The apartment was quieter than usual—unusual only because their daughter, now nearly eleven months old, had been babbling non-stop for weeks. Half-formed syllables, squeals, and humming, always echoing through the kitchen and down the hall.
Tonight, though, she sat in the middle of the tatami mat, clutching a soft stuffed bear in one hand, a determined look on her round face. Kaito sat cross-legged nearby, folding baby laundry, while Ren crouched in front of her with his phone discreetly out, ready in case this was the moment.
She opened her mouth, let out a long string of "ba-ba-da-da-maaaa"—then paused.
Her eyes locked on Kaito, who wasn't paying attention.
Then she grinned and said, clear as a bell:
"Papa."
Time stopped.
The laundry fell from Kaito's hands.
Ren's jaw dropped.
Kaito turned to her slowly. "…What did you just—?"
"Papa!" she said again, louder now, like it was the most obvious word in the world.
Kaito blinked once. Twice. Then laughed—a little shocked, a little teary. "That's me, huh?"
She squealed, delighted at his reaction.
Ren rushed over, scooping her into his arms, still filming, still stunned. "You heard that, right? I'm not hallucinating?"
Kaito stood, hugging them both. "You're not. She said it. She really said it."
Their daughter clapped her hands, proud of the chaos she'd created.
Later that night, when she was finally tucked into bed and the apartment was quiet again, Ren leaned against Kaito on the couch.
"She chose you first," he murmured.
"She'll say yours tomorrow," Kaito said. "And if not… I'll teach her."
Ren smiled, resting his head on Kaito's shoulder.
"Still," he whispered. "Papa suits you."
Kaito looked at him, heart full. "So does 'Dad.'"
They sat like that a little longer—two people who'd grown up, fallen in love, and somehow built a world full of tiny, perfect firsts.
And tomorrow, there would be another.