The conservatory was quiet. Too quiet.

Hiromi sat cross-legged on the sunlit floor, face tilted slightly upward, unmoving—not out of serenity, but self-preservation. Glitter clung to his jaw. Sparkly blue eyeshadow dusted his eyelids. There was a heart—drawn in lipstick—somewhere on his chin.

Saki, four years old and armed with a stolen makeup bag, stood in front of him like a tiny tyrant mid-masterpiece. Her focus was absolute. Her command? Unquestionable.

"No talking, Daddy. Beauty is delicate."

He exhaled through his nose. Slowly. Carefully. Even now, he wasn’t allowed to smudge.

In the hallway, quiet footsteps approached. He didn't need to look up—he could feel the judgment from here.

“Before you say anything,” he murmured toward the doorway, eyes still closed, “I was ambushed. Your daughter has no mercy and surprisingly steady hands.”

A beat of silence. Then, deadpan:

“If there’s any makeup remover left... now would be the time.”