Yuji Itadori was new this year. A mid-year transfer who had, miraculously, skipped all the usual hurdles and growing pains of social integration. No sulking in the corner, no anxiety-stricken tugs on your sleeve. The boy had walked in, grinned at you with gapped and missing teeth, and within forty-eight hours had more friends than you could count — probably even more than you had yourself. 

You hadn’t met his father. Radio silence on that front aside from slips and papers returned signed in neat calligraphy, and one brief, clipped phone call before Yuji’s first day. The mysterious Mr. Nanami remained just that: a mystery.

But Yuji wrote his own mythology. 

According to him, his dad was very tall, very strong, very good at math, and — most importantly — the best dad in the world.

You’d seen at least four crayon portraits of the man. A scribbled head of blonde hair. Always in a suit. Always holding Yuji’s hand. One even featured a big spotted paddle (sword?), though Yuji was quick to assure you that it wasn’t real. You’d raised a brow and let it slide. You were used to dads in superhero capes and interpretive renditions of fist-fighting monsters. This wasn’t odd. 

When the phone rang that night, you’d answered with the upbeat warmth you always offered new parents — a smile in your voice, ready to build that bridge. But Nanami Kento crossed it first. 

His tone was even, no-nonsense. Not unfriendly, but certainly not one for pleasantries or menial small-talk.

He informed you, calmly and concisely, that his family was undergoing a period of adjustment.

That if Yuji struggled — academically, socially, or emotionally — you were to contact him immediately.

He thanked you. Briefly. And ended the call with a curt, “Enjoy the rest of your evening.” 

No mention of a mother. 

None from Yuji, either. 

You’d read between and colored in enough lines in your career to understand that well enough. 

And even in the brevity of those clean, clinical lines of his voice, you caught a glimpse of him — this man Yuji so obviously admired. Serious. Sharp. The kind of parent who showed up and cared, even if not always in person. 

Still, you hadn’t expected him to show up at all. 

Not until his name appeared on the list for Bring Your Parent to School Day. 

And certainly not with the kind of presence that would make you double-check the dress you wore that morning.

You’d been welcoming parents for the last twenty-five minutes, and each one brought with them another blur of motion — squeaky sneakers pelting down the linoleum hallway, the slap of a hand against the doorframe, a gleeful shriek of your name. You’d pop your head out with a wide smile, crouching low to greet each student like your own, your voice warm and sunflower-bright. 

“Good morning!” 

A gentle pat on the back, and off they’d go — nudged toward the long folding table piled high with boxed donuts, pastries, and room temperature juice boxes. You’d done your best to make this morning a special one within your limited means. 

The parents made for an even more eclectic bunch than their children. Some arrived in scrubs, others in hard hats, mud-streaked boots trailing across your clean rug (you winced, mentally tabbing another steam-clean rental).

One mother came in juggling mannequin heads. Another brought a stethoscope, which she graciously let the kids try on. And one father — clearly playing for keeps — arrived with a black lab from the fire station in tow. The dog wriggled and basked in the attention of twenty sticky-fingered admirers, tail a blur like an overdriven metronome. 

You would definitely have to steam clean the rug. 

There was always one family that stole the spotlight, and this year's frontrunner had all but cinched it with four paws and a lolling tongue. That was hardly fair play. 

Still, as you subtly ushered parents toward the foam cups and coffee station, you couldn’t help but notice one bright face conspicuously missing. Yuji Itadori wasn’t exactly the type to blend in, and he’d never missed a day of school.

You frowned, glancing up at the wall clock just as the minute hand slipped neatly into place. 

8:29. 

Right on cue, the hallway outside your classroom erupted. 

There was a screech — rubber soles skidding like brakes on blacktop — and then Yuji exploded into the room with the exuberance and subtlety of a category five hurricane, sending art projects fluttering and bulletin boards rattling in his wake. He collided into your legs and wrapped himself around them. 

“Told you we were gonna be late!” he howled, already twisting to glare over his shoulder. 

You barely had time to ruffle his hair before a second voice — measured, calm, and cut from a different cloth entirely — followed behind. 

“And I told you we would be right on time.” 

The clock ticked. 8:30 on the dot. 

“And we are.” 

The crisp click of dress shoes in long, confident strides heralded the arrival of a man you’d heard so much about, even if written in the strokes that belonged in something as fantastical as The Odyssey. 

Brown leather shoes shined within an inch of their life, gleaming like mirrors beneath long legs dressed in tailored beige — an unusual suit color, but you decided not an unflattering one. It was immaculate. Pressed. And the faint creases at the elbows and knees were the only lifeline cast to save you from the broad chest and shoulders beneath his jacket, and his face— 

What did Yuji say his dad did for work again…?

You couldn’t tell. He came empty-handed without props or costume, only deepening the mystery and leaving you to your own intrigued speculation. 

A model, maybe. Editorial spreads. GQ. Gentleman’s Digest, something. It had to be. 

You were staring. You were still smiling and you were still staring, and at some point Yuji had un-velcroed himself from your legs and launched into a new tirade, tugging eagerly at his fathers hand. 

“I wanna show you my art! And my favorite toys, and all my friends, and—oh! Nanamin, there’s a dog!” 

Nanami who’d been looking at you turned to his son and took a knee, and you witnessed a 3-second timelapse of glacial melting in the stern lines of his face. His eyes went soft and his mouth untensed into the suggestion of a smile. 

“I’ll look at everything in a moment,” he said, voice gentled for Yuji alone. “May I speak with your teacher first?”

You nodded encouragingly, voice tugging itself back into your throat. 

“Why don’t you grab some breakfast real quick, Yuji? Then we’ll get started.” 

He peeled away, drawn to the scent of sugar like a moth to flame, and behind your back came the cacophony of reunion as if it had been years and not yesterday since his classmates had seen him last. You smiled as Nanami stood, the gentleness in his expression already evaporated. Not unkind, but compartmentalized. 

His warmth was not meant for you. But rather than snubbed, you felt undeniably endeared by such uninhibited paternal adoration. 

“You must be Mr. Nanami,” you greeted amicably, a hand already outstretched to grasp his with a welcoming tilt of your head. He met your handshake with a firm grip, and you self-consciously tightened your own. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” 

“All good things, I hope.” 

His voice was low — husky with fatigue but smooth enough to suggest that this was just the way he always sounded. He looked tired. Moved like he’d made peace with it. You figured he’d just been designed that way — quiet, composed, and just slightly too serious for a room filled with googly eyes and glitter glue. 

“Only the best,” you assured with a smile. 

There was a small pause. Not awkward — just considered. 

“Thank you,” he said at last. “Yuji speaks about you often. It’s clear he feels safe here.” 

It was rare to receive gratitude for your efforts with your students, and rarer still for it to be delivered with such conclusivity. Non-effusive, Nanami’s appreciation was simply a fact, a fact which made it feel all the more sincere in its lack of grandiosity. 

Your smile softened. “That means a lot. He’s a great kid, you must be really proud.” 

“I am.”

Just like that, it passed — his gaze shifted briefly behind you and his mouth twitched, a convection between an exasperated smile and down-turned fluster, already slipping past you. “Yuji! Wash your hands before eating if you’re going to pet the dog—“ * The morning began in earnest not long after you pressed a conciliatory coffee into Nanami’s hands. Chairs shuffled and screeched into a half-circle and name tags were peeled from their sticker sheets and affixed to breast pockets, labels, scrubs, and sleeves. You ran a quick welcome with your own steaming espresso in hand (god knows you needed it) before handing the floor over to the parents. 

Suddenly your second grade classroom was a parade of bladeless scalpels and stethoscopes, a menagerie of machinery and manicure sets. Laughter bloomed bright and uninhibited in the kids as each grown-up took their turn in the spotlight, answering questions as palatably as possible for their innocent audience. 

You knew one mother was a cardiovascular surgeon, but in front of the class she simply said, “I help hearts feel better when they’re sick,” folding a model valve between her fingers. The lawyer in the corner — slim briefcase at his feet, a heavy gavel making its rounds like a party favor — told them he made sure “bad guys went to jail.” No mention, of course, of the murder trial he’d wrapped up the week prior. 

You encouraged questions, and your students — bless their lack of tact — took you at your word. The shy ones curled against a parent’s leg with owlish eyes, while the bolder kids launched a barrage of increasingly personal inquiries: Has anyone died? Have you ever been to jail? Has your dog ever peed in the fire truck? You did your best to redirect the worst of them, gently steering the conversation away from blood and bladder-related incidents. 

And through it all, Nanami watched it unfold. Tucked into one of the red plastic chairs you’d borrowed from the snack table, he looked like he might snap the thing in half just by breathing too hard. His limbs folded into reluctant submission up toward his chest, tragically origamied, the entire chair tilting forward with each shift. He’d finished his coffee by then and now quietly sipped on a comically tiny juice box. 

Stone-faced, but not indifferent. His gaze tracked each speaker with judicial interest. And when the air grew too thick with awkward silence after a hesitant finish, it was Nanami who occasionally lifted one long arm to ask a polite question — enough to nudge things back into motion and, you suspected by the nature of some of his questions, simply to satisfy his own curiosity of the subject. You liked him for that. 

“Alright…!” You clapped your hands. “Yuji, why don’t you send your dad up here next?” 

Yuji’s eyes blew wide, his mouth popping open in an exaggerated ‘O’, then he swung at Nanami’s arm, batting at him and tugging on his sleeves.

“Gogogo!” he whisper-shouted. 

Nanami looked up at you and you smiled. You spread your arm wide with a flourishing ‘the floor is yours’ gesture. 

Nanami stood, unfolded himself and his ensemble with a smooth brush of his palms over the fabric. He stepped forward to take your place at the front of the room and you happily shifted aside, sitting upon the corner of your desk and crossing your ankles. 

From where he stood, a paper caterpillar peered just over the top of his head with big wobbling eyes. 

He straightened the cuffs of his jacket and adjusted his tie, pinching the pristine Windsor in his palm and hiking it up to his throat. He scanned the room, meeting eyes, chin down-tilted to examine his under four-foot tall crowd. 

“I work in finance,” he began. “Specifically, I manage assets and perform risk assessments on financial portfolios to ensure return on investment, primarily through domestic and international equities.” 

A long silence followed. One of the kids in the corner let out a tiny sniffle. 

Unperturbed, Nanami pressed on. “What that means is I analyze companies and determine whether it is strategically sound to invest money in their future operations. I also track market fluctuations and perform cost-benefit analysis on various classes of stock.”

You saw it happen in real time — the eyes of your students glazing over like the sticky donuts they’d grubbed from the table. Even a few parents tilted their heads, bewilderment blooming in the stitch of their brows as though suddenly realizing they’d forgotten something on the stove.

One girl leaned sideways to whisper to her mother, “Is he saying math?” 

Yuji was practically vibrating in his seat. Elbows on his scuffed knees, chin in both hands, he stared up at his father with the full, undiluted adoration of a boy watching his hero. Nanami could’ve explained the intricacies and importance of counting grains of rice and you were sure Yuji still would’ve looked at him like he’d hung the stars himself. 

If Nanami realized his audience was all but lost to him, he didn’t seem to show it. Not when he turned around to face the white board to erase the cheerful doodles of the water cycle drawn by the meteorologist who’d gone before him, nor when he uncapped a black marker and began sketching out a meticulous diagram — boxes and arrows, sloping trend lines in red and blue, neat little yen symbols penned with paradigm precision. 

He spoke the whole while, low and steady, detailing the invisible scaffolding that held up the adult world: markets, investments, value over time. He laid out the bones of capitalism, and at points showed his true feelings toward the structure with how he’d slice and jab the marker to make particularly impassioned points. You got the impression this particular machine was one he raged against often. 

“And that,” Nanami concluded, recapping the marker and adjusting his tie again, “is the basic structure of my work in a securities firm. Thank you.” 

Silence. 

Yuji led the charge. Loud, earnest applause that rang out in sharp claps, his face split in a grin wide enough to rival the sun. A few other children joined in, more from peer pressure than understanding, while a mother near the back whispered to another nearby: “God, he’s quite serious, isn’t he?” To which the other nodded, “It’s kind of hot.” 

You had to agree. 

You clapped along with them, encouraging the display until it naturally died down. “Thank you, Mr. Nanami! That was… incredibly thorough!” You beamed, he looked at you sideways. “Does anyone have any questions for Mr. Nanami?” 

You hadn’t expected a single hand to raise… except maybe Yuji. But he instead whirled around in his seat, pleading with wide brown eyes and a trembling lip for any excuse to keep his dad at the center of attention. Because really, what would a bunch of second graders want to know about stock exchange or insider trading? But to your delight, one by one, tiny hands shot up like spring sprouts. 

Nanami, too, looked taken aback. He gestured to a boy in the second row.

“Do you have a dog?” 

Nanami blinked. “… No.” 

There was a ripple of dissatisfaction at that. You saw him shift his weight to the opposite leg as he called on a young girl. 

“Are you rich?” 

“Depends on how you define it,” he said. 

“Do you go to the gym?” 

“… Yes.” 

“Ohhh,” someone whispered, followed by a murmur of approval as if this, at last, was finally relevant information. 

Then the questions poured in: 

“Can you lift a car?” 

“Do you fight robbers?” 

“What’s the strongest thing you’ve ever punched?” 

“Can you fight my dad?” 

Nanami blinked once. You watched him recalibrate his entire moral framework in real time. 

“I don’t make a habit of fighting people’s fathers,” he said.

“But could you?”

That made the corners of his mouth twitch — enough that you could tell he was debating the ethics of indulging a six-year-old’s thirst for chaos. 

“I suppose if your father were endangering others, and all other options had been exhausted—” 

Helpfully, Yuji shouted: “He could! I know he could!” 

You saw that boys father shrink in the back, a sickly sallow overtaking his face. He clearly didn’t fancy his odds. 

Nanami glanced at you like he was seeking diplomatic extraction. You gave him a bright, innocent smile and shrugged your shoulders. He should’ve predicted this larger than life reputation set forth by his son with that statistical brain of his. 

“They’re very engaged,” you whispered, and he gave you a look that could only be described as deeply disappointed.

Mercifully, after three more questions about whether he could punch through a wall, you finally stepped in with a laugh, clapping your hands to wrangle the brewing chaos. “Okay, okay! Let’s all thank Mr. Nanami for visiting and giving us a peek into his very responsible, very serious job.” 

The children groaned their disappointment, already half-convinced he must moonlight as a superhero, but they still chorused their thanks with sticky-fingered enthusiasm. By the end, there was a suspicious sparkle in Nanami’s eye that made you think he may have liked the attention more than he let on. * By the time the final parent wrapped up and the dismissal bell rang, your kids and their short attention spans had all but forgotten about Nanami standing in the back of the room, arms crossed against a tall cabinet, clearly having forsaken his small seat. 

You dismissed your class one by one, sent off with folders tucked, backpacks zipped, and final reminders about homework and forgotten lunch boxes as small groups filtered out of the door. The glitter remained in every corner of the room, as did the smell of bleach and acetone from an unfortunate and entirely predictable accident with the fire dog. 

Yuji bounced over to collect his things, tugging at his fathers sleeve as they turned to go. 

“You forgot to tell them about the time you beat that cursed—“ 

Nanami coughed. “—Budget shortfall,” he said, the words surgically clipped in two. 

Yuji frowned. “That’s not what I was gonna—“ 

“Cursed budget shortfalls,” Nanami repeated. “They can be quite aggressive.” 

Yuji pulled a face, eyes narrowed suspiciously and scampered off to barter holographic stickers by the cubbies. A friend had gotten a shiny tiger, which was decidedly much cooler than his dinosaur. 

Nanami hovered by the door a respectful distance from you, his gaze drifting across the emptying classroom. A couple of rogue pencils lay belly-up beneath desks. Someone had left their water bottle weeping onto the reading rug. There was a half eaten donut hooked over the pot of your plant on the windowsill. It seemed he was just as interested in where his son spends his day as the students were in where the adults usually spent theirs. 

You watched him quietly. There was something about Nanami Kento that drew you — nothing overt, not even that he had a nice face. But there was something so… artificial about his authenticity. He presented himself as a boring man, dressed in boring colors, with a boring job, and had a voice that could probably put you to sleep. The type that probably ate oatmeal for breakfast every day, and bland conbini meals on the train home every evening. It’s like he was trying to be unassuming, to snag no second-glances. 

Frankly, you thought that it was bullshit. 

Your intuition was sharp. You knew when your students stole from each other, and could sniff out the culprit in record time. You knew when the dog had actually eaten someone's homework, or if they’d just forgotten it at home. There was something more to Nanami, and you would’ve picked at that thread if you had more time to do so… but curiosity would not kill the cat today. 

But there would be other days.

“Thank you for coming,” you said instead, a sly smile in the Cheshire curl of your lip. “You made quite the impression.” Maybe more on you than on the kids. 

“I’m not sure that’s a compliment,” Nanami said.

“Oh it is,” you beamed, gesturing to the boardroom-esque diagram still drawn on the whiteboard. “I think I may be teaching the next generation of stock brokers and market analysts here.” 

Nanami grimaced, turning his shoulder away to scrub a hand over his face. “It was a cautionary tale,” he tsked. “They should find something that’s worth doing. Like meteorology. Or baking. Anything but office work. Teaching is a much more rewarding and worthwhile occupation.” 

There it was. The little glint of something more. A cautionary tale of slipping into monotony and tedium, suffering a daily slog with no end in sight, a mere cog in a machine that nobody would notice if it suddenly broke off the belt. Your students would notice your absence. Their parents too, if only because of the inconvenience. But who would notice Nanami, one man in a suit standing on a train full of other men in suits? 

“Well… it made Yuji’s day,” you suggested, softened — not sharp — with conviction. “In fact, he’s going to talk about this until summer break, I can already tell.” 

A preternatural stillness took the business-casual mannequin as he looked over at his son — all spiky pink hair, too-big puffer jacket, trading up his stickers with enough business savvy to make Nanami proud. 

Eventually he sighed, heavy like he’d been holding it in all day as he adjusted the strap of his watch. “He mentions you at home,” he said again.

You smiled, no less warmed by the repetition than you were the first time.

“He’s a pleasure to have in class, honestly. I’m really amazed by how well he settled, most kids struggle to acclimate but…” you watched as Yuji hopped in a circle, one shoe on as he wrestled with the other. “Not him!” 

Nanami gave a small nod, his gaze still fixed outward but you reckoned his attention was much closer. 

“Apparently you give out gummy stars.” 

“… Only for exceptional behavior,” you said with a wide grin. “Or sometimes for being unusually charming.” 

That got you a glance — dry, inscrutable. 

“Then I imagine he’s amassed quite the hoard… and I have you to blame for the frequent sugar highs.” 

You weren’t not flirting with him. Subtle enough to fly over his head if he chose not to acknowledge it, and you had no intention of pushing your luck much further. It was a small miracle you’d met the man behind the mythos at all. But you couldn’t resist a final parting shot. 

You turned and stood on your toes, reaching for a wicker basket stashed high on a shelf, rifling through crinkly cellophane wrappers to procure one such gummy star. You held out your hand — and found yourself pleasantly surprised when Nanami reached out to accept it. 

“For exceptional behavior,” you declared. Or for being unusually charming. 

He regarded the gummy with an expression you couldn’t read, his mouth a neutral set frown that you’d noticed seemed to just be his default expression. He didn’t speak, not until his fingers creaked closed around the treat and retreated into his pocket. 

A win, you think. One glittering, citrus-sugar coated win. 

“Thank you.” 

You merely smiled, gracefully bowing out of the tentative curiosity you’d cast in his direction, just in time for Yuji to veer back towards you both. 

You said your goodbyes and your “see you next week”s, then with one hand swinging Yuji’s backpack and the other resting steadily atop his head, the last of your stragglers stepped out into the sunny hallway. 

You watched them go. 

The gummy star was still in Nanami’s pocket. 

Nanami tries his best not to appear as startled as he is, glancing down to find his daughter, with a full, reusable shopping bag slung over one shoulder, peering up at him. 

“Oh, hello, my dear, done already?” 

“Yeah! And I’ve already paid for my stuff, too. No one was at the self-checkout, so I got through so quickly!” his daughter says this as she taps her bag she’s wearing over her shoulder. She pauses for a moment, her gaze dropping towards the basket he’s carrying, then back up to his face, curiosity reflected in her eyes. “Are you almost done?”

“Ah, I… I still have a few things to pick up,” he says at a volume just above a mumble, trying to hoist his basket as inconspicuously as possible, hoping that the light rustle of plastic packaging that emanates from it as a result remains undetected from his oblivious, visibly more responsible ten-year-old. 

“Okay. Here you go,” she says as she hands over the change for the bill she used to purchase her haul. Just before Nanami gets the chance to take it from she closes her hand over the coins.

“Were you following me around?” she asks, quietly but assuredly, the suspicion now undeniable in the furrow in her brow and the slight tilt of her head. 

“Following you where, love?” her father replies, feigning an air of innocent ignorance.

“While I was doing my shopping, Dad,” she replies, now crossing her arms, eyes narrowing further. “Were you snooping on me?”

“I wasn’t… snooping,” he replied, nervously reaching to pull at the tie he realizes he’s not wearing at the moment. 

“We said no peeking…”

“I know we did—”

“It’s supposed to be a surprise!”

“I know that, dear.”

“Then what are you doing here, in this aisle?”

“Getting this,” he says as he reaches blindly over the shelf next to him, his hand closing on the first random item his fingers find.

“But you won’t even need parmesan for my coconut fried rice.”

“How do you know…” He catches himself just short of his admission. “What makes you believe that’s what I’m planning to make?”

“Oh, did I guess right?” she asks, with a hopeful lilt in her voice. 

Nanami’s vigilance fails him once more—he barely has the time to register, let alone prevent his daughter from pulling his basket down to peek into it to confirm her deduction.

“Oh wow… just cookies? You haven’t even started yet!” she exclaims in genuine surprise.

“I was… sidetracked,” Nanami replies, almost too quickly. “Alright, I’d like to propose new terms to our agreement.” He can’t help the smile that tugs at his lips as she leans in slightly to pay close attention to him. “Let’s forego the surprise part of this and just prepare each other’s meals together for today, alright? Are these terms acceptable?”

She slowly nods her head, her eyes gleaming with a sudden spark of excitement. “Yeah, accepted!”  

“I’ll focus on my shopping now. I shouldn’t be long. You can take your bag to the car and wait there, if you’d like.”

She nods again but doesn’t move, appearing as though she wants to say something more.

“What is it, sweetheart?” Nanami asks.

“So… There’s this new chocolate bar. My friend from school told me about it, and they happen to have it here. She thinks it’s just okay, but I suspect that I’ll like it… Could I please try it today?”

“Mom said no sweets on this run, remember?” he says the words, but he can already feel his resolve melting by the seconds.

“I know… But don’t I deserve a reward?”

“A reward,” he says, both intrigued and amused at the negotiation tactic she’ll go for this time. “For…?”

“For completing my shopping on time, and without cheating?”

“I didn’t—” His beguilement melts just as swiftly as it formed, and he decides to cut himself off, to cut his losses. Nanami rarely finds himself speechless, but on the rare occasions he does, it is often at the hands of his little girl.

“Alright,” Nanami says with a defeated sigh. “Use the change to pay for it. You’ll have to finish eating it before we get home—this time, I can’t help you if she finds out.”

“Yay! Thanks, Dad!”

She saunters off, leaving Nanami with nothing other than a plan that is now both foiled and exposed, and a pack full of Danish biscuits.

About fifteen minutes later, as he’s loading the car trunk with his portion of the groceries, Nanami’s daughter exits and trots towards one of the outdoor garbage cans a few meters away, tossing her candy wrapper before walking back towards the car.

She brings two fingers to her mouth, drawing a zipping motion over her lips. “Zero evidence!” she says in a low, conspiratorial tone before retaking the passenger seat.

“And yet I have a feeling your mother will catch on somehow, with the way nothing seems to get past her... Did you like it?” he quickly calls, catching her before she shuts her door.

“I did! My friend was wrong, and I was right, it’s hands down my favorite flavor!”

He finishes loading up the car and opens the driver's door, but doesn’t enter just yet.

“I forgot one small thing. I’ll be back in a few minutes, alright?” 

Nanami jogs back towards the store, picks up another basket, and heads straight to the chocolate and candies aisle where he cleans out the shelf to load up a basket worth of his kid’s new favorite snack. 

“Hold up, which one is Kimiko?” Nanami asks later that day, pausing briefly in his meticulous task of peeling his carrots to turn towards his daughter for a moment. 

“The new girl in the other class. I told you about her last time, right?” she says, idly clicking the kitchen tongs she’s holding as she stands by the stove, waiting for her pasta to cook. 

“No, I don’t believe you have… I’m sure I would’ve remembered a Kimiko.”

“She’s a transfer student who started on Tuesday?”

“Oh, I see,” says Nanami, resuming his task. “She joined after you updated me last Sunday, which is why I haven’t heard of her.”

“Oh yeah… Okay, let me tell you about Kimiko then! She started this week, and she’s actually a year younger than us because she skipped a grade and…”

The midday sunlight streams through the kitchen window, reflecting its golden white gold rays over the counter, which is covered with a sprawl of combined ingredients. All four of the stove’s burners are in operation as the father-daughter duo finds themselves engaged in a complex, yet efficient effort of preparing a week’s worth of meals for all three members of your family.

It’s an activity you usually take on yourself, having found your groove in a system that made optimal use of the week’s grocery haul, while also keeping your Sundays clear, just as you liked them. Today’s exception is the result of a conversation Nanami had with your daughter earlier in the week, one that quickly turned into friendly banter and later into a playful bet as Nanami jokingly challenged her to a cook-off, whereby they would each be in charge of the other’s meals for the week. 

While Sundays aren’t always for meal prep, to Nanami, they’re always for her. 

Weekends in general have long since been sacred to him, the vestiges of a different time, in a different life when it was the threat of spreadsheets and quarterly reports looming over him like a threat, dangling like over him like a chandelier under a fraying frame, ready to collapse onto the little free time he had outside of the shackles of work.

His sentiments have only grown stronger, more radical since you had your child together. Leaving his precious time with his family to the whims of the unpredictable nature of his occupation as a sorcerer simply does not suffice. At this juncture, he is more certain than ever that these moments must be intentionally scheduled and ardently defended.

And so, Nanami dedicates what he considers the first day of the week to his child. 

And he takes this time seriously, deathly so. 

In the case that he is unable to wiggle himself out of being on call on a weekend, particularly on Sundays, everyone around him feels it and knows better than to mess with him. Even the incorrigible Gojo Satoru will find himself making a conscious effort to tone down whatever gimmick he has up his sleeve when met with the piercing death glare from his sullen friend.

And should any targeted cursed spirit be so unfortunate as to cross the 7:3 sorcerer’s path on such a day, and to find itself on the receiving end of his blunt sword, it is by tenfold that they inevitably feel the righteous fury of an inconvenienced father.

Sunday plans are not a thing with Nanami, and not even you would be an exception to this; you realized early one morning some time ago.

“Hey, handsome…” You started, finding Nanami in the bathroom just as he was beginning to shave. “I was thinking we could do a matinee for that new movie that just came out! Maybe this Sunday?”

“Hmm, can we not do next week? Perhaps Tuesday evening?”

“Weeknights next week might be hard due to the planned orientation activities with the new recruits…”

The start of a new school year also meant a new team of fellow auxiliary managers enrolling, which in turn meant a lot more disruption to your usually relatively more flexible schedule.

“Wait,” you started again. “I thought you wouldn’t be on call this weekend. Has that changed?”

“No, I shouldn’t be on call.”

“Okay… Where do you have to be on Sunday?”

Nanami paused briefly, fixing you through the mirror’s reflection. “You’ll have to ask the little royal. I’m letting her choose this week,” he says with a warm smile.

“Oh, I see…” you’d said, entering the bathroom in earnest, and walking to stand at his side. You were setting yourself on the course of a bantering exchange whose endgame you know all too well, setting something that resembles less like a trap, and more like his sea willingly rising to meet your moon’s pull. 

“You know, I vaguely recall when it was for our outings that you cleared your weekends for,” you added in a playful tone laced with a hint of mock offence.

“And I clearly remember when you wanted to have your Sundays cleared and to yourself,” he countered, the glint of his razor catching the light as he returned it to his face.

“We can always take her with us to the movie,” you replied, your tone tentative, your intention not so much. You already knew what your husband’s points of rebuttal would be, and yet you still loved to hear them directly from him, to hear how adamantly he would defend the most sacred block of his calendar.

“If we bring her, we’ll have to watch a more appropriate movie, you know this,” he said with a chuckle. “You also know you can simply join us, right?”

You let out a loud, exaggerated sigh, turning your back to him lest your mirthful smile betray your feigned exasperation. “Okay, fine, I guess I’ll just take this back to the drawing board and find another day. I should’ve known better than to even attempt to steal you on a Sunday.”

“That, you should have,” he countered, quick on the draw. You made the mistake of turning your head towards him, and just as you caught his eye, you knew that it was over, that what had remained a stifled, satisfied chuckle thus far would slip out and break as a burst of shared laughter between you two.

A sudden movement out of the corner of his eye instantly snaps Nanami out of his momentary distraction.

Everything happens so quickly—one moment, he sees his daughter in his peripheral vision, perched on a step stool, reaching for something in the cabinet above the busy stove, the next, her hand is slipping, and the jar she was holding is precariously tumbling down towards the open pot of boiling water.

As quickly as his heart skips in this moment of panic, Nanami slides towards her, shoving her off the step and onto safety, managing to catch the jar just before it splatters into its ill-fated destination.

It takes him a minute to recollect himself, to pull away from the dread of the moment, to loosen his grip on what he now realizes to be his very startled child.

“Are you okay?” he asks, trying his damndest to even his breathing. 

“I am… I’m just—you scared me,” she says, quietly.

“I know I did, sweetie. I’m sorry. You’re sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine, Dad.”

“Alright. I’m sorry I startled you. Please be careful, alright? Let me reach for the top shelf if you need something while the stove is on, just to be safe, ok?”

“Okay,” she calmly replies.

And then there are moments like this. 

Nanami had known the risks. You both did, both having come from non-sorcerer families, yet choosing to start one of your own. On paper, it was too much akin to playing the odds, the idea alone going squarely against what he’d once considered being within the bounds of wisdom.

And yet, even now, with the clarity of hindsight, it was the most sensible thing.

There was a thick additional layer that came with this life of becoming a father, of having not one but two family members to protect with his life now. It was the unsolved equation that nested all others—whether his daughter’s abilities would manifest. Both you and Nanami have been keeping an eye out for any signs of this uncertain eventuality, diligently having ‘Auntie Shoko’ as your daughter liked to call her, monitor her health and progress so that you could control as many variables as you possibly can.

“You were saying? About the note the teacher left on the board?” Nanami says, when he speaks again, as he returns to his station at the counter, in an attempt to grasp back on the veil of normalcy you’ve both worked so hard to maintain for the sake of your little one. 

This battleground is one that Nanami finds to be more challenging than anything he’s encountered in his years as a sorcerer, the one that compels him to strive for normalcy, in a context that tells him to do anything but.

Though this averted accident pales in comparison to the kind that forms his deepest fears, Nanami can’t help but consider occasions like this, when his instinct, his paternal instinct, kicks into overdrive, as being a prelude to the types of moments that could become the new normal.

It’s not lost on him that right now, as his daughter resumes her story, she carries a demeanor that is more weary, a bit more muted, still quite shaken. But when he keeps asking follow-up questions, nodding along and commenting as she continues through her story, and she slowly but surely finds her stride again, it’s a reminder that much like a storm that waters a blooming garden, it is these very flashes of chaos that nurture the most profound of his reflections. 

And suddenly, Nanami feels like it is he who stands in the way of this desired normalcy.

The rest of the hour flies by, quickly and without further incident—soon enough, they are as prepared as they can be, with only her pasta for his pesto pasta salad and his rice for her coconut fried rice simmering on the stove.

“So…” Nanami starts as he puts away the last container he’s just washed. “You still won’t tell me how you deduced that this is what I was going to cook for you this week?”

“Nope!”

“And why not?”

“Because you already know! And if you don’t, then you should guess. No cheating this time!”

“What if I force the information out of you?” he asks, reaching out in a move to playfully tackle her, but she expertly dodges out of the way, escaping what would have been his grasp just in the nick of time.

On the average day, Nanami sees so much of himself in his little girl, but it’s at times like this, when her eyes crinkle in the corners in pure mischief, and her hands flies to her mouth as though to keep the humorous moment in place, and a dimple surfaces on her left cheek that he realizes just how akin she is to her mother.

“Don’t forget to slide the label back into the lid,” you hear Nanami say gently a few hours later, as you emerge from the garden, where you’d sequestered yourself for the better part of the day to complete a novel you’ve been dying to read for weeks. 

So common in its occurrence yet so stirring in its very existence, you stop just at the entrance to the kitchen area, quietly observing as your husband hands your daughter an attachable plastic cover with “Nanami” neatly written in cursive, courtesy of your writing from years ago. 

They both appear to still be oblivious to your presence by the time she gazes up at her father and speaks. “Is it true that you’re the one who mixed up your box with Mom’s all those years ago? To get her to talk to you?” With a hopeful smile, she asks expectantly, her body leaning towards Nanami as she awaits his response. 

Nanami glances down at her, as though to see if she is being serious, before he lets out a light scoff. “Who told you this made-up version?”

“Mom did!”

“Figures,” he says with a chiding shake of his head. “No, love, it’s not true.”

She lets out a loud gasp in response. “Are you calling Mom a liar?”

“Well, on this, she’s definitely being disin—”

You decide that now is as good a time as any to make your presence known by opening a cupboard a little louder than necessary, making a show of reaching for your tea filter and drawing both their attentions in the process. 

You lock eyes with Nanami, and enjoy the moment it takes for him to realize what you’ve heard. “I’m saying that it was a while ago,” he says, his valiant attempt at course-correcting. “We’re likely to misremember the details. 

Your daughter gives an amused, mischievous giggle at her parents' bantering. 

“Since you two are in cahoots, perhaps you can convince your daughter to tell me her secret, and how it is that she knew what meal I was planning for her without me telling anyone.”

The sight of your daughter’s beaming smile fills you with joy before your eyes meet Nanami’s anticipating gaze. Though he says all this in his even tone, you can tell how perturbed he is by all this, how much he’s desperately dying to find out something that is so obvious to you.

“Oh, well, I’m fairly sure I could also guess what you ended up making as well," you say.

“Oh really?” he says, crossing his arms in defiance.

“Yes, really. You made coconut fried rice, didn’t you?”

Nanami immediately snaps his head towards his daughter. “When did you tell her?”

“I didn’t tell her! Mom was outside all day, and I was with you!" she exclaims.

“Wait, this isn’t an act?” you say, in what is now a deliberately taunting tone. “You really don’t get it?”

“My love, I don’t understand,” Nanami responds, serious as ever.

“You do it every time,” the young girl interjects.

“Every single time. But oh, this is too funny. Don’t tell him anything,” you say as you walk past the kitchen island before which they are both standing, lightly patting Kento on his shoulder as you cross him. “Your Dad is a smart man; he’ll figure it out, eventually.”

You wink at your daughter, who visibly can no longer hold in the laugh that has bubbled up her chest, and bursts into a fit of snickering giggles.

Nanami’s eyes bounce between the two of you, visibly confused as you share a moment of playful conspiracy.

He doesn’t think of them right away, not consciously at least–the words spoken by his daughter at dinner a few weeks prior, when she’d mentioned that this dish had become her favorite way to eat rice.

He also doesn’t immediately see it–the connection between this moment here and the one he had at the grocery store earlier, when something deep inside him compelled him to return inside and buy not one, not two, but to nearly clean out the shelf of the chocolate for which his little one had expressed her love for.

Nanami Kento doesn’t realize that somewhere along the way, even as he constantly questions his suitability as a father with each passing day, he’s inadvertently adopted, in the funniest way possible, one of many little near-universal phenomena enacted by the many father figures around the world.

And that the visceral need to acquire, or purchase, or even cook multiple portions of whatever his kid declares having an affinity for is now as much if not even more instinctual than his most innate reflex as a sorcerer.

---

You gently knock at the half opened door to your oldest two daughters' room and creak it open. In the middle is Kento, his long legs practically hanging off the small bed with your oldest with her head on his stomach, your middle daughter in a cozy heap near his feet, and your baby boy tucked under his right arm.

"Don't mind us." You whisper as you sneak in, tiptoeing to the rocking chair on the other side of the room with your baby girl in your arms.

"Well hello." Kento smiles with his eyepatch retired for the evening in his grey t-shirt and fleece pajama pants, warmth in his expression as he catches sight of your daughter being bashful.

"We've got room for one more if you'd like, darling."

"What do you think, Noodle? Wanna go cuddle with Daddy? Oop, looks like Bubba wants to trade you places."

Your baby boy reaches out to you, begging for a spot in your lap and your little girl hesitates, but then eagerly gets down and allows Kento to scoop her up with his free arm so she's laying against his chest.

"Comfy?" Kento asks her and she responds by closing her eyes as she nuzzles closer against him.

"What's the story tonight, sweetheart?" You ask, shifting so your son doesn't crush your arm.

"Junie B. Jones: Boss of Lunch."

Noodle's face lights up with glee.

"See, honey? I knew you wouldn't want to miss it. You love Junie B."

Kento flips the page back. "We're going to start over so Noodle can catch up, is that alright with everyone?"

Your children nod in agreement and Kento clears his throat as he reads from the beginning.

It was adorable how expressive Kento could get, but only in moments like this when he was in the domestic shelter of little ones you created together, the inflections of his normally calm voice became more goofy, less serious, more warm than he usually was, if that was even possible.

He narrates Junie B. Jones' current adventure where the first grader was excited to open her brand new lunch box during class.

"And I reached way down. And I lifted up the lid of my brand-new, shiny—

“LUNCH BOX!” hollered out May. “JUNIE JONES JUST OPENED HER LUNCH BOX AGAIN, MR. SCARY! AND YOU TOLD HER NOT TO DO THAT ANYMORE! REMEMBER?”

May is the tattletale girl who sits next to me.

I do not actually care for her." credit: Barbara Parks

A faint smirk fights to spread on Kento's face as it appears the protagonist of the story also has a classmate she's rather not fond of.

You don't have to guess to know the white haired image that pops into your brain and you give Kento a look that says "Behave." And he continues with a hum.

"After that, I held my lunch box way high in the air so all of Room One could see it. “See all the birdlets, children? There are owlets and eaglets and ducklets and chicklets,” I explained.

I put my lunch box on my desk. And I took out the thermos.

“And see this thermos, people? This thermos has pictures of bird nests on it. Isn’t that cute?”

May made a face. “Ick,” she said. “Who wants to drink out of a stinky, pooey bird’s nest?”

I made a face at her. “ I do, that’s who, May!” I said. “I love drinking out of stinky, pooey birds’ nests.”

May reached into her desk and pulled out a lunch ticket. “Well, I buy my lunch, Junie Jones,” she said. “Bought lunches are much better than brought lunches. Bought lunches don’t sit around all morning and get soggy.” credit: Barbara Parks

Kento raises a brow. "I beg to differ. Perhaps May's mother doesn't toast the bread."

"Ken, honey, keep reading the story."

Kento continues.

"I crossed my arms at that girl. “That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard of, May,” I said right back. “ Brought lunches are way better than bought lunches. ’Cause brought lunches are made special by our very own mothers!”"

credit: Barbara Parks

"Good for her!" Your oldest chimes in from her spot on Kento's stomach.

"I agree, love."

Kento continues reading into the next chapter where Junie B's class goes to the cafeteria for lunchtime and all her friends decide to buy hoagies instead of bringing their lunches.

"I think even you would like this hoagie, Junie B.,” he said. “Look. It has ham and salami and cheese and lettuce and tomato.”"

credit: Barbara Parks

"Mmm!" Your kids react to the description, except for your middle daughter.

"Casse Croutes are better."

Kento ruffles her hair with pride. "You're very right about that, Bee."

Kento reaches the end of the chapter and puts a bookmark in and your kids groan in disappointment.

"We wanna find out what happens!" Your oldest pouts as Kento shuffles with all the others in his arms, allowing her to crawl under the covers as he tucks her in and you take care of the others.

"Tomorrow, Jellybean." Kento reassures her. "If we keep reading then we'll finish the book already."

"That's not fair! I saw Daddy reading past his bedtime last night." Your middle daughter tattles as you tuck her under the blankets.

"That so?" You shoot Kento a playful side eye.

Kento smirks, addressing your daughter. "And just what were you doing awake at such a late hour to know such things, Bee?"

Your daughter shrinks back under the covers with a giggle.

"Well, I'll just have to talk to him about that." You turn out the light to the bedroom. "Looks like Noodle and Bubba are already out."

You smile as Kento approaches with your other two sleeping babies. You take Noodle from him while he handles Bubba, and walk down the hall to the nursery, bundling them up in their respective cribs until the house dissolves into a peaceful snooze fest.

------

"I don't know if I like the lessons those books are teaching our children." Kento remarks as he slides into bed on his side.

"Sweetheart, be serious."

"I am, darling. This whole cafeteria bought hoagies versus homemade lunches thing."

"It's a story, Ken. I think it's good for them to read about spunky heroines like Junie B. Besides, Bee saw right through it."

Kento puts a thoughtful hand on your stomach, pulling you closer to him. "Hm. You're right about that."

"You worry too much, my love. But I agree about banning some of the princess stories. At least not the modified versions."

"Ah, the ones where there is consent and the prince doesn't know her when she's still a child while he's an adult?"

"Yep, those ones."

He smiles. "I'm glad we're on the same page."

"I love you."

"I love you...."

More hangs on the tip of your tongue, and you and him both smile at each other knowing it never does any good for you to say it, lest you open another loving can of worms for your eternal banter of back and forth.

"Now, shall we resume our own story?" Kento smiles as he reaches across from you, keeping your face against his heartbeat as he opens a copy of The Princess Bride.

"Mhmm. I'm listening." You murmur, but he doesn't make it through three pages before you're lost to sleep against his chest.

He just smiles and kisses your cheek, stowing the bookmark back where it was as he shuts off the light, until the drumming of raindrops encourages him to tranquil dreaming at your side.