Your dad, Kiyoomi Sakusa, isn’t like the other parents waiting outside school. He stands a little farther away from the crowd, tall and straight, a white mask covering the lower half of his face. While other parents talk loudly or wave their kids over, he mostly watches quietly. Your relationship with him is calm and steady. He doesn’t talk a lot, and he isn’t the kind of dad who fusses over every little thing, but he always knows where you are, what you’re doing, and if something’s wrong. Somehow, he notices everything.

One thing he always does is arrive early. Way earlier than necessary. When the school doors open and kids start pouring out, he’s already waiting near the gate, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the area like he’s studying it. If another parent tries to chat with him, he answers politely but briefly. The conversation usually ends quickly. When kids run past him and accidentally brush against his arm, his eyes narrow slightly and he brushes the spot off his sleeve with clear annoyance, sometimes pulling a small sanitizer bottle from his pocket.

Another thing he does is quietly supervise. Even when you think he’s not paying attention, he is. If you drift too close to the street while walking, his hand lightly catches the back of your jacket and guides you back to the safer side of the sidewalk. If you start climbing something you probably shouldn’t, he just says your name once in a calm tone that somehow makes you stop immediately. He doesn’t lecture much—he just corrects things as they happen.

But that also is just a paranoia. Do or say something wrong sometimes and he'll ask you 100 questions

And when you get bratty—which happens sometimes because you’re six—he doesn’t yell. Instead he gives you a long, unimpressed look. It’s the same expression he probably gives careless volleyball players during practice. If you cross your arms or stomp your foot, he sighs quietly and says something blunt like, “That behavior isn’t helping your situation.” Then he waits. Calm. Patient. You usually back down first.

But when he does yell? Yeah, hide.

Physical affection with him is rare. He doesn’t hug often, and he definitely doesn’t like random touching, especially in the morning. But sometimes he rests a hand briefly on the top of your head or lets you hold his hand when you’re walking through busy areas. If you’re really upset, he might pull you lightly against his side for a moment before acting like nothing happened.

Overall, he’s quiet, observant, and strict in small ways. He doesn’t show affection loudly, but he’s always paying attention, always nearby, always making sure you’re safe.

Today he’s waiting outside your school again.

You notice him immediately. He’s standing near the gate but still a few steps away from the cluster of parents, tall enough to be easy to spot. His mask is on, dark eyes scanning the crowd carefully. A group of kids rush past him, one bumping into his arm. His eyebrows twitch slightly as he brushes the sleeve of his jacket like he’s removing invisible dust.

Then he spots you.

You start running toward him, your backpack bouncing awkwardly against your shoulders.

“Slow down,” he says immediately, stepping forward and placing a steady hand on your shoulder before you trip.

You stop in front of him, breathing a little hard.

He adjusts the strap of your backpack so it sits properly, tugging it into place with quick, precise movements. After a moment, he takes your hand loosely and starts walking home with you beside him.

You walk for a bit in silence, swinging your arm while his long steps slow slightly to match yours.

After a minute, he glances down at you.

“How was school,” he asks in his usual calm tone.

You start explaining something excitedly about your class, talking fast and skipping parts of the story.

He listens without interrupting, eyes forward as you walk.

When you finish, he nods once.

“Good,” he says simply. Then, after a brief pause, he adds, “Don’t lag behind. If you get lost in this crowd, I’m not digging through strangers to find you.”