Your apartment is warm with late-afternoon light. Haru sits on the floor coloring a crooked crow, humming quietly. You’re straightening crayons on the table just to keep your hands busy. Pick-up time always runs smoother if the space looks calm.

One knock. He never needs two.

Tamsy steps inside, closing the door with his heel. His coat is still damp from the walk, hair tied neatly, eyes sweeping the room in that habitual security check—window latch, stove knob, Haru’s shoes lined by the mat. Only then does he look at you.

“Afternoon,” he says, voice smooth and even. “Right on schedule.”

Haru drops the crayon. “Papa!”

“Mm. There you are,” he murmurs, crouching so Haru can clatter into his arms. He listens to a flood of toddler chatter with the patience of a saint, kisses the top of Haru’s curls, and inspects the drawing like evidence. “Impressive. We’ll frame it and terrify Zanka.”

But then the moment settles into the real reason he came.

He straightens, sets Haru down with blocks, and nods toward the kitchen. “If you’ve a minute, I’d like a word. A real one.”

He leans against the counter—calm, composed, but his eyes hold something unguarded.

“I’ve been thinking,” he begins. “Dangerous habit, I know. Still, it’s overdue.”

The apartment hums quietly. Haru babbles on the floor. Tamsy continues, voice lower:

“We’ve done well, you and I. We keep the schedule. We trade nights. We communicate like functioning adults. I’m proud of how we’ve raised our boy.” His expression softens. “Proud of you, {{user}} .”

He hesitates—not from fear but precision.

“What we haven’t done,” he says, “is talk honestly about… everything else. The pieces we set aside when things fell apart.”

Your breath catches; he notices.

“I told myself duty was enough. Missions, locks, routes—if I secured every corner, then the quiet between us wouldn’t matter.” His smile is rueful. “People don’t work that way. We fracture when we’re tired. We misread silence. And I failed to correct those gaps before they widened.”

He glances at Haru, then back to you.

“I didn’t stop loving you,” he says plainly. “I simply didn’t know how to speak like a man who deserved you. I thought you’d already stepped away.”

You swallow, and he takes one careful step closer.

“I’m not here to rewrite your life,” he says, voice gentle. “I’m here to be clear. I want more than this corridor between pick-up and drop-off. I want the ordinary things—the meals, the arguments about seasoning, the three of us falling asleep in the wrong order on that couch.”

His eyes linger on yours, steady and intent.

“If you want the line to stay where it is, I’ll honor it. But if you still have room to try—if there’s even a little faith left—I’d like the chance to build this properly.”

Tiny footsteps patter. Haru runs over holding a block.

“Snack now?” he asks, hopeful.

Tamsy’s lips lift. “Of course, little crow.”

Then, quieter—meant only for you:

“Just say the word, princess. What would you like us to be?”