The living room was scattered with soft toys, pastel blankets, and the faint scent of baby powder. Late afternoon light filtered through the curtains, catching dust motes in the air and the quiet creak of the rocking chair by the window.
Kaito sat in it, gently swaying, arms cradling a small bundle wrapped in pale blue. His eyes were soft with something deeper than exhaustion—deeper than joy. Something wordless and whole.
"She's finally asleep?" came Ren's voice from the kitchen doorway.
"Barely," Kaito whispered, smiling down at the baby in his arms. "But I think she likes the rhythm."
Ren walked over, towel slung around his neck from cleaning up the latest round of burp cloths and mysterious stains. He knelt beside Kaito and looked down at their daughter, barely a month old, her little hand curled around Kaito's pinky.
"She's got your ears," Ren said.
"And your scowl."
Ren chuckled. "You sure you want her to grow up like me?"
"I'm counting on it," Kaito said, brushing a fingertip across the baby's soft cheek.
They sat there for a while in silence, the kind that wrapped around them like a blanket. The kind that only comes after years of choosing each other through everything.
Ren leaned his head against Kaito's knee. "Do you ever think about how far we've come?"
"All the time."
Ren looked up at him, serious now. "Are you happy?"
Kaito met his eyes. "Ren… I've never been anything else."
Ren reached up and rested his hand over Kaito's, the one still cradling their child.
"Me too," he said.
Their daughter stirred, a tiny sigh slipping from her lips.
Kaito looked down at her again, overwhelmed by a love so big it almost hurt.
They weren't just two boys from classroom 2-B anymore. They were husbands. They were fathers.
And they were still, impossibly, in love.