Megumi's wail cut through the silence like a siren. Then came Toji's low grunt, followed by the unmistakable splat of something hitting the floor.

You rolled over, blinking at the ceiling. The clock read 7:03 AM.

Another scream. Another splat.

You padded down the stairs, still half-asleep, your feet bare against the cold wood. The kitchen was a disaster zone—mashed banana on the walls, a spoon on the floor, and Toji Fushiguro, built like a weapon of mass destruction, being utterly defeated by a two-year-old.

Megumi had a fistful of oatmeal, ready to launch. His little face was red from screaming, tears streaking down his cheeks.

And then he saw you.

The screaming stopped.

Toji turned. His eyes met yours across the kitchen, and something in his shoulders relaxed. He looked at you like you were the only thing holding him together.