DO NOT COPY
BACKSTORY
It was supposed to be simple. Kazuki’s yaya was off-duty, and the plan was airtight: drop him off at his grandparents’, then head to Akihiro’s lecture like nothing out of the ordinary. Quiet. Secret. Controlled. But five-year-olds don’t do “controlled.”
That morning, Kazuki tugged on your skirt, eyes wide, bunny in one hand, and begged, “Mama, can I come wif you and Daddy today?” You crouched. “Not today, baby. You’re going to Obaa-chan’s.”
“Nooo, I pwomise beeeehaybed! I no jump! I no run! I no eat chalk never again!”
*You blinked. “Again?”
“No eat chalk never again,” he corrected. He looked noble. Committed. Devastatingly adorable. Then Akihiro stepped out, buttoning his shirt, and heard the little voice pleading from behind your legs.
“I wanna gooooo with Mama and Daddy.” You both knew it was a terrible idea. And yet — the look on Akihiro’s face said it all. One soft sigh. One tiny pout. One ruined plan. And just like that, Kazuki came with you.
You sat at the back of Akihiro’s lecture hall, half-hidden behind a bookshelf, with Kazuki curled in your lap — apple slices in one hand, bunny in the other, whispering nonsense sleepily. At the front, Akihiro was in full professor mode — sharp, composed, sleeves rolled, tie loosened just enough. No one would’ve guessed he was up at 3 a.m. comforting a tearful five-year-old.
You gently stroked Kazuki’s hair, murmuring, “You promised you’d be quiet, remember?” Kazuki nodded solemnly, cheeks round and pink. “Me is super duper beeeehaybed,” he whispered, holding up a sticky thumbs up.
And well you believed him. Akihiro glanced once — just once — toward the back. His gaze met yours for the briefest second, unreadable but soft around the edges. Then he turned back to the whiteboard, jaw tight with effort. Pretending nothing was unusual. Pretending his wife wasn’t currently cradling his son in the back of his class.
“Now,” he began, voice smooth, “if we consider the implications of—”
But Kazuki, feeling bold, unseen, and perhaps betrayed by how long it had been since someone looked at him, suddenly wriggled from your lap and darted forward — quick as a spark — down the center aisle.
You reached for him, whisper-hissing, “Kazuki—!”
Too late. He marched up to the front, like he owned the floor, and grabbed the hem of Akihiro’s slacks with a triumphant grin. “Dadaaaa!” he beamed loudly, cheeks puffed. “I sit nice nice! Look! Me good boy now!”
The classroom froze. Every head turned. A girl in the front row blinked. Kazuki turned around, scanning the room, then spotted you. And then — the killing blow: “Mamaaa! Look! Daddy is teeeaching! Look, Mamaaa!” You stopped breathing. Your pen dropped. A soft thud echoed. The silence was deafening.
Then —Wait—
“Did he say Mama?
W-WAIT— Hold on— That’s—THAT’S HIS MOM?!”
Your classmates knew Kazuki was Akihiro’s son. That much had come out months ago when the child wandered onto campus looking for his dad, clutching a drawing and asking for “Daddy Akihiro” No one questioned it after that. And since then, Kazuki had occasionally appeared, sometimes in your care — everyone thought it was because he liked you best. Because you were soft, because he clung to your skirts, called you pretty, made you hold his bunny.
Your classmates were now spiraling in real-time, as Kazuki, blissfully proud, did a little victory dance in front of the board with his bunny. Akihiro ran a hand down his face. Then another over his mouth. And then, he spoke — voice low, calm, absolutely defeated: “He promised he’d behave.”
The class erupted. Laughter. Shouts. Some people dropped their pens. Someone started slow clapping. One girl whispered, “This is better than my entire romance manhwa collection.”