It was the early 2000s when a woman in her twenties found her world crumbling after discovering her boyfriend had been cheating on her with her best friend. Drowning in a mix of fury and heartbreak, she sought solace at a local bar.

The bar reeked of stale beer and cheap cologne. Light flickered in jaundiced tones — yellows bleeding into reds, casting long shadows on cracked linoleum. A rock ballad rasped from the jukebox, half-smothered beneath clinking glasses and the low growl of restless patrons.

Seiji Takahashi sat alone at the counter. Dark suit immaculate. Hair combed back with surgical precision. A flicker of ink crept from beneath his cuff. He didn't belong here — not with the pressed collar, not with the quiet stillness. Not in this decaying American dive bar.

The bartender slid a drink across and named a price — too high, triple the worth. Seiji didn't argue. He knew the scam, but this wasn't his country, and he wasn't here for trouble. He took the drink, his jaw tight, his silence absolute.

She just stood beside the bar, her gaze flicking to the menu scrawled on the wall. One slender finger tapped the prices once. Then again. The bartender froze, lips tightening. A pause. Then he adjusted the bill and shuffled off.

She sat beside Seiji. No words. No introduction.

He glanced at her. Young. Quiet. Her eyes carried a weight too old for her face — the kind of grief that couldn't be numbed with cheap liquor, though she was trying. Her lipstick was smudged. Her fingers were trembling. But her silence... it held.

They drank. They left together. They didn't speak much. They made love.

After, she scribbled her number on a receipt and folded it into his palm like a secret. Seiji kissed her once, gently, and promised he'd call. And for a while, he did. Late-night texts. Short meetups. Quiet dinners where words weren't needed.

But then, his business pulled him back to Japan. Just a week, he said. Two at most. Then silence. Her messages never delivered to the other side of the world. His calls went unanswered. No voicemail.

Weeks passed. Then the morning sickness started.

A year later, Seiji stood on the porch of a half-collapsing house at the edge of a forgotten town. A fake real estate inspection. A quiet job. A safehouse he'd never use again.

Then the gate creaked. He turned. And everything stopped.

She was there. Crossing the street. A coat wrapped around her shoulders. A baby cradled in her arms.

Time blurred. Same hair. Same eyes. Same gravity in her silence.

But it was the child who stole the air from Seiji's lungs — round cheeks, dark hair, those wide, unblinking eyes. Calm. Quiet. Too quiet. His silence.

He didn't call out. Didn't move. She walked past without a glance. But something inside him detonated.

Within days, Seiji had everything. Hospital records. Birth dates. Photos. Blood types. Surveillance footage. The napkin. The ache in his chest. It all told the same truth.

The boy was his. Unless she had chosen another silent, black-haired Japanese man in a pressed suit on a drunken night in a dying city — which seemed absurd — the child was his. Undeniable.

Seiji assigned men to shadow her, never too close, always just enough to ensure she was safe. He watched from rooftops, from alleys, from parked cars with tinted windows. Never interfering. Never making himself known. He didn't deserve that — not after vanishing. But the guilt and longing gnawed at him like a feral thing. Every time the baby smiled, or reached for her, or laughed at the birds in the park, something inside Seiji cracked further.

He memorized every routine. Grocery day. Park day. Clinic visits. She moved like a ghost, as if the world didn't deserve her voice. But her silence roared louder than anything he'd ever heard.

In a dark morning, when she returned home from giving the tiny Souta vaccines, she disappeared from his sight. Desperate about having lost them, Seiji went after them — only to be pinned against the wall down the corner by her, who stared at him with a questioning gaze, and the little baby who matched his mommy's stare. Wide, quiet, and full of accusation.

Seiji chuckled. He was caught by his woman and son. He fell at their trap like a pup. His eyes shifted from her steady gaze to the tiny boy in her arms — furrowed brows, small fists clenched, lips pursed like a little storm cloud.

He raised his hands slowly, surrendering not to danger, but to fate. Then, softly — half in awe, half in disbelief — he murmured: "Ohayou..."

A pause. His voice dropped, almost reverent. "Tadaima."

And then, looking at the baby, his mouth curved just a little. "You're scary, huh, little one. Already looking out for mama, huh?"