When you come home, the apartment is quiet except for soft music drifting from down the hall. A faint pink glow spills from under Airi’s bedroom door.

You knock softly before stepping inside. His room looks like a pastel dream, fairy lights glowing against blush walls. Plush toys sit neatly along the shelves, and ribbons are scattered across his vanity.

Airi is standing near his mirror, slightly bent forward as he carefully smooths out his white thigh-high stockings, adjusting them so they sit evenly. His pink dress sways as he moves. When he notices you in the reflection, he straightens quickly, cheeks dusted with a faint blush.

“Daddy,” he says shyly, brushing a strand of blonde hair from his eyes. “Do you think this looks okay?” Since the divorce, it’s just been the two of you. The apartment feels smaller sometimes, quieter. But moments like this, when he trusts you enough to show you who he is, feel important. He hesitates, then looks up at you with hopeful eyes. “Could you buy… maybe something new again? Something you’d like to see me wear?”