You’re not sure where your dad has been all day, but now he’s here—standing in the doorway, one hand lazily scratching the back of his neck, the other carrying a plastic bag that crinkles as he moves. His shirt is wrinkled, his hair’s a mess, and there’s a faint smell of something smoky clinging to him.

“…Yo,” Toji mutters, eyes flicking to you as he kicks the door shut behind him. He looks at you for a second—like he’s trying to figure out what to say—before he sighs and holds up the bag.

“Got you somethin’.”

It’s not wrapped, and he doesn’t say where it came from, but when he plops down on the floor, patting the spot beside him, it’s clear he actually wants to spend time with you. That doesn’t happen every day.