home by the sea
after his near death in shibuya, you and kento decided to fulfill his dream of moving to kuantan
starring. nanami kento x fem!reader
genre. romance, slight angst.
wc. 5.5k
cw. mentions of shibuya incident
author's note: recovered this fic in my drafts
The first thing you noticed every morning wasn't the sound of traffic or distant sirens anymore. It was the ocean. Gentle waves rolled onto the shore in an endless rhythm, accompanied by the cries of seabirds circling overhead and the rustling of palm trees swaying in the warm Malaysian breeze. Sunlight filtered through the linen curtains, spilling across the wooden floorboards as the scent of salt drifted in through the open windows. Some mornings, you still had to remind yourself that this wasn't a dream. This was home.
Kuantan.
Years ago, Kento had mentioned this place so casually that you almost thought he was joking. The two of you had been cleaning your apartment after dinner, the television humming quietly in the background while he loosened his tie with the familiar exhaustion of another day spent exorcising curses.
"I heard the beaches here are beautiful," he had said as he dried a plate before placing it in the cabinet.
You glanced over your shoulder. "Where?"
"Malaysia."
"...Malaysia?"
"Kuantan."
You laughed, shaking your head. "You've already chosen a city?"
"It seemed practical."
"You've put way too much thought into this."
"I have."
"So you've actually planned your retirement?"
"Not planned," he corrected. "Imagined."
Back then, retirement felt like a fantasy. Sorcerers rarely lived long enough to think about growing old, much less buying a house by the sea. There was always another mission waiting, another curse to exorcise, another funeral to attend. Even on his days off, Kento carried himself like someone expecting his phone to ring at any moment. You often caught him staring absentmindedly out the apartment window, and although he never complained, you knew the weight he carried home after every assignment.
Neither of you imagined that Shibuya would force the future to arrive sooner than expected.
The memories still lingered no matter how much time had passed. You could still remember the suffocating smell of smoke clinging to your clothes, the frantic shouting of medics weaving through crowds of injured civilians, and the unbearable hours spent outside the operating room after they pulled Kento from the ruins. The doctors had warned you that the burns covering nearly half of his body were severe. They couldn't promise how much function he would regain, nor could they erase the scars that would remain for the rest of his life. All you could do was sit beside his hospital bed, listening to the steady rhythm of the heart monitor and praying it wouldn't stop.
When he finally woke several days later, his first concern wasn't himself.
"...You're alright?"
Your composure shattered instantly.
"You idiot," you whispered, clutching his bandaged hand as tears blurred your vision. "I thought I lost you."
He looked at you with tired eyes, his voice barely audible. "I'm sorry."
"You almost died."
"I know."
"You almost left me."
"I know."
Silence settled between you before he spoke again, quieter this time.
"...I don't think I can go back."
You looked at him for a long moment before tightening your hold on his hand.
"Then don't."
He frowned slightly, almost as though he expected you to argue.
"...Just like that?"
"There isn't anything left for us there that matters more than you."
For the first time since the incident, the tension in his shoulders eased. It wasn't a dramatic moment. There were no grand declarations or promises. Only a quiet understanding shared between two people who had spent years waiting for permission to choose themselves.
A month later, while standing on the balcony of your apartment overlooking Tokyo's skyline, Kento spoke again.
"Do you remember Kuantan?"
You smiled before answering.
"The beaches?"
He nodded.
"I wasn't joking."
"I know."
"I still want to go."
You slipped your hand into his without a second thought.
"Then let's go."
And that was exactly what you did.
Leaving Tokyo wasn't as difficult as either of you had expected. Once the decision had been made, everything else simply fell into place. The apartment that had been your home for years was slowly emptied one room at a time, each box carrying away another piece of the life the two of you were leaving behind. Furniture was sold, books were carefully packed, and anything that couldn't make the trip found a new owner. By the end, the once-lived-in apartment echoed with every step, stripped down until only memories remained.
Kento's retirement pension from Jujutsu High was generous—more generous than either of you had anticipated. Combined with the savings the two of you had spent years putting aside for a future that never seemed guaranteed, it was enough to start over. Neither of you was looking for luxury. All Kento had ever wanted was a quiet life, and after everything Shibuya had taken from him, you wanted nothing more than to give him exactly that.
It took nearly a month of searching before you found the house.
The realtor had shown you several properties along the coast, but none of them felt quite right. Some were too close to the city, surrounded by busy roads and crowded beaches, while others required more repairs than either of you could realistically manage. Just when you were beginning to think you'd have to compromise, she suggested one last property a little farther from town.
The moment you stepped out of the car, the sound of the ocean greeted you.
Not traffic.
Not voices.
Just the steady rhythm of waves meeting the shore.
The house itself wasn't extravagant. It was a modest two-story beach house with whitewashed walls, weathered wooden shutters, and a spacious veranda overlooking the sea. Bougainvillea climbed along the fence, their vibrant pink blossoms spilling over the stone wall, while a pair of coconut trees swayed lazily in the afternoon breeze. Time had worn away at the paint in places, but the house carried the kind of warmth that couldn't be replicated by something newly built.
You turned to Kento, who had wandered onto the veranda without saying a word.
"So?" you asked, folding your arms with a smile. "What do you think?"
He rested his forearms against the wooden railing, his gaze fixed on the endless stretch of blue before him. The breeze caught the ends of his blond hair as he stood there in comfortable silence, taking everything in.
"...It's quiet," he finally said.
"That's all?"
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "It's exactly how I imagined it."
That was all the answer you needed.
The paperwork was finalized within the week.
Settling into your new home took time, but neither of you minded. Most of your furniture had been sold before leaving Japan, leaving the house feeling almost empty at first. Together, you spent your days assembling bookshelves, unpacking kitchenware, and deciding where every piece of furniture should go. Kento insisted on carrying the heavier boxes despite his still-recovering body, earning more than one disapproving look from you.
"Kento."
"I'm fine."
"You said that five boxes ago."
"I was fine five boxes ago."
"And now?"
"...Slightly less fine."
You sighed, walking over to take the box from his hands despite his quiet protests. "You survived Shibuya. I'm not letting you throw your back out over a bookshelf."
"I don't think that's a fair comparison."
"It is to me."
He didn't argue after that.
A few weeks later, the two of you wandered through the nearby town in search of somewhere to buy breakfast when a small bakery tucked away on a quiet street corner caught your attention. The display windows were filled with handwritten signs announcing a closing sale, while the warm aroma of butter and freshly baked bread drifted through the open door.
Curiosity led you inside.
Behind the counter stood an elderly woman arranging the last few loaves on the display shelf. She greeted you with a gentle smile, explaining that after nearly forty years of running the bakery with her late husband, she had finally decided it was time to retire. Business had remained steady over the years, but age had made the long hours increasingly difficult, and there was no one left to inherit the shop.
"I've had offers," she admitted over cups of freshly brewed tea, "but most people want to renovate it into another café. My husband built those ovens himself." She rested her hand affectionately against the old brick oven at the back of the shop before smiling to herself. "I'd like to think someone will continue what we started."
You found your eyes drifting toward Kento.
He had been unusually quiet since walking through the door, his attention lingering on every detail of the bakery. The worn wooden shelves, the neatly arranged pastries behind the glass display, the faint scent of yeast lingering in the warm air—it was as though he was trying to picture what the place had looked like decades ago.
"You like it," you said once the elderly woman disappeared into the kitchen.
He glanced at you before looking around the shop once more. "...I do."
"Because it smells like bread?"
He gave you a look. "...Among other things."
You laughed. "I was hoping for something more sentimental."
"It feels peaceful."
There it was.
The simple honesty that had always been so distinctly Kento.
The decision came easier than either of you expected. Within the month, the paperwork had been completed, and the little bakery officially belonged to the two of you. Before signing the final documents, however, you asked the elderly woman if she would mind if you renovated parts of the bakery.
"I don't want to erase what you and your husband built," you reassured her. "But we'd like to make a few changes so we can run it the way we've envisioned."
The elderly woman looked around the bakery, her eyes lingering fondly on the faded walls and worn wooden floors that had witnessed decades of early mornings and smiling customers. She chuckled softly before shaking her head.
"My dear," she said warmly, "this bakery is almost as old as I am."
You couldn't help but laugh with her.
"It has seen better days," she continued, gently running her fingers along the countertop. "I've simply grown too attached to notice how run-down it's become." Her smile softened. "As long as you don't take away its heart, you have my blessing."
You reached across the table to squeeze her hand.
"We won't."
"Promise me one thing."
"Anything."
"Keep it feeling like home."
You smiled.
"I promise."
Over the following weeks, the bakery slowly transformed. The faded paint was replaced with warm cream-colored walls, new lighting brightened the once-dim interior, and the aging furniture was lovingly restored whenever possible instead of replaced. A few new tables and comfortable chairs were added near the windows, allowing customers to linger over coffee and fresh pastries while watching the town wake up each morning.
Rather than changing the bakery into something unrecognizable, you and Kento chose to let its history remain part of its identity. The old brick oven built by the elderly woman's late husband became the centerpiece of the café, carefully preserved instead of modernized. Framed photographs of the original owners throughout the years lined one wall, accompanied by handwritten recipes they had graciously allowed you to display. Their vintage coffee grinder, well-worn rolling pin, and the weathered wooden sign that had once hung above the entrance were cleaned, restored, and displayed throughout the café as small reminders of the people who had built the place from the ground up.
When the elderly woman visited for the grand reopening, she stood quietly near the entrance, taking everything in.
The bakery looked brighter.
Warmer.
More spacious.
Yet somehow...
It still felt exactly the same.
She walked slowly toward the wall where an old black-and-white photograph of her and her husband now hung inside a simple wooden frame. Beneath it rested a small brass plaque engraved with the words:
Established with love.
Her eyes shimmered with tears.
"You kept him here."
Kento stepped beside you, his hands tucked comfortably into the pockets of his apron.
"It wouldn't have felt right otherwise."
She looked around one final time, smiling as customers chatted over cups of coffee while the familiar scent of fresh bread filled the room.
"It still feels like home," she whispered.
You smiled.
"That's because it always will be."
The bakery quickly became a beloved part of the neighborhood once again. Many of the regulars who had visited for decades returned out of curiosity, only to leave with relieved smiles after realizing the little shop they had grown up with hadn't disappeared—it had simply begun a new chapter. They often thanked you and Kento for preserving the bakery instead of replacing it with another trendy café, admitting that they had been worried the place would lose the warmth that had made it special in the first place.
"You've given it another life," one elderly customer told you one morning while accepting her usual loaf of milk bread. "I know she'd be happy."
The previous owner still stopped by every now and then, always insisting she was "just passing through," though she inevitably ended up sitting by the window with a cup of coffee while chatting with familiar faces. Watching her smile as the bakery buzzed with laughter and conversation reassured you that you had kept your promise.
Before officially stepping away, she had spent weeks teaching both you and Kento every recipe she and her husband had perfected over the last forty years. She patiently corrected your techniques, scribbled little notes in the margins of her recipe book, and insisted that good bread wasn't simply measured by ingredients, but by the love and patience poured into each loaf. Once you had mastered the classics, she encouraged the two of you to add recipes of your own.
"You shouldn't spend your lives copying ours," she had told you one afternoon. "Every bakery carries the story of the people who run it."
So alongside her signature butter rolls, coconut buns, and pandan loaves, new additions slowly found their place in the display case. Kento experimented with different European-style breads he had grown fond of during his years in Japan, while you introduced pastries inspired by recipes you had always wanted to try. The old and the new blended together naturally, creating something that belonged to both generations.
Business flourished more than either of you expected.
By noon, the display shelves were usually empty, save for a few crumbs and handwritten signs apologizing that everything had sold out for the day. Customers quickly learned that arriving late meant leaving empty-handed, and before long, people began lining up before sunrise just to secure their favorite pastries.
"You know," you teased one afternoon while flipping the sign on the door to Closed, "maybe we should make more."
Kento was already wiping flour from the countertop.
"We've said that every day this week."
"And every day we've still sold out."
He looked toward the empty shelves before giving a small shrug. "...I think we've made enough."
"You just want to go home."
"I do."
You laughed as you untied your apron. "I knew it."
Cleaning the bakery became part of the routine the two of you had come to cherish. Once everything had been washed, the floors swept, and preparations made for the next morning, you would lock the front door together before climbing into the little tuk-tuk the two of you had impulsively purchased after moving to Kuantan.
You had insisted it would be "more practical."
Kento still wasn't entirely convinced.
"It has character," you argued.
"It barely goes uphill."
"It gets us there."
"...Eventually."
Despite his complaints, he was always the one driving.
The ride home became your favorite part of the day. The sea breeze drifted through the open sides of the tuk-tuk as the two of you drove along the coastal road, passing fishermen returning with their catch, children playing near the shore, and familiar neighbors waving as you passed by. There was never any rush. Home was only a short drive away, waiting with open windows, the scent of salt lingering in the air, and the comforting sound of waves greeting you before you even stepped inside.
A year after opening the bakery, your little family grew.
On a quiet spring morning, surrounded by the gentle sound of the ocean just beyond the hospital windows, your daughter was born.
Hina.
The first time Kento held her, he simply stared in silence, almost afraid to move. His scarred hands, once used to gripping a blunt sword, now cradled something impossibly small. She yawned, blinked up at him with sleepy eyes, and instinctively wrapped her tiny fingers around one of his.
"...Hello," he whispered, his voice softer than you had ever heard it.
You smiled from the hospital bed.
"I think she likes you."
"I certainly hope so."
From the very beginning, Hina adored the sea.
Long before she could walk, she would become fascinated whenever Kento carried her onto the veranda each morning. She would watch the waves with wide, curious eyes, giggling whenever the ocean breeze brushed against her cheeks. As soon as she learned to toddle across the sand, she insisted on following her father during his evening walks along the shoreline, tiny footprints trailing beside his much larger ones. Whenever he stopped to admire the horizon, she'd stop beside him too, as though she already understood why he loved it so much.
"She's your daughter, alright," you laughed one evening as the two of them stood ankle-deep in the water.
Kento glanced down at Hina, who was proudly holding a seashell almost as big as both of her hands.
"...She has your smile."
"And your habit of collecting things."
He looked at the shell.
"...Fair enough."
Two years later, your family welcomed another child.
A little boy named Hiro.
Unlike his older sister, Hiro preferred the bakery over the beach. While Hina could spend hours searching for seashells with her father, Hiro was happiest perched on the kitchen counter, watching you and Kento prepare bread before sunrise. By the time he was old enough to speak in full sentences, he had already declared himself the bakery's "official taste tester," proudly volunteering to sample anything sweet that came out of the oven.
"If I'm going to inherit this place," he would say with all the seriousness a four-year-old could muster, "I need to know if it's good."
Kento would hand him the smallest piece of pastry.
"...Very well."
Years passed more quietly than either of you ever imagined possible.
The bakery continued to thrive, your children filled the once-silent house with laughter, and the life the two of you had once thought impossible became so wonderfully ordinary that it was difficult to remember there had ever been a time without it.
Now, standing on the veranda of your beach house as the early morning breeze carried the familiar scent of salt through the air, you found yourself watching the horizon just as Kento often did. The waves rolled in with the same gentle rhythm they always had, the sky painted in soft shades of gold as another peaceful day began.
Your thoughts were interrupted when a familiar pair of arms wrapped around your waist from behind. Kento rested his chin lightly on your shoulder, his embrace warm despite the cool morning air.
"You're up early," you murmured, leaning back against him.
"So are you."
"I couldn't sleep."
"Hm."
He didn't ask why.
He never needed to.
Instead, the two of you stood there in comfortable silence, listening to the waves as another morning began in the life you had built together—a life that, years ago, had seemed no more than an impossible dream.
The silence was short-lived.
The familiar sound of tiny footsteps padding across the wooden floor echoed from inside the house before the sliding door slowly opened. Hiro peeked his head out first, his dark hair sticking up in every direction from sleep. His eyes were barely open as he rubbed at one of them with the sleeve of his pajama shirt, pausing when he spotted the two of you standing together on the veranda.
Without a word, he shuffled toward you, his movements still sluggish from having just woken up. He wrapped both arms around your waist before letting out a sleepy yawn.
"Mama..." he mumbled against your side. "Are we going to the bakery now?"
You couldn't help but smile as you brushed a hand through his messy hair. Beside you, Kento let out a quiet chuckle, one that was almost impossible to hear unless you were standing this close.
"We are," you answered, crouching until you were eye level with your son. "But first, I need your help with something."
Hiro straightened immediately, the last traces of sleep seemingly disappearing from his face.
"What is it?"
"Can you wake Hina for me?"
His eyes lit up.
"I can!"
You laughed, gently pinching his cheek before he could dash off.
"But nicely."
"I will."
"No jumping on her bed."
"I won't."
"No stealing her blanket."
His expression faltered for just a second.
"...I wasn't going to."
Kento raised an amused eyebrow.
"Weren't you?"
Hiro looked down at his feet, shuffling them against the wooden planks before giving the smallest shrug.
"...Maybe."
A quiet laugh escaped Kento as he reached over to ruffle his son's already untidy hair, only making it stick up even more.
"I'm sure your sister would appreciate a gentler approach."
"I'll be gentle," Hiro promised with complete sincerity.
Satisfied, you nodded toward the hallway. "Go on, then."
This time, Hiro remembered not to run. He hurried inside at what he clearly believed was a respectable walking pace, his small footsteps disappearing farther into the house until the hallway fell quiet once more.
Only a few moments later, his cheerful voice echoed from the other end of the house.
"Hina! Wake up!"
A muffled groan answered from behind the bedroom door.
"...I'm awake."
"No, you're not."
"I am."
"Mama said it's time to get up."
There was another pause before Hina's sleepy voice drifted back through the hallway.
"...Five more minutes."
"You said that yesterday."
"And it worked."
"It didn't."
"It almost did."
You rested your head lightly against Kento's shoulder, unable to suppress a laugh as the two siblings continued their early morning negotiations. It had become something of a ritual over the years. Every morning, Hiro eagerly volunteered to wake his older sister, and every morning, Hina tried her best to bargain for just a little more sleep.
Not long after, the bedroom door slid open.
Hina stepped into the hallway, rubbing the sleep from her eyes as she yawned dramatically. At seven years old, she had inherited Kento's quiet disposition almost entirely. Her hair, still messy from bed, framed a face that looked remarkably like yours, though the thoughtful expression she wore so often belonged unmistakably to her father.
She wandered straight toward the veranda without saying much, stopping only when she reached Kento. As though it were second nature, she slipped her small hand into his scarred one.
"Morning, Papa."
His gaze softened immediately.
"Good morning."
She leaned against his side, still half asleep, while Hiro proudly stood nearby with his hands on his hips.
"I woke her."
"So I can see," you said with a smile.
"I didn't even steal her blanket."
Hina looked up at him.
"You were going to."
"...Maybe."
She rolled her eyes with all the dramatic exasperation only an older sister could manage, earning another laugh from both you and Kento.
"Alright," you said, clapping your hands together once. "Go get changed, both of you. We have customers waiting for breakfast."
The mention of the bakery was all the motivation the siblings needed.
Hiro hurried off excitedly, already talking about which pastries he hoped would be left over after closing, while Hina followed behind at a much more leisurely pace, reminding him not to trip over his own feet.
You watched them disappear down the hallway before turning toward Kento.
"...They're growing up too fast."
He followed your gaze toward the house, the corners of his lips lifting into the faintest smile.
"They are."
"Kento?"
"Mhm?" he replied, his attention still lingering on the horizon where the sun slowly climbed above the sea.
"Do you ever miss Tokyo?"
For a while, he didn't answer. His thumb absentmindedly traced slow circles against the back of your hand as the waves rolled onto the shore below. Kento had always been like this. He never rushed his words, especially when they concerned the past.
"...Sometimes."
You turned slightly toward him. "What do you miss?"
"The people."
His answer came gently, carrying none of the bitterness you might have expected. "I miss Ijichi. I miss having lunch with him after long assignments, even if neither of us spoke much. He understood that silence didn't have to be filled."
A smile found your lips. "He probably still apologizes every time he talks too much."
"He undoubtedly does."
You laughed quietly. "And Ino?"
Kento let out the faintest hum. "I miss him as well. He has... an endless supply of things to say."
"So you're saying he never stopped talking?"
"I imagine he hasn't."
"What about Gojo?"
A sigh escaped him, though there was unmistakable fondness hidden beneath it. "I suppose I miss him."
"Only suppose?"
"He has an extraordinary talent for being exhausting."
You couldn't help but laugh. "I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said about him."
"I'm trying to be generous."
The laughter faded as naturally as it had begun, replaced by the familiar comfort of simply standing together. The ocean breeze slipped between you, carrying the scent of salt and fresh rain from somewhere farther down the coast.
"There are others," Kento continued quietly. "People I worked beside for years." He paused, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the horizon. "And people who never made it out."
You gently squeezed his hand. "You still think about them."
"Every day." The answer was immediate. "They deserved to have this too."
You knew exactly what he meant without asking. A quiet morning. A peaceful home. A family waiting for them at the end of the day instead of another mission.
"And Tokyo?" you asked after another moment. "Do you miss living there?"
This time, he answered without hesitation.
"No."
"Not even a little?"
He slowly shook his head. "I don't miss the city."
"What about it?"
"I don't miss the life I had there."
His voice remained calm, but you recognized the exhaustion that still lingered beneath it, one that years of peaceful mornings had softened but never entirely erased.
"Every day began the same way. Another assignment. Another report. Another call telling me where I needed to be next." He let out a quiet breath before continuing. "Somewhere along the way, I stopped thinking about living and simply focused on surviving."
You rested your head lightly against his shoulder. "And then Shibuya happened."
He nodded. "I remember believing that was where everything ended."
"But it didn't."
"No."
"You came home."
"I did."
Neither of you mentioned how close he had come to never doing so. There was no need. His scars spoke loudly enough.
"When Hina was born," he said after a comfortable silence, "I realized I almost never met her."
You smiled faintly, remembering the way he had held her for the first time, terrified that even the slightest movement might wake her.
"You barely blinked."
"I was afraid I'd drop her."
"You were sitting down."
"I was still concerned."
You laughed softly.
"And then Hiro came." The corners of his lips lifted. "And suddenly the house became loud."
As though summoned by the conversation itself, Hiro's voice echoed from somewhere inside.
"Hina! That's my toothbrush!"
"It isn't! Yours is blue!"
"No, it's green!"
"It literally has your name on it!"
You buried your face against Kento's shoulder, laughing. "I stand corrected."
"So do I."
Another pause settled between the two of you as the sounds of your children bickering drifted through the open windows.
"What if..." you began carefully. "One day they ask you to come back."
His expression didn't change.
"They might ask."
"They probably will."
"They'll need experienced sorcerers."
"They always do."
"What would you say?"
Kento didn't need time to think. "No."
"Even if they only asked you to teach?"
"No."
"You wouldn't even consider it?"
He turned toward the house instead of the ocean this time. Through the open curtains, you could just make out Hina trying to wrestle a toothbrush away from Hiro while the younger boy insisted he had done nothing wrong.
"I've already given that world everything I had."
His voice was quiet, though there was a certainty within it that left no room for doubt. "I don't regret helping people."
"I know."
"But I won't bring my children anywhere near it."
He watched as Hiro finally surrendered the toothbrush with exaggerated reluctance, earning a triumphant smile from his older sister.
"They deserve to wake up arguing over whose turn it is to feed the stray cats by the bakery."
You smiled.
"They deserve worrying about homework, not curses."
"They deserve scraped knees from climbing trees and playing, not injuries from training"
"And lastly, they deserve wondering whether the cinnamon rolls will sell out before lunch, not whether they'll make it home."
He fell silent for a moment before continuing.
"I've seen too many children carry burdens they never should've been asked to bear. They were forced to grow up long before they had the chance to simply be children."
His fingers tightened ever so slightly around yours. "If Hina and Hiro inherited cursed energy..."
He paused."...Then I'll spend the rest of my life making sure they never have to use it."
You looked at him, your heart swelling all over again.
Years ago, Kento Nanami had accepted that he would probably die doing his job.
Now, the only future he wanted was one where his children never had to understand why.
The conversation was interrupted by the sound of the sliding door opening.
Hina stepped onto the veranda first, now fully dressed with her hair neatly tied back, while Hiro followed only a step behind, proudly wearing his shirt the right way around after his sister had reluctantly fixed it.
"We're ready!" Hiro announced.
Hina glanced down before sighing.
"No, we're not. You forgot your shoes."
Hiro blinked before looking down at his sock-covered feet. "...Oh."
He immediately turned to sprint back into the house. "Hiro."
Kento's voice wasn't loud, but it was enough to stop the little boy in his tracks.
"...Walking."
"Right."
With dramatically exaggerated care, Hiro slowed himself into what he clearly believed was a proper walking pace before disappearing back inside. You couldn't stop yourself from laughing.
"I think he takes you a little too literally."
"I'd rather that than the alternative."
A few minutes later, Hiro returned, now wearing his shoes, though one of the laces trailed loosely across the wooden floor.
"I'm ready now."
Kento's eyes immediately fell to the untied lace. "Come here."
Without another word, he crouched in front of his son and neatly tied the shoelace before dusting a bit of sand from the boy's shorts. It was such an ordinary gesture, yet one that never failed to warm your heart. There had been a time when you wondered whether Kento would ever have the chance to do something so simple.
"There," he said, standing once more. "Now we're ready."
He reached for the keys hanging beside the front door before looking at the three of you.
"Let's go."
The four of you walked down the wooden steps toward the little tuk-tuk parked beneath the shade of a palm tree. Years of use had weathered its paint, but it remained just as dependable as the day you bought it.
"You know," you said as you slipped into the passenger seat, "for someone who claims to hate this thing..."
"I do."
"...You never let anyone else drive it."
"It gets us where we need to go."
"So that's your excuse?"
"It's practical."
Hina giggled from the back seat. "Papa always says that."
"And he always drives," Hiro added. "I've never seen Mama drive it."
"Because Papa won't let her," Hina replied matter-of-factly.
You looked at him with a knowing smile. "They're right."
Kento adjusted the rearview mirror, pretending not to notice the three pairs of eyes now watching him. "It's more efficient this way."
"Mhm."
"You don't believe me."
"Not for a second."
A barely noticeable smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he started the engine. "I still dislike it."
"Of course you do."
"And yet," you teased, resting your elbow against the open window, "you're always the one behind the wheel."
He didn't bother arguing this time.
Instead, he simply shifted the tuk-tuk into gear and guided it onto the quiet coastal road, your children's laughter filling the morning air as the four of you made your way toward the little bakery that had become the heart of your new life.
Perhaps he did hate the tuk-tuk.
But somehow, he always ended up driving it, if that's what it takes to make you three happy.
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