voice. And suddenly, you see through him with painful clarity.

He does care.

Your breath catches in your throat as you take him in - so small, so brave, and yet so vulnerable. There’s a thousand things you could say.

You want to lie. You want to change the subject. You want to shield him from the tangled mess of adult decisions and past pain. But that’s not who you are.

That’s not the kind of mother you promised yourself you’d be.

So instead, you lean forward and press a tender kiss to his cheek, letting your lips linger there for a moment, grounding yourself in your love for your child.

“I’ll make sure he’s there, Megumi,” you whisper, and the words alone make you nauseous out of anxiety and fear.

And the words burn on the way out—sharp with anxiety, heavy with dread. But you say them anyway.

His little fingers finally relax their grip on the blanket, and the tension in his body melts into the mattress. He doesn’t say anything more. He doesn’t need to.

His tiny heart trusts you with everything it has.

And you’ve never let him down.

You won’t start now.

⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡

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