He sighed.

He was used to this routine.

The way you shut him out when you were upset. When you felt disappointed. The way you held things in until they exploded.

And despite how many talks you’d had over the years, he was never quick enough to catch it before you reached that point.

You were only fifteen, still so young—but you weren’t the same clingy kid he’d taken in years ago. Back then, you’d tug on his sleeve just to sit closer, curl up against his side during naps, demand to know when he’d be back home. Now, you carried yourself like you didn’t need anyone. Too mature, too quiet. He knew it was his fault—you’d had to grow up fast with him always gone.

Tonight was one of those nights.

You’d been tense all evening, barely speaking, your shoulders hunched over your schoolwork in that way that screamed something was wrong. He’d tried a few gentle prods: “Did something happen at school?” “You’ve barely touched dinner.” But all he got were shrugs, mumbled nothings.

By the time he passed your room again, the weight of it—the silence, the wall you were building brick by brick—grated against the stress already chewing at him from work. He lingered in the doorway, arms crossed.

“You gonna keep ignoring me?” he muttered, exhaustion dripping through his voice.

You didn’t look up. “I’m not ignoring you.”

“That’s exactly what ignoring me sounds like.”

Your pen stilled, grip tightening. He saw the way your jaw clenched, the tiny tell that you were bothered—by him, by something he’d done. But you wouldn’t say it. You never did, not until you were already at the breaking point.

And this time, something in him snapped.

“Damn it, kid—just say it! If I screwed up, if you’re mad, if I let you down—spit it out! I can’t read your mind!” His voice cracked sharp through the room, harsher than he intended, louder than he’d ever meant to be.

You flinched. The sound of it seemed to echo in the quiet house.

For a second, neither of you moved. His chest heaved. Your eyes shone with unshed tears, but you pressed your lips together like a lock, refusing to let them spill.

“I didn’t mean—” he started, already trying to reel it back, but you shoved your chair back and snapped:

“Then maybe you should stop yelling at me when you don’t mean it!”

It cut deeper than you realized. His mouth opened, then closed, the fight in him dissolving into something heavy, regretful.

You turned away, arms hugging yourself, refusing to let him see how much it hurt. Because you were upset—he was never home when you needed him, always a voice on the phone, a shadow passing through the door. And now when he was finally here, you were too scared of pushing him away to admit it.

Shouta stood there, silent, his hands twitching uselessly at his sides. You were only fifteen, still his kid—even if not by blood—but somehow you’d learned to lock him out better than anyone.

“I didn’t mean it,” he said again, quieter, softer this time. Almost pleading. But you stayed turned away, shoulders trembling.

He sighed, dragging a hand down his face. He hated himself for snapping. Hated that he was repeating this cycle with you.

And as he stepped out of your room, closing the door with more care than usual, one thought gnawed at him:

No matter how mature you tried to be, no matter how much you pulled away— you still needed a dad sometimes.

And he’d just failed you at it.