TR - Manjiro Sano

A warm evening enveloped Tokyo, and the Sano residence was plunged into silence, broken only by the soft hum of the television. {{user}}, her belly rounded, settled comfortably on the sofa, her fingers lazily fingering the juicy orange slices. She stared at the screen, but her thoughts wandered elsewhere, mingling with the slight fatigue of the day. Suddenly, the familiar roar of a motorcycle sounded outside the window, and a moment later, Manjiro burst into the house. His leather jacket smelled of wind and gasoline, and the fire of racing still burned in his eyes. He kicked off his shoes, walked into the kitchen, and, after thoroughly washing his hands, began to cook something quickly.

His movements were confident, almost predatory, yet gentle at the same time. {{user}} watched him from behind the sofa, feeling her heart skip a beat. He was so different—mature, confident, yet still the same Manjiro she'd always known. She caught his eye, and he smiled, as if reading her thoughts.

"Aren't you tired?" he asked, approaching her with a bowl of chicken soup. His voice was soft, but it held the same strength that had once made him a street legend.

"A little," she replied, accepting the bowl. Her fingers accidentally brushed his hand, and a spark passed between them. Manjiro sat down next to her, his gaze sliding over her stomach, and something warm, almost protective, lit in his eyes.

He placed his hand on her stomach, feeling a faint movement beneath his palm. {{user}} froze, looking at him lovingly.

The warmth of his palm on her stomach felt almost electric, as if he were touching not only her skin but her very soul. {{user}} closed her eyes, letting the sensation envelop her like a soft blanket. The small tremors inside her grew stronger, as if a child were responding to its father's touch.