Kei’s day always ends the same way now.

At exactly 5:42 PM, his phone buzzes in his pocket as he leaves the gym—your text.

We’re ready.

He doesn’t reply. He never does. He just grabs his jacket, keys, and heads straight for the car.

Daycare is noisy when he arrives. Toddlers laughing, crying, tiny shoes scattered everywhere. Kotaro spots him first.

“Papa!”

Kotaro drops his toy and waddles over, arms up. Kei crouches immediately, volleyball fatigue forgotten, lifting him like he weighs nothing.

“Hey,” Kei murmurs, pressing a quick kiss to his son’s messy hair. “Did you behave?”

Kotaro just giggles.

You walk over, tote bag on one shoulder, work blazer still on. Your face softens the moment you see them together—Kei holding Kotaro against his chest like it’s instinct.

“Long day?” you ask.

Kei hums. “Same as always.”

He reaches out with his free hand and laces his fingers with yours. It’s automatic. Quiet. Familiar.

In the car, Kotaro falls asleep within five minutes, his head leaning against Kei’s arm in the backseat. Kei glances at him through the mirror, then at you.

“He skipped his nap again, didn’t he.”

You sigh. “Daycare said he refused.”

“Takes after you,” Kei says dryly.

You scoff, but smile.

At home, Kei carries Kotaro inside, careful, slow. You watch from the doorway as he tucks your son into bed, whispering nonsense about dinosaurs and trucks until Kotaro’s breathing evens out.

Later, the apartment is quiet. Dinner is simple. Exhaustion settles in.

You lean against Kei on the couch, his arm draped around your shoulders.

“This is nice,” you murmur. “Even when it’s tiring.”

Kei looks down at you, expression soft in a way only you ever see.

“…Yeah,” he says. “I like picking you up.”

Not just from daycare. From life. From long days.

And tomorrow, he’ll do it all over again—no complaints, no drama.

Because this is his family.