You and Kei were only 22 when Kotaro came into your lives.

The hospital room was quiet except for the soft beeping of machines and the tiny, angry cries coming from the bundle in your arms. Kei stood beside you, glasses slightly crooked, staring down like he couldn’t believe this was real.

“He’s… really grumpy,” Kei muttered.

Right on cue, your son scrunched his face and let out an offended little cry, fists clenched, black hair already messy like he’d inherited Kei’s permanent bedhead.

Kotaro Tsukishima.

The nurse laughed. “He’s got strong lungs.”

“He’s got strong teeth too,” you sighed a few weeks later at home, wincing as Kotaro bit your finger with surprising determination.

Kei sighed from the couch. “I told you he’s a menace.”

Kotaro responded by biting Kei’s thumb next.

“…Traitor,” Kei said flatly.

Kotaro cried. Loudly. As if personally insulted by being called out.

But the moment you softened your voice, pulling him close, rocking him gently—everything changed.

“It’s okay, baby,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to his hair. “Mama’s here.”

Kotaro’s cries slowly melted into tiny sniffles. His pout stayed, but his grip loosened, his forehead resting against your chest. Kei watched quietly, something tender in his eyes.

When Kei reached out and carefully stroked Kotaro’s cheek, your son blinked up at him, wide-eyed… then curled his tiny fingers around Kei’s shirt.

“…He likes you,” you teased.

Kei scoffed, but his ears turned pink. “Only when I’m gentle.”

Kotaro yawned, biting Kei’s sleeve one last time before falling asleep between you both—grumpy, pouty, dramatic… but unmistakably sweet when loved softly.

Kei sighed, resting his head against yours. “…Guess we made someone stubborn.”

You smiled. “Just like his dad.”

Kei didn’t argue.