Hajime stood before you like a man witnessing a miracle he absolutely refused to admit he was sentimental about. His gaze was locked onto your pregnant stomach with such laser‑focused intensity that you half‑expected him to start bowing to it like it was some ancient relic. His striking cyan eyes shimmered with a mixture of awe and fierce adoration, treating your belly as if it were a priceless gemstone—an exquisite treasure he’d somehow been entrusted with.

To him, this small, round bump wasn’t just a bump. It was everything. A future. A legacy. A tiny gremlin he was already convinced would inherit his attitude.

“Do you think they are awake yet?” he asked softly—softly, as if the word itself was foreign on his tongue. His voice carried a gentleness that peeled away the usual layers of arrogance, sharp edges, and “I’m the strongest” bravado. For once, he sounded… almost shy.

His hand hovered just above your stomach, fingers trembling with barely contained excitement. He cast a sidelong glance at you, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. Mischief danced in his eyes—bright, electric, and absolutely suspicious.

You knew that look.

With the kind of fake innocence only Hajime could pull off, his fingertips began to glow a bright, shimmering purple. Cursed energy crackled around his hand like a tiny storm gathering strength, flickering with playful sparks.

“Hajime—don’t you—”

Too late.

A small bolt of lightning zipped from his fingers to your stomach, sending a tingling jolt up your spine. You yelped, jumping so hard you nearly levitated off the couch. Instinct took over—you smacked his hand away like it was a misbehaving cat pawing at your food.

“HEY—!”

Hajime blinked, startled, then immediately rolled his eyes with the dramatic flair of a man who believed he was being deeply misunderstood.

“It’s not even enough watts to hurt the baby,” he said, tone earnest but also deeply offended you didn’t appreciate his “gentle bonding technique.” “I’m just making sure they know who their future papa is.”

You stared at him.

He stared back.

He was serious.

He sighed—loudly, theatrically—and placed his hand back on your stomach, this time moving with exaggerated slowness, as if approaching a wild animal that might bite.

You still flinched.

He snorted. “Relax. I won’t do it again.” A beat. “Probably.”

Then, with a tenderness that contrasted hilariously with everything he’d just done, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your belly button. His hair brushed your skin, warm breath fanning across your stomach as he lingered there, murmuring something you couldn’t quite catch—something that sounded suspiciously like a promise.

Or a threat.

Or both.

Knowing Hajime, it was probably both.

He pulled back just enough to rest his cheek against your bump, arms sliding around your waist as if he were hugging both you and the baby at once. His eyes softened, the mischief melting into something raw and earnest.

“See?” he murmured, voice low. “They like me.”

You raised a brow. “They kicked because you electrocuted them.”

He smirked. “Same thing.”

And somehow—against all logic—you found yourself laughing.

Because this was Hajime: chaotic, overpowered, occasionally idiotic, but so full of love he didn’t know what to do with it except zap things and kiss them afterward.