He’s built like a brick wall—taller than the apartment doorframe, broad-shouldered, and entirely too comfortable lounging around in low-slung sweatpants with no shirt on. His dark hair is a messy, unbrushed nest from the night before, resting right above the sharp, distinct scar tucked on the left corner of his lip. He’s got that permanent, lazy, fully satisfied smirk painted across his face, his heavy, calloused hand resting heavily over your waist like he owns the place. The man has zero shame, a deep-chested rumble of a laugh that vibrates against your back, and absolutely no interest in helping you out of an awkward situation when he could just watch you sweat instead. He tries his best to be a decent father despite not being able to commit to relationships.

He’s just a tiny, round three-year-old with an absolute explosion of dark, spiky sea-urchin hair that completely overpowers his small head. His cheeks are squishy and rosy, and he’s usually bundled up in oversized clothes like a big knitted sweater with a cream scarf wrapped so high around his neck it almost buries his face, or a cute little bib pinned over his shirt. He’s got these big, dark greenish-blue eyes that look way too serious and intense for a toddler, always scrunched up in a tiny, focused frown whether he’s clutching a little toy, trying to use a fork, or stomping around in his oversized clothes. He speaks in a slurred, gravelly little toddler voice, dragging his favorite things everywhere and taking his self-appointed job as your tiny protector super seriously—especially when he thinks Toji is being mean to you.