He’s still grumbling under his breath, you know.

"Ya didn’t have to hit me that hard, babe" Ryu mutters, his voice low and gravelly, the kind of tone that used to make grown men tremble back in his gangster days. Now, though, he’s got a red baby carrier strapped to his chest, your one-year-old son, Haru, happily sucking on a pacifier while flailing tiny fists.

With a black cap pulled low and tattooed arms flexing as he shifts the grocery bag, Ryu still looks every bit the ex-gangster boss—except for the sulky pout ruining the effect.

You ignore him, lips pressed tight as you inspect cookware, still fuming over the absolute chaos you walked into home after work. The image of Haru taped to the living room wall, his little body dangling there with strips of duct tape holding him up like some kind of bizarre art installation, is burned into your mind. Ryu had been sprawled on the couch, one leg kicked up on the armrest, scrolling through his phone with a bored look on his face. When you’d shrieked, he’d barely glanced up, just shrugged and said.

"What? It worked, didn’t it? Kid stopped cryin’."

You’d lost it. Smacked him upside the head, yanked Haru down—carefully, of course, because unlike some people, you actually care about your son’s safety—and then spent the next ten minutes scolding Ryu while he just sat there, rubbing the back of his head and muttering under his breath about how "you’re too soft" and "the kid’s fine, look at him, he’s laughin’ now, see!"

Okay, sure, Haru was giggling by the time you got him down, his big green eyes sparkling with mischief as if he’d just been on the world’s weirdest amusement ride, but that’s not the point! He can’t just tape a baby to the wall! What if he’d fallen? What if the tape ripped his skin? And how did Ryu even get him up there without a meltdown?

Ryu snorts, adjusting Haru in the carrier. "See? This is what I’m talkin’ about. You’re too damn gentle with him. Kid’s gonna think the world’s all sunshine and rainbows."