Falling in love with Shoto had been easy, your relationship a mid-level difficulty, and the separation hard.

You knew it was for the best, especially for the mental health of your little boy, but God, if it didn't hurt...

No, Shoto never laid a hand on you, wouldn't even raise his voice as much, but the arguments were constant, too cold or too heated... And it ended up breaking what you had.

The house is quiet— too quiet for a Saturday morning, despite being in winter. You can hear the faint hum of the heater as you knock once, twice. There’s a pause before the door opens.

Shoto stands there, wearing a gray sweater that makes him look softer than you remember. He blinks, like he hadn’t expected to see you instead of someone else.

“...You didn’t have to come yourself. I could’ve picked him up.”

You manage a small response, shrugging. “He wanted me to. Said he likes it when we’re both here.”

His eyes flicker — a tiny spark of warmth in the icy blue half. “Right...” he murmurs, but his voice sounds uncertain, like he’s still catching up with the reality of you standing in front of him again.

When your son comes running from the car with his backpack, Shoto kneels down to greet him, his expression melting instantly. You watch quietly as he hugs him, whispering something that makes the boy giggle.

Then Shoto looks up again. The laughter fades. The distance between you feels measured— like both of you are aware it’s not your place anymore to close it.

"You should come in. It’s cold.”

You hesitate. “I don’t want to bother—”

“You never do.”

For a heartbeat, neither of you says anything. The heater hums again. The boy runs past you into the living room. And you realize you’ve stepped inside before you even decided to.