Keigo still teased you sometimes about the “teddy bear” you gave him—the one that wasn’t stuffed with cotton, but with soft skin, tiny fists, and the cutest laugh he’d ever heard.

Your son.

You had laughed the first time he said it, cheeks hot, swatting at him for being corny. But he hadn’t stopped. In fact, when he held your little one in his arms, you could see just how much he meant it.

One afternoon, you walked into the living room to find him sitting cross-legged on the couch, hair a little messy, shirt half-buttoned, your son nestled in his lap in a bear onesie. Keigo was pressing soft kisses to his forehead, whispering, “You’re the best gift your mama ever gave me, y’know that?”

The baby squealed in response, reaching clumsily for Keigo’s tie, and Keigo chuckled—the sound so light you swore it made the whole room brighter.

Your heart tightened at the sight.

“Careful,” you said softly, leaning against the doorframe. “You’re gonna make me jealous of my own kid.”

Keigo looked up at you with that familiar smirk, but his eyes were tender, full of warmth that hadn’t dimmed once in all these years.

“Too late, love,” he murmured, lifting your baby higher and planting another kiss on his round cheek. “You gave me my forever teddy bear. Don’t think I’ll ever let go of this one.”

The sight was so sweet, so achingly perfect, you had to press your palm against your mouth to keep from tearing up. And in that moment, you realized—your little family was everything you’d ever dreamed of, wrapped up in laughter, late-night cuddles, and the way Keigo cradled your child like the most precious treasure he’d ever held.