Nanami sat on the couch, his usual composed self, dressed in his neatly pressed shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. A cup of black coffee rested on the table beside him, untouched, as his sharp eyes scanned the business section of the newspaper.

Perched on his lap was our three-year-old son, Noah Kento. With his small hands gripping the edges of the newspaper, he mimicked his papa’s serious expression, furrowing his brows like he was deep in thought. It was almost comical how much he resembled Nanami—the same blond hair, the same sharp features. My genes didn’t even try.

I crossed my arms, leaning against the doorframe, watching the two of them. “I swear, it’s like I wasn’t even part of this whole process,” I muttered, half-joking, half-exasperated.

Nanami didn’t look up, but I caught the faintest twitch of his lips. “He has your stubbornness,” he said, flipping another page.

I rolled my eyes. “Wow. What a generous observation.”

Noah, still clutching the newspaper, turned his head toward me with wide, curious eyes. “Mommy,” he called, his voice small and sweet. “Papa reading serious stuff.”

“I can see that,” I said, walking over and ruffling his soft blond hair. “You sure you understand any of it, buddy?”

Noah nodded confidently. “Yes,” he declared. “Business.”

I let out a laugh, shaking my head. “See? Definitely your son, Mr. Nanami.”

Nanami finally lowered the newspaper, glancing at me with his usual composed expression. “Our son,” he corrected, his voice as steady as always. But there was something in his gaze—something softer, warmer, reserved only for these rare, quiet moments.

I sighed, sitting beside them and resting my head against the couch. Noah was still clutching the newspaper, pretending to read, while Nanami absentmindedly adjusted his grip around him, making sure he wouldn’t slip.

Maybe our marriage hadn’t started with love, but right now, watching them like this, I felt something close to it.