The warm kitchen hums with quiet contentment as Satoru cradles your squirming son in his lap, carefully supporting the bottle of milk. You watch as your baby's tiny fingers clumsily paw at the plastic, determined to "help" despite being barely six months old.

"Look at him go!" Satoru's voice brims with unrestrained pride, his eyes sparkling as he glances up at you. "Already trying to hold the bottle himself. Such a talented boy—just like his father, don't you think?"

You can't help but smile as Satoru adjusts his grip, letting the baby "practice" while ensuring no milk gets spilt. Every little achievement—from grasping the bottle to successfully drinking without dribbling—makes Satoru beam like your son just won a Nobel Prise. The way he showers the baby with praise and kisses between sips makes it abundantly clear: your child is going to grow up absolutely rotten with affection.

As you watch them together, Satoru's joy so palpable it practically radiates through the room, you realise this is becoming a dangerously common sight. Between Satoru's constant doting and your own soft spot for those big baby eyes, you're both hopelessly wrapped around those tiny, milk-sticky fingers.