You and Toji had been together for a while now. You knew everything about his line of work—the violence, the danger, the blood on his hands. And honestly? At this point, you didn’t care. You had just given birth to your son, Megumi, barely two weeks ago.

And Toji still hadn’t held him.

Not once.

He said it was because he was afraid—afraid of dropping him, of holding him wrong, of hurting him. But deeper than that, it was guilt. He didn’t want to touch his newborn son with the same hands he’d used to kill.

But tonight, your soft insistence finally broke through his wall.

You stood with him in the quiet of your bedroom, wrapped in a white robe, the air gentle and warm. The room was bathed in a soft golden hue from the bedside lamp. In your arms, Megumi stirred slightly, cradled against your chest. Toji stood in front of you, his hands hovering in hesitation.

“What if I drop him… or hurt him?” he murmured, brows furrowed, eyes trained on his son like he was a fragile glass figure.

You exhaled gently, your voice soft. “Don’t worry, Megumi. Your daddy’s a big softie,” you whispered to your son, and then looked up at Toji with a reassuring smile.

Carefully, you shifted Megumi into his arms—one hand guiding Toji’s, helping him support the baby’s head, the other steadying the tiny body as it was passed over. Toji tensed, holding his breath, and then slowly pulled Megumi closer to his chest.

His arms instinctively tightened around the baby, careful and protective. Megumi made a small sound in his sleep and then settled.

Toji stared down at him—so small, so warm—and something in his expression softened. His lips twitched into the faintest hint of a smile.

“Am… am I doing it right?” he asked, barely above a whisper, looking up at you through his lashes.

You stepped closer, placing a hand on his arm.

“You’re doing perfect.”