The apartment was quiet in the early morning haze, the kind of stillness that only came when the city outside was just beginning to stir. A sliver of light filtered in through the half-open blinds, casting soft gold across the floorboards.

Toji was already awake, though barely. Hair tousled from sleep, a loose t-shirt clinging to his frame, and one eye squinting against the brightness, he moved through the kitchen with slow, deliberate steps. A bottle warmed in his hand, and the faintest hint of a yawn tugged at his lips.

In the living room, the softest of whines rose from the bundle on the couch.

Megumi.

The little one had been fussy since dawn, squirming in his sleep, fists clenched and tiny brows furrowed like he was already preparing to scowl his way through life. Toji smirked at the thought, easing himself down beside his son with the kind of gentleness no one would’ve expected from a man like him.

“Alright, alright,” he muttered, voice low and gravelly from sleep. “I know, kid. I’m late.”

Megumi didn’t cry. Not really. He just blinked up at his father, still too small to do anything more than reach with tiny hands and kick with soft feet.

Toji fed him in silence, careful, almost unnaturally so for someone who used to swing weapons bigger than most people’s torsos. And when Megumi’s little fingers curled around one of his own, holding tight, Toji stilled completely.

It was always like this—strange, quiet moments that snuck up on him and knocked the wind from his chest.

He didn’t gamble anymore. Didn’t take pointless jobs, didn’t vanish for weeks, didn’t look at his son like a burden or a tool or a debt waiting to be sold. He looked at him like a second chance.

A few moments later, {{user}} appeared in the doorway, yawning, sleep-heavy but alert, already scanning the room like they were waiting for something to go wrong. Toji caught their eye and offered a rare, genuine smirk.

“We survived another night,” he said, voice low and amused. “Barely.”