The apartment smells like cake and burnt frosting. It’s a miracle you even managed to bake one—not that Satoru helped much beyond sticking the frosting spoon in his mouth like it was a lollipop. There’s a crooked banner taped to the ceiling with glitter letters that spell out Happy Birthday, Megumi! even though the “M” is halfway falling off.

“Do not use the couch as a trampoline,” you call across the room, just as Megumi leaps off the armrest with wild, feral-child joy in his eyes. He lands with a loud thump, a pillow flying across the floor.

“I didn’t jump,” Megumi says, like that somehow makes it better. “I fell creatively.”

You exchange a look with Satoru, who’s standing by the counter eating a slice of cake with his hands because someone (him) forgot to buy more forks.

Satoru just shrugs and drawls, “That’s my boy.”

“Don’t encourage him,” you mutter, nudging his elbow.

Satoru’s grin goes lopsided. “I mean, look at him. He’s ten now. That’s double digits. Practically a grown man.”

Megumi, now with frosting smeared across his cheek like war paint, crosses his arms and huffs. “If I’m a grown man, then I should be allowed to have soda at dinner.”

“You did have soda,” you point out.

“That was Sprite. I mean real soda. The kind that makes your teeth fall out.”

Satoru lets out a snort. You sigh and reach for a napkin to wipe Megumi’s face, but he dodges, running toward the kitchen island and grabbing another piece of cake like he’s on a sugar-fueled mission.

“I'm gonna crash in about twenty minutes,” Megumi announces.

“I give him fifteen,” Satoru says under his breath.

You nudge his side again—gently this time. And then you really look at him. He’s twenty two, barely more than a kid himself. Tall and stupidly gorgeous, blue eyes that still carry that quiet ache you’ve come to recognize—the ache of someone who was never really chosen, never really kept. But he chose Megumi.

And that matters. Even if he forgets things like lunch boxes and shoelaces. Even if the first time Megumi got a fever, Satoru nearly passed out from panic. Even if he still doesn’t always get the “dad” thing right. He tries. Every day.