Ink and Instinct

Not What He Thought

The corridor outside the lecture hall buzzed with voices, but Kaito barely registered them. He moved like a ghost, the words my son echoing in his mind, each repetition more surreal than the last. Haruto's voice had been calm, almost clinical, but the impact was anything but.

Was it just an excuse? A convenient way to escape the tension that had crackled between them like static? Or was it real—was Haruto someone entirely different outside the confines of the university?

Riku caught up to him, grinning like he'd just witnessed a soap opera cliffhanger. "So... what was that?" he asked, nudging Kaito's arm. "You looked like you were about to combust in there."

Kaito gave a half-smile, the kind that didn't reach his eyes. "Nothing. Just... weird timing."

Riku wasn't convinced. "Weird timing or weird feelings?"

Kaito didn't answer. He ducked into the crowd, leaving Riku behind with a shrug and a knowing smirk.

Across town, Haruto stood outside the after-school center, watching as Ren burst through the doors with a backpack twice his size and a smile that could melt glaciers. The boy launched himself into Haruto's arms, and the professor—so often composed and unreadable—softened instantly.

"Papa! Did you know that frogs can freeze and still be alive?"

Haruto chuckled, brushing Ren's hair back. "I did. But I bet you know more about frogs than I do."

They drove home in Haruto's compact car, Ren buckled into the backseat, legs swinging and voice full of energy. He chattered about science facts and playground drama, jumping from frogs to a kid who brought dried squid for lunch. Haruto responded with quiet warmth, asking questions, laughing softly at Ren's tangents. His mind drifted only once—to the student with steel-grey eyes and a gaze that lingered too long. But he pushed the thought aside, focusing on the road, on Ren, on the evening ahead.

They ordered pizza, curled up on the couch, and watched a movie Ren had picked—something animated and chaotic. Haruto didn't care. Ren leaned against him, warm and trusting, and for a few hours, the world outside didn't matter.

Meanwhile, Kaito's apartment was quiet, save for the low hum of the city beyond the windows. He paced, restless, replaying every moment from the lecture hall. Haruto had a son. That should've been a red flag—a clear reason to let go of whatever strange pull he felt.

But instead, it made everything messier. More human. More real.

He tried to distract himself—music, scrolling, even cleaning—but nothing worked. His thoughts kept circling back to Haruto. The way he'd looked when he said it. The way he'd left, like nothing had happened. Like it hadn't meant anything.

Eventually, Kaito stepped out onto the balcony, the night air cool against his skin. He lit a cigarette, though he barely smoked anymore, and stared out at the city lights. The skyline blurred slightly, like memory, like longing. He inhaled deeply, letting the smoke settle in his lungs before releasing it into the night.

He barely knew Haruto. But something about seeing him again had shifted something. Pretending it didn't matter felt dishonest—even if it should.

He exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl upward. Some things didn't make sense. Some things weren't supposed to.

But they still happened. And sometimes, they refused to be forgotten.