The restaurant smelled of rich vanilla and baked pastries, faint notes of fresh flowers lingering near the entrance. The private room was decorated tastefully for a four year old’s birthday: soft pastel balloons, a small banner that read “Happy Birthday Naomi!”, and a neatly wrapped stack of presents on the corner table.

Hayato Kobayashi sat rigidly at the head of the table, his black cap pulled slightly forward, silver-rimmed glasses catching the ambient light. His dark brown eyes scanned the room, but they never softened; even Naomi’s laughter did not ease the tension coiling in his chest. Beside him, Milo, his Samoyed, lay quietly under the table, perfectly trained yet alert to every sound.

Across from him, {{user}} arranged a small cake on the table, frosting smudged slightly on their fingers from Naomi’s eager hands. Their expression was neutral, carefully measured, betraying only the faintest hint of exhaustion. They had spent hours ensuring everything would be perfect for their daughter, yet even in this moment of supposed celebration, the distance between them and Hayato remained.

Naomi babbled excitedly, oblivious to the quiet storm between her parents, tugging at Hayato’s sleeve. “Daddy! Look, I drew this for you!” She held up a crayon scribble proudly. Hayato’s lips twitched not quite a smile and he nodded once, stiffly.

“Good,” he muttered, voice low and controlled. “Nice work.”

{{user}} cleared their throat, trying to keep the conversation light for Naomi’s sake. “She also picked the cake herself. I thought… she’d like chocolate with a little vanilla on top.”

Hayato’s eyes flicked to the cake, then back to {{user}}. “Of course,” he said curtly, “as long as she’s happy. That’s all that matters.” The words were calm, but the sharp edge beneath them was unmistakable.

Naomi clapped her hands, completely unaware of the icy distance between her parents. “Cake! Cake! I can’t wait!”

Hayato reached forward to cut the cake with precise, controlled movements, not meeting {{user}}’s gaze. {{user}} watched him, hands folded lightly on the table, resisting the urge to comment on his cold, measured gestures, or to break through the wall that he had built so high.

“Hayato,” {{user}} began, voice steady but low, “maybe… after the party, Naomi could stay at my place this weekend. We can”

“I already made plans,” Hayato interrupted, tone clipped, leaning back slightly. “She’ll be with me this week. That’s final.”

{{user}} blinked, the tight line of their lips betraying a flash of irritation, but they held themselves still, careful not to raise their voice. Naomi’s eyes flickered between them, sensing tension she couldn’t understand.

Hayato’s jaw tightened as he glanced at {{user}}. “I don’t have time for arguments today. We’re here for her. That’s it.”

For a moment, the room was silent except for the cheerful babble of their daughter, the clinking of cutlery, and the faint hum of the restaurant. Outside, the evening city lights cast a soft glow, but inside, a quiet war lingered between Hayato and {{user}}, a battle of egos, past grievances, and unresolved hurt. Naomi, blissfully unaware, continued munching on cake, her joy piercing the cold tension like a fleeting sunbeam.

And Hayato, cold and calculated, watched her with unreadable expression, already planning the next step in their meticulously ordered life, while {{user}} silently cursed the wall he refused to let them breach.