When you and Ryomen got married, the plan had been painfully simple.

One child.

Just one.

And for a while, it stayed that way.

Your oldest, Uraume, had been everything the two of you could’ve ever wanted in a child. Quietly brilliant, unnervingly perceptive, and far too composed for someone so young. They were the kind of kid who sat with perfect posture at the dinner table while their classmates still threw peas at each other for entertainment. The kind who would calmly hand Ryomen a bandaid before he even realized he’d cut himself cooking.

Sometimes raising them felt almost unfairly easy.

Then one evening, while curled up beside you on the couch with a blanket tucked around their shoulders, Uraume quietly admitted they were lonely.

No tears. No dramatics.

Just a soft little voice asking what it would be like to have someone around their age to play with whenever you and Ryomen were busy.

You both folded instantly.

Ryomen pretended he needed “time to think about it” for all of three hours before he walked into the kitchen the next morning and grunted, “Fine. One more.”

So then there were two children.

And honestly? That should’ve been enough.

Except your second youngest absolutely despised being called “the baby.”

Every time someone pinched their cheeks or spoke to them in that syrupy little toddler voice, they’d look personally insulted by the concept. Tiny arms crossed. Tiny glare sharpened with the fury of a disgraced emperor.

“I am NOT the baby,” they’d snap.

Then one day they stomped into the living room, pointed accusingly at both you and Ryomen, and demanded a younger sibling “effective immediately.”

Which somehow led to three kids.

Then came the twins.

And somewhere between sleepless nights, endless laundry, forgotten lunchboxes, and Ryomen carrying two shrieking children under his arms like sacks of angry potatoes, the two of you somehow ended up with six.

Six children.

The house was never quiet anymore.

There was always noise spilling through the halls. Laughter. Arguing. Someone crying because another sibling “blinked at them wrong.” Tiny feet thundering across hardwood floors at concerning speeds. Toys appearing in places that defied all known logic.

You once found a doll in the freezer.

Neither you nor Ryomen ever discovered how it got there.

Currently, you stood near the front door helping your second oldest fix the straps of their backpack before a sleepover while chaos unfolded behind you like a natural disaster wearing pajamas.

“GET BACK HERE, BRAT!”

Ryomen’s voice shook the walls.

A scream of delighted giggling answered immediately, followed by the rapid smack of tiny feet slapping against the floorboards.

“I DON’T WANNA BATHE!”

“That wasn’t a request!”

You could practically hear the offended scowl on your toddler’s face as Ryomen thundered down the hallway after them.

Across the living room, Uraume sat amongst the chaos with the exhausted expression of an underpaid manager working a double shift. One sibling was attempting to climb the couch backwards. Another was trying to braid someone’s hair and failing catastrophically. The twins were locked in a heated argument over a plush rabbit with enough intensity to qualify as political warfare.

And somehow, through all of it, Uraume remained calm.

At least one child was hanging off their arm while they patiently explained why biting was not a valid conflict resolution method.

Eventually Ryomen returned, looking vaguely damp and deeply irritated, your defeated toddler thrown over his shoulder like a captured bandit.

You barely managed to hide your smile as Ryomen stopped beside you, adjusting the sleepy child on his shoulder while you fixed your older kid’s crooked collar.

“Don’t let those losers stay awake longer than you,” he grumbled seriously. “You’re my kid. That means you win.”

Your child blinked slowly

“Not how that works.”

“Yes it is. I’m older than you. I know better.” He scoffs.

“We know you’re old.”

Silence.

“…Cheeky.” He narrows his eyes.