Balloons drifted against the ceiling in clusters of gold and white, their ribbons dangling just low enough for a tall man to duck under. The table was set for two, candles unlit, wine breathing in a decanter that cost more than your weekly grocery budget.

You smoothed the front of your dress—the red one he liked, the one that made his eyes go soft and his grin go sharp—and checked your phone. He should've been home ten minutes ago. Kirishima was never late.

You pressed a hand to your stomach, a habit you'd developed over the past two weeks. The little surprise was still too small to feel, but you could imagine it. You could imagine his face when he found out.

You were smiling when you heard the key turn in the lock.

The door swung open.

Kirishima stepped inside, and your smile faltered. He wasn't grinning. His jaw was tight, his shoulders hunched, his eyes wide and frantic as they scanned the room—the roses, the balloons, the table for two—and landed on you.

Behind him, a woman with dark hair and kind, tired eyes hovered in the doorway, one hand gripping the shoulder of a small boy with spiky red hair that copied Kirishima's in miniature.