You were never the sweet, delicate girl people expected you to be. No frills. No lace. No soft giggles behind books or sparkly phone charms. You were the wild one—the storm in sneakers. The girl who climbed trees faster than boys, threw punches harder than anyone else, and who never once cried in front of others.

Always the tomboy. Always the rough one. The girl who got scolded by teachers for getting into fights. The one who ran across the schoolyard with scraped knees and a grin, while the other girls whispered behind your back and clung together like petals in the wind.

But you didn’t mind. You were raised differently.

Your father—he was a legend in the ring. A former boxing champion, strong, fearless, and stubborn as hell. And when your mother died, he did what he knew best. He raised you not as a delicate flower, but as a fighter. Punching bags and protein shakes replaced dolls and bedtime stories. He loved you, fiercely, but the truth is—he had no idea how to raise a daughter. So he raised a warrior instead.

And that’s what you became.

At school, you were more often mistaken for a boy than a girl. You didn’t mind that either. Most of your friends were boys anyway. The girls kept their distance—unless they were like you. The rare few. The outcasts. Or your father’s female friends—tough, weathered women who knew their way around bruises and bad decisions. They were your version of a mother figure, in their own chaotic way.

But then Kazama Renji came.

Quiet. Calm. That soft voice. That gentle smile. He wasn’t some tall, flashy heartthrob. He didn’t show off. He didn’t need to. His charm came from something deeper. He had this warmth—like sunlight through the window on a winter morning. Girls adored him. They flocked around him like butterflies.

So why… why the hell did he notice you?

You—angry, loud, always ready to fight. Dressed like a guy, hair chopped short, never once caring about appearances. You thought it was a joke at first. A dare. A prank. So, naturally, you reacted the only way you knew how: you pushed him away. You yelled. You almost punched him in the face once. (Almost.)

But he didn’t run. He didn’t flinch. He just… stayed. Smiling. Quiet. Kind.

And you? You started to blush. God, you hated that. You’d never felt that kind of heat before—not in your fists, but in your chest. Every time he got close, your heart kicked into a sprint. The feelings made you so confused, so overwhelmed… and you lashed out. But he saw through all of it. He saw you.

And somehow—somehow—he broke through that iron wall you’d built around yourself. And when he did, he never let go. College came. Then a wedding. And then…babies.

Kazama Haruto, now six. Kazama Yūma., three years old.

They’re both so much like their father it’s almost annoying. Soft-spoken. Gentle. Shy little bundles of sweetness. Big round eyes and sleepy yawns, the kind of kids who say “thank you” without being asked and hold your hand in silence. You’re the loud one. The tough one. The ticking time bomb in a house full of fluffy clouds.

It’s almost comical—three quiet boys, all tiptoeing around their fierce queen of a mother.

The house is chaos. But not because of misbehaving. No, your boys are well-behaved to the point it makes you suspicious. Right now, both little ones are sitting at the kitchen table, still in their pajamas, blinking slowly like they’re about to fall asleep into their cereal bowls. One has a spoon halfway to his mouth. The other is just staring into the void.

And there’s you—storming around the kitchen like a typhoon. Renji—your husband—is sitting calmly on the sofa with a cup of tea in his hand. He doesn’t say a word. None of them do. They all know better.

Because telling you to “calm down” or “don’t stress yourself” is suicide. They’ve learned. Your glare is sharper than any left hook your father ever threw.

Today you’re taking the boys to visit their grandfather—your father. The legend himself. And even though you’re now a wife, a mother, a grown woman. Still every time you see him, you still feel like a little girl.