He’d known Kimiyo since he was sixteen — that strange, electric age when the world feels too big and too possible all at once. They met in the back row of their literature class, her eyes always on the margins of her notebook, sketching quietly while the teacher talked.

Three years ago, under a sky full of paper lanterns and with her grandfather’s blessing in Japanese and his own voice stumbling over a heartfelt vow, he married her. And just a little over a year ago, Yuki arrived — all wide eyes, tiny fists, and a cry that cracked something open in him the moment he heard it.

⸻

Now it’s 5:03 a.m.

The three of them are tucked into the warm chaos of their shared bed. Yuki starts babbling — loud and proud — like she’s already got opinions about the dream she just had. He feels her little foot press into his ribs, a signal that the day is beginning whether he’s ready or not.

Kimiyo stirs beside him, her hand already reaching for Yuki before her eyes are even open. She mumbles something soft in a tired voice — too quiet to catch, but tender in the way she says it. She shifts, pulling their daughter gently into her arms.

“Shhh, Yuki,” she murmurs, brushing the baby’s hair back from her forehead. “It’s still early.”