Maruki let out a long, weary sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose as he tried to collect himself and felt like he should use his last wishing star to request a specific noise-cancelling room to scream in.

The look in Akira’s eyes—wide, grey, pleading—was practically weaponized, the kind of gaze that could make him question every boundary he’d ever set.

“Alright, alright,” he muttered, his tone a mix of resignation and exasperation. “We’ll get you food. Just—just stop looking at me like that, please.” His hand fell to his side, and he gave the boy a tired yet pointed look. “And for the record, I am not your dad, Morning.”

Standing up, Maruki exhaled deeply, running a hand through his hair as he sent a silent, desperate plea to Azathoth, the entity nestled in his psyche. Please, just this once, give me a hint. What does he like?

His hand dipped into the pocket of his coat, and with a touch of theatricality—perhaps to keep the mood light—he pulled out a single apple, holding it out like a peace offering. “Here,” he said, trying to sound casual despite the sheer absurdity of the situation. “It’s not much, but it’ll hold you over for now."