The evening air was cool, street lamps glowing softly as the three of them walked under Tokyo's quiet hum. Cars slid by in the distance, headlights brushing over the sidewalk for a moment before fading.
Ken carried Honoka carefully, every step steady and controlled. Her head rested against his chest, breathing shallow and warm. Yukino walked at his side, clutching her bag, torn between worry and something like awe.
Up close, she could see it now — the fear behind his calm. His eyes were steady, but there was a tremor beneath them, a strain in his jaw. He looked terrified, even if he wouldn't say a word. And in that fragile, human worry, Yukino admired him even more.
They reached a small neighborhood clinic, its soft white lights glowing through the glass. Yukino hurried inside, collected a token, then sat beside him.
"We're number seven," she murmured.
Ken didn't answer right away. Honoka was curled in his lap, Panda-san resting on her chest, her tiny hand holding tightly to his sleeve.
The waiting room was quiet — papers shuffling, a clock ticking. An elderly couple nearby glanced over, smiling kindly.
"She'll be alright," the older woman said gently. "Young kids fall sick all the time. You're a good father — staying so calm."
Ken blinked, as if about to correct her — then simply bowed slightly.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
The couple smiled and looked away.
Yukino's chest tightened. He hadn't corrected them. For a moment she saw it through their eyes — a family waiting together, worried over their girl.
And it made her heart ache — not from pain, but from wanting that picture to be real.
When their number was called, Ken stood first, carrying Honoka into the examination room. The doctor — calm, middle-aged, gentle-eyed — motioned for Honoka to be laid down.
Ken lowered her carefully onto the bed, brushing her hair back with a hand that shook just slightly. Yukino stood close, clutching her purse.
After a few checks, the doctor spoke softly.
"She's just exhausted. Emotional stress, maybe. Kids take things in quietly. It catches up to them."
Yukino's eyes flicked toward Ken.
He had gone still — jaw tight, hand curled just a little at his knee.
He understood exactly what the doctor meant.And he blamed himself for it.
Yukino opened her mouth to say something — anything — but Honoka whimpered.
"Injection," the doctor said, preparing the syringe.
Honoka's eyes widened. "No! No, Ken-nii-san! It hurts!"
Ken leaned close immediately, pulling her softly into his arms.
"Shh… it's okay, Honoka-chan. I'm right here," he murmured, voice low and gentle.
It almost broke Yukino. She rested a hand on the back of Honoka's head, trying to help calm her.
The needle went in — a soft whimper, little fingers gripping Ken's shirt — then it was over.
Ken held her a few seconds longer, whispering quietly. Honoka settled against him again, sleepy and trusting.
The doctor handed the prescription with a reassuring smile. "She'll be fine after a day of rest."
At the counter, Ken immediately reached for his wallet. Yukino fumbled for hers.
"Ken-san, wait — you don't have to, I—"
"Yukino-san." His voice was soft, but firm. "Don't argue."
The way he said it — protective, steady — froze her words.
Her face flushed. "O-okay…"
He paid, thanked the nurse, and lifted Honoka again. Outside, the cool night air wrapped around them.
Yukino walked beside him, her hand brushing his sleeve. She glanced up at his profile — tired, calm, impossibly gentle — and wondered how someone could look that strong and that kind at once.
Tokyo's lights shimmered around them as they disappeared into the evening crowd — not just strangers from a train anymore, but something that was slowly, quietly, becoming a family.