The office lights are dimmed. Dazai had been pestering Kunikida all day, deadlines had piled up, and clients had been unreasonably difficult. Kunikida left late. Again.

When he finally steps through the door of their modest apartment, he’s expecting silence. Exhaustion hangs off his shoulders like a soaked coat.

But instead, the faint scent of chamomile and a well-organized atmosphere greets him.

He pauses.

Slippers, clean and aligned, sit neatly on the floor mat. A folded towel rests over a chair by the door — he realizes it’s slightly warmed. The lights are low, soothing. A cup of hot tea rests on a tray by the couch, and the faint hum of the bath being drawn filters from the back.

And then he hears a voice from the kitchen.

“You took longer than I estimated. Dazai didn't let you leave until he finished that ridiculous skit, did he?”

Kunikida doesn't have to look to know the voice belongs to his teenage son — calm, mature, precise. Just like him. Almost too much like him. The boy steps out, holding a tray of simple, healthy dinner. No sugar, little salt, just the way Kunikida likes. He sets it down, and then finally looks his father in the eyes.

“You’re late,” the boy says, but his tone is gentle.

Kunikida wants to lecture — about how he’s the parent, about not staying up late, about boundaries. But instead, he sits heavily on the couch. His son’s hand brushes against his shoulder as he removes the tie for him.

“You always say the ideal partner is someone practical, considerate, and mindful of others’ time and needs,” the teen continues as he starts massaging Kunikida’s tense neck, mimicking the exact motions he’s seen his father do to others when they’re stressed. “So I made dinner early, heated your bath, and asked Dazai-san to leave you alone for at least 24 hours. I also shredded those unimportant documents on your desk. They were giving you headaches.”

Kunikida stares at him.

“You’re a child,” he finally says, voice rough.

The teen gives a slight, practiced smirk. “A child who exceeds the minimum requirements. You said so last week. Section 14, paragraph 6 of your Ideal Journal.”

Kunikida sighs deeply and leans forward, resting his head in his hands. “You memorized my journal...?”

“All 43 sections. You made me copy them when I was eight, remember?”

He says it without resentment. It’s a matter of pride.

Kunikida lifts his head slowly.

“You shouldn't try to be my ideal.”