lili (lee-lee)

There were days, you realized, that were more forgiving than the others. At least you could say that in your world. You were so used to enduring the worst that life could throw at you—drained by endless tears, heartbreak, and disappointment. Yet, every so often, there came days when life granted you a brief reprieve from the pain. Perhaps it was to prepare you for another storm. Or perhaps it was a sign that your heart might finally find peace. 

You hoped it was the latter. Because today seemed to be a better day, as the morning light broke across the whitewashed walls of the hospital as if to signal a new beginning. The rain had finally stopped, taking with it the gloom it had cast over the city for the past week. 

After days of anxiety and sterile air thick with disinfectant, the world finally seemed to exhale with you. The doctor said Sachiro was well enough to be discharged. The IV lines were gone, the heart monitor silenced, and the medical tubes pulled out, leaving only small tapes and faint bruises on your son’s soft skin. He looked smaller somehow, fragile in a way that made your chest ache, though his smile was bright and unburdened like nothing had happened at all. What a strong boy, you thought in tearful silence. Feeling bad for your son, but also proud of his resilience as a mere 3-year old boy. 

“Doctor, I can’t thank you enough,” you said in utmost gratitude to the person who saved your son’s life, “From fixing my heart, and now, Sachiro’s…”

“There’s no need to thank me, Y/N. This is my job,” he replied, smiling, “Besides, your father and I go way back. I know he’d have given me a hard time if I didn't handle yours and Sachi’s cases successfully.” 

Your dad joined in with a chuckle. “I’m glad you know.”

While you and your father continued to speak to the doctor about medications, aftercare, follow-up tests, Sachiro sat cross-legged on the bed beside Satoru, eyes wide with child-like determination while in a conversation with his daddy. You caught the gazes they exchanged and didn’t miss the chance to eavesdrop, listening in on them while speaking with the doctor. 

“Dada,” he said, with that little boy stubbornness he inherited from his father. “Let’s go home to your house.”

The words made you pause. Even your father did, too. Your dad’s brows even furrowed immediately as concern knitted across his lined face. “Sachiro,” he said gently, speaking as if Satoru wasn’t in the same room. “Grandpa's house is better for you. It’s quieter. You should rest.”

But Sachiro only shook his head, his little fists balled on his lap. “But Sachi want Dada’s house! I like it there.”

Satoru didn’t look at you when his son said it. As though he knew his son’s request was a landmine waiting to be stepped on, which was also why he didn’t interfere. Not one word from Satoru convincing anyone of anything. He simply stayed silent, allowing the decision to be yours and yours alone, even if he was the paternal figure to your broken family. Still, you didn’t miss the sadness that shone on your ex-husband’s eyes. Sachiro choosing to stay with his father seemed to have touched his heart in ways a normally disregarded parent would. 

“I’ll come with Sachi.” You stood there, a folder of discharge papers pressed against your chest, suffocating from the weight of your father’s gaze on you before he even spoke.

“Y/N,” your father began, carefully, like he was afraid the wrong tone might make you snap. “It’s not… proper. You staying in another man’s house like that? You’re unmarried.”

His words bit into you sharper than they should have.

Unmarried.

As if the ring once on your finger, the vows you had spoken before God and family, the home you once shared with Satoru Gojou had never existed at all. As if the boy sitting there—your son, with his father’s blue eyes and his mother’s gentle mien—had been born without history, without consequence, without love that once ran so deep it drowned you both.

Your father’s voice then softened, cautious but only because he must have realized his poor choice of words. “People will talk, Y/N. They always do. I don’t want you to go through this again and have Ian clear up your name every time.”

And maybe he was right. Maybe the whole country would, yet again, feast on this rumor like wolves on a carcass—how the divorcee ran back into her ex-husband’s house the moment she had her chance again. How she stayed there with him, nights under the same roof, like his shameless paramour.

But they wouldn’t see the truth, would they?

They wouldn’t see the nights Satoru never left the hospital, slumped over Sachiro’s bed in the same wrinkled clothes, red-rimmed eyes refusing to close even when exhaustion carved shadows into his face. They wouldn’t see the way his hands shook when Sachiro cried in pain, the way his voice cracked when he told him it would be okay.

They wouldn’t see that this wasn’t about romance, or reputation, or whatever fantasy the world wanted to paint over it.

This was about a boy who wanted both his parents in one place because the machines that beeped by his bedside had reminded him—too early, too cruelly—that life could take them away.

Your father sighed beside you. “It isn’t right,” he murmured again, his hand squeezing your shoulder. “You're smart, Y/N. Don't make foolish decisions.”

“Dad, I…” Satoru suddenly spoke up, his voice laced with nervousness, so much so that he didn’t realize he slipped and called your father ‘dad’. “I’ll take good care of them. I’ll be by Sachi’s side until he recovers and I’ll help Y/N with everything she needs. I promise they’ll be—”

“Y/N, we should discuss this outside.” Your father callously ignored Satoru like he wasn’t there. And you watched how he was visibly hurt by the way he was treated by your dad. He didn’t deserve it, no matter how much pain you had suffered because of him, he was still human. 

But Satoru wasn’t just any man.

He was your ex-husband.

Your son’s father.

The man who had once memorized every inch of your body like scripture and now hovered silently in the background, tucking Sachiro’s jacket into his overnight bag with hands too careful for someone so outwardly indifferent. He didn’t even try to join the discussion anymore. He gave up with his one attempt and respectfully just let you decide, like your word alone could shift the earth beneath his feet.

And maybe it could.

Because you saw the truth in the little things: how he was genuine about taking care of you and Sachiro, how he was hopeful to be given a chance at letting you stay in his home. He must have seen it as the perfect opportunity to make up with you, especially now that you still had many things to clear up and problems to resolve. 

You exhaled slowly. “It’s just for a few days,” you said to your dad, your voice quieter than you expected as you stood by the door. “Until Sachi’s better. My decision is final.”

Your father looked at you like he wanted to argue, but the words never came. Because there was nothing improper about a boy wanting both his parents near. And there was nothing sinful about a mother wanting the same.

––

The days that followed blurred into something almost dreamlike.

Because Satoru Gojou, for all the chaos he carried in his bones, was steady now.

He didn’t outwardly show his joy per se, but the bliss he felt inside glistened like stars in his eyes. He seemed happy, very much so, now that his family was living together with him as if everything had finally settled into perfect harmony. 

Satoru rose before you every morning, padding around his penthouse in quiet socks as he prepared Sachiro’s breakfast and made sure you had something warm to eat, too. You could tell he was very specific about what he cooked, choosing healthy ingredients catered to a recovering child and a pregnant lady. He even refilled the humidifier in your room, worried that the air was too dry and could trigger your allergies. He moved through the house with careful treading as this—the son curled up on the couch watching cartoons, you walking slowly through the hallway with one hand instinctively resting on your belly—was something he might wake from if he breathed too loudly.

And he never once touched you without permission. Not once, which was unusual of the Satoru Gojou you knew. 

Every time his hand brushed yours when he offered you tea, every time he tugged the blanket higher over your shoulders while you napped on the couch, every time he looked at you like you were something worshipful—he waited. He waited and let you feel his devotion without demanding anything in return.

Maybe that was what softened you.

Because you had told him you needed time. That he couldn’t just slide back into your life like nothing had happened, like there weren’t years of pain and mistakes between you.

But he made time feel weightless.

He made it so easy to forget the ache in your chest when he kissed Sachiro’s hair before bed, when he wordlessly washed the dishes after dinner, when he crouched down to tie your shoes one morning because you had bent down too quickly and he scolded you for it under his breath.

Was he only this sweet because you were carrying another piece of him inside you? You sighed, wondering why you still doubted his love even after the confession you both made that night by the lake. But you just couldn’t help but think deeply sometimes, and maybe stare at the view of the city while thinking of thoughts that should never consume you. Thoughts of whether he would have been this sweet and devoted if it was Akemi carrying his child. Was it cruelty that made you imagine Akemi pregnant with his child just to feed your jealousy, even after she told you she was dying? Or was it spite that kept you from feeling even a flicker of pity when she said Satoru left her like she was nothing? Perhaps you even took pleasure in knowing that after all her desperate wishing to have a baby with him, you were the one he had gotten pregnant, without even trying, for the second time around.

You were never an angel to begin with, especially not after everyone around you had been brutal and malicious. She didn't deserve to suffer that much, obviously. But life was simply never fair, and she wasn’t exempt from it. 

The funny thing was, Satoru wasn’t even aware of the spiteful thoughts that plagued you during those silent afternoons. He had no idea how you would manage to work yourself into a fury over imagined scenes of him and Akemi in this very penthouse—repulsed by the visions your own mind conjured. Maybe you were being petty. Maybe it was just the hormones. But every time Satoru walked by, oblivious and unbothered, you were simmering hotter than before.

But maybe he sensed it in the way you protectively held your stomach sometimes when you thought no one was looking. Perhaps he noticed how your replies had shrunk to single words, or how you would send him an accusatory glare when he was merely trying to start a conversation. Maybe he felt it, too, in the way you looked at him—as if this man, this flawed, beautiful man, was somehow your greatest enemy.

Damn it. Perhaps it was time to admit it—was it truly jealousy burning through you, or was it the ache of being untouched by the man who supposedly was in love with you?

The room was quiet, and you sat at the edge of the bed in your nightgown, watching Satoru’s long frame as he got out of the shower, only a towel covering his lower half. His head tilted down like he didn’t dare meet your eyes too long. He looked almost anxious, though he would never admit it. 

And he had been so careful with you. Too careful that it bothered you.

“Is Sachi asleep?” He cleared his throat once and tried to strike a conversation. But you didn’t answer. You ignored his pitiful attempt at talking to you, busying yourself by putting lotion on your legs. It felt humorous to have the upperhand now, with him clearly on edge, and you acting like you didn’t owe him any interaction. “...Y/N, did I do something wrong?” 

You didn’t return his gaze. Instead, you closed the lid of the lotion and placed it carefully atop the nightstand. “No.” 

Next thing you knew, the man was already standing in front of you, his damp white hair dripping down his toned body as he crouched down to meet your eyes. “You’ve been angry with me for three days now. Please tell me what I’m not doing right, I’ll fix it.” 

“Leave me alone,” you muttered, still avoiding his gaze while opening the drawer, only to see an unopened box of condoms. They weren’t meant for you, clearly. He had probably saved it for when Akemi used to visit. And he knew that was exactly what you were thinking the moment he saw the box, too. 

“That’s not…” He tried to explain, but what was the point? You knew they were sexually involved before her illness had worsened. Satoru could only sigh under his breath, the sound closer to defeat than frustration, then placed his hands on your knees with bright blue eyes that begged for your understanding. “I’ll throw it away.” 

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “You clearly knew what a condom is,” you shot back, your tone sharp enough to cut. “Should’ve used it on me that night at the cabin.” 

For a moment, he was caught off guard by your remark, but then he shook his head and let out a soft chuckle like something had just clicked in his mind, something that made all this absurdly amusing.

“What?” you asked, irritation sharpening your tone.

Satoru reached out, brushing a few strands of hair from your face before lightly pinching your cheek. “Nothing,” he murmured, a fond smile tugging at his lips. “You acted like this when you were pregnant with Sachi, too.”

“What are you talking about?” You slapped his hand away, scowling.

He only laughed quietly, moving closer until his warmth pressed against your side. One arm slipped around your waist, the other covering your hand. “You were always irritated with me back then,” he said, voice gentle, teasing. “And jealous. A lot.” He nuzzled your cheek, his breath warm against your skin. “Are we having a boy again?”

You hated it. The way your chest tightened, that stupid rush in your heartbeat. It only ever happened because of Satoru. You couldn’t even remember the last time your heart fluttered wildly like this, but somehow the memory was still there, vivid enough to shatter every wall you had put up.

“Why do you keep your distance?” you finally asked, your eyes meeting his ocean blues. “Why ask me to sleep in the same room as you when it would be more proper to sleep apart?”

He wasn’t oblivious—he had to know what you were implying, how your words really pointed to his reluctance, his lack of intimacy, and the insecurity you were feeling because of it. 

“We just got out of the hospital,” he explained, almost cautious. “And you’re pregnant. I wanted to look after you but still respect your space. I thought… maybe you needed time.”

But you had laughed, incredulous, pulse fluttering. “Time?”

And that was all it took. Because then his arms dropped to his sides. His shoulders straightened. His blue eyes darkened, and you knew—you knew—that thin rope of restraint was about to snap.

“You think it’s easy for me?” His voice was strained, like a puppy being deprived of treats. “Every night I lie next to you, and all I can think about is you. Touching you. Tasting you. Being inside you. You have no idea what you do to me.”

Your breath caught, heart hammering by his confession. “But you—”

“And how you wearing this thin nightgown,” he whispered in your ear, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine, “does unspeakable things to me.” 

Literally so. Because you didn’t need to look down to see the bulge growing under his towel. You didn’t need to search his face to find the lust brewing behind his eyes. And somehow, his reaction excited you. His visible restraint woke all the desire you had been craving to satiate. 

“You still don’t get it, do you?” Satoru’s voice dropped low as he caught your chin between his fingers. “There’s a reason you end up pregnant every time I touch you.” His eyes lingered on your mouth, his breath ghosting over your lips. “Let me remind you why.”

It was him who crossed the line first. Him who kissed you, loud and passionate, pulling you tighter by the waist as if he might burn alive if he didn’t. He groaned into your mouth with a raw, guttural sound that went straight through you, hands gripping your hips like he was finally done pretending he didn’t want this. When he lifted you—effortless, like you weighed nothing—and made you straddle him, his mouth never left yours. Not once. His kiss was everywhere: down your throat, across your collarbone, all over your chest, tracing fire over your skin. 

And when his fingers tugged the strap of your nightgown, you realized just how long he had been holding himself back.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasped against your neck.

You grabbed a fistful of his white hair. “Don’t you dare.”

That was all he needed.

He had ripped your nightgown easily, though careless, and elicited a shriek from you. That was the last thing you thought he would do, but Satoru was getting rougher by the second, clearly because of your provocation. He was acting like an animal released from being in a cage for too long. He was hungry. Very hungry. And putting his mouth on your bosom was his first favorite treat. 

You leaned against him as he circled his tongue along your nipple—teasing, suckling, and a little bit of biting. “H-Hey!” 

“Sorry.” He displayed a smug smile before proceeding to suck your other tit. “Got carried away.”

While his mouth was on your breast, his hand was kneading the other. He massaged the slope with both a gentle yet rabid touch, flicking the nipple, and then back to squeezing your tit as if he was touching it for the first time. It was at that point where you couldn’t suppress your moans anymore. You shamelessly melted into his touch, driven half-mad by the days of unspoken want that had finally come undone.

And in your own sensual frenzy, your hand reached down to just where his bulge was. It was hard, begging to be released, and twitching underneath the towel. He moaned from your slightest touch. Then, got too excited when you started rubbing him, he almost couldn’t breathe. 

“Y/N…” He pulled away, only to bury his face into the crook of your neck. “You’re driving me insane.” 

“Did I tell you to stop?” you asked, almost sternly, which only excited him even more. 

His smirk was that of a man who had won the jackpot. How arrogant! And so, he continued kissing your breasts, one after the other, and especially enjoyed when his face was between them. He didn’t have time to do all this back at the cabin, since that moment was unexpected and it was your first time reuniting in bed after many years. But you remembered Satoru loving your pair, giving them equal attention and leaving every inch of skin with marks that belonged to him. 

Did he love doing this to Akemi, too? Did he kiss her body like this? Left marks all over her skin like this? 

Out of sheer frustration, you pushed Satoru back. His eyes went wide, startled, as if to ask what was wrong, but your glare silenced him. You stepped between his legs and yanked at the towel around his hips. There, his hard member stood, pulsating and dripping at the tip. Your finger traced the veins on his throbbing cock, making it angrier than it already was. 

“Y/N, please…” His face begged you to do more. 

And it sure was entertaining to see him like this after a long time. Back when you two were married, you did it everyday like animals in heat. You were so smitten, so passionate, so intoxicated with your toxicity that every push-pull ended in the most satisfying, most mind-blowing sex. 

You were on your knees as he looked at you, his entire length being stroked by your hand, before you placed your tongue flat on his tip. Satoru cursed under his breath and threw his head back, but you continued to roll your tongue along the head—the pink and swollen head—then finally started wrapping your lips around his girth. 

Even with Toji, you never enjoyed giving head the way you did with Satoru. Perhaps it was the connection, or perhaps, it was simply because you prefer doing it to someone you really loved. 

“Fuck,” your ex-husband growled, seeing your head bobbing up and down as you sucked every inch of him. “That feels so fucking good.” 

You even kissed the sides, the ridges, then put him back completely in your mouth. This time around, you forced it all the way down your throat, resisting the gag reflex but still ended up choking on his cock. Goddamn were you horny. You knew this was the pregnancy hormones, but you wanted more and you couldn’t be stopped. 

“Y/N.” He sat up as you jerked his member, his entire length coated by your saliva, while he started pulling you up. You stood before him as he was face level with your tummy, and his hands began tracing your legs, your hips, until he was able to playfully squeeze your bum. Satoru looked up at you, then. With eyes that screamed of bliss, his chin resting on your belly where your baby would be in. His breath ragged as he looked at you. All of you. His hands traced your curves, lingering over your belly as though it was sacred, before he kissed lower, lower, worshipping you with his mouth until you were trembling, arching, gasping his name like a prayer. “Can I…?”

Nodding, you could feel him give your buttocks a final squeeze before he started lifting your leg over his shoulder. The other stayed on the floor, which gave him the best access to see your pussy. And of course, he didn’t waste any second before he dove in. 

“Satoru—”

His lips were on your clit in a snap, tongue lapping between your folds—slurpling, suckling, and tasting your slick inside. The deeper he was, the weaker your legs felt. But his strong arms held you in place, fingers digging into your thighs as though he could hold you here forever. Although one hand switched places with his mouth every now and then—one moment his hand would palm your pussy, the next his mouth would be kissing your entrance, his tongue swirling in it and around it.  

“God, you taste so good,” he groaned, two fingers now stretching your core and entering you in and out, “Been dreaming about this… about you… every damn night.”

“Mhmm—”

He sure took his sweet time with the foreplay that by the time he made you lay in bed, you were already catching your breath. Your legs were already shaking, and your head was already dizzy. But it was not enough, no. Not for the both of you. You wanted him inside just as he wanted to be inside you. 

So by the time he finally had you in a perfect, comfortable position, he spread your legs apart and placed his tip at your entrance. His lengthy cock teased, circled, and then rubbed against your clit. Again and again. Purposefully so, because he chuckled at the way you glared at him impatiently. 

“Hnng—! Just put it inside.” 

He did it slowly when he slid into you, careful but deep. You swore you felt the world tilt off its axis. His forehead pressed to yours, his breath uneven, like he was trying to keep it together even now. You could see his girth coated with slick, with every entrance to your pussy making you clench around him tighter. 

“Mm—fuck!”

“You drive me crazy,” he muttered, hips snapping harder now, and faster, too. Each thrust shaking through you until your words broke into gasps. “All I want… all I ever want… is you.”

You clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders as pleasure coiled sharp and hot in your belly. He kissed you through it, swallowed your cries, held you so close it felt like he might break you apart just to keep you. His bed was steady enough not to make any noises through the walls, but it was your moans that echoed loud enough across the room. The squelching, the whimpering, the snapping of skin-to-skin. 

“Satoru, I’m gonna…” 

He held your hips in place, slamming himself balls deep into you, and watching your breasts bouncing all over the place as he raced to chase his climax. “Me, too, baby.” 

Both of you were tangled in sweat, and the sound of your own ragged breathing filled the room until he released thick ropes of cum inside you. You couldn’t tell how much, but he stayed inside you for a minute or two, giving your lips a sweet peck before he finally pulled out. Almost immediately, his cum came spilling out of you. They dripped out of your hole as if they were too full and no longer had space inside.

It was filthy and tender all at once—love and obsession and devotion and ruin. And you remembered his words earlier, how this was why he could get you pregnant so easily. Funnily enough, it wasn’t just about how much of his semen was inside you. Not literally. It was the love and passion he was pouring into your lovemaking. It was how your body would always recognize his, as though you two were perfectly made for each other. 

When it was over, he scooped you into his arms, wrapped tight like he couldn’t bear to let you go. He kissed your temple softly, reverently this time.

“You have no idea,” he murmured, “how much I love you, Y/N. Through anything and everything. You’re my only one.”

––

The next morning, sunlight spilled through the living room curtains, warm and golden, catching in the strands of Satoru’s hair as he sat cross-legged on the floor with Sachiro perched in his lap. You sat beside them on the couch, one hand idly resting on your belly, watching the way Satoru absentmindedly fixed the cowlick in Sachi’s hair while the boy leaned against him, still groggy from his sleep.

It felt domestic in a way you hadn’t felt in years. Too peaceful. Too comfortable. Like the war between your hearts had quieted for this one stolen moment.

“Good morning, Mama!” your little boy greeted.

“Morning, my baby.” You added it with a kiss to his forehead. “Did daddy make you breakfast?”

Sachiro hugged his teddy bear as his eyes fixed on the television screen. “Yes, Mama. Sachi ate pancakes!” 

Satoru gave you a quiet look then. It wasn’t anything naughty. In fact, he had a very thoughtful gaze, seemingly worried that he might have gotten too rough with you last night. “I’ve prepared you a plate there and some apple juice.” 

“Thank you,” was your simple reply. No morning kisses, no overly sweet gestures. Your son still wasn’t aware that his parents were expecting again, so you were treading the situation carefully. It also helped that Satoru could read through your movements and respected you enough to handle it at your own pace. 

“Hey, Sachi,” you began softly.

He turned to you, wide-eyed, curious. “Yeah, Mama?”

You swallowed, glancing once at Satoru before you said it. “You’re… going to be a big brother soon.”

For a moment, there was silence.

And then—

“Huh?!” Sachiro twisted in Satoru’s lap so fast the man almost lost his balance. “A baby? Like… a real baby? In your tummy? Right now?!”

You nodded, lips twitching and unsure what to make of your son’s reaction. “Yes, right now. Mama is pregnant.”

His jaw dropped like you had told him the moon was moving into the guest room. “But… but… how did it happen?” He blinked rapidly, the picture of childlike innocence, before his little nose wrinkled. “Wait… don’t tell me. I think I know.”

“Oh, do you now?” Satoru acted surprised, poking his son’s cheek. You smothered a laugh into your palm. He didn’t even bother hiding his.

“Yeah,” your son said confidently, looking between the two of you with all the gravity of a seasoned detective. “It’s because you and Mama love each other again, right? That’s how it works! Auntie Gen told Sachi babies are born when the mama and dada love each other.”

You froze for half a second. Love? You quickly forced a smile. “Something like that.” 

But then Sachiro tilted his head again, eyes darting between you and Satoru like he was connecting even bigger dots. “Is Dada going to be Mama’s husband?”

The words fell into the room like pebbles into still water. Quickly enough, your body went still and Satoru’s hand froze midair on his son’s back. The boy looked between you both expectantly, as if marriage was the obvious next step, as if it was the only logical conclusion to his parents having another baby on the way.

You opened your mouth, then closed it, then forced a small, gentle smile. Sometimes, Sachiro was a little too smart for his age. “That… is for another conversation, my sweetie.” 

Satoru stared at you for a good minute, careful not to cross any boundaries and give answers unaligned to your own. But you could tell how much he had wanted to say yes to Sachiro, to say that his dream of bringing his family back together was no longer far-fetched. 

Meanwhile, Sachiro squinted like he wanted to protest, but then his face lit up, wide and beaming, his entire little body vibrating with joy as he threw his arms around Satoru’s neck. “I’m gonna be a big brother!” he announced, muffled against Satoru’s shoulder. “Dada, we need to buy a big house like grandpa’s now!”

Satoru chuckled then. “Of course, buddy.” 

And for that moment, with Sachiro grinning like Christmas had come early, you let yourself believe in this fragile, imperfect little happiness. But still, there were many things to worry about. When your son mentioned his grandfather, you were immediately reminded of the things you still need to clear out before you can fully live in this dream-like fantasy. 

It didn’t surprise you how soon Satoru joined you in the kitchen the moment his son had become too engrossed in the cartoon he was watching. He knew there were things he had to clarify, so approaching you for a private talk was the next thing he did. 

“You told him,” mentioned Satoru, reaching for your hand. “Does this mean you’ll keep our baby?” 

You solemnly looked into his eyes. “It’s ours.” 

His warm lips pressed a soft kiss on the back of your hand. “Thank you for letting me be a father to them, Y/N. I promise I’ll live my whole life serving you and our kids.” 

Sighing, you squeezed his hand. “But Satoru, we still have to tell them.”

He looked up, confused. “Tell who what?”

You hesitated, lips pressing together before you exhaled slowly. “I mean, my family. My dad, Gen—them.” The words felt strange on your tongue, even though they were your family, you knew this wasn’t going to be easy. “They’re not going to take it well, Satoru,” you warned softly. “After everything, they’ll think I’m out of my mind.”

He didn’t flinch. Not at all. He simply wrapped his arms around you, his gaze softening in a way it only did for you. “You’re right,” he agreed wholeheartedly. “They need to hear it from us first before anyone else. I know they won’t accept it right away, but I’ll fight for you. I promise I’ll do everything until I earn their trust again. Maybe not fully, but even a scrap is enough. Even just trusting that I won’t ever hurt you again. Because I know I won’t.”

“Satoru…”

“I mean it, Y/N.” He pressed his forehead against yours like a groom reciting a vow. “I lost this once. I’m not losing my family again. Not you. Not our kids.” 

You stared at him, this man who had once been reckless with your heart, now speaking like he would burn down the world just to keep it safe.

And for the first time in years, the idea of a future with him didn’t feel like a betrayal of yourself.

It felt like coming home.

––

The Creston mansion never felt so cold in your years of living there. It was the opposite of the Gojou mansion, where the air of toxicity lingered in every corner of their estate. But to your own family’s place, you couldn’t remember the last time those beige walls felt so lifeless. Its marble pillars, the polished brass of its doors, the cold gleam of chandeliers—everything felt hostile tonight. It had always been your father’s pride, his empire, the seat of his authority. But as you stepped inside with Satoru’s hand brushing lightly against your waist, you felt like a criminal walking into the gallows.

Am I simply overthinking? You took a deep breath, but even the air felt shallow. 

Gen was there first, rising from the velvet chair with a smile that faded the moment she saw Satoru trailing behind you. Your father sat across the room, his reading glasses low on his nose, glancing briefly at the two of you before setting aside the papers in his hand.

“Gen, Dad,” you spoke first, cutting the tension before it could rise. “How are you?” 

“We’re fine. How’s Sachi doing?” Gen asked as soon you both sat on the couch. “Is he recovering well? I thought you were going to bring him today when you texted me you’d stop by.” 

You offered a small smile. “He’s pretty great, actually. He still needs more rest, but Satoru takes good care of him.” 

Your dad nodded. “Are you going to bring him next time?” 

“Of course, Dad.” 

There was small talk at first. Forced politeness. Gen asking about Sachiro’s daily maintenance. Your father commenting about the food his grandson should eat. They both pretended like the air didn’t reek of tension while Satoru sat silently beside you, respectful, composed, with his hands folded in front of him.

But it was that one question. So plain, so harmless on the surface—yet heavy with implication that unsettled you.

And it came from your father. “Since Sachiro’s getting better, I suppose you’ll be coming back home in a few days, right?”

“I… I’m not sure about that one, Dad.” 

Your father’s gaze hardened at your answer. “What do you mean?”

You drew in a deep breath, deep enough it could’ve filled an entire oxygen tank. The words sat heavy in your throat, but you couldn’t force them out, no matter how much you wanted to. No matter how much you had to. Maybe it was fear. But of what? That your family wouldn’t approve? You already knew they wouldn’t. That they’d demand you return to the mansion immediately? That wasn’t even the worst of it.

So you said nothing. You just sat there, lost in the storm of your own thoughts, not until Satoru’s fingers slipped over yours, squeezing your hand gently. It was his silent way of reminding you that you weren’t alone. That whatever came next, he was staying. Because his love was worth fighting for. 

Your father, displeased to see your hand-holding, broke the silence. “Y/N, what is this—”

“Dad, I’m pregnant.”

The house fell into stillness.

Even the birds outside stopped chirping.

“WHAT?!”

Gen blinked rapidly. Your father froze mid-motion, one hand still on a teacup that crashed onto the floor later. It was like the air thickened in a single breath, everyone caught in it, everyone waiting for the obvious name to be spoken.

“Toji’s, right?” your father finally asked, voice flat, cold. It was intentional. The question was disgustingly intentional that you couldn’t believe it came from your father at all. 

“No!” you quickly denied, “You know we’ve broken up months ago, Dad. It’s not his!” 

You could see Gen shaking her head, a hand pressed to her face as if holding herself back from exploding. But her sharp, furious eyes found Satoru in an instant. She seemed to have seen this coming, but refused to believe that her suspicions had actually come into fruition. “Is it the night of Shoko and Suguru’s wedding?” she demanded, her voice trembling with restrained anger. “The one that turned into a cheating scandal—again—involving my sister?”

Your ex-husband swallowed hard, guilt flickering across his face. “It is.”

Your father’s eyes darkened.

And then he moved.

It happened so fast, the way he lunged at Satoru before anyone could speak, his fist slamming across your ex-husband’s jaw with a sickening crack. “You goddamn son of a bitch—!”

“Dad, stop!” you screamed, but nothing could stop an angry father whose daughter got hurt over and over. He grabbed Satoru by the collar, spitting words like fire as his fist landed on him again and again. “Dad, please! Don’t hurt him!” 

Even Gen tried to help out. “Dad, that’s enough.”

“You bastard! You despicable bastard!” he roared, his voice shaking with fury you had never seen in him before, not even when Satoru’s first cheating incident tore your world apart. “You already ruined her life once—humiliated her, made her suffer—and now you trap her again? Another child? Another lifetime of misery with you?!”

Satoru took the hits, grunting, stumbling, but not once raising a hand in defense. He let your father vent every ounce of hatred into his body until finally, he caught his breath and pushed back. 

“I love her,” Satoru declared, jaw bloodied, eyes wild. “I’m s-sorry. I know it didn’t seem like it, I know I’ve hurt her far too many times for you to believe it, but I fucking love her, and I’m not going anywhere this time! I already wake up every day hating myself for the things I did to her. But this—” He reached for you even as your father shoved him back, “—this is my family. And I will fight for them, with or without your blessing.”

“Blessing?” your father seethed, “You dare speak of blessings after wrecking my daughter’s life?” He turned to you then, his face red, his eyes full of both fury and heartbreak. “If you choose him, Y/N… you choose this bastard and you are no longer my daughter. No longer a Creston. No inheritance. No name. Nothing.”

“Dad, please,” you sobbed, stepping between them, your hands shaking as you held your father back. “Please don’t do this. Please.”

But your dad wouldn’t listen. His voice cut through the room like a blade, speaking words that you never in your life thought he would utter. Words that even Gen herself, no matter how callous she was, could never speak to you. 

“If you walk this path with him, Y/N, you walk it alone,” warned your father, “You will be disowned by this family. Completely.”

You felt the world shatter under your feet.

Satoru tried to reach you, his hand trembling as he whispered, “Please don't do this to Y/N—”

But the guards came before he could finish. At your father’s command, they grabbed Satoru by the arms, dragging him toward the door as he struggled, shouting your name. “Y/N! Please, Y/N!”

“Stop!” you begged and cried and pleaded to everyone in the room, but no one listened.

And the more Satoru resisted, the more they were aggressive to him. “Let me go! I need to talk to her! Y/N!”

His voice echoed through the marble halls until the heavy doors slammed shut, leaving you behind, shaking, sobbing, frozen solid to your place as your father’s ultimatum rang in your ears like a death sentence.

––

Satoru didn’t remember how he got home.

One moment he was being thrown out of the Creston mansion like a criminal, and the next thing he knew, he was in the penthouse alone, pacing like a madman, replaying the events in his head until it made him sick.

You didn’t come out of the mansion. You didn’t walk out the door. Not even when they dragged him out like he was nothing. Not when he called your name with his voice breaking in half.

You stayed. You stayed behind.

And Satoru knew what that meant. 

Blood ran thicker than water, after all. And Satoru envied you for it—for the way your family stood together, for how naturally you fought for one another. His own family was nothing like that. Broken, dysfunctional, poisoned from the inside out. He couldn’t quite grasp how yours could love so fiercely, so selflessly. It didn’t sink in right away why you would choose them over him, why cutting them off wasn’t as simple for you as it had been for him and his own family.

His chest caved under the pain of it. He staggered into the living room and slammed his fist into the wall so hard the frames rattled. Again. And again. Until his knuckles split and the sharp pain screamed up his arm, but never enough. He wanted to break something, everything. Maybe himself most of all.

“Why,” his voice cracked, “why can’t I fix this?!”

He wasn’t sure who he was talking to. Was it God? Was it his subconscious? Regardless, the questions fell out like prayers no one would answer. His shoulders shook as he buried his face in his hands, tears spilling freely now, the mask ripped off until only the wreck of a man was left behind.

He thought about you. About the way you had stood there between him and your father, crying like the world was ending. About how he had ruined everything once before, and now here he was again, cursed to repeat it like some sick punishment.

“God, I just want my family back! Please… Please, I’m s-sick of this! I’m fucking sick of it!” he choked out, his voice breaking as his fists hit the wall again, with each punch harder than the last. The plaster cracked and his knuckles throbbed, so much so that he wondered if he broke his hand, but he liked it that way. He wanted to feel it burn, wanted it to hurt because he deserved it, because maybe if it hurt enough, it would erase the never ending guilt crawling under his skin.

And he would’ve gone on like that if not for the tiny, fragile voice behind him. “Dada?”

That was the only thing that made Satoru freeze. He turned around to see Sachiro standing there in his pajamas, rubbing his eyes with one hand, and the other holding onto his teddy bear. He looked so small, so breakable, and his innocent gaze moved from the blood dripping down Satoru’s knuckles to the tears on his face.

“Are you… okay?”

Something in Satoru snapped then, not from anger this time but from the sight of his son looking at him like that. He quickly dropped to his knees, pulling the boy into his arms so tightly Sachiro squeaked at the suddenness of it.

“I-I don’t know, buddy,” he whispered into his son’s hair, his voice shaking so hard it hurt. “I don’t know what’s going to h-happen to us.”

“Dada, why you crying?”

“Because…” Satoru shut his eyes, inhaling sharply, “because I keep messing everything up. I-I can’t bring your mommy back. I’m sorry, Sachi. I’m so sorry I can’t give you the family you deserve. I… I failed you. I failed mommy and our baby. I’m so lost.”

Sachiro wrapped his little arms around his father’s neck like he was trying to hold him together even though he was too small to fix anything. “I’m here.” 

Even his tiniest, most innocent gesture was enough to split Satoru open. Because after everything, after convincing himself, even for a fleeting moment, that he could be a perfect father to his kids, he was reminded over and over that he would never be. 

He couldn’t even manage to be a decent husband, let alone a good man. A cheater. A coward. A pathetic excuse of a man who had ruined everything good that ever reached for him. He disgusted himself down to the marrow. He was a piece of shit, an asshole, a useless good-for-nothing scumbag—

The doorbell rang. Once. 

Damn it!

Then, again. 

God fucking dammit!

“Dada.” His son tugged at his shirt. “Someone’s at the door.” 

Satoru stiffened, wiping his face with his sleeve. He wasn’t ready to face the police, not after he had just broken down in front of his son, and still drowning from the heartbreak of losing you. Couldn’t your father give him even a little bit of mercy and just let Sachiro stay the night? 

Satoru felt like he was losing his mind. 

The lock clicked. Footsteps crossed the threshold.

He turned toward the door with his heart pounding, Sachiro following him behind.

...

...

And there you were.

The air in the courtyard was thick with the remnants of the fading sun, the evening sky stretching overhead in a wash of dusky purples and golds.

It was the kind of quiet that settled deep in your bones, heavy with something unspoken, something inevitable. You sat cross-legged on the cool stone pathway, fingers loosely curled in your lap, the gentle rustling of trees filling the empty spaces between conversations.

Gojo stood at the center of it all, posture deceptively easy, like he hadn’t just spent the last few hours meticulously formulating your next steps.

He had been more focused than usual, less flippant, though his cocky smirk still ghosted the edges of his lips. You caught the way his fingers flexed absently, a telltale sign that, beneath the usual bravado, something was weighing on him.

To his left, Megumi sat with his arms folded, his expression unreadable, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed his unease.

Nobara and Yuji, typically the loudest voices in any discussion, were uncharacteristically restrained, their gazes flickering between you and Gojo with barely concealed anticipation. 

And then there was Nanami. Seated a few paces from you, he was as solid and unshaken as ever, his presence grounding despite the uncertainty in the air. He had been quiet all evening, listening, calculating, waiting.

You had spent the last few hours throwing ideas at the wall, dissecting every possible next step in a desperate attempt to gain control over the situation. But it was time for an answer now.

Gojo exhaled, tipping his head back slightly before looking at you. “Alright. Here’s the deal,” he started, voice steady but laced with something deliberate. 

“We’ve gone over every possible approach—some good, some incredibly reckless.” His sharp blue gaze flickered toward Yuji and Nobara. “But I’ve been doing some behind-the-scenes work, too.”

Something about his tone made your stomach turn. Gojo wasn’t just speaking to fill the space. He was leading up to something.

“Ijichi’s been looking into your family,” he said simply.

Your breath caught in your throat.

The words felt like a drop of ink in water, expanding outward, staining everything in their path.

“He’s been working on it for a while now,” Gojo continued, his voice softer now, less teasing. “Ever since you mentioned bits and pieces of where you grew up, I figured it was worth checking out. I didn’t want to say anything until we had real answers, but…” He let out a breath, then looked directly at you. “He found them.”

It felt like the entire world had been thrown into slow motion.

Your heart clenched violently as if your body itself was rejecting the enormity of the words. 

It was like something inside you snapped taut, a wire stretched too thin suddenly pulled to its breaking point. Your lungs forgot how to work.

Found them.

The words reverberated in your skull, echoing back at you with a weight you weren’t prepared for.

For so long, you had existed in a state of limbo, balancing on the edge of memory and oblivion. 

Your past was a collection of blurred images, shattered glass pieces of a puzzle that refused to fit together. You had convinced yourself that maybe—just maybe—it was better not to know. 

But now… they weren’t lost.

They were real.

You pressed your palms into your lap, grounding yourself against the spiralling sensation, but it wasn’t enough to keep the rush of emotions from flooding your system.

Your family.

They had faces. Names. A home. They were somewhere.

And they had been there this whole time, completely unaware that you were out here, lost, fighting to remember them.

Gojo’s voice pulled you back from the freefall. “They’re still in Tokyo.”

Tokyo.

That single word settled into your chest like a weight, dragging you back to a place you could only half-remember, an old dream slipping through your fingers.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Nanami was the first to break it.

“You look like you’re about to pass out,” he observed, his voice calm but edged with concern.

You forced in a breath, though it felt like you were inhaling through a straw. “I just…” You swallowed. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Gojo said, quieter now. “Just… process.”

You lifted your gaze to him, and for once, his expression wasn’t unreadable. There was something deeply human in the way he watched you, something raw beneath the confidence. 

You didn’t have to ask how long he had been waiting to tell you this—how much he had debated whether it was the right thing to do.

Your fingers curled slightly against your knee. “So… what happens now?”

Megumi, ever practical, was the one to answer. “If we can get you in front of them, there’s a good chance it’ll trigger your memories.”

“And if your memories come back,” Nobara added, leaning forward, “you might remember exactly what happened to you that night. And where Geto is.”

That name sent another jolt through your system, cutting through the haze of emotion like a blade.

Geto.

The one thread tying all of this together. The reason you were here, drowning in uncertainty.

Nanami adjusted his glasses. “The goal is twofold—recover your past and uncover Geto’s movements. We need both pieces of the puzzle.”

Gojo clapped his hands together, the sound breaking the tension. 

“So, here’s the full plan. We lay low for a day or so—make sure we’re not being tracked, keep out of sight. Then we head back to Tokyo. Ijichi will coordinate things from there, get us in contact with your family in a controlled setting. Then, we will figure it allllll out from there.”

The weight of it all settled deep in your chest, heavy and impossible to ignore.

This was happening.

Everything you had been chasing—every question you had been too afraid to ask—was finally within reach.

You just weren’t sure if you were ready for the answers. 

—

Sleep didn’t come easily.

Even after hours of tossing and turning, even after convincing yourself that everything was fine, that you were safe here, that nothing could reach you—his face wouldn’t leave your mind.

Geto.

That slow, knowing smile. Those sharp, calculating eyes. The quiet, eerie way he had spoken to you in the dream, like he had all the time in the world to break you apart piece by piece. It wasn’t just a memory. It wasn’t even just a nightmare. It felt real. Too real.

Eventually, exhaustion won. Your body gave in before your mind, pulling you under the surface of sleep.

But before you knew it, the nightmare crept in slowly…

Tokyo stretched around you, quiet in a way it never should be. No hum of distant traffic, no neon glow reflecting against rain-slick pavement. The air hung thick, pressing against your skin like something unseen was watching, waiting.

Then you saw him.

Standing beneath a streetlamp, his figure cut through the dark like ink bleeding into paper. The dim light flickered, casting sharp shadows across his face—Geto.

At first, he didn’t move. Just stood there, head tilted slightly, dark eyes fixed on yours. And then, as if he’d been waiting for you to notice him, his mouth curved into a slow, knowing smile.

"Found you."

Something cold gripped your spine.

You stepped back—he stepped forward.

Not running. Not lunging. Just walking, like he already knew how this would end.

The city warped around you, buildings shifting like they were folding inward, every alley leading nowhere. You ran anyway, breath sharp, pulse loud in your ears. No matter how far you went, no matter how fast—he was still there.

"You can’t hide from me." His voice was almost gentle. Almost amused.

And then he reached for you—

You woke up with a gasp.

The room was too dark, the silence too heavy. Your skin felt damp, breath uneven as you pushed yourself upright. The covers were twisted around you, tangled like you’d been fighting something in your sleep.

It was just a dream.

But you still felt the weight of it, still saw his face behind your eyelids when you blinked.

Then, before you could even think, the hallway outside filled with rushed footsteps—and then the door flew open.

"What happened?"

Gojo’s voice was sharp, breathless. His shoulders were tense, his hair a mess from sleep, his hand still braced against the doorframe like he’d been ready to fight something when he barged in. The usual teasing light in his eyes was gone, replaced with something heavier.

You swallowed, forcing your pulse to slow. "Nothing," you exhaled, the lie clumsy on your tongue. "Just a nightmare."

Gojo didn’t move. His gaze flickered over you, taking in the way your fingers were still clutching the sheets, the uneven rise and fall of your chest.

"Just a nightmare?" His voice was quieter now, but it didn’t lose its edge.

You nodded, feeling small beneath the weight of his stare. "Yeah. Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you."

His jaw tensed slightly, but he let out a slow breath, dragging a hand through his hair.

"Alright." He didn’t sound entirely convinced.

A moment stretched between you, neither of you speaking, just the quiet hum of the night pressing in around you.

Then, finally, he shifted.

His fingers curled loosely against the doorframe, like he was debating something. His mouth parted slightly—like he wanted to say something. But instead, he let out a sigh, shaking his head just a little.

"Well… get some rest." His voice was softer now.

He turned to leave.

And you almost let him.

But then, before you could stop yourself—before you could think about how desperate it might sound—you whispered, "Wait."

Gojo froze.

For a split second, you hesitated. 

You didn’t know what you were asking for. You only knew that the second he stepped back into the hall, you’d be alone again. And you weren’t sure you could sit with the weight of that dream pressing against your ribs.

"Satoru… can you please stay with me?"

You barely heard your own voice, but the way he turned—slow, careful—told you he had.

His expression was unreadable for a long moment, his blue eyes flickering between yours like he was trying to figure out if you really meant it.

Without another word, he stepped inside.

The bed shifted as he crawled in beside you, settling in just a bit too easily. He didn’t ask anything, didn’t make a joke or say anything silly—he just laid down on his side, facing you, and let the room settle into silence again. His presence was close but not overwhelming.

You both lay there, in that quiet space between the dream and the waking world. The air was thick with the unsaid, but there was something calming about the warmth radiating from him, the quiet reassurance of knowing he was there, just there.

You let out a small sigh, your body relaxing without you even realizing it. Slowly, your head shifted closer to him.

It was so subtle, you almost didn’t notice. But before you could stop yourself, you felt the shift—your body leaning ever so slightly into his, the warmth of him bleeding through the fabric of your clothes, pulling you in closer.

His breath hitched for just a second, but he didn’t pull away. He didn’t move. He just stayed there, his body offering the reassurance you didn’t know you needed.

After a moment, Gojo exhaled quietly.

"You okay?" His voice was quiet, concerned but gentle.

You nodded, feeling the remnants of the dream slip away, replaced by the soft comfort of his presence. "Yeah," you whispered. "Just... needed the quiet."

For a long moment, neither of you spoke, just the gentle rhythm of your breaths filling the space between you.

Then Gojo’s voice, soft but clear, broke the silence again. "I’m not going anywhere."

You let your body relax completely now, leaning just a little more into him, your head resting gently on his chest, the sound of his heartbeat steady and grounding.

The tension from the nightmare faded with each passing second, and, despite the closeness, there was no need for words. Not yet.

Gojo’s hand rested by his side, just close enough that you could feel his warmth, but not enough to invade your space. He stayed like that, not moving, just letting you breathe.

You didn’t need anything more.

There was something about the way Gojo lay there, still and present, that allowed your body to release its hold on the tension that had built up over the past weeks. 

It wasn’t just the proximity—though that was part of it. It wasn’t just his usual confidence or his gentle teasing—there was something different about tonight.

It was the quiet assurance in his voice when he’d said he wasn’t going anywhere. It was the way he had stayed, without question, just to make sure you were okay.

As you let yourself sink into the bed, feeling his steady breath against your skin, the world outside seemed distant, a mere echo. 

The edges of your thoughts, the worries and the nightmares, all faded into the background. It was as if, for the first time in what felt like forever, with him there, you could just... rest.

You could breathe without the tight knot in your chest, without the ever-present fear that something was waiting to catch up to you, to tear you apart.

And just like that, you fell asleep.

The quiet of the night stretched around you, soft and safe. No dreams of Geto. No twisting, suffocating nightmares. Just peaceful sleep—unbroken and untainted.

The sense of security in Gojo's presence wrapped around you, lulling you into the deepest sleep you had experienced in weeks. 

There was something soothing in the way he never asked for more than this, just the stillness and the shared moment of comfort.

—

The morning light crept softly into the room, casting a warm, golden glow over the tangled sheets.

The sound of birds chirping outside filtered into the quiet, a gentle reminder of the world waking up around you. But for the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel the rush to join it.

The bed was incredibly warm, the sheets a little tangled, your body blissfully relaxed and at peace. You blinked a few times, slowly adjusting to the light, the soft weight on your chest stirring a vague sense of familiarity.

For a long moment, you just lay there, letting the warmth of the room wash over you.

You felt... safe. Safe in a way you hadn’t in ages, not even after the most peaceful sleep you'd ever had. Slowly, you turned your head to the side, blinking once more as you saw the familiar, messy mop of white hair lying just beside you.

Gojo.

He was there, his arm draped loosely around your waist, pulling you closer even in his sleep. You were tangled up together—your bodies an accidental mess of limbs and sheets. 

You must have both shifted during the night, the unconscious movement leading to this situation. His chest rose and fell gently beneath you, his warmth radiating over you. 

The steady rhythm of his breathing was calming, and despite everything—the chaos, the danger—you felt a sense of peace you hadn’t known in months.

You smiled softly to yourself. Somehow, you’d slept through the night without the usual nightmares or restlessness. And here you were—tangled in the sheets, in his arms—feeling... completely relaxed.

You could hardly believe it.

This was what true rest felt like, the kind that seeped into your bones and quieted the loud, haunting voices in your mind. You felt a strange sense of security, something you’d never expected to find in this house, in the midst of everything.

The sound of Gojo’s soft exhale stirred you from your thoughts. You looked up at his face, his features softened in sleep, his usual playful expression now absent. It was a side of him you didn’t often get to see—a rare, unguarded moment. 

You hesitated for a second, then shifted ever so slightly, carefully disentangling your legs from his. But as you moved, his arm instinctively tightened around your waist.

“Mmm,” Gojo murmured groggily, his eyes fluttering open. The first thing he saw was you, your face just inches from his, the way you were still pressed against him.

His lips curled into a lazy, amused grin. “You’re awake already?”

You blinked, still half-dazed from the sleep, your thoughts slow to catch up. “I—yeah. I think I’ve had the best sleep I’ve had in... well, ever,” you whispered, still surprised at how at ease you felt.

Gojo's smile softened, and for a second, you thought you saw something genuine in his eyes.

He chuckled lightly, his fingers brushing against your side as he pulled you closer again, not in a possessive way, but just... holding you there, as if the two of you were simply drifting together in the quiet morning.

“Good. You needed it.” His voice was still low, thick with sleep, but there was a tenderness to it that made your heart skip. “And as much as I love waking up next to you,” Gojo continued with that signature cocky grin, “I think we’re a little tangled up, don’t you?”

You let out a small laugh, noticing how your legs were practically intertwined, the sheets now wrapped around both of you like a messy cocoon. There was something absurdly intimate about it—the way your bodies had found their place together in the night without thinking.

“Yeah, looks like it,” you said, your voice still soft but with a teasing edge. “I’m not complaining, though.”

His grin widened, his hand lazily tracing small circles on your back. “I’ll admit, it’s not exactly the worst way to wake up,” he murmured, his eyes now fully awake, but still heavy with the kind of sleepiness that made him even more alluring. 

“But I think we both know I’m not really one for staying still for long.”

His eyes flicked to yours, a glint of mischief returning. “I’m not saying I mind the cuddling... but if you’re trying to make me stick around longer, you might just have to get a little creative.”

You tilted your head, fighting the urge to smile. 

“Oh really—Is that so?” You teased, your hand resting on his chest. “I think you might be the one getting too comfortable here.”

Gojo chuckled softly, letting out a relaxed sigh. “Maybe... but I’d say we’ve both earned it, don’t you think?”

You rolled your eyes, unable to help the small smile tugging at your lips. “Shut up.”

Gojo let out a laugh, the deep, carefree kind that made something warm settle in your chest. “Ah, there she is,” he mused, clearly pleased with himself. “All sweet and soft when she sleeps, but the moment she wakes up—back to bullying me.”

You huffed, shifting to untangle your legs from his. “I think you’ll live.”

He smirked, propping himself up on one elbow as he watched you get up off of the bed to stretch. “Barely. But if you ever feel like making it up to me, I wouldn’t say no to a morning cuddle.”

You scoffed. “Dream on.”

Gojo tilted his head back, laughing again. “Oh, I definitely will.”

You rolled your eyes, the playful teasing already getting to you. As you moved across the room to open up the blinds, you whipped a pillow at him, not caring that it was soft—just that it might finally shut him up. 

“Really? A pillow?” he says, letting it drop to the floor as he stands up himself.

Your heart races as the playful tension in the room shifts. You clear your throat, trying to keep your composure. “Yeah, really. Now, I need you to leave so I can change.”

Gojo tilts his head, still not moving, but his grin softens slightly as he studies you. 

“You sure you don’t want me to, I don’t know, help you out with that?” He leans casually against the doorframe, that familiar mischievous glint in his eyes.

You cross your arms, trying to look unaffected, but you can’t ignore the slight flush creeping up your neck. 

“Gojo... seriously. Out. Now.” You try to sound firm, but there’s a slight tremor in your voice.

Gojo doesn’t budge at first, as if debating whether to tease you some more. But then, after a brief silence, he straightens up, dropping the act. 

“Alright, alright. You really want me to leave?” His tone is almost playful, but there’s an odd sincerity beneath it.

You nod, half-exasperated, half-embarrassed. “Yes. I’m not going to change in front of you.”

Gojo’s grin shifts into something that feels almost like admiration. He holds up his hands in mock surrender, stepping back toward the door.

“Alright ma’am,” he says, pausing to meet your eyes with a look that’s both teasing and respectful. “I’ll leave you to it. But just know, if you need help with anything else... I’m always here.”

With a playful wink, he lingered at the doorframe for a moment longer, his gaze lingering on you before you shut the door.

Gojo lingered just outside the door, his hand still resting against the frame. 

His usual swagger had carried him out, but now, in the quiet of the hallway, something unfamiliar curled in his chest, something that refused to loosen even as he exhaled.

His fingertips tingled with the memory of your warmth, the weight of you still imprinted against him like the ghost of a dream he wasn’t ready to let slip away. 

The warm scent of you clung to his shirt, something soft, something steady, something that made his pulse slow in a way he didn’t quite know how to name.

For a man who had spent years mastering distance—crafting barriers with laughter, weaving walls out of bravado—this was unheard of. 

It was second nature to keep the world at arm’s length, to stand just outside of reach where no one could ever truly grasp him. Even those closest to him, the ones who thought they knew him best, only ever got fragments, slivers of the truth wrapped in a smirk.

But you—somehow, without trying, without even knowing—you had slipped past all of that.

He could still feel it, the way your body had unconsciously curled into his during the night, seeking warmth, seeking him. 

It hadn’t been hesitation, hadn’t been uncertainty. It had been instinct as if your body had already decided for you. 

And the worst part—the part he knew should bother him more than it did—was that he had done the same. 

No resistance. No retreat. Just the quiet ease of two pieces falling into place, a flawless connection, a certainty that hit him harder than he was ready for. 

And damn, did he feel it—this was what it meant to become undone.

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.”