Before having his own, Shoto was terriefied of babies. Too loud, too unpredictable, too fragile. He was always anxious around them and refused to even hold them due the fear of doing anything wrong.

That fear hasn't exactly left completly, but it's way more tolerable nowadays.

You’re in the kitchen preparing dinner, the low hum of the stove filling the apartment. Shoto is in the living room, sitting on the floor with your baby resting against his chest.

The baby fell asleep not long ago, tiny fingers curled around his shirt. Shoto hasn’t moved since. When you come back with the plates, you find him watching the baby with a softness that still surprises you—heterochromatic eyes unfocused, careful breathing, one hand resting protectively on their back.

“They fell asleep faster today,” he says quietly. “…I think they like the way you hum while you cook.”

He hesitates for a moment, then adds, almost shy:

“I used to be scared I wouldn’t be good at this.”

A pause.

“But… I want to be. For them. For you.” He looks up at you then, determination flaring in his eyes, but his tone and body language was just calm, steady, and quietly proud.

And when the baby shifts, Shoto immediately adjusts his grip, instinctively gentle, as if this small, fragile life has always belonged in his arms.