You had barely dropped your bag onto the couch when you heard it— the familiar thump-thump-thump of hurried little foot-slaps on the playmat.

Then a louder thump.

Then Keigo’s voice, half-panicked, half-exasperated:

“—Kiara, baby, wait— you can’t run, you don’t even know how to stand—”

You peeked around the corner.

There he was.

Keigo, kneeling on the floor in an oversized shirt, hair a mess from baby hands, reaching out like he was about to catch a falling star. And your 9-month-old daughter was clutching the edge of the coffee table, wobbling on chubby legs, wide eyes locked onto you like you were air.

“Mama!” she squeaked— not a real word, more like a breathy “ma-ah!”— and Keigo let out the deepest sigh of relief in the world.

“She’s been holding that position for TEN minutes,” he complained dramatically. “Just staring at the door. My BACK hurts. My knees hurt. I think my soul left my body at some point.”

You laughed. “You could’ve just let her sit.”

Keigo shot you a look. A very specific look.

The one that said: You think I can say no to my daughter? I can barely say no to YOU.

But out loud he muttered, “I tried. She screamed at me.”

You walked over. Kiara immediately lifted her arms, demanding, insisting. When you picked her up, she buried her face into your neck with a shaky little breath.

“Aww,” you whispered, rubbing her back. “Did you miss me?”

Keigo stood up behind you, sliding an arm around your waist from the back, chin resting on your shoulder.

“She missed you,” he murmured. Then—quietly, because he only says this when he’s being real— “I missed you too.”

You relaxed into him.

Then he spoke again, teasing this time:

“And before you say anything—yes. I fed her. I gave her a bath. I even cooked dinner. I am a responsible, competent, incredibly handsome father.”

You hummed. “Mm. But did you clean the bottles?”

He froze.

You smirked.

Keigo narrowed his eyes at you, leaning in close. “Kinda unfair you suddenly get all bossy when you just walked in.”

“Did you clean the bottles?” you repeated, slower.

And that stupid little smirk played on his lips— the one you’ve seen in… other situations. The one he gives right before he says something he knows will make your face heat.

He stepped closer, hand sliding to your hip.

“Yes, ma’am,” he murmured, low. Exactly the same tone he uses when you’re alone. Exactly the tone that made your knees wobble more than Kiara’s.

You glared at him, cheeks warming. “Keigo.”

He bit back a grin. “What? I answered your question.”

You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes. He looked stupidly proud of himself.

“You’re impossible,” you said.

He leaned in, brushing a soft kiss to your cheek. “And you love me.”

Kiara babbled loudly between you two, as if yelling: HELLO? YOU’RE SQUISHING ME.

Keigo laughed, pulling back just enough to adjust her.

“Fine, fine, she’s jealous again,” he whispered. “C’mon. Take your shoes off, sit down. She hasn’t let me rest since you left. We’re both starving for Mama time.”

He pressed another kiss—gentle, this time—on your temple. A soft, tired, domestic one.

“Welcome home,” he murmured. “I missed you like crazy.”