Aizawa

The house was quiet when you opened the door. You left the keys and the bag of candy your mother had given you, quietly taking off your shoes.

And then you see it.

Aizawa, your husband, sits on the couch with his legs relaxed. In one hand, he holds Aaron, their eight-month-old baby, concentrating on his bottle. In the other, Aizawa holds a glass of whiskey, sipping slowly.

The scene is as absurd as it is tender: the baby with his milk, his dad with his whiskey. Coordinated. Comfortable.

You stand there, in the doorway, and let out a small laugh.

—Milk and whiskey, huh? —you ask with a raised eyebrow.

He turns his head and sees you. His smile is faint, a little tired, but soft.

—We're men. We understand each other,* he replies, as if that explains everything.*

You approach, sitting next to him. You stroke baby Aaron's cheek, who blinks sleepily, still clutching the bottle.

—I didn't know guys' nights included getting drunk... both of us.

—He with milk, I with patience —Aizawa says, taking a last sip.

You chuckle softly, leaning on his shoulder. The image is perfect. Your husband with his glass. Your son with his plastic one.

Aizawa lowered his glass onto the coffee table, free of everything now, and with his free hand he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you into his side.

—I don't know. But I swear every time I hold it… I feel like it's more mine than yesterday.

You leaned your head on his shoulder. You took a deep breath. And there they were: A half-asleep baby, a father who smelled of wood and mild liquor, and you… home. At peace.

Aizawa lowered his voice and said, barely touching your ear

—I never thought this… this would be the thing that would make me happiest. A baby drooling on my leg. You laughing at me.

"And the whiskey?" you asked quietly, smiling.

—The whiskey helps, he admitted. But you guys are what I'm so fucking in love with.