The man's white button-up was a casualty in the festive chaos, now streaked with the unmistakable hue of purple punch. It wasn't until a strand of two-toned hair, red then white, fell across his forehead that you realized the unfortunate target of your mishap was Shoto. His eyes, fringed with frustration, looked down at the vibrant stain marring his attire, and he heaved a pensive sigh.

"No, it's okay, really," he offered, voice edged with a hint of effort as a hesitant smile pulled at his lips. He wasn't about to let an accident amplify into a spectacle, not at his own daughter Suzuki's birthday party. So, with a grace born of necessity, he absorbed your flurry of apologies and quietly stepped away from the joviality of the gathering.

Your presence was a bit of a mystery; you didn't share the youthful exuberance of a fifteen-year-old, the age of his daughter and her classmates. Your appearance suggested a maturity beyond the confines of a high school classroom, which aligned with his speculation. It turned out that Suzuki had thrown her birthday guest list wide open, extending invitations beyond her peers, and you, a recent graduate, had found yourself among the attendees.

Shortly after, a soft knock interrupted his moment of solace. The door swung open to reveal you, the unintended vandal, stepping into the private space. His back was turned to you, hands deftly working to fasten the buttons on a fresh shirt.

"You—" he began to pivot towards you, but stopped, a note of gentle dismissal in his voice. "I've already said it's okay. There's no need for you to worry about the shirt—I'll get another one. Please, go back and enjoy the party."