Becoming a father had never been part of the plan. Hell, after what happened in 2007, he never thought he’d marry at all. But time passed. Satoru found him again — reached into the dark and pulled him out. Neither of them would ever say it out loud, but Suguru knows he owes his life to him. And Satoru made one thing painfully clear: no one was coming to save him. If Suguru wanted to live, to return — he had to choose it for himself. So he did.

When Suguru walked back into Jujutsu High, he felt the weight of it immediately — the countless eyes tracking his every step. The higher-ups, the students who only knew the rumors. The ones who remembered what happened. Each stare carried something different. Hatred. Resentment. Curiosity. None of it was unfamiliar to him.

Then you came along — bright-eyed, hopeful. You graduated a few years after he left, and you chose to return after witnessing the relentless cruelty of the world. You were taught what most people would never see: where cursed energy comes from, how it is born from human emotion. Fear, grief, hatred and regret — all of it pooled together until it took shape. Left to decay, those emotions become cursed-spirits. Where tragedy is heavy, where crowded stations are thick with anxiety, cursed spirits gather there. Your first mission with Suguru was at an abandoned hospital, Yaga had paired up the two of you for reasons he chose not to disclose to the raven-haired male. But as Suguru watched you exorcise the cursed-spirits, the understanding in your voice as you faced what would be the byproduct of someone’s despair, he realized just how relentless you were. 

Even after particularly brutal missions, when the air still tasted bitter with residual cursed energy and your uniform was stiff with dried blood, you found yourself offering explanations — for the victims, for the broken systems that created them.

You wanted to save people. You insisted on seeing the good in them, even when it was buried deep beneath layers of resentment and despair. Where others would have turned away, angry and bitter, you stayed. When the missions were brutal, when the cursed energy lingered in the air like smoke, when the weight of the world pressed down too heavily for anyone to bear alone.

And whenever things became too much — too suffocating for Suguru to breathe — you were there. First as a co-worker, dependable and present when needed. Then as a friend, someone he could sometimes lean on without fear. Then, eventually, as a lover, the one who could reach the parts of him he had thought no one would ever find. And now, as the mother of his twin daughters, Shizue and Miru, you are the light that anchors him.

—

When Miru fell, Shizue was always there to pick her up. The contrast between the two girls was subtle but striking, and both you and Suguru couldn’t help but laugh at it. When Miru cried, Shizue would hand her a pacifier, a doll — anything to chase the tears away. And when it was Shizue who was upset, Miru would wrap her tiny arms around her sister, crying along with her, completely oblivious to the reason behind the outburst. They were two peas in a pod, born with built-in best friends in each other.

Suguru remembered the first time his daughters learned to ride their bikes as if it were yesterday.

“Look at me!” Shizue had picked it up quickly — a few scrapes on her knees and elbows, teary eyes, flushed cheeks, but she would get up every time, running to her father and asking for help again.

“Papa, band-aid!” she insisted, pointing at her tiny wounds. Suguru chuckled as he carefully tended to her.

“Of course,” he said, smiling.

By the seventh attempt, Shizue was riding around the neighborhood like a pro.

Miru, on the other hand — not so much. Suguru was aware of his daughter’s crybaby tendencies — the instant her knee scraped the pavement, tears poured down like a waterfall, and she would leap straight into his arms.

“I don’t wanna!” she wailed. Suguru softened at the sight, cradling her gently. 

“But baby, look at your sister — she’s doing so well!”

“Yeah!” Shizue called, waving excitedly. “Come on!”

But Miru shook her head stubbornly, clinging to her father. She wouldn’t learn to ride properly until a year later. She was more fragile, more sensitive — so much so that her own sister remarked on it in the car on the way to visit relatives. Miru had dozed off, her tears dried after Suguru had refused to adopt a second cat she spotted on the road. Shizue glanced at her, then blurted out:

“She cries a lot.”

Suguru snorted, but he couldn’t disagree. You turned to Shizue with a playful smile.

“Doesn’t she?” you said softly, caressing Miru’s knee before cupping Shizue’s face.

“I don’t like it when she cries,” Shizue admitted.

Suguru raised an eyebrow. “It annoys you?”

Shizue shrugged, eyes on her sister. “No… is it normal?”

“To cry a lot?” you clarified.

Shizue nodded. You smiled warmly. “Some of us are more sensitive than others. And that’s okay.”

“Sensitive…” Shizue repeated the word thoughtfully, filing it away. Her sister was sensitive. “Okay,” she said, finally satisfied.

—

No matter how tightly he closed his eyes or how firmly he covered his ears, Suguru couldn’t erase the image of his daughter’s face the first time she swallowed a curse. The way she sobbed afterward, the broken, desperate look she turned toward him with — it was seared into his memory. He had always feared the day he would discover which of his daughters had inherited his cursed technique, yet a quiet, hopeful part of him had prayed it would be Shizue.

He truly believed that the signs were there: Shizue was always the first to notice cursed spirits in a room, the one who asked him endlessly what it felt like to absorb them, curious and fearless in ways her sister wasn’t.

Shizue had inherited your cursed technique, while Miru carried his.

The realization should not have hit him so hard — watching smaller, weaker cursed spirits gravitate toward her, he could have pretended to be fine. At first, he did, even joking that she would surpass him one day. But he had never been able to prepare for the moment he would have to watch her swallow a curse, the raw fear and pain etched across her face, and the helpless ache that engulfed him in that instant. 

The taste of a cursed spirit — something he had once believed no one else could ever know — now belonged to her too. Like swallowing a cloth used to wipe up vomit, Suguru couldn’t help but feel guilty. He had passed on this burden to his daughter. 

—

The clock kept ticking in the living room, each second hammering against Suguru’s chest like a drum he couldn’t escape.

“I did that to her.” He breaks the suffocating silence, guilt brimming in his brown eyes. “Fuck, you should’ve seen her face.” 

“Suguru,” you said softly, pushing yourself to sit beside him and resting a hand on his back. “Don’t say that.”

He shook his head, leaning forward, burying his face in his hands. “I can’t, I—” He raises his head, wiping his face. “She hated it.” 

Not once do you interrupt. You stay silent as he pours out the horror of swallowing cursed spirits, describing the way the taste overwhelms the senses, foul, clinging to every nerve. You don’t tell him that you know what it feels like — it would be cruel, almost mocking, to claim understanding when both of you know the truth. He hates that his daughter has to go through the same thing. 

You were there when Miru swallowed yet another cursed spirit. Standing near an abandoned building, you watched as tears prickled at the corner of her eyes, her lips trembling as she parts them a couple of times. 

“It tastes like a used up rug.” She muttered under her breath, you don’t miss the way Suguru’s body stiffened. You walk away, and Suguru’s eyebrows draw together, confused. He slowly approaches Miru to comfort her.

“Can’t even drink water, it makes it worse.”

Suguru’s heart sinks to his stomach. It had been the same for him, water does make the taste worse. It intensifies the bitter aftertaste, and makes you all too aware of what you had just swallowed. Suguru sighs as he pulls his daughter towards him, her head resting on his chest — a huge part of him was grateful that his daughter had remained affectionate through her teenage years.

“What’s in Mama’s hand?” Miru asked, lifting her head from Suguru’s chest.

Suguru followed her gaze, brow furrowed, watching as you held something out to your daughter.

“Here,” you said gently, offering the small object. “This should help.”

Chocolate milk. Miru’s favorite drink since she could hold a cup on her own.

The pout that had tugged at her lips moments ago vanished instantly. Her hands shot out to grab the bottle, twisting the cap open with practiced ease. The shift in her mood was immediate — her eyes sparkled as she glanced between the two of you, bright and alive once more.

“I don’t taste it anymore!” she exclaimed, holding the bottle out proudly before turning her full attention to you. Without hesitation, she threw her arms around your waist, pressing her face against your chest.

“Thank you!” she murmured, muffled but sincere.

“You’re welcome, baby,” you whispered, your hand resting on her back, gentle and reassuring.

Suguru didn’t move. His eyes stayed on you the entire time, watching as you kissed and caressed Miru’s head. You tell your daughter to head to the car since she was done, before turning to face your husband. The small, intimate moment between you and your daughter — his wife and the mother of the children, and the one person who knew how he felt. Something in Suguru’s chest tightened, a mixture of awe and the faintest twinge of longing which didn’t make sense — how could he long for something that was already his? 

Suguru doesn’t have the answer, but he doesn’t think it’s so necessary to find one right now. You approach him carefully, reaching to wrap your warm hand around his. It brings him back to his senses and he blinks. The smile on your face is immediate once you feel the coil in his shoulders melting away.

“Are you okay?”

“Mmm,” Suguru’s chest aches, and he hopes that pure adoration is pouring from his eyes as he holds your gaze. Despite years of marriage, you find yourself looking away as he pulls you against him. You brace yourself with a hand on his chest.

“I don’t know what it feels like to swallow cursed spirits,” you finally speak up, patting his chest. “But I’ll do anything to make it even a little less horrible.”

A thick lump forms in Suguru’s throat, and he finds himself inhaling deeply as he looks down at you. He feels you soften beneath his touch as he presses his lips to your forehead — protective, loving. His heart threatens to leap out of his chest, something warm and overwhelming swelling inside him.

He had told you, once — in bits and pieces at first — about how horrible it was to consume cursed spirits. About the taste that clawed at his tongue and refused to fade, about the way it lingered in the back of his throat no matter how much he rinsed his mouth, how it felt less like swallowing something and more like forcing down something that had rotted. He had expected pity, disgust perhaps — but you never pretended to understand. 

You never claimed you knew what it felt like, never offered hollow reassurances. From the very day you met him, you simply stayed. You handed him water when the bitterness wouldn’t leave, and when he had told you that water makes it worse, you would search for anything that would help wash down the taste. You pressed something sweet into his palm without comment, rubbed his back when the nausea set in. And now you were doing the same for his daughter.

Suguru swallows hard, his hand lingering at the back of your head as if grounding himself. He had always believed the burden of that taste was his alone to bear. But somehow, you had found a way to lighten it — without ever claiming it as your own.