And yet, seated beside you at supper in the smaller hall reserved for the royal household, Valarr discovered that his attention had wandered once again.

The table glowed with the warm reflection of candlelight. Servants moved quietly between courses, setting down platters of roasted quail and bowls of stewed apples. Conversation flowed easily along the length of the table—his father discussing the day’s petitions, a cousin recounting some minor absurdity from the city below.

Valarr heard none of it.

He was thinking about the way your hand felt inside his.

Your fingers rested in his grasp beneath the tablecloth, warm and soft against his palm. He had taken your hand absentmindedly at the beginning of the meal, intending nothing more than idle affection, yet some quiet instinct had tightened his hold and refused to release it.

You shifted slightly beside him.

“Husband,” you murmured pleasantly, “as much as I enjoy the touch of your hand, I should also like to enjoy my dinner.”

Your fingers wiggled in a patient attempt to loosen his grip.

Valarr blinked, drawn abruptly back to the present.

“Ah—sorry,” he said at once.

The apology was sincere.

His hand did not move.

You glanced sideways at him, brows lifting in amused disbelief. “Your words and your actions appear to disagree.”

He cleared his throat, finally loosening his hold by perhaps half an inch. “I did not realize I was holding so tightly.”

“You have imprisoned my hand for the better part of a course.”

“I was distracted.”

“So I have gathered.” The corner of your mouth curved as you reached for your spoon with your free hand, attempting to resume your meal. The attempt lasted all of three seconds before Valarr, still watching you with quiet concentration, lifted his own spoon instead.

“Allow me,” he said.

You stared at him.

“What?”

“You said you wished to eat,” he replied, as though the matter were self-evident. “If your hand is otherwise occupied, it seems proper that I assist.”

His logic was delivered in perfect seriousness.

You looked from the spoon to Valarr’s utterly composed expression, clearly attempting to determine whether he was teasing.

He was not.

“Valarr,” you said carefully, “I am quite capable of feeding myself.”

“Ordinarily, yes,” Valarr agreed.

“And also presently.”

“You are presently missing one hand,” he tuts.

“Because you refuse to release it!”

“Oh, but that does not negate the inconvenience.”

You stared at him for another moment before a soft laugh escaped you despite your efforts.

“You cannot be serious.”

He raised the spoon slightly closer to your mouth.

“You will grow hungry otherwise.”

A faint murmur of poorly concealed amusement rippled along the table. Valarr ignored it with princely indifference, his attention fixed entirely upon you as though this exchange were the most reasonable arrangement in the world.

Your eyes narrowed with playful suspicion.

“I do not like how much you are enjoying this.”

Your husband looks at you innocently, “I am merely solving a problem.”

“You created the problem.”

“And so I am addressing it efficiently.”

The spoon remained suspended patiently between you. 

For a moment you seemed inclined to refuse on principle. Then your gaze flicked toward the observing relatives who had suddenly developed a deep interest in their goblets.

Your shoulders lifted in a small, conceding sigh.

“Very well,” you said.

Valarr’s expression did not change, but the faintest flicker of satisfaction touched his eyes as you leaned forward and accepted the offered bite.

“There,” he said calmly. “Problem solved.”

You chewed thoughtfully.

“Have you considered,” you said after swallowing, “that you might simply release my hand?”

He looked down at your fingers still resting securely within his.

“The thought has yet to cross my mind.”

The answer arrived without hesitation.

“And why not?”

Valarr regarded you with mild surprise, as though the reason were obvious.

“Because I prefer it where it is.”

The simplicity of the admission caught you off guard. A faint warmth crept into your expression, though you quickly disguised it by reaching for your goblet.

Across the table, Baelor finally gave up any pretense of ignoring the exchange.

“Valarr,” his father said dryly, “your wife does possess two perfectly functional hands.”

“Yes,” Valarr agreed.

He offered you another spoonful.

“She is choosing not to use one of them.”

You covered your face briefly with your free hand, laughter escaping despite your best efforts.

“Your Highness,” you said between breaths, “I fear I may have married a madman.”

Valarr tilted his head slightly, considering.

“If that were true,” he said, lowering his voice just enough that the others could not easily hear, “you would not look quite so pleased about it.”

You turned toward him again then, meeting his gaze directly, and for a brief moment the playful noise of the hall faded around you.

His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around yours beneath the table. Nothing else explained why something as simple as holding your hand across a supper table felt more satisfying than any victory he had ever claimed in the yard.

Valarr lifted the spoon once more.

“Another bite,” he said.

You studied him for a moment, amusement lingering in your eyes.

Then you leaned forward obediently.

The court that morning had assembled in the long audience chamber where tall windows admitted pale light, spreading across the polished stone floor in long bands of gold. Banners bearing the three-headed dragon stirred faintly in the draft from the galleries above, and the chamber hummed with the low murmur of noble voices.

The formal petitions had concluded not long before, leaving the court in that softer hour where conversation replaced ceremony and the true work of politics continued.

Valarr stood among them with the patience expected of a prince who had been raised within such rooms all his life. His posture remained relaxed, his expression attentive, though he had long ago learned to hear the direction of a conversation before it first began.

The lord presently speaking to him possessed the unfortunate confidence of a man who believed himself very clever.

Lord Harwyn was not an important man, though he behaved as though he might become one if he spoke often enough in the right company. His beard had gone mostly silver, and he held his wine cup with the thoughtful air of someone preparing to deliver an observation of significance.

“Your Grace,” he said warmly, inclining his head. “It seems scarcely a moment since the realm celebrated your wedding. Time passes more quickly every year, does it not?”

Valarr acknowledged the remark with a polite inclination of his own.

“So I am told.”

“Two moons already, I believe?” the lord continued. “Perhaps three?”

“Two,” Valarr said.

“Ah.” Lord Harwyn nodded, swirling the wine in his goblet. “A young marriage still, then. The realm, of course, watches such unions with great hope.”

Several courtiers within earshot grew subtly attentive.

Valarr recognized the turn of the conversation at once. It was not an unfamiliar path.

“Hope,” the lord repeated thoughtfully, “for the continuation of so distinguished a line. Naturally one understands these things take time. Still, one cannot help but wonder when the gods might see fit to bless the union with… news.”

The remark hovered politely in the air.

It was delivered as sympathy.

It carried the unmistakable shape of a provocation.

Valarr regarded Lord Harwyn for a moment with mild consideration, as though the man had asked an unexpectedly practical question about taxation.

“You are quite right,” he said calmly. “The realm is very interested in such matters.”

The lord smiled, satisfied that his point had landed.

Valarr lifted his goblet and took an unhurried sip of wine before continuing.

“I can assure you, however,” he said, “that there is no lack of enthusiasm in the royal apartments.”

The silence that followed arrived with impressive speed.

Lord Harwyn blinked.

“I—Your Grace?”

Valarr seemed faintly surprised by the confusion.

“You appeared concerned that the marriage lacked… progress,” he explained with perfect courtesy. “I wished to reassure you that my wife and I are very diligent.”

Several listeners abruptly found the far wall fascinating.

The lord attempted a laugh that emerged somewhat thinner than intended. “Oh, I would never presume—”

“Quite right,” Valarr agreed pleasantly.

He tilted his head slightly, as though recalling something important.

“Although,” he added, with the faintest suggestion of amusement touching the corner of his mouth, “I should mention that two moons is hardly an extended campaign. Even the most determined efforts require a reasonable span of time.”

Lord Harwyn’s goblet hovered halfway to his mouth, forgotten entirely.

“I see,” he said weakly.

Valarr regarded him with polite interest.

“Do you require further clarification, my lord?”

“No!” the man said quickly. “None whatsoever.”

“Good.”

Valarr inclined his head once more, entirely satisfied that the matter had been addressed.

Across the chamber, several courtiers exchanged looks that balanced precariously between admiration and disbelief.

Because the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, ordinarily the most composed man in any room, had just spoken of his marriage with scandalous candor.

The murmurs began almost immediately after he excused himself and crossed the chamber.

A lady from the Stormlands leaned toward her companion with quiet amusement.

“Well,” she whispered, “one cannot accuse the prince of neglecting his duties.”

Her companion’s smile was thoughtful.

“Indeed not.”

She glanced toward the far side of the hall, where you stood speaking with one of the ladies of the court, sunlight catching the pale silk at your shoulders.

“It seems,” she added softly, “that the princess has discovered how to coax a very disciplined man into honesty.”

Across the chamber, Valarr approached you with his usual composed stride.

You glanced up at him as he reached your side, your expression brightening immediately.

“My husband,” you said lightly, “why does Lord Harwyn looking at us as though he has swallowed a lemon?”

Valarr followed your gaze briefly before returning his attention to you.

“I believe,” he said mildly, “that he asked a question and received a thorough answer.”

You studied him for a moment.

The faint, suspicious curve of your smile suggested you did not entirely believe that explanation.

Nevertheless, your hand slipped easily through his arm, and as you leaned closer to murmur something that drew a rare, quiet laugh from him, several observers arrived at the same conclusion at once.

Whatever enchantment lay upon the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdom was not subtle.

And he did not appear to mind it in the least.

The chamber reserved for your afternoon preparations overlooked one of the inner gardens of the Red Keep, where roses climbed the stone walls and the early light filtered softly through tall lattice windows. Within the room, however, the atmosphere remained pleasantly unhurried.

Your handmaiden stood behind you, drawing a brush through your hair while you examined your reflection in the tall mirror set beside the dressing table. A tray of pins and ribbons lay neatly arranged nearby, and the gown selected for the evening. It is something dark and elegant, appropriate for court—waiting across the room where it had been carefully laid out.

For the moment, however, you remained comfortably seated in a simple shift of soft linen, your hair half-brushed and loose about your shoulders.

“Your Grace,” your handmaiden said after a moment, her tone careful.

The brush slowed slightly as though she were debating whether to continue.

“Yes?”

She hesitated, watching your reflection through the mirror as though deciding whether the question might cost her position.

“I do not mean to overstep my post,” she said finally, “but I have wondered something for some time.”

You lifted one brow with polite curiosity, tilting your head just enough that a loose strand of hair slid across your shoulder.

“Oh?”

“I was wondering,” she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “what charms you used on Prince Valarr.”

You blinked, the surprise entirely genuine.

“What?”

“He is just so…” She searched for a word. “…enamored.”

Your smile appeared almost immediately, slow and amused.

“Is he?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” she said with the earnest of someone who had spent weeks observing the evidence. “Everyone sees it.”

You leaned back slightly in the chair, the linen of your shift rustling softly as you shifted.

“Everyone?”

The brush paused briefly in your hair.

“You always know how to parry with him,” she continued. “In words, I mean. And he looks at you as though he has just remembered something important.”

You laughed softly, the sound light in the quiet room.

“That sounds awfully dramatic.”

“It is true,” the girl insisted. “You could wear a sack and he would still want to jump your—”

The door opened.

Your handmaiden stopped speaking so abruptly the brush nearly slipped from her hand.

Valarr entered mid-stride, clearly intending to finish whatever thought had occupied him before crossing the threshold.

“I wanted to speak with you about the arrangements for the evening audience because I believe the steward has misunderstood my—”

He stopped.

Entirely.

The remainder of the sentence dissolved somewhere between his mind and his mouth.

You turned slightly in your chair, the movement causing the loose fabric of your shift to shift along your shoulder.

“Good afternoon, husband.”

Valarr did not answer at once.

His gaze had fixed upon you with the kind of stunned look that suggested whatever he had come to say had completely abandoned him the moment he saw you.

Your shift, light and unadorned, slipped loosely over your shoulders, the linen catching the afternoon sun where it gathered at your collarbone. Your hair, only half-brushed, fell freely down your back in waves that had not yet been arranged into the composed elegance usually seen at court.

It was, by all reasonable standards, a perfectly innocent sight. However, your husband looked as though he had been struck by something invisible.

Your handmaiden, sensing with sudden clarity that she had wandered into dangerous territory, lowered her eyes and very quietly pretended to rearrange the ribbons on the dressing table.

Valarr cleared his throat.

“You cannot wear that.”

You stared at him through the mirror.

“I beg your pardon?”

“That,” he repeated, gesturing vaguely in your direction as though the concept required no further elaboration.

You looked down at the shift, pinching the linen lightly between your fingers.

Then back at him.

“It is a linen shift,” you said patiently.

“Yes.”

“You are aware that it is worn beneath clothing.”

“I am very aware,” Valarr said stiffly.

“And I am presently getting dressed.”

“Yes.”

“Then why,” you asked sweetly, “is my undergarment suddenly a matter of royal concern?”

Valarr opened his mouth. Closed it, gaze flickering briefly toward your handmaiden before returning to you with visible restraint.

“Because,” he said carefully, “the door was open.”

“And?”

“And anyone could walk in.”

Your handmaiden coughed softly, still facing the table, her shoulders rising slightly as she tried to remain invisible.

You tilted your head, studying him with growing amusement.

“Anyone did walk in.”

Valarr’s jaw tightened slightly.

“That is precisely the issue.”

You studied him for a moment before your smile widened with unmistakable mischief.

“Husband,” you said, “are you jealous of my shift?”

“I am not jealous of a piece of garment.”

“Then what has got you so worked up?”

Valarr did not answer immediately. Instead, he stepped farther into the room and shut the door, the latch settling firmly into place.

Your handmaiden froze where she stood.

Valarr returned his attention to you.

“I am objecting,” he said calmly, “to the possibility that anyone else might see what I am presently seeing.”

Your brows lifted.

“Which is?”

He gestured again.

“You!”

You spread your hands lightly, the gesture causing the loose sleeves of the shift to fall farther along your arms.

“I should hope so.”

“In that,” he continued dryly, “there lies the problem.”

You laughed, the sound bright in the quiet room.

“Valarr, if you wish me to remain unseen by the world, you will find court life very inconvenient.”

“Believe me, I am already finding it inconvenient,” he mutters angrily.

Your handmaiden’s shoulders trembled slightly as she attempted to remain silent.

You caught the movement in the mirror and raised one brow.

“Am I amusing you?”

“No, Your Grace,” she said quickly.

Valarr folded his arms.

“You encourage this.”

“Encourage what?”

“The habit of speaking freely in your presence.”

“Would you prefer I frighten the servants?”

“That might simplify matters.”

You turned in your chair to face him fully now, your eyes bright with teasing.

“My prince,” you said, “I am really having a hard time imagining how you survived before marrying me.”

“I was calmer,” he said at once. “And lonelier.” He paused.

Your handmaiden watched the exchange with growing fascination.

Because what she had said earlier was true: you did parry with him, effortlessly, and the Crown Prince—who intimidated half the court into respectful silence—appeared strangely content to be challenged.

Valarr exhaled quietly.

“You should at least have closed the door.”

“Might I remind you that you were the one who opened it.”

“Well, you should have anticipated that.”

“You are suggesting I should predict your movements now?”

“Precisely.”

You tilted your head thoughtfully, one finger absently tracing the edge of the mirror frame.

“That seems like a great deal of responsibility.”

“It would spare me unnecessary distress.”

“Distress?” you echoed, delighted. “Over a shift?”

“Yes,” your husband affirms, exasperated.

You leaned forward slightly.

“Husband,” you said softly, “if this distresses you, I dread to think what will happen when I put the gown on.”

Valarr looked genuinely uncertain.

Your handmaiden’s eyes widened slightly at the exact moment the formidable Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms realized he had walked into a battle he might not win.

“You do this deliberately,” he said.

“Of course.”

“Why?”

Your smile softened just a fraction.

“Because you look very handsome when you lose your composure.”

He stared at you.

Your handmaiden stared at both of you.

And slowly Valarr’s expression shifted. “Well,” he said quietly, “that is an unfortunate habit.”

Valarr stopped beside your chair, looking down at you with an intensity that made your handmaiden suddenly very interested in the arrangement of hairpins again.

“Then,” he said softly, “you should take care.”

“Why?”

His mouth curved very slightly.

“Because I will return the favor.”

You studied him for a moment. Then your smile returned, brighter than before.

“I look forward to the attempt.”

Behind you, your handmaiden finally understood. It was not charms that bewitched the prince. It was the simple  truth that you spoke to the Crown Prince as though he were merely a man. And Valarr  seemed to adore you for it.

That midnight, the heavy curtains around the bed stirred faintly with the breeze from the open window, carrying with it the cool salt smell of Blackwater Bay.

You had been asleep. Very soundly, in fact.

Until you woke with the distinct and increasingly urgent realization that you were terribly thirsty.

For a moment, you lay still beneath the blankets, blinking into the dimness as you gathered your senses, your mind slow with sleep. Your throat felt dry, and somewhere on the small table across the chamber sat the pitcher of water that suddenly seemed impossibly far away.

You sighed softly.

It would only take a moment.

Carefully you attempted to sit up.

You did not get far.

An arm tightened around your waist with immediate precision, dragging you firmly back against the warm solid weight behind you before you had even lifted your head from the pillow.

Valarr.

His bare chest was pressed along your back beneath the blankets, warm and solid, his skin still heated from sleep, and his face was buried somewhere near the curve of your neck, his breath slow and warm against your skin. One arm was wrapped so securely around your middle that it felt less like an embrace and more like a restraint devised by a particularly affectionate gaoler, his hand splayed across the soft fabric of your shift as though even in sleep he required the reassurance that you were still there.

You attempted again, gently shifting your weight.

The arm tightened further, his body instinctively following yours so that your back pressed even more firmly into him.

You sighed again, though this time it came out quieter, more resigned.

“Valarr,” you murmured softly.

No response.

You nudged his forearm where it lay across your stomach.

“Valarr.”

Still nothing.

He made a vague sound that might have been a hum or a protest and pulled you a fraction closer, if such a thing were even possible, his face pressing more firmly against the warm hollow beneath your ear.

You stared at the canopy above the bed.

This was going to be difficult.

You reached back, patting lightly at his arm.

“My prince,” you tried again, your voice barely louder than a whisper.

A long moment passed.

Then, at last, he stirred—only enough that his brow shifted against your shoulder and his grip tightened once more, subconsciously ensuring that something precious had not wandered off in the night. His fingers flexed faintly against your waist, brushing the fabric of your shift as though seeking skin beneath it.

“Mm.”

You waited for his reply, but nothing else followed.

“Valarr,” you said again, a little more insistently now, though still quiet enough not to shatter the fragile peace of the room.

He inhaled slowly, the breath warm against the back of your neck, and muttered something into your skin that was decidedly not a word.

“I need to get up.”

Another pause.

His hand slid lazily over your waist as though attempting to soothe you back into stillness, his thumb tracing a slow, absentminded line along your side.

“No,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

You blinked.

“Stay.”

You turned your head slightly, peering back at him over your shoulder.

His eyes were still closed, lashes resting against his cheeks, his hair a dark and thoroughly disordered halo against the pillow. For a prince who spent his waking hours composed and precise to the point of severity, he looked thoroughly rumpled now—bare-chested beneath the blankets, hair mussed, his arm stubbornly locked around you like a man who had no intention of surrendering his hold.

And entirely unmovable.

“Valarr,” you said patiently, “I cannot stay.”

A faint frown appeared between his brows, though his eyes remained stubbornly shut.

“Why.”

“I am thirsty.”

Another long pause followed as your husband processed this grievous piece of information.

Then his arm tightened again, pulling you back against the steady heat of him.

“There is water,” he said vaguely.

“Yes,” you replied, glancing toward the table across the room. “Over there.”

Silence.

Then, very slowly, his eyes opened.

He stared at the dark canopy above the bed for several seconds as if deeply reconsidering the existence of thirst itself, before his gaze drifted downward toward you, lingering with slow reluctance.

You waited.

He blinked once, heavily.

“Drink it in the morning.”

You let out a quiet laugh.

“I would if I could survive that long.”

Valarr made a soft, dissatisfied sound and buried his face back into the hollow of your neck, his nose brushing the sensitive skin there as though the argument might simply end if he held you closer.

“No.”

“Valarr.”

“No.”

“Valarr,” you repeated, this time gently prying at his arm. “I truly must go.”

He groaned softly, the sound low and entirely put-upon, but after a moment his hold loosened just enough for you to slip free, though his hand lingered stubbornly at your waist as though reluctant to let you escape entirely.

You barely managed to sit up before a hand closed lazily around your wrist.

You turned.

Valarr was watching you now, his eyes half-lidded and unfocused with sleep, his expression the particular kind of weary irritation reserved for inconveniences occurring in the middle of the night.

“Where,” he asked slowly, “do you think you are going.”

You gestured toward the table.

“Water.”

His gaze followed your hand.

He squinted at the distant pitcher as though it had personally offended him.

Then he sighed—long and dramatic—and pushed himself up onto one elbow, the blankets sliding slightly down his torso.

“Wait.”

“I am already halfway there.”

“Wait.”

Before you could argue further, he dragged a hand through his already unruly hair and swung his legs over the side of the bed, still blinking like a man who had been dragged unwillingly from the deepest sleep.

You blinked.

“Valarr, you do not need to—”

“I am coming with you.”

You stared at him.

“To fetch water?”

He gave you a look that suggested this was an extraordinarily foolish question.

“You are wandering across the chamber in the middle of the night,” he said hoarsely. “I am not letting you do it alone.”

You could not help the smile that tugged at your mouth.

“It is merely three steps.”

“It is still across the room.”

“Goodness, you are being absurd.”

“And you are terribly demanding for someone who woke me,” he muttered, pushing himself fully to his feet and immediately reaching for you again.

You laughed quietly as he guided you toward the table with a hand resting at the small of your back, his palm warm even through the thin fabric of your shift, his movements slow with lingering sleep.

The floor was cool beneath your feet, the chamber peaceful in the dim glow of the dying fire.

He poured the water himself, blinking down into the cup like a man performing a complex diplomatic task.

Then he handed it to you.

You drank gratefully, the cool water easing the dryness in your throat.

Valarr watched you the entire time, his expression softening slightly as the last of your sleepiness faded, his gaze lingering with quiet attentiveness as though ensuring the crisis had truly passed.

When you finished, he took the cup from your hand and set it back beside the pitcher.

“Well?” he asked quietly.

“Well what?”

“Better?”

You nodded.

“Much.”

He seemed satisfied with this answer.

Without another word, he took your hand again and guided you back to the bed, pulling the blankets aside with sleepy determination.

The moment you settled beneath them, Valarr followed immediately, drawing you back against him with quiet urgency as though reclaiming something temporarily misplaced.

This time he pulled you closer still, one arm sliding firmly around your waist while the other slipped beneath the blanket to rest against the bare skin of your side, clearly dissatisfied with the barrier of fabric. His palm settled there, warm and possessive, his chest pressed along your back once more as he tucked you securely against him.

You smiled faintly into the pillow.

“You realize,” you murmured, “I could have fetched the water myself.”

Valarr’s voice came low and drowsy beside your ear.

“I am aware.” His grip tightened slightly, his fingers brushing slowly along your skin now that they had found it, the touch absentminded and deeply content.

“But,” he said after a moment, his voice softening with that rare warmth he saved only for you, “if you are awake, I would rather be awake with you.”

You felt the faint press of his lips against your temple before his face settled once more into the curve of your neck, his breathing gradually slowing again as sleep reclaimed him.

And though the pitcher now sat only a few steps away, you found that you no longer minded being held quite so tightly by the same man who, in the daylight, unhorsed knights before roaring crowds yet seemed entirely incapable of sleeping without his wife firmly within reach.

Your fingers curled around the edge of the screen door. You forced yourself not to make a sound, not to breathe too loudly in fear of revealing your hiding spot. It was foolish to care—foolish to let the words of the elders dig into your skin. You knew better than to let the words cut you, but they did anyway, like each syllable was barbed.

You weren’t stupid. You knew that in the world of jujutsu sorcery, women were rarely praised for their power. They were expected to surrender it and retire gracefully—to raise heirs. Instead of bearing blades, they were expected to bear babies. You’ve seen it through countless of women. Satoru’s mother. Your own. And so many others. It was a quiet, lifelong obligation to the clan’s legacy.

You have been married to Gojo Satoru for five years now. Five long, loving years. And still, there were no children.

To be fair, the two of you had married young—too young, perhaps—but he had insisted. He couldn't wait, he’d said, pulling you to the altar like a man starved. He had kissed you with feverish devotion in front of the shrine, promised you the world, the stars, and everything in between.

But somewhere along the way, you felt like those promises had gone quiet. The talk of children, of anything beyond “next week” or “next mission,” had never come. The topic had never once left his lips.

Maybe he was too busy. Your Satoru wasn’t just yours, after all. He was a teacher. A leader. The head of the Gojo clan. A living symbol of power.

He spent his days shaping the next generation, mentoring students who looked at him like he was invincible. Perhaps he already had too many children who weren’t truly his. Too many young eyes to protect, young graves to prevent.

Or maybe… maybe he just didn’t want them with you.

You stirred the soup with absent hands, the wooden spoon swirling through the broth like it might uncover something at the bottom. The scent of miso filled the kitchen, but it felt hollow. Your expansive kitchen felt too quiet and it was slowly driving you mad.

Satoru was late. Again.

And when you hear the front door finally open, you don’t bother moving. You listened to the familiar sound of shoes slipping off and a coat sliding from his shoulders and landing in a heap by the door. His footsteps were slower these days. Even the great Gojo Satoru—your indestructible, overpowered husband was starting to sound… tired.

Tired of what, you’re not sure.

You, perhaps.

He appeared in the kitchen, the ever-present blindfold slung loosely around his neck. His cerulean eyes looked exhausted.

But he still smiled. Still leaned down and kissed your cheek like you were the one thing anchoring him to the world.

“Smells amazing, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Sorry I’m late.”

And without another word, he dragged himself toward the bedroom and collapsed face-first into the sheets, asleep before you even turned off the stove.

You stood there for a moment, spoon still in hand, watching the soft ripple of the soup.

This had become a pattern. 

He used to be insatiable—always touching you, reaching for you, teasing you like the mere idea of being apart from you made him physically ill. There had been times where he couldn’t keep his hands to himself even in public. Where he used to whisper sweet nothings into your skin that he couldn’t wait to fulfill.

But now he barely looked at you.

He said he was tired. That the curse rate had skyrocketed. That the weight of the world was getting heavier.

You believed him. Of course you did.

But the belief didn’t make the cold side of the bed any warmer. It didn’t make the silent distance between you any less unbearable.

It happened in a moment of weakness.

The bathroom door closed behind him, and the sound of the shower was on. It was one of his regular short, cold showers. You sat on the edge of the bed, glancing at the phone he left on the nightstand.

It was face down and silent, yet all the more inviting.

You hesitated, telling yourself not to look. You try to convince yourself that you trusted the man that you married. The one that had been in love with you far longer than you had even known. That after everything, you had no reason to doubt.

Your fingers moved anyway as if you were a woman possessed. The lock was no match for your memory. His passcode hadn’t changed—it was still your birthday. You’re not sure if that fact made you feel worse for the act that you were committing.

But the messages were right there.

And what you saw made your stomach drop.

Gojo: Shio, I need your help.

Shio: Gojo-kun, I thought we agreed that calling me just “Shio” was improper. It is not right.

Gojo: You know we’re past that stage, Shioooo.

Shio: I should like to have a word with your wife about your behavior.

Gojo: Ha! You and my wife? Over my dead body would I let you two meet. She’d kill me~~~

Shio: That would be a tragedy indeed.

You blinked.

No.

No, no, no.

The bile that rose in your throat was immediate. The evidence was damning: the banter, the flirtation, their familiarity—it was something you had once shared with him.The way he spoke to her mirrored so perfectly the way he used to speak to you. It was the same cadence, the same wry humor, the same intimacy that had once made your heart leap.

You didn’t even know who this woman was. But she had something you no longer did: his attention. 

And it made you sick.

Before you could scroll further, the sound of water stopped. You dropped the phone like it had burned you and threw yourself beneath the covers, forcing your body to still, your breathing to slow.

He came in moments later, humming faintly, smelling like the clean soap he had insisted on the both of you sharing. It is only right that we smell like each other, he had once told you. You wanted to scoff at the memory. Satoru pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head before settling in beside you.

You didn’t move. You don’t end up sleeping that night. You don't even think you let the breath you were holding in for the rest of the night.

Just like clockwork, Satoru was late again.

The table was set. The food that was once warm had grown cold. You sat alone for an hour before you gave up and placed plastic wrap over everything, sliding the dishes into the fridge.

When the door finally opened, he walked in with a bounce in his step. A cloth bag hung from his fingers.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he called out brightly. “I brought dinner!”

You turned slowly, eyeing the contents. You didn’t need to open the bag. One glance told you everything.

It wasn’t takeout. Rather, the meal appeared to be homemade and carefully prepared. It must be a subtle message from his mistress to you. 

Inside was Kyoto-style soup—vegetables simmered in dashi, hints of seaweed and root. You had watched the compound servants make it a hundred times growing up. There was even yamaimo, shredded fine and folded in.

“Where were you?” you asked softly, hoping it would mask the edge in your words.

Satoru grinned.

“Kyoto. Had a mission there. Thought I’d bring something special back.”

Your stomach dropped.

Kyoto. 

Of course it would be there. In the house where you were both born. In the same halls where those whispers about your empty womb had first begun. You imagined him surrounded by a dozen younger women, all wide-eyed and obedient who were excited to please the clanhead. The thought alone made you dizzy.

“I’m not hungry.”

You stood before he could stop you, the chair screeching against the wood.

He looked up, his smile flickering, a confused wrinkle forming between his brows.

But you didn’t look back. You didn’t want him to see your face. If he did, he might see the cracks forming. And you weren’t sure you’d survive long enough to be pieced back together.

“I miss you, [Name]. Come work here,” Shoko says on the phone, her voice in its casual cadence. “You’re an excellent sorceress. You were born for this. Plus, I miss you. Satoru’s been keeping you away for far too long.”

You sit on the edge of the bed, the phone tucked between your cheek and shoulder as your fingers trace a wrinkle in the blanket.

“Yes, but… Satoru and I agreed I’d stay out of the field. I’m retired now, remember?”

“You’d only be teaching,” she replies gently. “Nothing too intense. And besides… Gojo’s an idiot. What does he know?”

You laugh quietly, but it’s thin and brittle.

A silence stretches between you.

Shoko picks up on it. She always does.

“What’s wrong?”

You hesitate. 

Vocalizing the thought seemed so shameful.

When you do summon the courage, it comes out in a hushed whisper: “I think Satoru is cheating on me.”

There’s a pause.

“Is this a joke?”

“No.” Your voice is flat. “I went through his phone.”

Another silence. This one lands heavier.

“[Name]…” Shoko says slowly, “I don’t think that’s possible. I mean—he worships you. He annoys everyone at Jujutsu Tech talking about you like you’re the second coming of the sun. We get it, he married up.”

You close your eyes. You can almost hear his voice echoing in Shoko’s. How you missed that version of your husband.

“He pulled you from the field not because he wanted to chain you down, but because he was terrified. I’ve never seen him scared until you came back bleeding that day. He looked like someone tore the world from under his feet.”

“Shoko… you don’t get it.”

“Have you talked to him?”

“No. Not yet, but—”

“Then you don’t get to spiral like this until you do.”

You sigh and lean back.

 “I just feel so... stuck. I’m tired of this house and how quiet it is all of the time. The growing distance in between us. It used to feel like home, but now it feels like— I don’t even know.”

Her voice softens again. “Consider coming back to Jujutsu Tech. At least for a while. Let yourself breathe again.”

You’re quiet. 

“I’ll consider it. Domestic life’s been… suffocating lately.”

“There she is,” Shoko says warmly. “There’s the [Name] I know.”

You smile, and this time it’s real—even if it is just a little. But it doesn’t last long after the phone call.

The moment you step out of the bedroom you walk directly into a solid chest. You freeze and your heart sinks.

Standing in front of you was your husband. But he looked more like Gojo Satoru than your Satoru. He was home early and he did not look happy. Once bright eyes were now shadowed and unreadable.

“You’re returning to Jujutsu Tech?” he asks, voice calm in the way a man trying to keep his emotions at bay would. “After we decided you were done risking your life?”

You blink, startled.  “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to hear my wife thinks staying home with me is ‘suffocating.’” His jaw tightens. “Is that really what you think?”

Something in you snaps.

“Don’t you dare make this about you.”

He stares, stunned.

“You decided I’d retire, Satoru. You didn’t ask. You didn’t even give me a choice.” You lightly push his chest to make space. He doesn’t move but his hand reaches for yours automatically, gently, like he can’t help but hold onto you even when you’re furious.

You don’t pull away. His grip was firm enough for you to know better.

“I thought it was for my safety,” you whisper. “But now I see it was just to make room for your little affair behind my back.” The words were meant to shame Satoru, but it felt more like a double edged sword with the way your heart ache at the reminder of his infidelity.

He flinches.

“What?”

“I read your messages,” you hiss. “With Shio. You don’t even delete them, Satoru. Are you that arrogant? Or did you just stop caring?”

“[Name], it’s not what you think—”

“Then explain it!”  Your voice breaks.

 “Explain the messages. The dinners. The way you’ve been avoiding me like touching me might burn you alive. I can feel the distance growing every night, Satoru, don’t you?”

You yank your hand back.

“Tell me. Is she prettier? Younger? Is she too naive to see through your bullshit? Does she—” You laugh, but it’s sharp and bitter. “—does she even know you hate bitter vegetables? Or did you choke it down for her anyway when you brought the yamaimo home?”

Gojo looks like he’s been hollowed out.

You see it. The tremble in his fingers. The way his mouth opens and shuts, like he wants to speak but can’t breathe through the guilt.

You step back.

“Forget it,” you whisper. “I want a divorce—"

“Don’t.” His voice is quiet. Desperate. “Don’t finish that sentence. P-please.”

“Why not?” you whisper. “Give me one reason not to walk away when you’ve already left me in every way that matters.”

He shakes his head. “You think I left you? [Name]… I was trying to building a life for us.”

You stare at him, your heart in your throat.

“Shio’s not a mistress. She’s not even close to being my type—unless I suddenly go for women in their late eighties.”

You blink.

“She’s my great-aunt. She’s half-senile with hands like prunes! I—that day, when we visited the compound, she asked me why we didn’t have any kids yet. I told her… I told her I wanted them.” His voice falters. “So badly. With you. Only with you.”

You suck in a breath.

He steps closer, eyes pleading. “I know you’re scared of pregnancy. I know what it means for sorcerers. I’ve seen it, [Name]. So I never brought it up. I didn’t want to pressure you, not ever.”

His hands hover near yours. Not touching. Not yet.

“Shio said she’d help. That she’d cook meals, ones she thought would bring good fortune or increase fertility. The traditional route. And I let her. Because I thought… if I just waited long enough, maybe you’d bring it up on your own.”

You’re frozen. Tears sting your eyes, unspilled.

“I never wanted to lie to you. I just—” He lets out a broken laugh. “I was embarrassed that I wanted a dozen tiny monsters who’d take after you. That I wanted to hold your hand through every contraction and cry harder than the baby when it was born.”

You collapse into his chest, allowing your tears to stain his uniform. “You’re such an idiot.”

“Takes one to marry one.”

“You should’ve just told me.”

“I know.” He holds you up, cupping your face gently now, as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear. “I was trying to protect you from everything. I—I never realized I was hurting you in the process.”

You close your eyes and press your forehead against his.

“I was so scared you didn’t love me anymore.”

He kisses the corner of your mouth. “I love you so much it hurts. It always has.”

You breathe him in, your voice shaky. 

 “So… you want kids?”

“Only if they’re bossy and brilliant like their mother. Every night, I imagine that they’d know at least ten ways to manipulate me by the age of five.”

You snort. “That sounds like a nightmare.”

“That sounds like heaven.”

 He kisses you again, except it is long and slow this time. It’s unlike the desperation from earlier, rather, apologetic and full of everything he’s been too much of a coward to say in the past few months.

When you part, breathless, your voice is softer.

“We’ll take it slow. I’m not saying yes to ten—”

“Nine.”

“—but we’ll talk. We’ll figure it out. Together.”

His grin is smug, but his eyes are misty.

“You mean I’m finally allowed to touch you again without you pretending I’m a curse?”

You smile. “I’ll think about it.”

“Can I bribe the jury?”

“With what?”

“My undying love. And, I’ll do the dishes for a month.”

You lean in close, breath brushing his ear.

“Hmm, two months… and a foot rub every night.”