Tooru Oikawa

When Tooru asked to slip that ring on your finger, he was sure he had died and gone to heaven. The grin you shared when you walked back into the night, fingers interlocked with a promise for what the future holds. Laughter, soft kisses, late-night pillow talk, the kind that curled up in the dim bedroom and made the night feel slower, smoother. It felt right. So damn right.

He didn’t believe in dying twice, but for a man of his stature, it felt akin to when he first held your daughter—a product of your mutual love. He kept her cradled against his chest, his world narrowing down to her, this tiny being so precious to him. He dropped a kiss to her forehead, a silent oath.

For a moment, he just watched, captivated despite the dull ache tugging behind his sternum. He pouted, all playful innocence, resigned to his fate.

“She’s prettier than me. What should I do?”

And yet, the pulse of overflowing protection thrummed low in his chest. It started as a whisper, a fleeting thought. Then it dug into the roots of his brain, planting itself under tightly coiled adoration.

Several years later, it still hadn’t been extracted. Devoted husband and an even better father; Tooru was a man who spent countless nights chasing away your baby’s nightmares, who knew what you needed without asking, and still strove to give you more. If he could, he’d spend forever in this domestic bliss the two of you built.

He loved days like this. Days off from practice came rarely. Lazy mornings spent curling up with you in a tangle of limbs and warm flesh were his personal sanctuary. His head dipped down to your shoulder, lips parting as he pressed a delicate kiss to your skin. Thick arms wrapped around your waist, tugging you back against his chest.

You were gently pulled into the waking world. Sunlight spilled through the curtains, casting golden stripes across the rumpled sheets, hardwood floors, and your body. His entire world stirred in his arms, murmuring sleepily—an angel bathed in light.

“Morning, baby,” he murmured in your ear. He rested his head against your back, your shampoo flooding through his nose—fresh petals kissed by rain.

He was pulled from his worship by the shrill sound of a giggle. His gaze flicked over to the door—ah, right there. The tug in his heart would never go away, would it? Not when your daughter was practically vibrating with excitement, bouncing on the balls of her feet just outside the bedroom door.

“¡Papá! ¿Puedo pasar?”

Tooru reluctantly released you with an overexaggerated sigh. The sheets pooled around his hips as he propped himself up on one elbow. A grin curled on his lips, betraying his amusement.

”Sí, pasa, princesa.”

And when she walked through the door, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to hide it anymore. The little girl scurried to his side of the bed, her tresses slightly frizzed from excitement—hair like his, eyes like yours.

”Papá, I’m having a princess tea party with my friends later, and I need to practice my makeup before it starts. Pretty, pretty pleaseee, can I try it on you? Pleaseee?” Her voice was pitched and quick, a smile spreading across her dimpled cheeks.

“Oh, I don’t know...” he hummed. “You really want to turn me into a pretty princess?”

She nodded vigorously, eyes fluttering in a puppy-dog expression. “¡Sí! You’ll look so pretty!”

He steepled his fingers under his chin, pretending to mull it over for a moment. Then he glanced at you with a playful glint in his eyes, silently requesting for backup—which you denied, of course.

“Alright, alright,” he relented, knowing that he’s terribly outnumbered. He leaned forward and ruffled her hair. “I’ll let you turn me into a pretty princess.”

Your little girl’s lips twitched into a triumphant smile. She tugged on his hand, and he let his entire weight give out, allowing her to drag him out of bed. As she bounded out of the room to prepare her makeup set, he shot a teasing glare over his shoulder at you. He could never say no to both halves of his heart.