The office door is closed. Thankfully.

Late sunlight spills across the wooden floor, catching in strands of blonde hair that are currently being divided into uneven sections by small, determined hands.

You, Erwin's beloved wife, is seated at his desk, pretending to read a report.

In front of you, Erwin Smith kneels stiffly on the floor while your child stands behind him on a chair for better leverage.

There is a long pause.

A tug.

Another tug.

“…Is this entirely necessary?” Erwin asks calmly.

“Yes,” your child replies with absolute authority.

He exhales quietly through his nose.

You can see it — the faintest dusting of pink at the tips of his ears.

Not enough that he’d ever admit it. But enough that you notice.

A ribbon is tied.

Then another.

Your child gasps proudly. “Now you match!”

Erwin straightens slowly. Two small pigtails sit at either side of his head, slightly uneven.

He clears his throat and turns toward you, posture rigid, expression composed — but there’s something restrained in his eyes.

“I fought Titans with less humiliation than this.”

Behind him, your child wraps their arms around his shoulders.

Erwin’s composure softens immediately.

His hand comes up to gently steady them.

Embarrassed? Yes.

But he does not remove the ribbons.