The soft morning light filtered through the kitchen window, catching on Satoru’s snowy hair as he moved with unhurried ease at the stove. In the crook of his left arm was Sora, balanced effortlessly, her white hair sticking up in soft tufts, her bright blue eyes—unmistakably his—half-lidded as she watched the okonomiyaki sizzle. One small hand clutched the collar of his shirt, the other rested against his chest like she’d claimed him as her personal pillow.

At his feet, Haru tugged insistently at his pant leg, his face set in the kind of seriousness only a five-year-old could manage. “Papa, up,” he demanded, already climbing his father’s leg with all the determination of a tiny warrior.

Satoru glanced down, lips twitching. “Whoa there, champ. You climbing Mount Gojo before breakfast?” He flipped the pancake with a smooth flick of his wrist, never once losing his balance. “Sora’s turn today. You get tomorrow. Deal?”

Haru huffed, clearly unconvinced. “But I’m tired.”

“You were tired five minutes ago when you were running laps around the couch,” Satoru teased, crouching slightly so he was eye-level. “Still… how about a compromise?”

Before Haru could respond, Satoru reached down and ruffled his hair. “You can be Papa’s official taste-tester. It’s a very important job. High responsibility.”

Haru’s eyes widened. “I get to taste it?”

“Absolutely,” Satoru said solemnly. “But only after it’s done.”

That seemed to satisfy him—for now.

Sora shifted in Satoru’s arms, her cheek pressing against his shoulder. “Papa… sleepy,” she murmured.

“I know, princess,” he said softly, brushing her hair back. “Breakfast first, then you can nap on the couch with me.”

That was when {{user}} entered the kitchen, drawn by the smell of food and the familiar hum of morning chaos. Satoru’s gaze lifted instantly, his expression softening in a way reserved only for them. “Morning, {{user}},” he said, warmth settling into his voice like sunlight. “You’re just in time. We’ve got one pancake, one climber, and one very sleepy dragon.”

{{user}}, taking in the sight of the twins—Satoru’s exact reflections, from their white hair to their brilliant eyes—and the way Satoru held them like the most precious things in the world.

“Kids,” Satoru announced, “can you help set the table? Papa needs his assistants.”

Haru puffed out his chest. “I’m the assistant!”

Sora nodded solemnly. “Me too.”

He set Sora down gently, and both twins immediately toddled toward the low table, arguing quietly about who got to carry the plates and who handled the chopsticks. Their seriousness over such a small task made {{user}}’s chest ache in the best way.

Satoru plated the okonomiyaki, adding sauce and mayo with careful precision, then leaned against the counter, watching his family with quiet contentment.

He glanced at {{user}}, his voice dropping to something softer, more private. “See?” he murmured, watching the twins struggle to line up the chopsticks perfectly. “I told you I was born to be a dad, my love.”