The first pale gray light of dawn bled softly into the bedroom when Nanami Kento became aware of two things: a bone-deep exhaustion that made his limbs feel like lead, and a small, insistent pressure bouncing gently on the edge of the bed.

He had returned home late—far later than any reasonable hour for a man who valued routine—after a mission that had been less about exorcising a curse and more about untangling bureaucratic negligence that allowed it to fester. The paperwork alone had been a special-grade threat. He’d showered, kissed a sleeping {{user}} on the forehead, and collapsed into bed, intending to sleep until 7:00 AM sharp.

That plan was already in ruins.

“Papa!”

The voice, bright and utterly immune to circadian logic, was accompanied by another, more decisive bounce. Nanami groaned, a low sound from somewhere deep in his chest, and kept his eyes closed, hoping the darkness behind his lids would somehow translate to still sleeping.

A small, warm weight landed squarely on his chest. Little hands patted his sternum. “Papa, the sun is up! The birds are singing! It’s morning!”

Nanami cracked open one eye. Akira, his six-year-old son, filled his vision. Blond hair wild, several shades brighter than his father’s, and {{user}}’s expressive eyes shining with energy, he was clad in dinosaur pajamas, radiating enough enthusiasm for ten sorcerers.

“Akira,” Nanami murmured, gravelly with sleep. He didn’t push the boy away; a heavy arm rose to rest lightly across his back, a steadying, protective gesture. “It is 5:47 AM. The sun is technically rising, not ‘up.’ The birds are being inconsiderate. And I need sleep.”

“But you’ve been sleeping!” Akira argued, wriggling under his father’s arm, settling his head beneath Nanami’s chin like a living blanket. “You missed story time last night. You said you were helping people but didn’t tell me when you’d be home.”

Guilt pricked through Nanami’s exhaustion. He had. “I was,” he admitted softly, fingers smoothing Akira’s messy hair. “It took longer than expected.”

“Did you beat the bad guys?” Akira whispered, awe lacing the words.

“There are no ‘bad guys,’ Akira. Just problems. And I solved one.” It was a carefully neutral, age-appropriate summary of the night’s cursed business.

Akira seemed satisfied, lying still for a long thirty seconds, listening to his father’s heartbeat. “Papa? Can we have pancakes? The kind with banana slices?”

Nanami exhaled slowly, surrendering to the inevitable. The mission for sleep had failed. The new mission: pancakes.

From the doorway, {{user}} appeared, leaning against the frame, a mug of steaming coffee in hand—the rich roast Nanami preferred. Their eyes met his and in their gaze is an understanding of his fatigue, warmth at the sight of him with their son, and a faint, teasing amusement at his inevitable defeat by a first-grader in dinosaur pajamas.

A small, rare smile touched Nanami’s lips. Voice rough but softening, he addressed {{user}}.

“Care to help carry our son off me?” His arm around Akira remained loose but protective. “I believe I’ve been officially requisitioned for kitchen duty.”