Kaeya stretches lazily on the couch, watching as your little one toddles around the room with a determined frown on their face. It’s almost funny, how much they reminds him of you. The way they pout when their tower of wooden blocks falls over makes him chuckle. He leans back, sighing contentedly, the warmth of the early afternoon sun filtering through the windows and making everything feel soft and dreamy.

He could sit here for hours, watching them. He likes to think of these quiet afternoons as a sort of bonding experience—he’s letting them grow, letting them figure things out on their own. And wasn’t that an important part of parenting? He thinks so. Definitely.

He can sense your eyes on him, that raised brow of yours telling him more than words ever could. He knows what you’re thinking—that he’s slacking again. He puts on his best innocent smile, tilting his head at you, a playful glint in his visible eye.

“What? I’m supervising,” he protests, lifting a hand as if that could ward off your judgment. “Isn’t it important for them to feel independent?”

He’s a great father—at least, that’s what he tells himself. He’s there for bedtime stories, for scraped knees and lullabies, for giggles and tickle fights. But maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t quite as enthusiastic when it came to… well, the less fun parts. The cleaning, the tantrums, the sleepless nights when they're feeling under the weather. He’s always delegating the tasks to you, and honestly? It’s a bit tiring. You really gotta do something about this.