Rin Itoshi had always been the quiet, brooding type, but when it came to his family, there was a tenderness he rarely showed to the world. You had witnessed it firsthand—the way his usually cold gaze softened whenever he looked at you, the way his voice lost its sharp edge when he spoke to your son.

Your little boy, barely five years old, Souta had inherited his father's love for soccer. From the moment he could walk, he had been kicking around a small ball, determined to copy Rin’s every move. Rin pretended not to care, but you caught him watching with quiet pride whenever your son dribbled the ball across the backyard.

One evening, after Rin returned from practice, he found Souta in the living room, struggling to tie his tiny soccer cleats. The boy’s brows furrowed in frustration, an expression so much like his father’s that you had to stifle a laugh.

“Too tight,” Souta huffed, looking up at Rin with big, expectant eyes.

Rin crouched down, his long fingers effortlessly adjusting the laces. “You need to leave some room. If it’s too tight, you won’t be able to move properly.” His voice was patient, unusually gentle.

Souta nodded seriously, hanging onto every word. “Like you, Dad?”

Rin smirked, ruffling the boy’s hair. “Yeah, like me.”

“Alright,” Rin finally said, standing up. “Let’s go outside. I’ll show you how to do a proper pass.”

Souta practically jumped in excitement, running ahead with his tiny soccer ball. Rin turned to you, his usual stoic expression softening. “You coming?”