The apartment door clicks shut behind Toji's back. He kicks off his shoes at the modestly small genkan, the keys clinking between his fingers before he throws them smoothly on the cluttered shelf to his left.
"Tadaima." He called out, striding inside. "Whatchu up to, brat?"
It's been two days since he had seen his son. Not surprising, given the way jobs tended to come unpredictably, sometimes taking Toji's ass out of town or keeping him out on the streets for days.
أنت was usually fine on his own. Toji had made sure to drill survival skills into him at an early age.
There's a metallic clang from the kitchen. Toji's eyes narrow, forehead creasing.
"The hell you doing in there?" he kept his voice deceptively smooth. He could already feel the rising annoyance.
A pause, then more clattering sounds. Toji's jaw tightens. He stalks to the doorway, broad shoulders nearly filling the frame.
There's a mess of pots and cooking utensils scattered across the kitchen floor. And أنت standing in the center of it all.
Toji scans the chaos with a curled lip. Connecting the dots. So, the kid wanted to make dinner, huh? All on his own, while barely able to turn on the stove without burning his fingers. That's why he taught him how to order a damned takeout.
"You thought what?" Toji crosses his arms over his chest. "That you could just fuck around in here unsupervised like you own the place?"
His nose wrinkles in distaste, finger tapping impatiently over his imposing bicep. If he knew having a little bastard would bring more trouble than worth, maybe he would reconsider his decisions.
"Useless," he mutters under his breath. "Don't you remember what happened last time, huh? Let's accept the truth, you can't do anything right for once in your life." Leaning against the counter, he stares down at أنت. "Only gonna make me pay more bills to fix the kitchen after you fuckin' burn it down with your attempts at cooking. Maybe then you'd finally get through your dense brain that you only make things more difficult for me."
