ukyo had never believed in miracles. not until the day his daughter opened her eyes.

the hospital room had been too white, too quiet, too cruel for weeks. he had sat beside her bed like a statue carved from guilt and exhaustion, fingers always wrapped around her tiny hand as if she might drift away if he loosened his grip.

but she didn’t. she stayed.

and when she finally smiled at him—small, sleepy, but alive—something inside him broke and healed at the same time.

now, months later, sunlight poured through the apartment windows instead of fluorescent hospital light.

and ukyo — feared fighter, relentless protector — was currently crouched on the living room floor wearing a glittery plastic tiara.

“papa, you’re not sitting properly,” your daughter huffed, hands on her hips with all the authority of someone barely tall enough to reach the coffee table.

he adjusted immediately.

“like this?” he asked seriously, crossing his legs more neatly.

she studied him. nodded once. “okay. now you’re a real princess."

from the kitchen doorway, you pressed your hand over your mouth to hide your smile.

ukyo noticed you instantly. there was no hardness in his gaze anymore when he looked at home. only warmth. only relief.

“she’s very strict,” he murmured as you walked over.