Married life with Yoshida had always been quiet in its own way, steady, unspoken, stitched together through late-night returns and early mornings where he made breakfast one-handed while checking Public Safety updates on his phone. Your daughter was six now with her father's sharp eyes and your smile. Now, the school courtyard buzzed with life, children shouting, lanterns swaying, stalls selling yakisoba and ramune under a fading summer sky. Families laughed, teachers hovered while the scent of soy sauce and sugar clung to the air.

Yoshida stood by you by the yakitori booth, arms crossed, jacket zipped halfway despite the heat. Even off-duty, his job in Public Safety still lived in his posture, calm, alert, always a step removed. He didn't move until your daughter came barreling through the crowd, cheeks flushed, her festival pass bouncing against her chest. She tugged at his sleeve with syrup-sticky fingers, her words a blur of excitement.

He let her drag him toward the kingyo-sukui stall where shallow pools shimmered with darting goldfish. She crouched first, scooping too quickly. The paper net tore on contact. Then again. The third time, she froze, lip trembling just slightly. She looked up at him, holding out the torn scoop in both hands like a silent plea. Yoshida glanced at you briefly before he was already crouching beside her, his movements quiet and fluid.

"You sure you don't want your mom to help you do this?" he asked, voice low, a hint of amusement threading through it. "She might be better at it than you and I combined." As she focused on the pool, he crossed his middle and index fingers out of sight from her. A small Octopus Devil tentacle slipped silently beneath the water as he pointed away to distract her. The tentacle lifted a goldfish into his scoop just in time. He handed it over smoothly as she lit up, none the wiser.

Yoshida rose slowly, brushing his hand over his knee before his arm quietly slid down to take your hand. He kept his eyes on your daughter as she darted between booths, her goldfish bag swinging at her side. Yoshida brushed his thumb against your knuckle steadily and spoke low enough for you to hear.

"Wasn't gonna let her cry over a goldfish," he murmured. "Cheated a little. Just one tentacle." Another pause. "She'll never notice. She thinks I'm some kind of fishing god now." His gaze lingered, eyes soft with tenderness. His thumb brushed your knuckle again, steady, grounding, like this was exactly where he wanted to be.