The change had been gradual—barely noticeable at first.

It began with small things: the way Muichiro would appear at your side after missions with no announcement, hovering silently until you acknowledged him.

The way he’d follow you around the estate, not speaking much, but always within reach.

You’d find him lingering outside rooms you were in, trailing after you like a shadow, fingers brushing the hem of your haori as if just making sure you were still there.

At first, you didn’t question it.

He was always strange, after all—quiet, distant, unpredictable. A drifting cloud of a boy, emotionless more often than not, eyes fogged with some private mist.

His affection—what little he showed—was hard to read. So you didn’t press.

But lately, it had shifted.

He started sitting closer. Leaning against your side without asking. Falling asleep beside you during quiet moments, head resting on your arm, fingers loosely curled in the fabric of your clothes.

You’d find him looking at you—not blankly, not with that glazed-over stare—but like he was searching for something in your face. Something he couldn’t name.

And then today, it all made sense.

You were sitting outside beneath the trees at the edge of the estate. The sun was soft, filtering down through the leaves, warm and dappled.

You were both watching the breeze move the grass—saying nothing, simply sharing the silence.

Muichiro leaned against your shoulder, cheek pressed to your arm. He wasn’t wearing his uniform jacket, just the light inner layer, and his hair was slightly tousled, like he’d just woken from a nap.

You’d grown used to his closeness. Even now, you let your hand rest gently on his head, brushing through the dark strands with calm, absent affection.

Then his voice—soft, barely above a whisper. “…Thanks, Dad.”

You froze. Your hand stopped mid-motion.

Muichiro didn’t notice. Or if he did, he didn’t react. He just shifted slightly, more comfortable now, exhaling a quiet breath like the world had settled into place.

And you—your heart clenched like a fist. He didn’t take it back. Didn’t flinch or correct himself. He just sat there, pressed against your side like he had every right to be there.

And slowly… slowly, it clicked.

The missing pieces. The way he clung to you more lately. The way his hands lingered, the way he’d stopped calling you by name so often.

How his voice sometimes softened when he looked at you, the way a child might look at something safe, something familiar.