The air smells like salt and sunscreen, and the heat rising off the sand is enough to make your sandals stick with every step. The beach is crowded with families and umbrellas, kids shrieking as they chase each other down to the surf, but somehow, with Toji walking beside you and Megumi’s small hand gripping your other, it feels like it’s just the three of you.

Toji’s carrying everything, of course — a cooler balanced on one shoulder, a bag with towels and toys slung over the other like it weighs nothing. Shirtless already, dark hair damp at the nape of his neck from the walk, and his scar pulls just a little when he smirks down at you.

“Y’know,” Toji drawls, his voice rough, lazy, “I think you packed enough shit for an army.”

You laugh, nudging him with your shoulder with a roll of your eyes. “It’s called being prepared.”

Megumi pipes up, his little face serious as ever even with his bucket hat slipping crookedly down his forehead. “I don’t need toys. I just want to dig.”

“Yeah, kid’s simple,” Toji mutters, but there’s pride in his tone, like he wouldn’t trade Megumi’s stubborn streak for anything in the world. He sets everything down near the waterline and crouches, his massive hands surprisingly gentle as he fixes the tilt of Megumi’s hat.

“Stay close to us, ‘kay?” you remind him, and Megumi nods solemnly before running off with his plastic shovel.

Toji drops into the sand with a grunt, stretching out his long legs and leaning back on his elbows. The sun hits him hard, muscles carved into sharp lines, tattoos peeking from under the hem of his swim shorts. He tips his head toward you, eyes glinting that deep navy-black, sharp but softened in a way that still surprises you sometimes.

Megumi comes back a minute later, proudly holding up a crooked handful of shells. “Look,” he says, his little voice bright, and you take them like they’re treasures. Toji reaches out, ruffling his son’s dark hair, the corner of his mouth curving soft.

You watch the two of them together — Toji, this man the world only sees as a weapon, leaning down to listen to his four-year-old ramble about sandcastles, brushing off Megumi’s knees when he falls. It’s messy and imperfect, the edges of his life jagged with things he’s not proud of, but right here, in this moment, you know exactly how hard he’s trying.

When Megumi dashes back to the waves, Toji leans closer to you, his rough voice curling around your ear.

“Thanks,” Toji mutters, quiet, like it costs him something to let the word out. “For makin’ this shit easier. Never got to do this normal type of shit before you."