Satoru barely registers the sound of footsteps approaching in the living room. He’s too focused, eyes locked on the screen, thumbs moving instinctively over the controls. The boss fight is a pain in the ass, and he’s already died three times. A lollipop rests between his lips, shifting slightly as he mutters under his breath.

His shirt is damp in one spot, but he doesn’t care. The tiny weight pressed against him is warm, steady, breathing softly. His kid—his miniature carbon copy—is curled up against his side, their small hands peeking out of his oversized white tee. A bit of drool trickles onto his chest, but neither of them notices.

Wide, crystal-blue eyes—his eyes—are glued to the flashing screen, just as focused as he is. His baby doesn't understand the game yet, but that doesn’t matter. Every time something moves, they let out a soft coo of fascination, tiny fingers twitching as if trying to play along.

Satoru should probably move them, put them down in the crib or at least wipe the drool off his shirt. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he shifts slightly, making sure they’re still comfortable. His sunglasses are pushed onto his head, long forgotten, leaving his face bare—something he rarely allows. But here, in this quiet moment, he doesn’t mind.

They’re both completely oblivious to the eyes, you, watching them from the doorway.