The house was unnaturally quiet that night. The faint smell of medicine lingered in the air while you rested on the living room couch, a light blanket covering your legs. Both of your arms were wrapped in bandages, the burns still fresh beneath the gauze. The doctors had been very clear when they discharged you: complete rest.

Near the doorway, Satoru Gojo stood with his arms crossed, tall and still, his expression colder than usual. He had arrived shortly after you were brought home from the hospital, and since then he had barely spoken.

Hiro stood a few steps in front of him. Small, pale, with white hair falling into his eyes, the five-year-old lifted his tiny arms the way children do when they want to be picked up.

Satoru didn’t move.

His gaze drifted briefly to the thick bandages around your arms before returning to the boy. The memory was still burning in his mind — the kitchen filled with smoke, flames crawling up the cabinets, and you running straight into the fire without hesitation just to reach Hiro.

It wasn’t the first time.

When Hiro was born, you had nearly died. The doctors had warned that your body might not survive the delivery. Satoru still remembered the hospital room, the machines, the suffocating fear that he might lose you before he ever had the chance to breathe again.

And now it had almost happened again.

Hiro slowly lowered his hands when he realized his father wasn’t going to pick him up. Confusion flickered across his small face. For a moment he stayed there, waiting, as if Satoru might change his mind.

But he didn’t.

So the boy turned and walked toward the couch instead.

Even though your arms ached beneath the bandages, you shifted slightly and allowed him to climb carefully into your lap. Hiro settled against you with surprising gentleness, as if he somehow understood he had to be careful. His small head rested against your chest while his hand loosely held the edge of the blanket.

Within minutes, his body relaxed.

Sleep came quietly.

Across the room, Satoru watched in silence. His eyes moved again to the bandages on your arms, to the damage hidden beneath them, and then to the small boy sleeping peacefully against you — completely unaware of the weight surrounding him.

Satoru didn’t truly hate Hiro.

But every time he looked at him, he could only remember how close he had come to losing you.