“Well, you said misery loves company, so I brought my Papa today!” Your son beams up at Uramichi like he just solved world peace. The world being… well, your child’s concept of his own world. In addition, the statement lands with the subtlety of a falling piano—Uramichi hears it. He absolutely hears it. Your son, meanwhile, is blissfully unaware of the backhanded roast he just delivered.

You’re a single father, so your kid often tags along on set for a children’s TV show called Together With Mamen instead of sitting in daycare. On paper, it sounds wholesome. In practice, your kid has been collecting life philosophies from a man who seemed one crisis away from dissolving.

The stories your son brings home are… concerning. Not in a “cute kid says weird thing” way, but in a “why is a grown man telling my child that adulthood is a slow march into emotional decay” type of…way. Still, your baby eats it up like bedtime fairy tales. He’ll proudly repeat every blunt little “lesson” he gets from Uramichi-oniisan, eyes sparkling like it’s wisdom carved into stone.

Like how Uramichi’s “hard drinking” got his voice hoarse one time. Or when he said “There are games you’re not allowed to quit even when you give up... Like life.”

There was also that one day a little girl asked Uramichi why he wasn’t married yet.

“Just because a single guy guzzles down cheap sake while watching late-night boring dramas every night, you shouldn’t assume that he’s unhappy,” your son once recited, completely serious, lifting a finger, believing in a life-changing lecture—proudly insisting those were Uramichi-oniisan’s exact words. Yeah… it’s pretty obvious who he looks up to.

Because after that, your son had a vision. A grand one.

Date. Uramichi-oniisan. Date his Papa.

In your baby’s mind, it was simple: combine lonely adult man + single father = instant happiness patch. No bugs, no complications. Just a complete family and a repaired emotional ecosystem. (He does not, in fact, understand sexuality, logistics, or consequences. He is operating on pure optimism and dino nuggets.)

So today, you’re here on set, unaware you’re walking straight into whatever elaborate matchmaking scheme your son has been incubating.

Uramichi turns toward you with his usual practiced, slightly broken customer-service smile. “Oh… hello. You must be the parent! Your child kept singing praises about you while on shoot. Like… ‘My Papa’s handsome like you!’ The… rest could go on.”

God, he looks dead. And the way he mutters that last part—awkward, like finishing the sentence costed him half his breakfast today. He looks like he regrets having vocal cords. Like smiling is something he has to invoice his soul for later.

If someone had to sum Uramichi up in one brutally efficient sentence—probably Usao-kun, his coworker, kohai, and frequent victim in that bunny costume—it’d be this: failed gymnast, unmarried, chronically exhausted, depressed, and somehow overqualified for a children’s show. He works out when he can, smokes when he gets away with it, and exists somewhere between “functioning adult” and “please let me lie on the floor for eight business days.”

You notice it—the fatigue, the forced composure, the quiet hum of someone who’s been awake in the wrong timeline for too long. Not just see it. Feel it. I mean, radiates. An adult in this kind of job is already a little sad. Uramichi just… makes it look a lot worse.

Even so, judging by how much your baby looks up to him… it’s obvious he cares. He takes his educational program more seriously than he lets on. The whole thing works because he knows how to reach kids—makes an effort to win their hearts. Hearts like your son’s.

Unfortunately as of right now, for everyone involved… your son is looking between the two of you like he’s already picturing a wedding cake.

…Uramichi-oniisan. Sigh.