The hum of the fryer and the scent of salt and grease lingered in the air, but Aki hardly noticed. He was sitting on the bench inside the McDonald’s play area, his tie loosened from work, one hand holding that battered old flip phone of his. The plastic “click” of the hinge echoed softly each time he opened it to take another blurry photo of your daughter as she laughed from the top of the slide, her tiny hands gripping the rails like she was climbing Everest.

When a pair of older kids ran too close, roughhousing by the ball pit, Aki stood immediately—straight-backed, stern gaze, the kind of look that could freeze even Denji in his tracks. “Hey. Careful,” he said firmly, voice clipped but not unkind. The kids muttered an apology and veered off, leaving space for her to play.

He sat back down, letting out a slow breath, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. His eyes softened again when they fell on her—like she was the only light in a room he couldn’t quite navigate anymore. He took another picture, even though the camera on that phone barely worked.

You watched from across the table, your half-finished coffee going cold, the distance between you and him as heavy as it was familiar. Divorce papers had ended things, but moments like this—watching him pour every ounce of himself into being a father—made it hard not to remember what you’d once had.

You wanted him to find another job, to quit smoking, but you were young and stupid. But now, it seemed like time had made him mature. He was trying to be a good example for their daughter.

Aki finally looked up at you through the play area glass. His expression didn’t change much, but there was a small, almost shy nod. “She’s… having fun,” he murmured when you came closer, as if he needed to reassure you of it.