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The scent of damp earth clings to the afternoon air, thick with the weight of spent energy. Sneakers slap against the track, a rhythmic pulse that carries through the cooling twilight. Kei leans back against the metal fence, hands buried in the deep pockets of his long coat. The wind ruffles his hair, but he doesn’t move to fix it. His gaze is locked ahead, tracking the fluid motion of a single runner—Taki.
His son moves with precision, arms slicing cleanly through the air, each step extending into effortless acceleration. Kei knows that stride. He used to have it too. Mika had those long legs, but the stubborn drive—that was all Kei.
Taki powers through the final meters, his pace fluid, effortless. As he crosses the line, he slows into a jog, breath steady despite the exertion. Then, with a quick turn, he flashes a grin and waves at his teammate Harua, who’s waiting by the benches.
Kei hasn’t thought of Mika in a long time, but sometimes—like now—memories slip through the cracks. Not in grand, obvious ways, but in the curve of Taki’s smile, the way it tilts just so, familiar and fleeting, the past brushing against the present.
A sharp whistle cuts through the air. “That’s it for today!”
Coach Fuma’s voice carries across the track, steady and firm. Kei’s eyes shift, drawn to the man standing at the edge of the field. Fuma’s stance is relaxed, one hand resting against his hip, the other spinning his whistle idly as he watches the last of the runners wind down.
Taki makes his way toward the benches, dropping onto the seat beside Harua. His shoulders sag, breath still coming in controlled exhales. Sweat clings to his skin, but there’s a quiet triumph in the way he wipes his face with his sleeve.
He looks fine, Kei tells himself. Steady breath, clear eyes. Happy, even.
But the thought doesn’t settle. It hovers, shifting under scrutiny. Was it always his choice? Or did he just learn to love the only road I knew how to lay before him?
Kei exhales, running a hand over his face. No, he thinks. This isn’t a burden. This isn’t me trying to rewrite my own past.
Still, the doubt lingers—quiet, persistent, just out of reach.
“Yo, Taki!” Kei pushes off the fence, swinging a plastic bag in the air. “Brought snacks.”
Taki lets out a long-suffering groan, tilting his head back against the bench like the weight of the world has just landed on his shoulders. “Dad, why do you always look like a PTA mom when you pick me up?”
Kei gasps, clutching his coat lapel like he’s been personally attacked. “Excuse me? This is a sexy coat.”
Taki squints at him. “It’s a dad coat.”
“Shows what you know about fashion.” Kei huffs, dropping onto the bench beside them.
Harua, sitting neatly beside Taki, straightens and bows slightly. “Good evening, Koga-san.”
Kei grins, ruffling Harua’s hair lightly before giving his shoulder a dad-like tap. “Yo, Harua. Good work today!”
Harua nods, cheeks tinged pink—not sure if it’s from exertion or mild embarrassment. “Yes, sir.”
Taki side-eyes him. “Since when do you call my dad ‘sir’?”
Kei smirks, leaning back against the bench. “Let the kid be polite. Unlike some people.”
Taki rolls his eyes, snatching the snack bag out of Kei’s hand. “Yeah, yeah. Hand over the goods.”
Kei lets him, but not without a warning glance. “Try sharing for once, yeah?”
Harua stifles a laugh, while Taki mutters something under his breath about unfair parenting.
Kei just shakes his head, but the warmth in his chest lingers.
A low chuckle pulls Kei’s attention, the sound rolling through the cool evening air. He doesn’t have to look to know who it belongs to.
Fuma steps closer, hands tucked into the pockets of his track jacket, eyes flicking toward the plastic bag in Kei’s grip. “Store-bought again, Koga-san?” His voice is light, teasing, but there’s a knowing lilt to it—like he’s already guessed the answer.
Kei narrows his eyes at him. “What, you keeping tabs on my choice of snacks?”
Fuma tilts his head, mouth twitching at the corners. “Just an observation.”
Kei huffs, crossing his arms. “I had work today. Couldn’t be bothered to make something at home. Besides, I cook dinner every night. Cut me some slack.”
Fuma hums, gaze flickering over him in quiet amusement. “Mm. So you do have some redeeming qualities.”
Kei scoffs, fighting the urge to grin. “Oh, please. I’m a total catch.”
Fuma smirks. “Debatable.”
Kei is about to fire back when Taki—not even pretending to be subtle—rips open a bag of chips with an unnecessarily loud crinkle, munching obnoxiously as he watches them.
Then, with the air of someone casually dropping a grenade into a conversation, he gestures between them and says, “You two should just go on a date already.”
Kei chokes. Fuma raises an eyebrow, exhaling a soft laugh through his nose.
The bag of chips crunches again. Taki grins. “I mean, you basically act like my two dads already.”
Kei groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh my God.”
Harua, ever the diplomat, coughs delicately into his fist, clearly pretending he didn’t hear a thing.
Kei, on the other hand, is suffering.
Because Fuma—not nearly as flustered as Kei would like him to be—simply tilts his head, studying him with quiet amusement. There’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he’s considering whether or not to push the moment further.
The wind picks up, rustling through the quiet, carrying the sharp scent of track dirt and late autumn chill. Kei exhales, shaking his head.
This situation is going to be the death of him.
---
Kei had never expected to raise a child alone, let alone one who would follow the same path he once chased.
Back then, people called him Kanto’s fastest kid. The finish line had always felt like a promise—something just ahead, something he could reach if he ran hard enough. He’d pictured medals, podiums, maybe even the Olympics. But then there was Taki, small and warm in his arms, and suddenly, running didn’t seem as important as holding on.
He doesn’t regret it. Not once. Nor does he blame Mika for what she did, for leaving. Some people weren’t meant to stay.
But sometimes, watching Taki now—watching him break into a sprint, muscles coiled with purpose, body tilting into the wind—Kei feels something tighten in his chest. A question, quiet but insistent: Is this what I wanted or what he wanted?
He never says it out loud. Never even lets the thought linger too long. But maybe children pick up on things anyway. Maybe it’s in the way Kei’s fingers curl into his sleeves when Taki wins, or the way his breath catches when he loses. Maybe it’s in how he stands by the track every practice, watching. Waiting.
Maybe it’s in the way Fuma looks at him sometimes—steady, knowing.
Like he understands exactly what Kei’s afraid of.
---
The sun hangs low, spilling gold over the track. Taki laughs at something Harua says, nudging him with an easy familiarity. Kei doesn’t miss the way Taki looks at him—like the world is just a little brighter when Harua’s around. Easily recognizable, because it’s the way Kei used to look at Mika.
“You should take a break, you know,” Fuma says, falling into step beside him.
Kei snorts. “I don’t need a break. It’s not like I have to train or anything.”
Fuma hums, watching the field. “You’re here every practice. I think you’re more dedicated than some of my students.”
Kei shrugs. “I just… want to make sure he’s doing okay.”
Fuma stops walking. Kei takes another step before realizing the presence at his side is gone. When he turns back, Fuma is watching him, brow slightly furrowed.
“Do you think he’s not okay?”
Kei hesitates. The words don’t come easily, not when they’ve been sitting heavy on his chest for so long.
“I just—” He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t want him to feel like he has to do this for me.”
Fuma nods slowly, as if fitting pieces of a puzzle together. “You know, after my injury, I thought I’d never be able to love running again.” His voice is steady, but Kei catches the way his fingers tighten around his whistle. “But coaching brought it back to me. I see these kids running, and it doesn’t feel like I lost something anymore. It feels like I passed it forward.”
Kei swallows, shifting his weight. “Yeah. Maybe that’s what I’m afraid of. That I passed it forward. And that this isn’t what he wants.”
Fuma studies him for a long moment, then smiles—small, but sure. “Taki loves running. That’s his dream. His very own.”
Kei lets out a slow breath. Maybe, for the first time, he believes it.
---
The kitchen is quiet except for the soft clink of chopsticks against ceramic. A single overhead light casts a warm glow over the table, turning the steam curling from Taki’s half-eaten rice into something almost ghostlike. But the boy isn’t eating. He’s stirring his food absently, gaze unfocused.
Kei leans against the doorframe for a moment, watching. Taki rarely sits still like this. He’s always moving—running, stretching, buzzing with energy that seems endless. To see him weighed down like this makes something tighten in Kei’s chest.
He pulls out a chair, resting his arms on the table. “What’s up?”
Taki twirls his chopsticks once, then exhales. “You know, Dad, I do like running.”
Kei stills.
“I know you think I feel pressured or something,” Taki continues, eyes still fixed on his plate. “But I don’t. I mean, yeah, sometimes it’s hard, and yeah, I don’t want to disappoint you, but it’s not because you’re forcing me.” He lifts his gaze then, steady and unwavering in a way that catches Kei off guard. “It’s just because you’re… you.”
Kei exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “Taki—”
“I just want to do my best,” Taki interrupts. Then he hesitates, before adding, “And I want you to do your best, too. You know, outside of me.”
Kei blinks. “Huh?”
Taki sighs like he’s dealing with an idiot. “You know what I mean.” He lifts a brow, smirking just a little. “Like, you and Fuma-sensei. You’re always hanging around each other. It’s kinda embarrassing.”
Kei groans, dropping his head onto the table. “Oh my God, not this again.”
Taki leans back, grinning now. “I’m just saying. You’re allowed to have things that are just for you. And—” he points his chopsticks at Kei for emphasis “—better Fuma-sensei than some of your past disasters. Your track record in dating is, frankly, tragic.”
Kei snaps his head up, scandalized. “Excuse me?”
Taki shrugs, looking far too smug. “I’m just looking out for you.”
“Oh yeah?” Kei narrows his eyes. “Then you better get your own love life in order first. But studies still take priority, okay? You have plenty of time to court Harua when you’re a bit older.”
Taki makes a strangled noise, eyes going wide in horror. “DAD!”
Kei cackles, ruffling Taki’s hair before standing. “That’s what you get for running your mouth.”
Taki groans, burying his face in his hands. “I take it back. Fuma-sensei deserves better.”
Kei tosses a dish towel at him. “Brat.”
But his heart feels lighter.
---
The sky is a dusky shade of blue, the last streaks of sunlight stretching long over the track. The air hums with the sound of rubber soles pounding against the ground, the sharp exhale of controlled breathing, the crisp snap of Fuma’s whistle as he marks the intervals.
Kei leans against the chain-link fence, arms crossed, watching as Taki and Harua round the final curve, feet hitting the track in perfect rhythm. The distance between them narrows, Harua pushing just a little harder, just enough for Taki to notice. Even from here, Kei sees it—the subtle smirk on Taki’s face, the spark in his eyes as he speeds up, matching Harua stride for stride. It’s less of a race and more of a conversation, a push-and-pull that neither of them wants to end.
Kei exhales through his nose. Kids these days.
“Still watching him like a hawk?”
The voice is familiar, steady. Kei doesn’t even have to turn to know Fuma is beside him, hands in his pockets, posture as composed as ever.
“I am his father,” Kei says, eyes never leaving the track.
Fuma hums. “You ever going to let him run without feeling like you need to be here?”
Kei scoffs. “You ever going to stop saying things that sound way too deep for a track coach?”
Fuma tilts his head slightly, amusement flickering in his eyes. “You ever going to stop deflecting?”
Kei makes a sound in the back of his throat—half a laugh, half a sigh. The worst part is that Fuma is right. He has been hovering. And yet, for the first time, watching Taki like this, something inside him starts to let go.
“You’re good at this,” Kei says after a pause.
Fuma glances at him. “At what?”
Kei nods toward the track. “Coaching. The way you push them without making them feel like they have to prove something.” He rubs the back of his neck. “You’re the kind of coach I wish I had back then.”
Fuma huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “I doubt you needed much coaching. From what I hear, Kanto’s fastest kid probably just needed someone to tell him to slow down once in a while.”
Kei smirks. “I was a bit of a menace.”
Fuma gives him a look. “Was?”
Kei lets out a mock-offended scoff but doesn’t argue. Instead, he gestures toward Taki, who’s wiping his face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt, mid-banter with Harua. “Well, he’s the one running now. And, uh… I guess I’m the one who has to slow down for him.”
Fuma watches for a moment, then nods, voice thoughtful. “You’re a good dad, you know.”
Kei startles a little at that—at how casually Fuma says it, like it’s just a fact. It catches him off guard in a way he isn’t used to, and suddenly, he’s not sure where to put his hands.
He clears his throat. “Well. I try.”
Fuma’s lips twitch into something small, something knowing. “I’d say you do more than that.”
Kei should say something. Anything. But his brain is short-circuiting, and his mouth is already running ahead of him. “You know, for someone who’s supposed to be an introvert, you’re incredibly suave.”
Fuma snorts. “Is that so?”
Kei grumbles, dragging a hand down his face. “See? There you go again.”
Another whistle blows—final lap. Harua bursts forward with a sudden kick, but Taki anticipates it, matching his pace as they sprint toward the finish line. Kei watches them, their movements sharp, fluid, free.
And then, softly, Fuma says, “You should let yourself have something for yourself too, Koga-san.”
Kei exhales. He already knows where this is going.
“So, what, are you making a move now?”
Fuma shrugs, but there’s a knowing gleam in his eyes. “I figured I should get there before you fumble it.”
Kei barks out a laugh. “You assume I would fumble it?”
Fuma raises an eyebrow. Kei grins.
The final whistle blows. Taki and Harua cross the finish line together, breathless, triumphant. Taki turns, catching sight of them, and his smile stretches wide, teasing. He nudges Harua with his shoulder, whispering something that makes Harua flush.
Kei groans. “Oh great. He saw us talking. I’m never going to hear the end of this.”
Fuma smirks. “He’s your son.”
Kei watches as Taki nudges Harua again, a little bolder this time, a glint of mischief in his eyes.
“Yeah,” he says, shaking his head with a chuckle. “He really is.”
And then, just as the last of the sun dips below the horizon, Kei turns to Fuma and finally, finally, takes his own first step forward.