Toji’s never been a man of many words.

Always the quiet one, sharp green eyes constantly assessing his surroundings, his mind always calculating before he ever bothers to speak.

A trait he inherited from his no good father.

But somehow today, you’ve rendered him completely mute.

Minutes slip by in tense silence, each one dragging heavier than the last. You wonder if he even heard you. Your admission that you did try to tell him about your son, but you gave up.

The two of you are still sitting on your couch, the soft lamplight pooling around you, and his head is bowed, dark hair falling forward to shield his eyes.

You see through him anyway.

His hands are rigid around your baby book, his knuckles white, the leather-bound cover bending slightly under his grip. You had his baby almost six years ago. You wanted to tell him. You tried to tell him.

But he never gave you the chance.

You gave up on him. And the bitter truth is, it was all his fault.

And yet, to your shock, you realize you’re not the only one who’s emotional.

Toji Zenin, the man who’s painted as a ruthless, cold-blooded bastard in every tabloid and headline, has tears running silently down his face.

You notice the glint of one sliding down his cheek and falling into his lap, just barely missing the photo album in his hands. He subtly shifts it out of harm’s way, and that small, almost instinctive motion nearly breaks you.

“Shit, Y/N.” His voice finally cuts through the silence, hoarse and raw. The shaky breath he exhales makes your heart clench; it sounds like something heavy is cracking inside him.

“I didn’t invite you here to make you cry,” you murmur softly, tension threading your voice.

The sight of him like this, unraveled sets off every instinct to reach for him, to touch his hand or shoulder and offer comfort. But your mind holds you back.

You’re confused.

You thought you’d be angrier than this.

And maybe you will be later. You always imagined, in your loneliest nights, that you’d feel some grim satisfaction watching him regret everything, that you’d relish the weight of guilt finally pressing on him.

But you don’t.

Instead, watching him like this, a man who’s always been untouchable, now so visibly shaken makes your throat tighten with a lump you can’t swallow down.

When he reopens the book, it surprises you.

He turns each page slowly, like he’s afraid of missing something, and his hand stills on one in particular.

It’s a photo of you and Megumi on his first birthday: a tiny cake frosted in uneven baby blue buttercream, scattered with star-shaped sprinkles and a single lit candle. You’re more dressed up than usual, a touch of makeup softening your tired features. Megumi, just a little bigger than in the earlier photos, is achingly sweet in a navy blue romper, cheeks round and flushed.

Beneath the picture, in your careful handwriting, are the words:

“It’s your first birthday, Megumi! Mommy made this cake for you. The icing isn’t perfect, but I’m sure I’ll get it right next year! I love you. You’re my biggest blessing in this life. – Mommy.”

Toji stares at that picture for what feels like forever, his expression unreadable but his silence deafening. And then, you see it. The sharp crack in his composure. The way his eyes flicker with something heavy, suffocating.

He notices what’s missing in an instant: there’s no one else there. No friends. No family. No him.

It’s just you and Megumi, alone in this tiny apartment,

Yet you still decorated the table, baked a cake he couldn’t even eat yet, and set your phone on a timer to capture these memories by yourself.

Something inside Toji caves.

Regret doesn’t come close to describing the feeling twisting violently in his gut. Is there a word for this? For the kind of pain that feels like it’s eating him alive from the inside out? Maybe it’s self-loathing. Maybe it’s worse.

Whatever it is, it makes him feel small. Pathetic.

He’s an idiot.

An egotistical, stupid, selfish, blind idiot.

And he's well aware that all of this, every second of this pain, is his own doing.

“Toji.” His name leaves your lips in a voice so soft it nearly breaks him in two.

He finally tears his gaze from the book to look at you. And in that moment, you’re taken aback. His eyes are greener when he cries, impossibly vivid, like shards of sea glass catching the light.

You force yourself to look away, lowering your head, your fingers absently picking at nonexistent lint on your sweater.

“He’s five now” you murmur, your voice soft as if the words themselves are fragile. “Turns six next week.”

Your fingers twist together in your lap, knuckles white. “He, um… has been asking about you. And like I told you, since I ran into Suguru and he gave me your number, I’d been holding back. I think I was scared. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you when I finally could, I don’t even know why but-”

“Y/N.”

His voice cuts through your rambling, low but firm.

Toji shuts the book with a quiet thud, the sound heavier than it should be, and leans forward, elbows on his knees. His hands drag down his face as he exhales a deep, shaky sigh, fingers momentarily hiding his expression.

“None of this… is your fault,” he says at last, voice low and rough, like gravel scraping together.

“It’s mine. Fuck, this is all on me. Don’t apologize to me. Ever.” The words are sharp, almost biting, like he’s scolding you for even daring to take on his guilt.

If the mood weren’t so heavy, you might’ve laughed.

That was always Toji, ready to fight your battles even against yourself.

Back then, he’d get mad at you whenever you’d say sorry too quickly, whenever you’d shrink back in some pointless argument or let someone walk all over you. “You’re too soft,” he used to tell you, like it was a bad thing. Maybe it was.

You nod quietly, your heart pounding, your mind a haze of disbelief. He’s sitting right next to you.

After all these years, after everything, this man who once felt like your entire world now feels like a ghost, flesh and bone but belonging to another life, dragged reluctantly into your present.

Toji’s gaze shifts, no longer fixed on you but drifting toward the far corner of your cozy living room.

His sharp green eyes land on the Christmas tree, strung with soft yellow lights and flickering rainbow ones, ornaments dangling in a chaotic but charming mix.

Some clearly old, carried over from your childhood, each placed with care. At the base, a small pile of gifts rests, wrapped in bright paper with cartoon reindeer, their cheerful design almost mocking the heaviness of the moment.

“When’s his birthday?” Toji asks suddenly, his voice flat, detached, like he’s speaking through fog. His eyes stay locked on the tree.

You blink, startled by the abrupt question. “December twenty-second” you answer softly. “Almost a Christmas baby.”

The corner of your mouth curves up in a small, watery smile. “It’s tricky around this time. I always have to separate his birthday and Christmas presents.” Your attempt at lightness falls flat; Toji doesn’t react, his expression unmoved, still staring at the tree.

Your brow furrows. Toji’s always been indifferent about Christmas, never cared much for birthdays either - his own was too close to the holiday for him to bother celebrating.

So why does he look like this now?

Your eyes follow his line of sight, scanning the tree. And then you see it.

There, catching the glow of the lights, is a single ornament that stands out from the rest: a delicate crystal heart, its surface refracting warm yellows and soft rainbows as it sways slightly on a silver string.

It’s beautiful, clearly more expensive than anything else on the tree. But that’s not why he’s staring.

It’s because he gave it to you. Years ago.

You tense, gaze snapping away from the ornament as if it burned you.

You don’t even know why you keep putting it up every Christmas. Some sentimental streak you’ve never had the courage to shake. Maybe it’s pathetic, clinging to a piece of him like that.

And now that he’s noticed, the weight of that choice sinks heavy in your chest, heat creeping up your neck. You shouldn’t feel embarrassed, but damn it - you do.

You feel the need to change the subject before it could even begin.

“Toji, I have to ask” you start, voice shaking, terrified you’ll shatter whatever fragile calm lingers between you.

He looks at you then. Really looks. The weight of his gaze alone knots your stomach tighter, and your words falter.

“I still don’t… I never knew why you - you know, left. And I don’t really need to know anymore. It’s ancient history now.” You pause, swallowing hard.

“But I need to know if you want to be in Megumi’s life. I could live with you leaving me, but…” You can’t look at him, can’t bear to see whatever’s written on his face. Your eyes stay fixed on your lap.

“But please… you can’t do that to Megumi.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, soft enough that he’d have to strain to catch it.

The silence that follows feels endless, suffocating. You let out a shaky, pained breath.

“I-it’s okay if you want nothing to do with us. Please just… tell me now. You don’t even have to meet him. I can let him down gently.” You say, wiping your eyes with the sleeves of your sweater, scared to look directly at him.

Toji stays quiet for a long time. Long enough that the silence between you becomes unbearable, stretching taut like a wire you’re afraid might snap.

You risk a glance at him, and he’s just… staring. Not at you, not really. His emerald gaze is fixed somewhere beyond you, his expression unreadable.

Finally, he exhales through his nose, a sound halfway between a sigh and a scoff.

“You really think I’d bail on my own kid?” His voice is low, rough around the edges. He leans back against the couch, dragging a hand through his hair, like he’s trying to piece together what the hell he’s supposed to say. “I get it, I ain’t exactly got the best track record. But I ain’t that much of a piece of shit.”

Your heart stutters at that. You want to respond, but your throat feels tight, the words stuck somewhere in your chest.

Toji glances at you now, and the weight of his attention makes you shrink a little. But there’s something softer in his eyes. Something you can’t quite name.

“I didn’t leave ‘cause of you. Or him. Hell, I didn’t even know about him” he says, voice quieter now, almost grudging. “You…I was just an idiot, I wish Suguru told me sooner.”

You flinch, shame pricking at your chest. “I-”

“I’m not mad,” he cuts you off, tone more even. “I just… missed a lot of time I can’t get back.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes flicking toward the ornament still hanging on the tree. “But I ain’t goin’ anywhere now. If Megumi wants me around, I’ll be there.”

There’s a heaviness to his words, not a threat but a promise. The kind of promise Toji Zenin doesn’t make lightly.

“...You sure?” you ask, voice trembling.

He huffs a laugh, low and humorless. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

When he finally looks back at you, really looks, his expression softens by just a fraction. “I fucked up” he says quietly, the words almost strangled. “I don’t know if I could ever make it right, but… I’ll try.”

Your chest tightens, a painful squeeze that leaves you breathless. Before you can stop yourself, your eyes sting, tears pooling faster than you’d like.

Toji notices immediately - of course he does.

His jaw flexes, a faint crease appearing between his brows as his hand twitches like he wants to reach for you but hesitates. “Please don’t cry,” he mutters, sounding almost panicked, like the words are dragged out of him. “I’m sorry. Shit, Y/N… how do I fix this?”

You shake your head weakly, a helpless shrug lifting your shoulders. You don’t have the answer either. “I’m just… feeling a lot right now,” you manage, voice trembling despite your best effort.

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard, the furrow between his brows deepening. For a long moment, he just stares at you, his hands curling into fists like he’s fighting himself.

“...Can I hold you?” The question is rough, almost whispered, like he’s afraid the wrong move will shatter you completely. “I don’t… I don’t deserve it. But-” He exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair in frustration. “I just I don’t wanna see you cry like this.”

The words make your throat tighten even more, tears threatening to spill again. He looks so out of his depth, wide shoulders tense like he’s ready for rejection but hoping anyway.

You nod, barely, and that’s all it takes. He’s moving toward you carefully, cautiously, like you’re something fragile he doesn’t trust himself to handle. When his arms finally wrap around you, they’re firm but tentative, holding you close without trapping you.

The warmth of him seeps into your trembling frame, the steady beat of his heart under your cheek grounding you. His breath shudders against your hair, and you swear you feel him murmur something that sounds like, “I’m so fucking sorry,” low and raw, almost like he doesn’t want you to hear it.

But you do, and you let out a soft, shaky breath.

And God, you hate yourself for feeling your heart give into him so easily after everything.

After years of pain, betrayal, and loneliness. You should be furious. You should be keeping him at arm’s length and screaming. Yet, here you are, clinging to him, letting the familiar warmth of him dull the ache in your chest.

Your mind screams at you to be angry, to remind yourself how much he hurt you - but your heart, betraying you as it always has, doesn’t care.

You could stay here for hours in his arms.

You’ve dreamed of this moment for years, and yet -

He still left you. Heartless, cold, like you were nothing.

If it weren’t for Megumi, would he even be here? Would he be apologizing, hugging you, stroking your back like he still cared? Or would you still be standing alone in this apartment, waiting for a ghost that never returned?

Guilt and longing tangle in your chest as you tense, gently pulling away from him, and instantly regretting it as the cool air of your home brushes against your skin. He lets you, careful not to push too far, his dark brows knitting in concern.

“I, um…sorry,” you mutter lightly, brushing away what must be the last of your tears. You notice his furrowed expression, almost exasperated - and you want to laugh. But you don’t.

God, he looks like an older Megumi right now.

He’s opening his mouth, likely to scold you for apologizing, but you cut him off with a rush of resolve, awkwardly avoiding his gaze. “We shouldn’t… we’re back in each other’s lives for Megumi. It’s best we don’t revisit the past,” you say, voice tentative but firm.

He quirks a dark brow, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Hugging you is revisiting the past?”

“Acting like you care about me is,” the words tumble out sharp and unguarded, before you can stop them. His green eyes widen, and for a heartbeat, you falter, wishing you could take them back.

“Y/N, I do care about you" Toji says, low and earnest, but you don’t want to hear it.

“That doesn’t matter now" you cut him off, panic coiling in your chest.

The conversation is heading somewhere you’re not ready to go, and your hands fidget in your lap, twisting the edge of your sweater. He seems to sense you shutting down; his gaze sharpens, serious and intense in a way that jolts you.

“Y/N, wait. We need to talk about this-”

“I don’t want to” you admit finally, forcing your eyes to meet his with as much steadiness as you can muster. Vulnerable and wide open, your heart still feels lodged in his hand from years ago, and you can’t give him another piece of it yet.

Toji exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath for years. His hands twitch at his sides, unsure whether to reach for you again or remain rooted in place.

“Okay” he says finally, voice low, rough, tangled with pain and longing. “But I don’t want to barge into Megumi’s life, have him think Mom and Dad don’t get along. We have to address the past at some point.”

Your chest tightens, the lump in your throat heavier than ever.

The thought of him stepping into your son’s life after all these years coils something tight inside you, a knot of fear laced with reluctant hope. You want to protest, to tell him he doesn’t deserve it, that he has no right.

But your throat closes, words catching on the weight of everything unsaid. And at the end of the day, you’re relieved he’s here.

You hate your traitorous heart.

“I know I fucked up,” Toji murmurs, voice rough, his green eyes searching your face like he’s afraid of what he’ll find. “But I need to try. For him. For you, if you’ll let me.”

You look away, fingers twisting the hem of your sweater. “I don’t know if I can just let you,” you whisper, the words raw and trembling, carved out of longing and old hurt.

He nods slowly, like he expected nothing less. “Yeah.” His gaze drops to the floor for a beat before locking back onto you, steady and unflinching. “I’ll try anyway, I want to make this right y/n.”

Something in his tone, bare and almost pleading, cuts through you. You bite your lip hard, fighting back the tide of emotion that threatens to pull you under.

Finally, after what feels like forever, you nod. Small. Careful. “Okay. For Megumi. But what happened between us can wait.” The words are barely audible, like you’re confessing them to the quiet more than to him.

He exhales softly, relief flickering across his face for the briefest moment, so fragile you almost miss it. That softness, foreign and tender, makes your chest ache in ways you can’t name.

“When can I meet him?” he asks, voice low.

You swallow, surprised by his calm resolve. “I was hoping before his birthday party. But I know you’re probably busy.”

“I’ll clear my schedule. How’s tomorrow sound?”

You blink, stunned. “Are you sure? You can take some time to think about this.”

“Y/N,” he interrupts gently but firmly. “I’m sure. I’ll be here.”

The room settles into a quiet so fragile it feels like it might shatter with a breath. The past still looms heavy between you, a shadow neither of you can outrun. But for now, he’s here. You’re here. And maybe, for tonight, that’s enough.

⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖

The next morning creeps in, and Toji’s schedule is wiped clean.

He doesn’t give a damn if his CFO’s skull explodes in today’s meeting, he has more important duties to attend to. Duties… as a new father.

Not that there’s a stroller or a diaper bag in sight. No, instead Toji stands at your front door with a glossy, oversized box tucked under his arm. A brand-new gaming console. His hopeful peace offering.

Six-year-olds like video games, right?

You had texted him last night after your awkward goodbye, numbers now officially exchanged, to tell him not to bring gifts. But with Megumi’s birthday and Christmas around the corner, Toji figures he has years of missed holidays to make up for.

Why not start now?

He’s outside your door at 9 AM sharp, exactly like you’d agreed. The plan: pick you and Megumi up and take you to a cozy breakfast spot tucked away in another part of the city.

The winter air bites at his skin, his breath puffing out in soft clouds. He shifts his weight, heart thudding like he’s about to face down an opposing business partner rather than his own five-year-old. 

Truth is, Toji Zenin is ready to crap his pants. Not that he’d ever admit it.

Then, the door swings open.

You appear, as effortlessly beautiful as ever, hair freshly styled, dark-wash jeans hugging your frame, and a soft jumper that makes you look cozy enough to curl up with. Your eyes flick to the shiny box in his hands, and your brows pull together. “Seriously, Toji? I told you no gifts.”

“Y/N, what the hell does a six-year-old even talk about?” he blurts out, looking absurdly out of place for a man of his size and presence. “I needed a crutch.”

You have to bite your lip to keep from smiling. 

Seeing the infamous, intimidating Toji Zenin practically shaking at the thought of meeting your tiny son is… priceless. Yesterday, everything had been heavy with nostalgia and grief. 

Maybe this is why today feels lighter. Now, you have a chance to enjoy watching him sweat.

“Toji, it’ll be fine. How’d you even get that so fast?” you ask, nodding to the console.

“Promised my assistant a raise if he did this for me and came back from vacation early. Guy’ll do anything for cash,” he mutters darkly.

You pause, brows raised. “I don’t even want to know.”

“Probably not,” he admits.

“Alright, well, come inside. He’s watching TV,” you say, giving him a small smile as you turn to open the door wider.

Before you can step back, his large hand closes around your arm, startling you. “Y/N, wait.”

You turn, brows raised in curiosity, while his jaw tightens like he’s working up the nerve to speak.

“What’s he like?” The words come out low, almost hesitant. He releases your arm quickly, as if realizing he shouldn’t have grabbed you, his gaze flicking away for a second.

“He’s… a lot like you, actually,” you admit with a knowing smile, one that’s both fond and a little nervous.

Toji’s face falters, and he mutters a quiet, “Shit.”

You snort at the reaction, nodding. “Don’t curse around him by the way. He’ll make you put money in the swear jar.”

“You have a swear jar?!”

“He’s five, Toji. Of course we have a swear jar.” You sigh, resigned, because you’re very much a victim of that jar yourself.

He grits his teeth, a muscle in his jaw ticking. “We’re getting off track here. How do I get him to like me?”

You cross your arms, biting back a smile. “For starters? Maybe stop looking like someone’s holding you at gunpoint.”

He blinks at you, caught off guard, then huffs a laugh and glances away, cheeks flushed - and not just from the cold. “Shit, I’m nervous, okay? Feels like I’m gonna say the wrong thing and he’ll hate me forever.”

You tilt your head, unimpressed. “We’ve got bigger issues than that, Toji.”

He scoffs. “What the hell could be worse than that?”

“Hypothermia, if we keep standing out here. Then Megumi won’t have any parents. Let’s go inside.” You snort, reaching back to grab his arm and tugging him in as you open the door to your warm apartment.

Toji freezes for half a second at the casual touch, his green eyes going wide. He’s terrified of what’s coming next but stupidly thrilled by the way your hand curls around his arm, like it’s natural, easy, like it used to be.

He has no right to blush at something so small, but he does anyway.

Motherhood looks good on you. You’ve always been beautiful, one of the prettiest girls in all his classes back then, he’d always thought so. But now, there’s something new, a warmth, a glow that’s only made you more magnetic.

Or maybe he’s just got rocks for brains and is too drawn to the fact that you’re the mother of his son, despite everything between you.

“Megumi, honey,” your voice pulls him out of his thoughts, soft but steady. “Look who I brought.”

He blinks and realizes you’ve already led him further into your home, boots still on as you stop in the middle of the living room.

Toji’s gaze immediately snaps to the couch.

There he is.

A tiny figure perched among a nest of throw pillows. His mop of spiky black hair sticks out in every direction, stubborn and wild, and his wide green eyes - Toji’s green eyes - blink up at him with the kind of unimpressed stare only a child from his bloodline can manage.

Megumi’s dressed neatly in dark jeans and a crisp button-up layered under a warm sweater, his little sneakers dangling off the edge of the couch, patterned with cartoon dogs. 

The scene is quite adorable, with a cartoon murmuring quietly on the TV in the background and the smell of your morning coffee drifting faintly through the air.

Toji freezes for half a second, his chest tightening. He’d seen all the pictures, you’d even sent him a dozen more last night, but it’s different seeing him in person. Seeing his son.

It feels like staring at a mirror twenty-something years younger, all sharp angles and stubbornness now miniature form in chubby cheeks and big eyes. 

And just like that, Toji's heart turns to mush. No words exchanged, yet he knows with bone-deep certainty he’d kill and die for this tiny human without hesitation.

“Hi, Megumi,” Toji says at last, his voice low but steady after a quiet breath.

Those big green eyes don’t blink. They stay locked on him, steady and unyielding, as if the boy is carefully sizing him up. He doesn’t say a word, even as you slip away from Toji’s side and move toward him, your hand gently leaving the man’s arm.

“Megumi, this is Toji. Your daddy. Remember this morning I told you he’d come?” Your voice is soft as you kneel beside the couch, taking Megumi’s small hand in your own.

The boy finally stirs, nodding slightly. His little fingers curl tighter around yours, and it is clear he is deeply wary of the towering man in his home.

The only other man he had ever seen this big was probably Sukuna, Yuuji’s strange tattooed uncle. But even Sukuna didn’t feel this intimidating!

Toji swallows hard, suddenly remembering the large box tucked under his arm. You catch on, seizing the opportunity and deciding to use it as a bridge between them.

“He was happy to know you wanted to meet him, and he even brought you a gift before Christmas,” you whisper conspiratorially, loud enough for Toji to hear. The man could kiss you right now for the heavy lifting you’re doing here.

Megumi’s reaction is minimal though, just as you expected. His gaze flickers briefly to the box in Toji’s arms, avoiding his father’s face entirely.

Toji takes that as his cue and steps further into the room, crouching slightly as he shows Megumi the gift. The box is so big it looks like it could take up half of Megumi’s small frame.

You gasp, feigning excitement, really doing gods work for both of them. “Look, Megumi! Wasn’t this on your wishlist for Santa Claus?” you ask brightly, taking the box from Toji and presenting it to your son.

Megumi’s eyes linger on the box for a moment longer before he slowly nods, leaning closer to you. 

His small hands clutch at your sweater as he scoots into your side, tucking his head against your shoulder like he wants to disappear.

Your smile is soft and reassuring as you rub his back, tilting your head to catch Toji’s eye. You mouth, he’s just shy, offering him a little shrug as if to say give him time.

Toji straightens, watching the two of you with a look that’s hard to place. 

He expected this, he's really a stranger to this child - he knew Megumi wouldn’t come running into his arms or beam at him like in some cheesy holiday movie, but seeing his boy so small and so unsure twists something deep in his chest.

“Yeah, that’s alright,” he murmurs quietly, his voice rough but gentle now. He sets the box carefully down on the coffee table, his massive hands strangely tender with the bright ribbon all around it. “No rush, kid. You open it whenever you feel like it.”

Megumi peeks at him from over your shoulder, his green eyes narrowed but still curious.

You press a soft kiss to the top of his head and whisper, “See? Daddy’s nice. He brought you something special!” Your voice is low and soothing, almost a lullaby, and you feel the tightness in Megumi’s little body ease just slightly under your touch.

Toji keeps his distance, lowering himself onto the arm of a nearby chair. The movement is deliberate, as though he’s trying to shrink himself down, to be less overwhelming. 

His gaze flicks to you, gratitude written plainly on his face, before drifting back to his son. 

There’s something vulnerable in his eyes, a sharp contrast to the man’s towering frame, a man who looks like he could crush the world but is terrified of scaring his own child.

You know you’ll have to take the reins today. The two Zenin men in your life are both frozen, two halves of the same stubborn coin, and their only shared ground seems to be you.

“Well,” you murmur gently, shifting Megumi in your arms, “since we’ve all met, I think it’s time we get some breakfast. We can’t start the day on an empty tummy, can we, Megumi?” Your words are soft and coaxing, and Megumi rests his head on your shoulder, clutching your sweater in a vice grip.

Toji notices the quiet breath you take before rising to your feet, his sharp eyes catching the way you steady yourself. Carrying Megumi has become harder with every passing day, his little body growing heavier, but you shoulder the weight without complaint.

The urge to help you nearly overwhelms him. He wants nothing more than to reach out and pluck the boy from your arms like it’s nothing, to give you a moment of relief. 

But he knows neither of you are ready for that comfort yet, so he stays put, hands curling against his knees as he swallows the instinct.

For now, just being in the same room will do.

⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖

The morning is sharp and cold, your breath misting in the air as Toji holds the door open for you and Megumi.

His car gleams in the pale winter light, a sleek black machine that looks out of place parked along your quiet street. You settle in the back with Megumi, tucking him close under his little jacket, his head resting against your shoulder as he clutches his favorite plush keychain in one hand.

Toji circles around to the driver’s side, slipping into the seat with an ease that betrays his nerves.

He glances at you in the rearview mirror as he starts the engine, the low hum filling the silence. “Seatbelts on?” he mutters, his voice calm, though you notice his fingers tightening briefly around the steering wheel before he pulls out of the driveway.

You can't help but lift an amused brow at that, Toji never really having been one to care about car safety before.

The city passes by quickly, winter casting everything in muted tones. Frost clings to car windows, and holiday decorations hang in shopfronts, glowing faintly even in the daylight.

The ride is quiet but not uncomfortable; Megumi stays nestled against you, thumb brushing over the soft ears of his keychain, while Toji keeps sneaking glances at the two of you through the mirror.

There’s something soft in his expression, though he hides it quickly whenever your eyes catch his.

It’s not long before the car slows in front of a little café tucked between a bookstore and a small boutique, its sign hand-painted and its windows fogged from the warmth inside.

The place looks the same as it always has, cozy and inviting, golden light from all the strung up fairy lights spilling out onto the frosted sidewalk.

Your breath catches for a moment. You recognize it instantly.

“Toji,” you murmur, stepping out of the car as he comes around to open your door. “We’ve been here before.”

He pauses, glancing at you with a hint of surprise, though a faint smirk tugs at his mouth. “You remember that?”

You give a small nod, your gaze flicking briefly toward the café

“Yeah.” Your voice is soft, almost cautious.

The memory of the two of you in that very corner booth years ago surfaces unbidden, him leaning back in his seat with a lazy grin, you laughing at something you can’t even remember now, the smell of cinnamon and coffee lingering in the air. It all feels like a different lifetime.

You tighten your grip on Megumi’s small hand, grounding yourself in the present. “It… hasn’t changed much.”

Toji just shrugs like it’s nothing, though you catch a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes as he steps closer, his large hand hovering near your back without quite touching.

Inside, the café is warm and alive with quiet morning chatter. The air smells of coffee and sugar, the clinking of plates and soft music from an old speaker creating a comfortable buzz.

Wooden tables are lined with potted plants, and a fireplace crackles near the back wall, adding a faint smoky scent to the air. You guide Megumi inside, his small hand tucked in yours, while Toji takes a step ahead to request a booth, his deep voice catching the attention of a few servers who greet him with familiarity.

It feels like stepping into a memory, though now there’s a child’s small fingers curled tightly around yours and a man across from you who feels both achingly familiar and entirely changed from the one who first brought you here.

Before you know it, the three of you are seated in a corner booth. You and Toji sit opposite one another, Megumi sandwiched in the middle, though he’s made a point of pressing himself firmly against your side, practically glued to you.

You catch Toji’s eye and offer a small, sheepish smile.

The comforting scent of cinnamon and fresh bread drifts through the café as a waitress approaches with warm professionalism, handing out menus. Megumi gets a colorful, ocean-themed one along with a small box of crayons, which he immediately begins to fiddle with, twisting them between his little fingers.

The silence between you all lingers for a few beats, broken only by the soft clinking of dishes and the low hum of conversation from other tables. Finally, Toji clears his throat, his deep voice awkward but trying. “So, Megumi… see anything on the menu you like?”

Megumi glances up, cheeks puffed, his expression serious as he narrows his green eyes at his father. “I’m reading.”

You bite back a laugh, glancing at Toji and leaning closer to explain. “He’s in kindergarten, so he’s just learning. He insists he doesn’t need my help.”

Megumi turns his sharp little gaze on you, pouting. “I can read, Mommy. Better than the other kids in my class.”

You raise your brows at his indignation, fighting a smile at the way he’s judging you both so harshly.

Toji leans back in the booth, watching his son with an amused glint in his eyes. “Yeah? You’re the best reader in your class, huh?”

Megumi gives him a short, decisive nod, lips pressed into a little line.

“Well, that’s good. Means you’re smart. Got that from me,” Toji says with a small smirk, sitting back like he’s just dropped some great truth.

Megumi’s green eyes narrow, his small hands gripping the edge of the menu. “Mommy’s smarter.”

You press your lips together, fighting a laugh as Toji’s smirk falters.

“Is she now?” Toji leans forward, feigning offense. “I don’t know, kid. I was at the top of my class back in the day, even better than your mom.” You can't help but roll your eyes at that one. He'd just barely gotten a better grade than you in one class, and has clearly never let it go.

Megumi gives him a long, unimpressed stare. “You cheated.”

You actually snort at that one, covering your mouth with your hand as Toji’s jaw drops in mock outrage.

“Hey, I did not cheat,” he says, defending himself with mock sternness. “I was just that good.”

Megumi crosses his arms, skeptical as ever. “You look like you cheat.”

Your composure is broken, a borderline evil smile on your face as Toji leans back in his seat, defeated. The tension at the table lightens just a fraction despite megumi’s mean side eye, he returns to his kiddie menu a moment later, narrowed eyes slowly going over each word as if to prove his own point.

Megumi glances at Toji one more time, like he’s still not sure he believes him, before scooting closer to you and tugging lightly at your sleeve. He leans in, his voice dropping to a whisper meant only for you.

“I want the chocolate waffles.”

You glance down at him, his serious little pout tugging at your heart, but you school your features into something calm. “That’s a lot of sugar for breakfast, baby,” you murmur gently.

His lips press together in a thin line, his brows furrowing. He pulls back just enough to pout at you, then flicks his gaze toward Toji, as if silently signaling for backup.

Toji, catching the look, quirks a brow. “What?”

Megumi tilts his head slightly, his eyes narrowing with a mix of frustration and determination.

“She says I can’t have the chocolate waffles.”

Toji’s brows lift, and for a split second, he looks like he’s calculating the stakes of this moment: his first real parenting decision. He can either undermine you and be The Fun Dad, giving his kid a mountain of sugar at 9:30 a.m., or agree with you and hope to stay on your good side.

You’re watching him closely, and the weight of that stare makes his decision for him.

“Mm.” Toji leans an elbow on the table, glancing between the two of you, his expression softening. “Well,” he says slowly, “if your mom says no, you gotta listen to her.”

Megumi’s jaw drops, scandalized. “Aren’t dads supposed to be helpful? Yuuji lied.”

You clap a hand over your mouth to stifle your laugh. Toji’s jaw, on the other hand, drops in offense. “Yuuji?! Sukuna’s nephew? What else is that little brat telling you?”

Megumi squints at him like he’s the disappointment of the year, then turns dramatically to bury his face in your side, a little huff escaping him.

“Yuuji is my friend!” he announces from your lap. “And he said if you came, you’d be cool. Hmph.”

You blink, wide-eyed, glancing at Toji. You and Jin are absolutely going to have to start regulating what Yuuji and Megumi discuss at school.

Toji, though, looks far more rattled by the revelation than by his own five-year-old’s judgment. “What are the odds of that…” he mutters, shaking his head.

You can see the gears turning in his head - Sukuna had probably mentioned school events for Yuuji a dozen times, and now Toji’s realizing his best friend met his son before he did. You lean forward quickly, wanting to get ahead of that thought spiral.

“Sukuna met Megumi on accident too,” you explain gently. “I had a playdate planned with Yuuji and his dad, but Sukuna had to come instead.”

Toji’s jaw tightens, sharp eyes narrowing, his expression hardening in that quiet way that makes your stomach twist. Sukuna, his closest friend, had known about Megumi and said nothing?

He could understand Geto, at least. Geto had given you Toji’s number, encouraged you to reach out. But Sukuna?

“I see,” Toji says flatly, voice low, his gaze flicking back to his son like he’s grounding himself.

You chew the inside of your cheek, your pulse picking up. You can practically see him replaying every moment Ryomen had lied to his face, covering for you.

You weren’t exactly fond of your ex-friends anymore, but you didn’t want them to get in trouble with Toji because they were keeping your secret.

“I also asked Sukuna to… y’know, give me time,” you murmur carefully, voice soft, vague enough for Megumi’s sharp little ears.

Megumi stirs in your lap at your tone, his big green eyes darting between the two of you curiously, and you instinctively press a kiss to the crown of his head, hoping to soothe him before he can sense the tension crackling between the adults.

Toji glances back at you, something unreadable in his eyes, then exhales slowly. “Don’t worry about it, Y/N.” His voice is rough but calm, a deliberate choice, and he rakes a hand through his inky black hair like he’s trying to shake off the tension instead of letting it show.

The weight of Toji’s stare lingers, the air at the table tight and heavy. He looks like he’s biting back a hundred thoughts, and you’re about to speak again when a small voice cuts through it.

“Who cares about Yuuji's uncle?” Megumi mutters, his little brow furrowed as he tugs at your sleeve. “I just want my waffles.”

You blink at him, startled, before a soft laugh slips past your lips despite yourself. Toji lets out a low snort, his broad shoulders loosening as he leans back into the booth, the sharpness in his expression finally softening.

“Fair enough, kid,” Toji rumbles, a hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You press a kiss to Megumi’s dark hair, smiling as you shake your head. “Priorities, huh?”

Megumi gives a firm little nod, attention swinging back to the ocean-themed kiddie menu like nothing in the world mattered more than breakfast.

And just like that, the storm in Toji’s eyes fades, replaced by something softer as he watches his son, his gaze steady but warm.

“Maybe we can share those waffles,” you say gently, threading your fingers through Megumi’s soft hair. “You and me. But only if you eat some fruit too.”

Megumi perks up, clearly considering this compromise, though he still sneaks a side-eye at Toji, as if silently holding him accountable for not siding with him earlier.

“Yes please, Mommy,” he murmurs, squishing his cheek against your shoulder and settling there, perfectly content in what he considers the comfiest place in the world. You smooth a hand over his back, offering Toji a hesitant smile.

“I’m hoping you can play the stern parent moving forward. It’s kind of hard to win against him,” you say softly, jokingly.

Toji snorts, leaning an elbow on the table, his lips quirking. “I don’t know, Y/N. We’re fucked then.”

Megumi whips around so fast it’s like he’s been struck by lightning, leaping off your lap to glare at his father with wide, scandalized eyes.

“That’s an ugly word!” Megumi declares, his small voice full of righteous fury. “You gotta pay up when we go home!”

Toji freezes for a moment, eyebrows raised - not because of the scolding, but because of something else entirely. That soft warmth he thought he’d buried long ago flickers to life in his chest at those two simple words.

Megumi doesn’t realize what he just said, and you probably don’t either. But Toji does.

Because the idea sounds almost too good to be true.

Going home. With you. With him.

And in that quiet moment, as Megumi huffs and leans back into your side, Toji makes himself a silent promise.

“Thank you for inviting me to Megumi’s party, Miss Y/N,” Yuuji says, beaming up at you with sparkling brown eyes, little wisps of pink hair poking out from under his too-big beanie. He clearly practiced the line, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, then glancing back at his father for reassurance.

You crouch down with a soft laugh, tugging the beanie gently over his ears with your gloved hands. “Of course, Yuuji. You’re one of his best friends!”

His smile is so sweet it makes your heart ache. Your maternal instincts nearly shed a tear on the spot.

Megumi groans beside you, puffing his cheeks out and frowning in that terribly adorable way of his. “Mom,” he huffs, tugging at the hem of your coat. “Let’s go. It’s snowing more now.”

You glance up at the pale sky, where snowflakes have started to drift faster against the city skyline. A light dusting already coats the stone steps of the school.

You stand, smoothing down your coat, and give Jin a polite smile. “Thanks again for bringing him next week. It’ll just be a little get-together at our place with a cake.”

Jin nods, though his brows are drawn slightly, like he’s debating whether or not to say something.

It’s jarring, standing face to face with Sukuna’s brother who for all intents and purposes, feels like a different species entirely.

Jin is slimmer, softer-spoken. His presence is gentle, almost careful. Where Ryomen’s sharp features and imposing frame demand attention the moment he walks into a room, Jin feels like the opposite, quiet and unassuming. They share the same pink hair and striking eyes, but the similarities end there.

“I hope it’s alright if my brother drops Yuuji off at the party,” Jin says with a trace of concern in his voice. “I’ll be traveling most of the break, and Yuuji’s staying with him.”

You pause, just for a second. Just long enough to feel your stomach twist.

Of course Jin knows who Megumi is. Who you are. He might not have been part of that infamous friend group, but he’s Ryomen’s brother. That alone makes him familiar enough with them. Toji included.

You’d never crossed paths with Jin back then, but after that playdate from hell with Ryomen a few months ago, you’re sure Jin got an earful from his psycho sibling. The thought of Ryomen stepping foot into your home makes your skin crawl. 

But if it means Yuuji gets to come to Megumi’s party… so be it.

God. The things you’d do for your child!

“It’s fine, Jin,” you say, forcing a smile that softens when you hear Yuuji let out an excited little squeal.

“Have a great start to your winter break,” you tell them warmly, giving a wave as Megumi tugs you toward the parking lot.

Your boots click against the marble as you walk. The cold air bites your cheeks. Snow falls in gentle spirals, dusting cars and blanketing the city in white. Megumi’s gloved hand is small in yours, but determined, and your heart swells at the thought of having him all to yourself for the next two weeks.

Or at least, it should swell. But something clenches tight in your chest. An invisible grip that’s been there for days now. Ever since Megumi asked you if his father would be at his party. Ever since you said yes.

It’s been a week of stalling. A week of busying yourself to avoid the inevitable. A selfish part of you wondered, hoped, that Megumi might forget the conversation altogether.

But you quickly shut that thought down. You’d do anything for your son. Anything to make him happy, Even if it means reaching out to Toji.

You’ve stared at that slip of paper Suguru gave you so many times this week, you’ve practically memorized the number. And still… you haven’t found the nerve to call.

You’re just settling into the car when Megumi delivers the final push.

“Mommy,” he says casually as you buckle your seatbelt, “I told Yuuji that my dad is coming.”

Your jaw subtly drops. You twist around to look at him. “Yeah? Are you excited to meet him?”

Megumi shrugs, his green eyes trained on the falling snow outside his window. “Yuuji says his uncle knows him.” Your fingers tighten around the steering wheel. Your pulse spikes.

Of course Ryomen said something in front of Yuuji. That’s the only way he would’ve known!

“He does, sweetheart,” you say carefully. “He’s a friend of your father’s.”

Megumi goes quiet for a moment before he finally asks the question that freezes you solid. “How come Yuuji knows my dad… and I don’t?” You glance at him in the rearview mirror.

And suddenly, everything makes sense. The questions. The subtle shift in behavior. He’s been talking to Yuuji. Hearing things from other kids. Piecing things together.

You’re silent as you drive, contemplating your answer. Luckily for Megumi, the drive home is short. Just ten quiet minutes through tree-lined streets and under the soft glow of passing streetlamps. You pass manicured hedges and rows of elegant, ivy-draped townhomes, their windows lit warmly like little golden frames.

Your building is smaller than most. Quaint. Tucked between a bakery and an old bookstore that always smells faintly of lavender. Still, it’s yours.

You pull into your designated spot, the gravel crunching softly beneath the tires, and cut the engine with a slow, tired sigh.

You unbuckle your seatbelt and step out… but instead of circling to the backseat, you slip in beside Megumi. He looks up at you, confused, but says nothing.

You just couldn’t have this conversation with your back to him.

“Megumi,” you say gently, brushing his hair back from his face. “I know you’ve been feeling a little curious about your daddy lately. I’m sorry I haven’t told you more.”

His big green eyes blink at you. So full of trust it nearly knocks the breath from your chest.

“Before you were born, your daddy and I loved each other very much. That’s how you came to be,” you explain softly, your fingers lightly smoothing his dark brows.

He nods, but a small pout forms on his lips. “…But now you don’t?” Your expression softens.

“I still love him very much,” you admit quietly. “And even though you two haven’t met yet, I promise he loves you more than anything. Sometimes adults make mistakes. Silly, hurtful choices. Your daddy and I made some of those mistakes. But it doesn’t change how much we love you.”

You flinch a little at your own words. At the truth buried in them. You do still love Toji, even when he didn’t love you back.

Megumi’s pout shifts into a scowl. “Did Daddy apologize to you?” You almost laugh. His little face is scrunched with outrage. You press a kiss to his forehead. “We both have some apologizing to do. But especially to you.”

“Mama, you don’t have to apologize,” he insists, clearly offended on your behalf. You raise a brow. “But I do. I’m sorry I haven’t brought your daddy around before. I promise I’ll fix that.”

Megumi shifts, resting his head on your shoulder, still grumbling. “Daddy’s a dummy… don’t say sorry to him.” You blink, surprised. “Where’d you hear that from?”

You don’t need to guess. Either Yuuji, or something he overheard from Ryomen.

You sigh, holding your little boy tighter, wishing he could understand just how much of a dummy you feel like. Maybe you should’ve tried harder. Searched longer! Maybe if you’d told Toji sooner, when you found out, you could’ve spared Megumi this ache in his heart.

You end up carrying him up to your apartment, the warm air curling around you like a hug as you step inside.

Today’s the day.

You’ll call Toji.

But not yet. First, a hot shower to melt away the nerves curling beneath your skin, and then a warm cup of cocoa in your favorite chipped mug, the one Megumi always insists on holding with both hands like you do.

Because Megumi comes first, he always does.

And if you're going to shake the foundation of everything - your peace, Toji’s silence, the quiet little world you've managed to build - you’ll do it only after your son is fast asleep, safe and dreaming… unaware that somewhere, a past is beginning to stir again.

⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖

Toji’s day had been nothing short of insufferable.

It started early, with a call just after dawn. Takeda, his driver, sounded unusually subdued. A family emergency. Serious enough to take him out for the foreseeable future. Toji listened quietly, fingers tapping against the kitchen counter as he sipped his first coffee of the morning.

“It’s alright, Takeda. Take all the time you need. Just forward the dates to my assistant,” he said, before ending the call.

He could be an understanding man when he wanted to be! 

And this wasn’t really a setback at all. He had options. A rotating list of backup drivers, assistants, staff who’d scramble with a single text. But today? He didn’t bother.

So he dressed in tailored charcoal slacks, shrugged into a thick wool coat, and slid into the driver’s seat of his Aston Martin Vantage. The sleek gunmetal one he’d had for years. Still purred like the day he bought it.

Outside, the sky was already bruising gray, and light snow dusted his windshield in soft, steady flakes. Tokyo traffic was its usual brand of apocalyptic. Roads closed without warning. Detours stretching across the city like a joke told at his expense.

A drive that should’ve taken twenty minutes stretched to fifty. Every red light, every sudden stop chipped away at his patience. By the time he pulled up to the gleaming Zenin Financial tower, nearly an hour late, no one said a word.

Toji hated being late. He expected precision from others, and even more from himself. The fact that the floor was already humming with movement when he walked in only added to the tension crawling down his spine.

And the day was just getting started.

His assistant, or rather, the intern subbing in while his real one was abroad, greeted him with a little too much pep for the current mood. She handed him a coffee with a nervous smile, which faltered slightly under his unreadable stare.

He took a sip. And immediately regretted it.

Way too sweet. Syrupy. Hazelnut, of all things. Clung to the back of his throat like glue. He swallowed it down anyway, lips pressing into a thin line. It was the kind of drink you used to love. More sugar than caffeine.

He didn’t say anything. Just set it on his desk and left it there, untouched and rapidly cooling into something completely useless.

The board meeting that followed somehow managed to make things worse. Two of his highest-paid execs, the CFO and Director of Global Assets, devolved into a shouting match over some mishandled reallocation overseas. Grown adults, red-faced and bickering like children.

Toji sat through it in silence, one hand rubbing slow, exhausted circles into his temple. The minutes crawled by. His jaw ached from how tightly he’d been clenching it.

Lunch came and went. He didn’t bother.

There wasn’t time to actually go anywhere, and nothing sounded appealing anyway. He ended up gnawing on a sad, half-eaten protein bar he found in his drawer. Dry as hell. More obligation than nourishment.

By the time the sun dipped past the skyline, the world outside had melted into a blur of neon and twilight. The windows of his office fogged slightly at the edges, framing a glittering Tokyo below. He could’ve stayed late. Probably should’ve. He had a stack of reports waiting, numbers he could pick apart, details to obsess over.

But tonight he just didn’t have it in him.

He wanted to go home, pour a drink, turn off his brain! That was all. His phone buzzed on the desk, a message from Gojo asking the group to meet at Horizon.

Toji snorted.

Not a fucking chance. Last time he went, he ended up in the tabloids with some woman he barely remembered talking to, and the hangover was not worth the PR cleanup. Tonight, he’d rather be asleep after nursing some of his criminally overpriced scotch.

He slipped back into the car, the leather seat cool against his back. The engine murmured to life, low and familiar. And for the first time all day, something in him began to loosen.

His penthouse was waiting. High above Roppongi, all dark marble and clean lines, floor-to-ceiling glass framing a city that never quite slept. The silence there wasn’t comforting exactly, but it was predictable. And right now, that was good enough.

He could already feel the weight lifting as he merged into traffic.

Then his phone lit up again.

A number. No name. Just digits.

He stared at it.

Almost didn’t answer.

Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have. Would have let it ring, let voicemail chew on it and spit it out. But something about this number gave him pause. It wasn’t quite recognition — more like a soft tug in the back of his mind, something familiar, buried and half-remembered.

His thumb hovered for a beat before he finally pressed accept.

“…Hello?”

There was nothing at first. Just the soft purr of the engine, the faint rush of tires over slush, and a quiet crackle of static on the line. He waited, jaw clenched, irritation already beginning to rise. If this was another robocall, one of those idiots trying to sell him something he didn’t need, he was going to throw the phone out the damn window.

“Toji… hi.”

His entire body went still.

The traffic, the sting in his temple, even the wheel beneath his palms - all of it faded. That voice. It was soft, unsure, like you didn’t know if you had the right number. But he knew. He had known the second he heard it.

It hit him hard, like someone had reached into his chest and squeezed.

His grip on the steering wheel tightened, the leather groaning beneath his fingers. He hadn’t heard your voice in six years, and yet here it was. Alive. Real. Slipping through the speaker like it had never left.

“T-this is Y/N,” you added quietly.

He nearly laughed. Not because it was funny, but because the absurdity of it all knocked the air from his lungs. As if you needed to introduce yourself. As if he could’ve forgotten. Your voice had camped out in the corners of his mind long after you were gone. He’d tried to drown it in work, noise, late nights, women. Nothing had worked.

And now you sounded nervous.

That twisted something deep in his gut. You were always the calm one. Steady. Kind. So why the hell did you sound like you were standing on a ledge?

He ran a hand down his face, as if that might ground him somehow.

“Y/N.” His voice came out rougher than he meant, like he hadn’t spoken in days. Just saying your name out loud did something to him. It brought everything back with it—the ache, the questions, the ghost of who you’d been to each other.

You were calling.

You. After everything.

And he couldn’t stop asking himself why.

“I’m sorry, Toji. I know this must be a bit of a shock, but… I wanted to talk.”

He swallowed hard. The pressure in his chest hadn’t eased since he saw your name flash across the screen. If anything, it was getting worse—tight and aching, like his body couldn’t quite remember how to relax.

“About?”

The word left him sharper than he meant it to. It felt distant, almost biting, and he hated that. Hated that his instinct was to pull away, to block you out when you were the last person who deserved his coldness. 

But he couldn’t help it. His voice betrayed what he refused to name: the way his heart had started to race the moment he heard your voice again.

“I’m sorry,” you said again, even softer now. “I wanted to know if we could talk. In person.”

You kept apologizing - and it undid him. After all this time, you were still the same. Still gentle, still soft around the edges. Still offering your heart in quiet ways. And he… he had been the one to walk away from all of it.

The silence that followed was heavy, stretched taut between you like a thread on the verge of snapping.

You must have sensed it fraying, because your voice rushed in to fill the space—uneven, small, uncertain.

“It’s just… there’s something I really need to tell you.”

He closed his eyes and let out a long breath through his nose. And when he spoke again, his voice had already drifted, distant, as if his mind had stepped away from the conversation entirely.

He could practically see you now. Not as a memory, but like a vision playing just beyond the windshield. You, pacing the floor of your small apartment, wrapped in one of those oversized sweaters you always wore when you comfortable and home.

The phone pressed to your ear, your brow furrowed with thought, your lip caught between your teeth, pink from chewing. Every part of you brimming with hesitation, with the weight of something that had lived unspoken for far too long.

That image alone, faint and imagined as it was, ached somewhere deep in his chest.

“Send me your address,” he said finally, his voice lower than before as he maneuvered through the blinking lights and crowded streets of Tokyo. Home no longer felt like a destination, not when he was already in motion toward something far more important.

There was a pause on the other end. Hesitation, soft and telling.

“It’s… the same as before. I’ll send it to you,” you murmured, and his grip on the steering wheel tightened.

You were still there? After all this time? Still in that little apartment on the edge of the city?

“No need,” he replied, clearing his throat as he switched lanes, the skyline shifting as he made his way toward the quiet neighborhood he had gone out of his way to avoid for the last six years. “I remember. I’ll be there in twenty. There’s traffic.”

“Okay,” you said, your voice smaller than before, barely more than a breath. He knew that tone. He remembered the way your voice dipped when you were scared, when something was wrong, when you didn’t know how to say the next thing.

Why did you sound like that now? Why tonight, after six years of silence, had you chosen to call?

He glanced down at the time—just past 8 p.m.—then back to the road, headlights passing like ghosts.

“I’ll see you then,” you said, quiet and steady, pulling him back into the moment. The line went dead a second later.

And still, he drove.

⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖

You’re restless.

Megumi’s already been tucked into bed. You got off the phone with Toji a few minutes ago and somehow just hearing his voice had been enough to bring tears to your eyes.

Now you’re pacing your apartment, unable to sit still.

Your eyes scan every corner, checking for anything that might look out of place. You shuffle between the living room and bathroom, adjusting the throw pillows, smoothing down the rug, fixing your hair in the mirror. Then you catch yourself and scoff. Why do you even care what your hair looks like right now?

Everything feels unsteady! You’re anxious in a way that makes your skin buzz. And in moments like this, you wish more than anything that you had someone to call.

Being a single mom and running your own business hasn’t exactly left room for a social life. Most of your time is spoken for.

Sure, you’ve gotten friendly with a few of the other parents in Megumi’s class, but those relationships are surface-level. No one you could actually call up and say, “Hey, my ex is coming over tonight. The same ex who doesn’t even know he’s my kid’s father. What do I do?”

It’s ridiculous!

What’s worse is that the one person you would have called back then was Satoru. Satoru Gojo, who ghosted you just like the rest of them did after Toji walked out.

Ironically, he used to be your closest friend. You always found him hilarious, and underneath the sunglasses and playboy rich kid act, he was kind. A nerd, really. You both loved the same video games and often read the same books in your free time. He used to call you his partner in crime, especially when you were ganging up on Toji with teasing jokes.

You talked to him about everything.

Now he’s gone too.

You let out a small, humorless laugh. Video games. You can’t even remember the last time you played one. There was a time when you had actual hobbies, strong opinions, little things that lit you up outside of baby bottles and semi-annual clothing sales for your growing child.

The thought makes your stomach twist, because Megumi is your life.

Nothing, nothing, brings you more joy than watching him thrive. But still, if you’re honest with yourself, the quiet longing is always there. The little things you once enjoyed have fallen by the wayside. And yet, every smile your baby gives you outweighs those lost pieces of yourself.

You sigh, sinking deeper into the couch, your knee bouncing in a steady, anxious rhythm. Your eyes are locked on the television, though you’re not really watching. The news drones on, the only remotely interesting story being about some upcoming community pet adoption event. God, this is a nightmare.

You’re left here waiting, like a sitting duck, and your thoughts give you no reprieve.

Still, you sit. You watch. You force yourself to breathe and try, with trembling effort, to pull yourself together.

And yet, when the knock finally comes, you still flinch.

Your eyes snap to your phone. 8:20 p.m. Just like he said.

God. Would it have killed him to be late for once? You could’ve used the extra few minutes to spiral some more. Maybe rearrange the throw pillows for the third time. Maybe cry!

You push up from the couch, suddenly remembering just how cold it is outside. The temperature had dropped hard after sunset, and the snowfall had thickened into sheets. You picture him out there - refusing to text like a normal person, freezing his ass off in a suit and tie.

God.

With one last frazzled attempt to fix your hair by the door, you swing it open and immediately come face-to-chest with the dark slate of a wool coat. Warm air from inside meets the crisp cold from outside, and for a second you just stand there, blinking.

Looks like he didn’t freeze.

Your chin lifts, eyes meeting his - and just like that, you forget how to breathe.

Toji Zenin is standing in your doorway. Six years older than the last time you saw him, and somehow even more devastating than you remember.

Those eyes. That impossible green that still makes your heart seize. His nose is still perfectly straight, save for the slight crookedness near the bridge from when he broke it falling off a bike as a kid. His cheekbones have only gotten sharper, his jaw more defined. Gone is the last trace of youth that softened his features. Now, he looks like everything you tried to forget. And failed to.

You always felt a little betrayed that Megumi ended up looking just like his father. But seeing Toji now, you think maybe your son hit the genetic jackpot.

He’s looking at you, too. Really looking. His gaze drags over your face like he’s trying to piece together who you’ve become, studying every detail like he’s afraid to blink. You don't know what he sees, but whatever it is, it’s making your knees feel alarmingly weak.

A cold gust cuts through the street behind him, snow swirling around his shoulders, and you instinctively shiver. Without thinking, you step back and open the door wider.

“Come in. It’s freezing outside,” you manage, your voice softer than you want it to be. Shaky, almost. You hate that.

Toji hesitates just for a second, then steps over the threshold, closing the door behind him.

Now inside, away from the cold and standing in the entrance of your home, he’s immediately hit with a wave of nostalgia. This tiny hallway that opens into the living room, the kitchen just off to the side with its familiar round wooden table. A beautiful floral centerpiece sits perfectly in the middle, just as he’d expect from you, a small reflection of your talent.

Beyond that, another short passage leads to your room, the spare bedroom, and the bathroom nestled between them.

He knows this place like the back of his hand.

The powder blue couch. The slightly worn furniture passed down from some distant relative. The soft golden lights that bathe everything in a warm glow. It all feels so distinctly you—gentle and inviting.

“Sorry,” you say quickly, trying to fill the silence. “I just realized I don’t have any slippers in your size.”

Your words snap him back to the present. He glances down, then up at you, caught between memory and reality.

That look on your face. It's like you’re bracing for something, like you’re waiting for him to snap at you.

It tugs at something in his chest he doesn’t want to name.

Toji attempts a smile. It’s not much, tight and uneasy - but it’s something. He shrugs out of his coat, revealing a dark suit and silk tie, crisp from a long day at the office.

“Don’t worry about it,” he murmurs, voice low as he toes off his boots.

But then he pauses. Eyes fixed on something by the door.

Two small sneakers, neatly lined up next to your own.

He stares. Long enough for your stomach to twist.

You follow his gaze. And your breath catches.

“W-why don’t you come sit?” you say, voice brittle. “I can get you something to drink.”

You turn before he can respond - half walking, half fleeing toward the kitchen, where the counter offers a merciful barrier. Your pulse hammers in your ears.

The door is closed now. He’s here. He saw the shoes. He hasn’t asked.

Not yet.

And your hands are shaking.

You’ve barricaded yourself in the kitchen, fumbling with mismatched mugs and digging through the clutter of sweeteners you always kept on hand. He watches in silence, choosing to stay on the couch rather than make it worse. You clearly hate that he’s here—or at least, it seems that way—but something must’ve pushed you to call him, to invite him into this space again.

So he’s merciful. Quiet. He sinks into your powder blue couch and waits, eyes following every anxious motion you make until you finally return, two steaming mugs cradled in your hands.

He quirks a brow as you hand one to him. A waft of herbal scent rises from the rim. Tea. You made tea.

“So... how’ve you been?” Toji breaks the silence, just after your third deep breath.

Your head snaps toward him, eyes wide like he’s jumped ahead of the script playing out in your mind.

“I’ve been okay... how about yourself?” you ask, voice barely steady.

He almost rolls his eyes. You’re stalling. You look like you’re about to piss your pants. Just what the hell is going on here?

Still, he can’t be too mad, not when looking at your face is as beautiful as he remembers.

“I’m fine, Y/N. What’d you wanna talk about? And how’d you even get my number?” Toji sighs, taking a slow sip of tea. It tastes exactly the way he likes it. You still remember.

“Well, um... I ran into Suguru a few months ago,” you admit, eyes on your lap. “He insisted I have your new number. Said I should reach out to you. Please don’t be mad at him.”

Your fingers are nervously fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve, twisting a loose thread as if it’s the only thing tethering you to this moment. You refuse to look up at him. If you did, the tears would probably start.

Toji stares at you, a knot growing in his chest. You look scared. Really scared. Ready to break. And now he’s scared too.

Are you sick? Is it something terminal? Did someone hurt you? Why did Suguru see you and say nothing? Why are you talking like he’ll be angry?

It’s like you can read his spiraling thoughts.

“I made Suguru swear secrecy. I didn’t want him telling you what he saw,” you whisper.

Still, you won’t look at him. Your mug sits untouched on the coffee table.

“Y/N... what’s going on?” he asks, voice lower now, edged with something unfamiliar. Fear. “You’re worrying me. Are you sick? Did something happen?”

The way you’re building this up, the way your hands won’t stop trembling, he’s starting to think you’re going to tell him you’re dying!

Instinctively, he places a hand on your knee, grounding himself in the moment, but jerks it back the second your body locks up at the touch.

He’s never really been an anxious man but your anxiety is damn near infectious.

Finally, you move. You rise slowly, walk to the TV console, and kneel down to pull something from the cabinet. A small, soft blue book. A photo album?

You hold it against your chest for a moment before making your way back to the couch. You sit beside him again, not quite touching.

He watches you closely. Every breath, every hesitation. Your eyes meet his at last, and they’re glassy - tears threatening to spill over, but still holding the line.

He wants to pull you into his arms, bury your face in his chest the way he used to. But he doesn’t. He knows he has no right.

“Here,” you whisper. You offer him the album, still refusing to look at him. “Open this.”

Your gaze stays locked on the cover, refusing to meet his again. You’re curling in on yourself, as if you could disappear into the cushions if you just tried hard enough.

Toji tears his eyes away from you and down to the album in his hands. Baby blue, soft to the touch. In the center, in your unmistakable handwriting:

“Megumi, my love!”

His heart skips.

Megumi. Your love. An M name. The letter he saw on your necklace that night he found your social media profile again...

He opens the book, and the first page punches the air from his lungs.

It’s a photo. Just one. A printed image, slipped beneath the plastic sheet.

It’s you in a hospital bed, younger than you are now. Your hair is shorter, like it had been when he last saw you. Your face is fuller, flushed and tear-streaked, and still, you’re smiling. Beaming, even.

In your arms is a bundle of soft blue. A newborn, barely the size of a loaf of bread. A shock of black hair peeks out from beneath the cap.

Beneath the image, handwritten in pen:

“December 22nd is the day I had you, my little Megumi. A kind nurse took this picture. Look at how tiny you are!”

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, frozen, staring at the photo.

You don’t say a word. Not beside him. You don’t move, don’t breathe. Dread is gnawing through your stomach like a slow burn.

And Toji—Toji can’t even lift his head.

“You had… a baby,” he says, voice hollow with disbelief after long moments of paralyzed silence.

You nod, even though he won’t look at you. “Go to the next page,” you whisper, eyes fluttering shut to stop any more tears from slipping out.

He obeys.

And then freezes again.

You're not in these photos. It’s all Megumi - sleeping soundly in a little wooden crib, swaddled in a close-up shot in your arms, glowering up at the camera with those unmistakable green eyes. The exact same shade as his own.

Toji has always prided himself on his composure. But in this moment, staring at that tiny face, he fears he’s forgotten how to breathe.

At the bottom of the page, he sees more of your writing.

“First week home! You weigh eight pounds and five ounces. I don’t think you could really see yet? Mommy has to read more baby books… Regardless, look at your pretty green eyes!”

Impulsively, he shuts the book.

He turns to you with a sort of mortified quiet, completely undone.

You don’t say anything at first. You just let the tears fall freely now since there’s no point in holding them back.

“He’s… our baby, Toji,” you manage to say, voice breaking. “He’s ours.”

Toji has never been a man of many words, but now you've done it, you've rendered him completely mute. He stares at you, his head practically spinning as the gravity of his actions six years ago dawns on him.

He left you, cut you off, stopped you from ever being able to reach him again - and you were pregnant.

Young, alone, probably terrified, and pregnant.

And it was all his fault.

You watch him, your face pained and the silent tears unrelenting. Years worth of heartache has all led up to this moment, and you find yourself struggling to put up a stronger front.

Because with Toji, you never had to act strong.

He had once been your safe space in this cold and unfair world. And it seems like your heart can't distinguish the man in front of you from the man who abandoned you all those years ago like your brain can.

"Megumi wants to meet you," you admit after a long stretch of silence, your shoulders drooping in defeat. "That’s why I finally decided to call you."

Toji doesn't move. His jaw is tight, his expression unreadable — but finally, he speaks.

"Why didn’t you tell me… when you had the chance?"

You look away, guilt twisting inside you like a knife. "I tried. For so long." The laugh that escapes you is brittle. "Honestly, it got embarrassing."

Your eyes stay low, but his stay fixed on you - watching, listening, like he’s seeing you clearly for the first time.

"The week of Megumi’s first birthday, I was desperate. You had missed so much already… I didn’t want you to miss that too." Your voice cracks, and you press your hands to your face as your shoulders tremble. "He was already saying ‘Dada,’ and I just felt so alone."

You try to collect yourself before continuing, though your voice is still uneven.

"I paid for a babysitter. It was out of my budget at the time, but I was so determined. I couldn’t bring him with me - it was freezing out, and he was still so little, I was terrified he’d get sick. So I left him home and went to your office building."

You hesitate for a beat. Then, with a soft exhale:

"Security escorted me out as soon as they recognized me. Said it was on your orders." Your laugh is quiet this time - empty and raw. "But I was so stubborn."

You wipe at your eyes, but it’s no use. Everything is blurry now.

"I waited outside for a while. I don't know, I kept hoping I’d see you… or someone I knew. But nothing. Just time passing."

You finally lift your head and meet his eyes - and the sight of him startles you. His gaze is glassy, wet. He’s not crying, not really. But he’s close.

"I think that’s when I gave up on you too," you whisper, giving him a sad smile, small and tired. "I stopped waiting."

The bar reeked of one thing. Not alcohol, not drugs—opulence.

Perched atop one of Japan’s tallest skyscrapers, Horizon was the kind of place where power and money spoke louder than words.

Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the Tokyo skyline, the glittering city stretching endlessly below, lights shimmering like constellations against the inky night. Inside, the atmosphere was a curated blend of wealth and exclusivity—dim mood lighting casting sleek shadows across black marble floors, deep leather seating arranged for whispered conversations, and servers in sharp-cut suits, trained to serve without being seen.

It was the first Saturday of the month. A tradition, unshaken even after college, no matter how busy their lives became.

At a private table, in a section roped off for only the highest clientele, sat a group of men whose names carried weight across the country. Japan’s most powerful, most untouchable, and most eligible bachelors.

Gojo Satoru, heir to a real estate empire of old money and power, his presence as blinding as the white hair atop his head. Geto Suguru, ever calm, ever composed, the sharp mind behind tech industries that would take most men lifetimes to control. Ryomen Sukuna, the wildcard, draped in arrogance, his wealth tied to underground dealings no one dared question.

Born into one of Japan’s most powerful families, Toji wasn’t just wealthy—he was the Zenin heir.

When his father died, leaving behind a fortune vast enough to sustain generations, Toji didn’t just sit back and preserve it.

He tripled it.

Through ruthless business ventures, high-stakes investments, and an instinct sharper than any financial advisor’s best predictions, he transformed the Zenin name into something more than just old money. It was new dominance. 

A force that dictated markets, bought influence, and ensured that the name Zenin wasn’t just spoken with respect, but with caution.

The scent of aged whiskey and smoldering cigars curled through the air, mingling with the low hum of conversation. The four of them sat back in their private booth, drinks in hand, Tokyo glittering beneath them like a chessboard waiting to be played.

"Suguru, what's got your ass all twisted up? You've been off lately," Satoru drawled, nudging his best friend with a teasing elbow—an oddly childish gesture in a setting so drenched in wealth.

Sukuna snorted, swirling the amber liquid in his glass before taking a slow sip. "Can’t believe I’m saying this, but the idiot’s right. You’ve been acting weird as fuck lately, man."

Satoru turned to fire back, lips already curling into a smirk, but paused when Suguru let out a deep sigh.

They weren’t wrong. He had been acting off.

And why?

His sharp, cat-like eyes flickered toward one of his oldest friends—Toji of all fucking people—and instantly, like a ghost haunting the back of his mind, he saw it again.

That kid.

The pint-sized version of Toji he had spotted weeks ago, sitting by your side eating pizza.

He was adorable, with big green eyes and dark hair that spiked upwards. He was also hauntingly enough, a replica of his dear friend sat across from him.

It gnawed at him.

How the hell was he supposed to sit here, sipping whiskey and smoking his cigar, pretending everything was normal, when Toji had a whole damn child he didn’t even know about?

With the love of his life, at that.

The secret sat like a stone in his gut, pressing heavier with each second. But still, Suguru brought his cigar to his lips, took a long drag, and exhaled slowly through his nose.

"Don't know what you guys are talking about," he muttered, voice smooth but empty.

Because fuck.

This wasn’t his business to tell.

Suguru forced the thought down, drowning it in another slow drag of his cigar.

Satoru, ever the gossip, rolled his eyes, swirling the amber liquid in his glass as he shifted in his seat. “Boring, Suguru. Well, since he’s not opening up, I might as well. Guys, you won’t believe what happened to me today.”

He leaned in slightly, the dim overhead lighting catching on the rims of his sunglasses as he peered at them all, clearly waiting for someone to bite.

Toji raised a brow, finally breaking his silence. “What, lost a bar of that shitty candy you inhale every day on your lunch break?” He snorted, lips curling.

Satoru waved him off, unfazed—and unwilling to admit that, yes, that had indeed happened earlier.

“Fuck you, Toji. No, I had an old hookup show up at my office today, screaming at my intern like a lunatic, claiming that I—”

Toji cut him off with a sharp grin, already amused. “Don’t tell me you knocked a one-night stand up.”

“I’ll have you know, she wasn’t a one-night stand.” Satoru placed a hand over his chest, feigning deep offense. “We met in Ibiza, and we had a magical week together!"

“That’s just a fucking nightmare,” Sukuna scoffed, tipping his glass back. “You, of all people, with a kid?”

“Oh come on, I’d be great! My kid would be gorgeous,” Satoru declared, ever confident. Suguru feels himself turning green with where this conversation was headed.

“Gorgeous with a mouth full of cavities, I bet,” Toji drawled, taking a slow sip of his drink.

“Nothing a great dentist can’t fix,” Gojo quipped, brushing it off like it was nothing. “Anyways, not the point of the story. She’s getting rid of it tomorrow—I had my lawyer draft up an NDA, so it’ll all be fine.”

Sukuna shook his head, amusement curling at the edges of his smirk. “F’course it’d be you out of all of us to have the first pregnancy scare.”

Satoru furrowed his white brows. “Is that a joke? Toji is sitting right next to you, y’know.”

Suguru could throw up right here, right now, all over this table and it still wouldn't be enough to make him feel any better.

Toji arched a brow, unimpressed. “The hell’s that supposed to mean?” He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “I’m not out here sleeping around like you.”

Satoru grinned, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Well, no, but you were in a relationship for what—six years? And Y/N let me in on your little distaste for condoms, you know. I’m shocked nothing came out of that.”

Sukuna let out a low whistle, nudging Toji’s side. “Yeah, got you there, brother.”

Suguru took a slow, deep breath, staring at the swirling whiskey in his glass.

The conversation was pressing in on him, each word adding weight to the already unbearable tension in his chest. He couldn't do this. If he just stood up and walked out, would it be too obvious?

Toji rolled his green eyes, exhaling through his nose. “I didn’t meet Y/N and start fucking her raw after a week in Ibiza, Satoru. I was with her for six years. Sue me.”

Satoru backed off with his hands raised in mock surrender, a grin still tugging at his lips. “Relax, relax. Speaking of Y/N, I could’ve sworn I saw her the other day at that pizza place we used to go to. Did you see her too, Suguru?”

The shift in conversation hit Suguru like a freight train. His entire body tensed, but he forced himself to keep his expression steady.

He hadn't spoken to Satoru about seeing you and the kid, never even mentioned it.

Toji’s brow quirked up, green eyes flicking toward Geto with sudden interest. The curiosity in them was undeniable.

Suguru’s grip on his cigar tightened. Think. Quickly.

“Y/N?” He scoffed, shaking his head as he brought the cigar to his lips, inhaling deeply.

When he exhaled, he kept his voice smooth, controlled. “I remember the woman you’re talking about but it wasn’t her. Just someone who looked like her.”

Satoru hummed, none the wiser. “Yeah, makes sense. That lady had a kid with her, too. Y/N never even had family or friends like that to be babysitting for.”

Suguru’s fingers curled tighter around his glass. He took another slow drag of his cigar, the smoke curling up toward the dim overhead lights, masking the flicker of unease in his gaze.

“Yeah,” he muttered, voice low. “No way it was her.”

He took another sip of whiskey, but the burn in his throat was nothing compared to the storm brewing in his chest as bright green eyes lingered on him.

⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖

Autumn has settled in fully now, painting the world in warm hues of amber, crimson, and gold.

Leaves crunch underfoot as the wind carries them in lazy spirals along the paved sidewalks. The mornings have grown brisk, the kind that nip at your nose and fingertips, making you pull Megumi’s little coat tighter around him before sending him off to school.

His scarf, a deep navy blue, is carefully wrapped around his neck, though he always tugs at it halfway through the day, complaining that it’s too warm.

He’s been thriving at school, and that alone fills you with a relief so deep it’s almost dizzying!

You worried about him, afraid that his quiet and blunt nature might leave him isolated, unsure of how to make friends. But those fears were put to rest the moment he came home and started talking—really talking—about a boy in his class.

A boy named Yuuji.

Apparently, Yuuji was assigned the seat next to him, and from that moment on, there was no escaping the whirlwind of energy that was his new best friend.

Every day, Megumi would come home with some new story, some ridiculous antic Yuuji had pulled.

And even though this boy you hadn’t met yet seemed like the complete opposite of Megumi—rambunctious, loud, endlessly excitable—you couldn’t be more grateful for his presence.

You had even found yourself smiling, shaking your head in amusement, when Megumi’s teacher gently informed you during a parent-teacher meeting that he had been talking a bit too much in class lately.

Talking too much.

You nearly laughed in disbelief. Your Megumi?

You didn’t mind. Not one bit. Because you were just so glad to hear that Megumi wasn't struggling at all in class, instead thriving academically and socially!

Which is why today is so important.

A playdate.

The next step in any childhood friendship, and truthfully, you’re just as excited as Megumi.

He deserves this—deserves to have a friend he can run around with, someone who makes him laugh, someone his own age to share his days with.

Life can feel a little quiet when it’s just the two of you, and though Megumi has never complained, you’re sure he’s been longing for a companion outside of home.

The plan is simple. You coordinated with Yuuji’s father, Jin, since—according to the kindergarten gossip you’ve managed to gather from Megumi—his mom isn’t in the picture.

You don’t pry, but there’s a quiet understanding in the back of your mind.

First, you’ll meet them at the park, where the boys can run wild, burning through their seemingly endless energy.

Then, once they’ve had their fill of play, you’ll all sit down for lunch at a nearby restaurant, letting them refuel before no doubt finding some new way to tire themselves out again.

The walk to the park is peaceful, the late afternoon sun casting golden light over the quiet streets. 

The crisp autumn air carries the scent of fallen leaves, dry and earthy, while a gentle breeze rustles through the trees, shaking loose vibrant reds and oranges that drift lazily to the pavement.

Megumi walks beside you, his small hand warm in yours, but his steps begin to slow. You feel the slight tug on your arm before you hear his voice.

"Mama," he mumbles, rubbing his tired eyes with his free hand. "Carry me."

You glance down at him with an amused huff, already anticipating this. "Oh, honey, I don't know if my arms are strong enough anymore."

A darker thought crosses your mind. Toji could probably still carry him like it's nothing, like he's nothing more than a newborn.

You haven't seen the man in years, but if his physique was anything like it was back then—

You push the thought away just as quickly as it comes.

"Please?" Megumi's voice is softer this time, and when you glance down again, he's pouting, shifting on his feet like he already knows you’ll cave.

And how could you say no? Sore arms be damned—this is your baby! One day, far too soon, he’ll stop asking.

You crouch down, letting him wrap his arms around your neck before lifting him with a quiet grunt. 

He’s heavier than before, all gangly limbs and growing boy, but he sighs contentedly as he rests his head on your shoulder, his breath warm against your collarbone. You press a soft kiss to his dark hair, letting him nuzzle into your neck.

He won’t fit in your arms like this forever.

The thought lingers, settling into your chest with an ache. Soon, he’ll be too big to carry, too old to want you to. The weight of time feels heavier than the boy in your arms.

Your mind drifts to the slip of paper tucked away in your apartment. Toji’s phone number.

A part of you wonders if you’re wrong for not reaching out now that you can reach him. If you’re selfish for keeping Megumi to yourself. For letting Toji miss this—his son, growing up.

Megumi shifts slightly, pulling you from your thoughts. His small fingers toy with the pendant on your necklace—the little letter ‘M’ you got just for him.

You shake your head, pushing away the what-ifs. Today is about Megumi. About his happiness.

A sudden vibration against your hip snaps you back to the present. You shift Megumi in your arms to free one hand, retrieving your phone from your pocket.

Jin, Yuuji’s father: Hello Y/N! Something came up at work, so I wasn’t able to take Yuuji today, but my younger brother will instead. They’ve already left the house and will be there soon! Sorry for the short notice.

You type out a quick confirmation before tucking your phone away.

Megumi lifts his head slightly. "Are they here yet?"

"Not yet," you say, adjusting your hold on him. "But they should be soon."

His fingers absently trace over the smooth metal of your pendant before he hums in acknowledgment.

By the time you reach the park, the sun has dipped lower, casting long, dappled shadows across the playground. The cool breeze rustles through the empty swings, and the laughter of distant children fills the air.

You find an empty bench and sit, keeping Megumi settled in your lap a little longer, just because you can.

"Megumi!" He lifts his head, suddenly alert, his green eyes scanning the park.

The excited, high-pitched call is accompanied by the sound of small, eager footsteps. You barely get a glimpse before Megumi squirms out of your arms, landing on his feet with practiced ease. He straightens his posture, stuffing his hands into his pockets, trying to play it cool.

You turn toward the voice, and your heart melts at the sight.

Yuuji is absolutely adorable—fluffy pink hair, big brown eyes, a little shorter than Megumi, with the widest grin stretching across his face as he runs over. His joy is infectious, beaming like the sun itself.

But something about him feels… familiar.

Your eyes linger on the soft pink of his hair. It isn’t exactly a common color. And the longer you look at him, the stronger the unsettling familiarity grows.

No. There’s no way.

The thought barely has time to form before a deep, unmistakable voice cuts through your daze.

"Yuuji! Don't go running off without me, you brat."

Your breath catches.

No. Absolutely not.

Your blood runs cold as you turn toward the source, eyes widening, stomach plummeting.

There, towering over the playground with all his tattoos and his unmistakable aura of arrogance, is Ryomen Sukuna of all people.

You feel like the universe is playing some kind of twisted joke on you.

Big. Tall. Tattooed. Another one of Toji’s old friends.

And judging by the way he ruffles Yuuji’s hair—his nephew’s hair—he’s the younger brother Jin mentioned in his text.

Sukuna hasn’t even noticed you yet, too preoccupied with the excitable little boy bouncing in front of him. Yuuji beams up at you. "Wow, Megumi, your mom is really pretty!"

Megumi’s entire body tenses beside you. He steps closer, crossing his arms, his expression darkening.

"I know." he mutters, his glare sharp enough to cut through stone.

You snort, reaching out to rub his back. He huffs but doesn’t pull away, though you can feel the heat radiating off him. His protective streak never fails to amuse you.

The moment cuts through the tension in your chest, but only briefly. Because then you feel it—that unmistakable sensation of being watched.

"Megumi, let’s go play! I’ve been waiting forever! My uncle walks so slow," Yuuji exclaims, practically vibrating with excitement, his bright grin shining under the afternoon sun.

He’s adorable—so full of energy and joy that it makes you want to freeze this moment in time. Your son, on his first real playdate, with a friend who already seems so eager to be by his side.

But you can’t enjoy it. Because standing just a few feet away, arms crossed, towering like a living nightmare, is Ryomen Sukuna.

Of all people.

You blink, trying to process the absurdity of it. How the hell did this happen? What are the odds? What cruel joke is the universe playing on you?

Then, you decide—fuck it.

You’re not going to let Toji who's not even here, his idiot friends, or any other lingering ghosts from your past ruin this for you. This is Megumi’s moment. His first real friend.

You whip out your phone, ignoring Sukuna’s heavy stare as you crouch down slightly. "Alright, boys, stand together and smile!"

Megumi doesn’t really get the smiling part, settling for a neutral stare, while Yuuji doesn’t quite grasp the standing still part, fidgeting excitedly in place. It’s imperfect but perfect all the same, and you snap the pictures, your heart swelling at the sight of them together.

"Alright, go play, but make sure I can see you," you call out.

The second they take off running, your smile drops. You turn to Sukuna, a deep sigh escaping you. He stares right back at you, eyes running up and down your body as if trying to confirm that it is indeed you in front of him.

"Y/N, what the fuck?" Sukuna blurts out, disbelief etched across his face. His eyebrows practically hit his hairline as his sharp gaze flickers between you and Megumi who at this point, was climbing up the stairs to the slide.

Gosh, couldn't even start with a hey, how have you been?

You roll your eyes, already exhausted by this encounter. Seeing Suguru and Satoru was traumatizing enough. This? This is just the cherry on top.

"Ryomen, trust me—I’m feeling the same way. God what are the odds?" You inhale sharply through your nose, leveling Sukuna with a flat stare. His mouth curls into something between a smirk and genuine disbelief, arms folding across his broad chest as he waits for your response.

"Going out on a limb here," Sukuna drawls, tilting his head toward the direction Megumi ran off, "but is the little squirt Toji's?"

Your fingers tighten slightly around your phone. You knew the question was coming—it was inevitable the second he laid eyes on Megumi. The resemblance was too obvious.

Still, hearing it out loud makes something twist deep in your stomach.

"Don't call him that," you say coolly, arching a brow. "And what if he is?"

Sukuna lets out a sharp, amused breath, shaking his head like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. "Shit." His gaze flickers to Megumi in the distance, then back to you, something razor-sharp glinting in his expression. "Does Toji even know? There’s no way he does—he never mentioned it. Not once."

Your jaw tightens. You don’t answer right away.

Instead, you focus on Megumi, watching as he follows Yuuji up the jungle gym. His usual serious expression softens—just slightly—when the younger boy tugs at his sleeve, babbling excitedly about something.

Sukuna doesn’t need a verbal response. Your silence tells him everything.

"This is crazy," he breathes, his grin widening, teeth flashing like the devil himself. "You didn’t tell him?"

You exhale through your nose, resisting the urge to rub your temples. "It’s none of your business, Ryomen."

He lets out a low whistle, eyes gleaming with something unreadable. "Damn. That’s cold. And coming from you? Toji would never believe it."

Your scowl deepens. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Not about the kid," he clarifies, rolling his shoulders. "I mean, shit, we were literally talking about this last night. But you keeping this from him? He always thought you were harmless."

Something flickers across his face—amusement, sure, but also intrigue, like he’s trying to piece together how the hell this slipped past him. Past Toji.

"You gonna tell him?" Sukuna asks after a beat, gaze sharp, assessing.

Your stomach twists. The question has been haunting you ever since Suguru stepped into your shop weeks ago.

For years, you made peace with the fact that Toji would never know. That there was no way to reach him. That no matter how much it hurt, he had to be let go since Megumi always came first.

You had spent years stretching yourself thin—between your job, chasing after Toji, and most importantly, being a new mother. Something had to give. And bitterly enough, that something was Toji.

Now, after all this time, you have his number. Full access to him.

And you haven’t dialed it once, because something else is holding you back now.

Fear.

You glance back at the two boys, now racing toward the swings, their laughter ringing through the crisp evening air.

"Like I said," you mutter, voice quieter now. "None of your business."

Sukuna clicks his tongue, rocking back on his heels. "Alright, alright, I get it." He exhales, like shaking off the conversation. Then, with a pointed smirk, he adds, "But if you think he won’t find out eventually, you’re dumber than I remember."

Your eyes narrow. "You're not gonna tell him?"

He raises a brow, almost offended. "Why would I? It’s not my business to tell."

You scoff. "Oh please. He's your best friend."

Sukuna just grins, slow and knowing. "Yeah? And maybe I’m being a good friend by keeping quiet." He rubs his chin, tilting his head like he’s savoring the moment. "Wouldn’t wanna tell Toji that his favorite girl’s been keeping something like this from him all these years."

Your breath catches.

There’s something about his tone—something not quite mocking. Not quite amused. Something almost... pitying.

It makes your stomach churn.

Before you can press further, Yuuji’s excited voice slices through the tension like a blade.

"Uncle Sukuna! Push me!"

Sukuna’s gaze lingers on you for a beat longer, unreadable, before he turns away. "Saved by the brat," he teases, already striding toward the swings.

You exhale slowly, rubbing a hand over your face.

Of all people, it had to be Sukuna.

And now, whether you like it or not—one more person knows your secret.

⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖

Lunch is… weird.

The kids, thankfully, are oblivious to the tension radiating off you in waves, too engrossed in their own little world to notice. Well, Yuuji chatters—Megumi mostly listens, nodding at appropriate intervals, his expression neutral but not disinterested.

Still, you have a feeling Megumi senses something is off.

He refuses to sit anywhere but next to you, his small frame pressed against your side, his tiny fingers curled into the fabric of your jacket. It’s a quiet, grounding presence, but it does nothing to settle the storm in your chest.

Across the table, Sukuna is insufferably at ease.

He lounges like this is a casual dinner between friends rather than a ticking time bomb waiting to go off. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t press, but his amusement is palpable.

You can feel it in the lazy way he drums his fingers against the table, the way his lips curl at the edges, the weight of his gaze lingering on you like he’s waiting—just waiting—for you to crack and curse him out.

You refuse to look at him.

Instead, you focus on the kids. Yuuji is deep in a monologue about a video game he’s been begging his dad to buy, talking between massive bites of a burger that looks almost too big for him.

Megumi, as always, listens quietly, picking at his chicken tenders, offering the occasional hum of acknowledgment.

And you? You’re barely holding it together.

Your food sits untouched, stomach twisted too tight to even pretend to eat. You’ve tried to play it cool in front of Sukuna, to act like you’re unaffected by the weight of this secret, but the truth is, you’re terrified.

Toji’s circle has always been small. Satoru, Suguru, Sukuna—his only real friends. The ones who had earned a place in that impenetrable fortress of trust.

And now, two out of three of them know about Megumi.

But Toji doesn’t.

And that thought alone is enough to make you want to curl into yourself and disappear.

You grip your utensils tighter, swallowing around the lump in your throat, barely registering the sound of laughter and clinking dishes around you.

There should be guilt buried somewhere in the mess of emotions clawing at your insides, but all you really feel is sheer, bone-deep anxiety.

Megumi, at least, has finally started actually eating, nibbling on a chicken tender while sipping a kid-sized soda. Yuuji, on the other hand, is still in a battle with his burger—one that’s about the size of his entire face.

Then, in the way only a child can, Yuuji shatters your already fragile nerves with a single, innocent comment.

"You don’t look anything like your mom, Megumi! You must look like your dad. I look just like mine!"

Your stomach plummets.

You freeze, fork clattering against your plate, pulse spiking so hard you swear your vision tunnels for a second. The world tilts, the restaurant noise fading into a muffled blur, your brain scrambling desperately to think of how to steer the conversation anywhere else before—

“Yeah, I guess.”

Megumi says it so nonchalantly, so effortlessly, that for a second, you think you imagined it.

Your head snaps toward him. He’s still calmly eating, tearing off a piece of chicken tender, unbothered, as if Yuuji hadn’t just dropped a grenade in the middle of dinner.

He… doesn’t care?

You feel like you’re about to combust, but Megumi—Megumi, who never talks about his father, who has never once asked, who you’ve spent years bracing yourself for questions from—just shrugs it off like it’s nothing.

You don’t know if you’re relieved or if it somehow makes the situation worse.

And then, because of course, of course, you make the mistake of looking up—

—only to lock eyes with Sukuna, who is watching the entire thing unfold with the most infuriating, knowing grin.

He doesn’t say anything, but the sharp shit eating smile on his stupid face says enough.

You swallow thickly, dragging your gaze away, forcing yourself to take a slow, steady breath. Megumi is fine. He’s not upset. There’s no need to react.

Even though every nerve in your body is screaming otherwise.

⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖

At the gym, the rhythmic clank of metal echoes through the near-empty space, broken only by the occasional grunt of exertion. It’s just past five in the morning—an ungodly hour for most, but perfect for Toji.

No distractions. No waiting around for machines. Just him, the weight of the bar in his hands, and the steady burn in his muscles.

At least, that’s what he wants.

But Sukuna exists.

The sharp clang of the bar hitting the rack cuts through the quiet as Toji exhales, rolling out his shoulders before reaching for his water bottle. That’s when Sukuna, sprawled out on a neighboring machine like he owns the place, decides to run his mouth.

"You ever think about how you have a type?"

Toji pauses mid-sip, eyes narrowing. "Excuse me?"

Sukuna smirks, the kind that makes Toji immediately regret acknowledging him. "That girl you were with last night? She could’ve passed as Y/N’s sister."

The statement is so absurd that Toji almost laughs. Almost. Instead, he lets out a slow breath, shaking his head. "Didn’t do anything with her. Wasn’t with anybody."

"Sure, sure," Sukuna drawls, clearly entertained. "Just crazy how you only let chicks that look like Y/N within a ten-foot radius of you—"

"Sukuna," Toji grits out, reaching for the bar again, "it’s five in the goddamn morning. I’m finishing this rep and then I’m out."

Sukuna snorts but doesn’t push further. He just leans back, crossing his arms over his chest, watching like he knows exactly what he’s done.

Toji ignores him. He doesn’t have a type. That’s bullshit. And it’s not like he’s been chasing after anyone, anyway.

Not since you.

Sure, there were opportunities. A lingering glance, an open invitation, a number slipped into his palm—but none of it ever went anywhere.

He’d tell himself he wasn’t interested, that he didn’t have the patience for it, but deep down, he knew better. Nothing ever felt right. Not after your relationship.

Sukuna’s words settle in his mind, impossible to ignore.

With each rep, his thoughts betray him, dragging up images—snapshots of you. The way your voice used to sharpen when you were annoyed. The way you always had something quick and cutting to say back to him. The way you—

His grip tightens on the bar, jaw clenching.

And then, before he can stop himself, the words slip out—

"Why has everyone been bringing up Y/N lately?"

A pause.

A fraction too long.

Toji doesn’t miss it.

Sukuna covers it up well, tilting his head in mock confusion. "Just a coincidence, man. I dunno."

But Toji knows a bullshit answer when he hears one.

And it’s not just Sukuna.

It’s Suguru, stiff as a board at the bar the other night, suddenly quiet whenever Toji spoke. It’s Satoru, casually dropping that he saw a woman who looked just like you. It’s the little things, insignificant on their own, but when pieced together…

Something doesn’t sit right.

It’s not suspicion. Not yet.

But it lingers, an itch at the back of his mind.

And for the first time in a long time, Toji finds himself thinking about you longer than he should.

⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖

Back at home, you sit in bed with your pajamas on, scrolling through your phone to try and distract yourself.

The soft glow from your bedside lamp casts a warm, golden hue over the cozy room, the faint scent of lavender lingers in the air from the candle you had blown out earlier, and the plush comforter is pulled up over your lap, cocooning you in warmth.

Behind you, a pile of pillows props you up against the headboard, their familiar softness a small comfort against the weight pressing down on your thoughts.

The room is quiet, save for the occasional hum of the air conditioner and the distant sound of cars passing outside.

Megumi is fast asleep after a long day of running around in the sun with his friend. A warm bubble bath and a home-cooked dinner had knocked him right out, and now he’s curled up in his own little bed, lost in whatever dreams a four-year-old has.

You, on the other hand, can’t sleep. Your heart is still racing, unsettled by the events of today.

You can’t stop replaying the moment Yuuji mentioned Toji—how Megumi had barely reacted. No curiosity, no interest, just a shrug, like the thought of his own father meant nothing to him. And that realization sits heavy in your chest.

Guilt.

Guilt gnaws at you—guilt that Megumi doesn’t even wonder about his father. Guilt that Toji hasn’t given him a reason to.

You exhale, your fingers pressing into your temple, trying to massage away the tension that’s been creeping up your neck all night. Just as you’re about to sink back into the quiet, the faint creak of your bedroom door cuts through the silence, making you glance up.

There, in the doorway, stands Megumi.

His small figure framed by the dim light spilling from the hall, his bright green eyes squinting sleepily as he stumbles toward you, his tiny feet padding softly against the floor.

Without a word, he climbs onto the bed, his movements sluggish and heavy with sleep.

His little body wiggles under the sheets until he's nestled beside you, looking almost comically small against the vast, cushioned expanse of your bed, the covers pooling around him like a blanket fort.

“Honey, what’s wrong?” you ask softly, brushing a hand through his tousled hair, your fingers lingering in the mess of it.

“I wanna sleep in your bed, Mama,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible, thick with sleep as he curls himself into the pillow, his small hands gripping it tightly. His face, so peaceful and innocent, presses into the soft fabric, making him look even cuter than he already is.

You can’t help but smile, warmth spreading through your chest as he shuffles even closer. The weight of him, the slow rise and fall of his breaths, lulls you into a sense of peace. Maybe now you can finally relax, let go of the thoughts spinning in your head.

But then, just as you start to relax, his small, unsteady voice breaks the calm.

“I think my dad is stupid.”

Your heart stops for a moment, the words hanging in the air like a sudden chill. Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and instinctively, you sit up straighter, facing him fully now.

“Megumi?!” you exclaim softly, your eyes wide. “What did you just say?”

“Whoever my dad is, he’s a dummy,” he mumbles, his voice so matter-of-fact that it almost stings.

A rush of emotions floods you—confusion, concern, and something sharper that you can’t quite place.

“Megumi, what’s this all about?” you ask gently, trying to mask the tightness in your chest. “Don’t say such mean things.”

“A kid from class told me that since I don’t live with my dad, it means that he left us,” Megumi says quietly, curling into the pillow a little more, his tiny body pressed against yours. “So I think he’s a dummy.”

You search for the right words, but they feel impossible to find. What can you say? The kid wasn’t entirely wrong. Toji did leave you at least—he just didn’t realize he was walking away from Megumi as well.

You take a deep breath, ready to say something comforting, to try and ease the hurt in his little heart.

You want to tell him that Toji loved him, that even though things were messy, his father cared. But before you can get the words out, you feel the weight of Megumi's head settle further into your pillow. His small breaths are steady, slow, his tiny body already drifting back to sleep.

He murmurs again, barely audible. "Gnight Mama.”

You glance down at him, his eyelids fluttering as he drifts deeper into slumber, his hand still curled loosely around your wrist. You smile softly, a pang of something tender in your chest. It’s moments like this that remind you of how much he needed the quiet, the calm.

You don’t push him. You just let him be, letting the words hang in the space between you two, unsaid.

With a sigh, you reach over and switch off the bedside lamp, the room plunging into the soft embrace of darkness.

The only sound is the soft rustling of sheets as Megumi shuffles closer to you, his small body curling into yours with the kind of comfort only a child can seek. His little face nuzzles against your neck, his breath warm against your skin.

For a moment, you think you might finally find the sleep you’ve been chasing all night. But the stillness in the room only heightens the weight in your chest, the tightness of unanswered questions.

Your thoughts keep drifting to Toji—the way his absence hung between you, even now, even here.

You can’t help but wonder if he ever thought about your failed relationship, if he ever truly understood what he’d left behind. Maybe not just you, but him—Megumi, the child who would never ask for a father but still had a place for one.

You try to push it out of your mind, focusing on the warm weight of Megumi against you, but it lingers.

Winter is in full swing, and a small snowstorm has draped Tokyo’s streets in soft white. Classes have been suspended for the week, and though Megumi’s birthday isn’t until the end of the month—just a few days shy of Christmas, you’re grateful this mini blizzard hasn’t disrupted your plans.

In fact, you’ve been quietly enjoying it. Having your baby home for a few extra days has brought a kind of warmth that’s helped keep your mind off other things.

Off him.

It’s ridiculous, the way Toji’s managed to creep back into your head after all this time.

Years of silence, and yet here you are, thinking about him more than you should. His number still tucked away under the lamp on your nightstand. And those photos of him holding hands with that woman outside some exclusive Tokyo bar, now etched behind your eyelids no matter how hard you try to forget them.

The power he still holds over your heart terrifies you.

But Megumi being home has helped. You haven’t gone into work either, not that there’s been much foot traffic in your flower shop lately. The snow has slowed down everything, sales included. But thankfully, you’d planned for quiet seasons like this. Years of careful saving and smart investments have cushioned the blow.

You’re no Toji, casually dropping six figures at a bar like it’s nothing, but you’re doing your best. You’re building a good life for your son, one full of love, comfort, and stability.

Today’s comfort comes in the form of homemade cookies. It’s a simple activity, but it beats another afternoon of TV or the dreaded iPad. One of your biggest fears is raising Megumi to be an iPad kid.

“Okay honey, remember to roll the cookie dough into little balls. And no tasting! The stomach bug could get you,” you warn, watching him from the corner of your eye.

To your surprise, Megumi actually listens. Ever since he got his first real cold at the start of the school year, complete with aches and nausea—he’s been a little traumatized by the idea of getting sick again.

Still, when he’s not looking, you sneak a guilty spoonful of dough. You know it’s probably fine, but what if he is the one percent that gets salmonella? You shake the thought off.

Your spiral is interrupted by the painfully adorable sight of your son rolling cookie dough into near-perfect balls. His pajama sleeves are pushed up, his little brows furrowed in concentration, and the tip of his tongue pokes out in focus.

Your heart clenches.

You lean down without thinking and press a kiss to the top of his head, wrapping your arms around his small frame and earning a soft little groan from him.

“Mama, my cookies...” he whines, more dramatic than upset.

You laugh softly. “Sorry, sorry. You’re doing such a good job, though,” you say, and his cheeks flush pink from the praise.

The two of you move through the rest of the dough like a well-oiled machine. There’s a rhythm to it, and for a fleeting moment, you wonder if you missed your calling. Maybe you should’ve opened a bakery instead of a flower shop.

“Okay, honey. Stand behind me—the oven’s hot,” you say, slipping on oven mitts.

Megumi clings to the fabric of your pants as you slide the tray in. His eyes are wide, like he’s trying to protect you with his gaze alone.

“No burns,” you announce playfully as you shut the oven. “Success.”

You lift him easily under the arms and settle him on your hip, ignoring the slight strain in your back. You don’t let yourself think too long about how much heavier he’s gotten or how fast time is flying.

“Let’s wash our hands and pick a movie while the cookies bake,” you say, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

Soon, the two of you are curled up on the pale blue couch you’ve had for years, tucked under one of your favorite plush blankets. Megumi fits snugly in your lap, his freshly cleaned hands tangled in the fabric of your shirt.

It’s the kind of moment you want to bottle forever.

And yet... something feels off.

Just a whisper of unease in the back of your mind. A memory. A ghost.

No matter how perfect this moment is, you can’t quite shake it.

⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡

Memory: Six Years Ago

“Doll, you’re breaking my heart.”

You’ve always loved the sound of Toji’s voice—low, raspy, and just a little bit rough. It wraps around your spine like velvet, makes your stomach flutter every time. Tonight is no exception.

You glance over your shoulder to find him standing in the doorway, tall and broad, already shrugging off his coat. He hooks it on the wall like he lives here. Like it’s second nature.

“It’s only a week, Toji. And I invited you to come, remember?” you say, lips curved in a soft smile. A spark of warmth blooms in your chest when he leans down to press a kiss to your lips—careless and casual, but still enough to send your pulse skipping.

His gaze drops to the open suitcase on your living room floor, then shifts to you. “What am I supposed to do while you’re gone?” he groans, flopping back onto the couch with a dramatic sigh.

The pale blue cushions creak beneath his weight, the fabric dipping slightly to cradle his frame. The sight of a man that massive lounging in your tiny apartment, limbs sprawled and comfortable, never fails to make you grin.

You slide closer and lean against his leg as you fold a sweater into your bag. “I don’t know… pick up a hobby that isn’t me. Pottery? Painting?” You perk up. “Ooh, what if you finally give in and try floral arranging? I have books I can lend you!”

Toji snorts. “Doll, you’re not a hobby,” he says, voice quieter now, more honest. “You’re my life. Can’t say flowers are gonna fill that void.”

Your fingers pause mid-fold, heart catching in your throat at the softness in his voice. You don’t look at him—just smile to yourself and keep packing.

“I think you’ll manage,” you say quietly.

You don’t know yet how wrong you are.

He sighs, all pouty and petulant in that rare, vulnerable way he only ever shows you. You glance up, snickering at the exaggerated look on his face.

“What? A week with your dad got you that bummed?”

“You’ve got no idea, doll. The old man’s gonna be up my ass,” he groans, spreading his thighs instinctively and reaching out as you rise from the floor. You let him pull you into his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Your arms wrap around his neck; your head rests easily on his shoulder. His big arms fold around you in turn, holding you close like he needs to memorize how you feel. You breathe him in—that addictive scent of clean spice and something unmistakably him, the cologne you’ve loved from the very beginning.

“I’m sorry he always gives you a hard time,” you murmur, fingers gently combing through the back of his hair, twirling locks of raven strands between them.

He’s quiet for a while, gaze locked on the black screen of the TV. Then, without saying a word, he grabs the remote, flicks it on to some random movie neither of you care about, and shifts you both deeper into the couch. He tosses a blanket over your legs—he always remembers how easily you get cold.

“Don’t worry about the old man,” he mutters. “He’s dying soon anyway. Won’t be my problem for much longer.”

You sigh, soft and weary. “Don’t say things like that. He’s your father.”

“And? You want me to list off all the shit he’s pulled?” Toji scoffs, the edge in his voice sharpening. “I don’t get why you keep defending him. The man trashes your name every chance he gets.”

His words are blunt, too blunt—and they sting, even though you know he’s trying to deflect the real pain underneath. Of course you hate that his father despises you. You’ve been with Toji for five years now, and every interaction with his family has felt like walking on broken glass.

You frown, not wanting to ruin this quiet moment before your trip, but the tension is already curling tight in your chest. “He’s never taken the time to get to know me.” you murmur against his shirt. “So I’m not putting too much weight into anything he says.”

Toji exhales, long and slow, then pulls you closer like he’s trying to shield you from something invisible.

“He doesn’t know you at all, my perfect girl. And I want to fucking keep it that way. He ruins everything he touches.”

You snort softly, tapping his shoulder. “I’m not perfect, Toji.”

He huffs and grabs your face as gently as those big hands allow, palms warm as they cradle your cheeks. He squishes them just enough to make your lips pout, then bumps his forehead against yours.

“Most perfect girl in the whole damn world,” he mutters. “And I won’t let anybody say otherwise. Not even you.”

⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡

Current day

In his high-rise penthouse, the city below blanketed in white, Suguru exhales slowly, the smoke from his cigar curling through the air like a ghost of a thought he can’t shake.

Across from him, Ryomen Sukuna lounges on a leather chair with a beer in hand, pink hair mussed, eyes half-lidded but unmistakably sharp.

The two of them have been through hell and back, especially with Satoru and Toji in the mix. Boarding school years, globetrotting misadventures, a few too many nights in Amsterdam that landed all four of them in jail as teenagers—

But nothing ever has, or ever will compare to this. To the quiet, heavy weight of the thing they’ve both been carrying in silence.

“So… you know,” Suguru finally says. Not a question. He knew the second Sukuna looked at him during that last meet-up at Horizon.

Sukuna takes a long swig like the alcohol might soften the edge. He’s never done well with serious shit.

“Yeah. Yuuji’s best friends with the kid.”

Suguru’s eyes snap to him, disbelief etched across his face. “Seriously? That’s how you found out?”

Sukuna groans, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Jin begged me to take Yuuji on a playdate. I was expecting some married, middle-aged lady with a brat. Imagine my surprise when I show up and it’s Y/N—who, by the way, is even sexier now, with a mini-Toji in light up sneakers.”

He snorts, amused at the memory. Seeing Toji’s permanently pissed-off face on an adorable kid is a surreal kind of comedy.

Suguru pointedly ignores the comment about you being sexier, though, if he’s honest, he agrees. Motherhood did something to you.

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. If his hair weren’t tied back in its usual bun, he’d be gripping it by the roots out of stress.

“I ran into her a few months ago. Her and the kid. Pizza place by her old shop. Satoru didn’t notice them, but I did. She looked pretty terrified when she saw me.”

Sukuna lets out a low chuckle. “Yeah? She looked like she wanted to choke me out. The kid too, honestly. Gave me this nasty glare. Kid’s got dark vibes already—very Toji.”

Suguru nods, gaze distant. “Too much like Toji. I don’t know how she wakes up every day and doesn’t think about him.”

“She probably does,” Sukuna says, casually. “Especially now. Now that she knows we know.”

Silence settles between them. The only sound is the soft hum of the heater and the quiet clink of Sukuna’s bottle against the marble tabletop.

“You think she’ll tell him?” Suguru asks eventually, voice low. “I gave her his number. Thought maybe… I don’t know. I feel like an asshole keeping this from him.”

Sukuna doesn’t answer right away. Just stares into the amber of his drink like it holds a timeline he can’t fix.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “She’ll tell him.”

Suguru waits for more. Sukuna sighs.

“Jin mentioned Yuuji got invited to the brat’s birthday party. It’s in like two weeks.”

Suguru raises a brow. “Shit. That’s right around Toji’s birthday.”

Sukuna nods. “Guilt’s gonna eat her alive. I bet she’ll crack any day now.”

Suguru scowls. “We are not betting on Toji’s baby mama finally confessing she’s been hiding his kid for five years.”

Sukuna smirks, raising his bottle. “You’re only saying that ‘cause you know I’d win.”

The door swings open without so much as a knock, the echo of it bouncing off the marble floors of Suguru’s penthouse.

From where they sit, low on dark leather chairs near the floor-to-ceiling windows, the sprawling city of Tokyo glows in soft gray tones beneath a blanket of snow.

Neon lights blink in the distance, diffused by the frost-kissed glass. It’s serene, in a heavy, expensive kind of way.

That peace is shattered immediately.

“Helloooo!”

Satoru Gojo strides in like a man with a mission and zero boundaries, wool coat flapping behind him, sunglasses still obnoxiously on despite the gloomy sky outside. His shoes squeak slightly against the polished marble as he kicks them off and makes a beeline for the liquor tray like he pays rent.

“I know I gave you access to my house,” Suguru mutters without looking up, “but would it kill you to knock for once?”

“Nah,” Satoru grins, grabbing a crystal tumbler and inspecting the bottle of whiskey before pouring generously. “Then it wouldn’t be a surprise.”

Sukuna slouches further into his chair, stretching out his legs like a cat who wants everyone to know he's deeply inconvenienced. “Your existence is a surprise. A tragic one.”

Satoru ignores the jab with a grin. “You say that now, but you’d miss me the moment I stopped showing up.”

He flops theatrically onto the white sectional, the ice in his glass clinking like punctuation. Stretching out like he owns the place, he props his feet (still dusted with snow) on the edge of the marble coffee table.

Suguru shoots him a cold glare. Predictably, Satoru pretends not to notice.

“What were you two whispering about, anyway?” he asks, voice far too casual to be innocent.

“You shut up like I walked in on a cartel meeting. If there’s any snow involved, you know I want a cut.”

Suguru, back in his chair, swirls the amber in his glass and stares out the window like the answers might be hiding somewhere in the drifting snowflakes.

“Nothing you need to concern yourself with,” he says smoothly, the weight behind his words dulled by exhaustion.

Satoru squints, lips pursed. “Lame. You guys always act weird when I’m not around. Just admit it, you’re planning Toji’s birthday without me again.”

Sukuna snorts, eyes still on the snow-covered skyline. “Yeah. Full clown theme this year actually.”

“You joke, but strippers in clown outfits could be magical,” Satoru says, deadpan, leaning back with a pleased sigh like he’s cracked a genius idea.

Suguru gives him a sideways look. Sukuna takes a sip of his beer and mutters, “Yeah, real magical.”

Outside, the snow starts up again. Thick, slow flakes falling against the glass, smudging out the neon sprawl of Tokyo Tower.

Suguru sips his drink, the familiar, suffocating weight of what he knows pressing heavier now. But he says nothing more.

Because if there’s one thing they all know beyond a doubt :

You don’t tell Satoru Gojo a secret unless you’re ready for Toji to know it five minutes later.

Like clockwork, Satoru shifts upright, eyebrows raised in gleeful disbelief. “Speaking of Toji, can you believe he sent that girl from the bar home in an Uber? Didn’t even hook up with her!”

Suguru arches a brow, unimpressed. “Honestly? Not shocked.”

Satoru lets out a dramatic scoff. “We’re watching our hot bachelor bestie spiral into eternal celibacy, and everyone’s just fine with that?!”

Sukuna exhales slowly, lifting his glass. “He’s a grown-ass man, Satoru. Let him make his own choices.”

Satoru rolls his crystalline blue eyes from behind his ever-present shades. “That’s no fun.”

Satoru starts rambling again. Some half-baked scheme about dragging Toji to a club to “reawaken his libido”—but Suguru’s already tuning him out.

He doesn’t say it out loud. Not with Satoru here. Not with Sukuna sipping his beer like nothing matters.

But in the back of his mind, the thought lingers stubbornly—quiet and sharp.

Please just call him, Y/N.

He closes his eyes briefly, letting the silence stretch as far as it’ll go before Satoru shatters it again.

⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡

The sun has long dipped below the skyline, leaving Tokyo cloaked in a deep navy hue. The city lights outside your window glitter more vividly than usual, wrapped in the glow of the approaching holidays. Neon signs blink in festive colors, red and green twinkling against glass and steel.

Inside, your apartment feels warmer than usual—not just from the heater, but from the familiar comfort of December. The Christmas tree in the corner glows softly, its deep green branches dotted with glittering ornaments and rainbow lights that flicker gently against the walls. The scent of freshly baked cookies still lingers in the air from earlier.

You carry Megumi to bed with ease, his body relaxed and heavy in your arms, freshly showered and with his little belly full of warm cookies. He’s drowsy, blinking slowly as his head hits the pillow, his cheeks still faintly rosy from the heat of the oven and the laughter you shared in the kitchen.

He curls into the covers easily, the kind of sleepiness only little kids know. So full, so satisfied, so safe. 

You kneel beside his small twin-sized bed, letting your eyes linger on the way his lashes rest against his cheeks. You would stay here forever if you could, watching him drift into dreamland.

But then—

“Mama,” he murmurs, tugging at your sleeve again with drowsy fingers.

“Yes, honey?” you whisper, brushing his soft black hair gently from his face.

He doesn’t open his eyes right away. “Is my dad coming to my birthday party this year?”

Your entire body stills, muscles coiling instinctively beneath your skin. Even in the warmth of the room, it’s like someone’s poured ice water down your spine.

Your gaze drops to him, and your heart aches. He’s still half-asleep, lashes fluttering as he stares at the ceiling, but his voice carries something heavy. Something unspoken.

“My friends keep asking me…” he trails off, small fingers fidgeting with his blanket now. “I don’t care if he comes or not. I just wanna know.”

It’s the pout that gives him away. The slight downturn of his mouth. The hesitation in his voice. And suddenly, you see through him with painful clarity.

He does care.

Your breath catches in your throat as you take him in - so small, so brave, and yet so vulnerable. There’s a thousand things you could say.

You want to lie. You want to change the subject. You want to shield him from the tangled mess of adult decisions and past pain. But that’s not who you are.

That’s not the kind of mother you promised yourself you’d be.

So instead, you lean forward and press a tender kiss to his cheek, letting your lips linger there for a moment, grounding yourself in your love for your child.

“I’ll make sure he’s there, Megumi,” you whisper, and the words alone make you nauseous out of anxiety and fear.

And the words burn on the way out—sharp with anxiety, heavy with dread. But you say them anyway.

His little fingers finally relax their grip on the blanket, and the tension in his body melts into the mattress. He doesn’t say anything more. He doesn’t need to.

His tiny heart trusts you with everything it has.

And you’ve never let him down.

You won’t start now.

Time moves too fast when your child starts school—uncomfortably so.

The golden hues of autumn have long faded, leaving behind bare branches and streets swept clean of crisp, fallen leaves. In their place, the first snowfall of the year drifts down in soft flurries, delicate and hesitant, barely enough to dust the pavement.

The world outside is quiet, muffled by the chill. The kind of cold that seeps deep, settling into your bones.

“Okay, Megumi, arms up,” you murmur, holding out his tiny puffer jacket.

He obeys without protest, shoving his arms through the sleeves, his little fingers wiggling out from the cuffs. His cheeks are flushed from sleep, and his dark hair is tousled in soft, stubborn tufts from his pillow.

You glance out the window as snowflakes swirl gently past the glass, vanishing on impact. The sight should be pretty. But instead, it feels like a reminder: the world is shifting again. The seasons are pressing forward, indifferent to the fact that you’re still catching up.

“Mama, I’m gonna make a snowman today,” Megumi announces, voice muffled as you loop a thick blue scarf around his neck.

You smile and tuck the ends securely. “That sounds so fun, honey! Are you and Yuuji going to build one together?”

Megumi scowls slightly, crossing his arms. “He can make his own.”

His chubby cheeks puff out with determination. He wouldn’t dare let Yuuji near his snowman—not when his best friend would probably stick the carrot where the arms are supposed to go.

You snort, trying to hide your grin as you sling his backpack over one shoulder and grab his lunchbox. “Well, I’m sure you two are going to have the most unique snowmen in class.”

Satisfied, he nods, clutching onto the fabric of your pants as you reach for the door.

But just then, a sharp gust of wind rushes through the hallway as you open it, curling around your ankles and stealing your warmth. Megumi stiffens instantly, his expression shifting to something stern.

“Mama! Put on your coat!” he scolds, voice small but full of authority.

He fumbles toward the hanger, trying to tug your jacket down with his mittened hands. You laugh softly and ruffle his hair. “Alright, alright, my bossy boy.”

Truthfully, the cold has already begun to sting your skin. You shrug into your coat, letting him help tug the zipper up to your collar. He nods in approval once it’s zipped.

Hand in hand, you step out into the morning chill. The air nips at your cheeks as you make your way to the car, boots crunching softly on the thin dusting of snow.

The drive to school is peaceful. The hum of the heater fills the car while Megumi chatters about recess and the snowman he’s planning. You nod, offering the occasional “Wow!” and “That’s going to be so cool, baby,” but mostly you just listen—savoring the warmth of his voice, the smallness of him, the fleetingness of mornings like these.

When you pull up to the school, you brace against the cold and lift Megumi into your arms. He’s heavier than he used to be—solid, growing—but you still carry him close, lips pressing against his forehead.

“Okay, Megumi. Have a beautiful day, baby.”

He lingers in your arms for a moment longer before slipping down to the ground. You wish you could scoop him back up, take him home, swaddle him in a blanket, make cocoa and watch cartoons. But he’s a growing boy. He has a world to explore.

And you? You have responsibilities waiting for you, too.

“Bye, Mama,” he calls, giving you a little wave before turning to run toward the building, backpack bouncing with each step.

You linger, watching until he disappears inside. Only then do you tug your coat tighter around you and hurry back to the car, the wind slicing through your layers. Your fingers are stiff by the time you start the engine.

The warmth of the heater slowly creeps in as you sink back into the seat.

Snowflakes drift across your windshield, melting into tiny rivulets.

Winter was never your favorite time of year.

As a florist, you’ve always favored spring and summer—the seasons of life. Color bursting from every corner of the city. The air thick with the scent of new blooms. Warmth lingering on your skin like a lover’s touch.

But winter?

Winter has always been the absence of that. Cold. Quiet. Stark.

It’s gray skies and pale light, bare branches and biting wind. Streets washed in colorless tones, a hush across the world like it’s holding its breath, waiting for warmth to return.

You never had a reason to love it.

Until Toji.

Toji—your first love, the man who made your heart bloom brighter than any flower—was born in the winter.

And slowly, that season became something else.

It became warmth pressed skin-to-skin after braving the cold. It became burrowing into his arms with hot drinks and sleepy smiles. It became baking a birthday cake from a half-burnt recipe on your phone and laughing at how uneven the frosting was. It became more than the fleeting joy of holidays.

It became love.

And then he left you.

Ironically, in the spring—when everything else was coming to life, and you were wilting.

Winter returned to what it had always been before him. Empty. Cold. Something to survive, not something to savor. And as if the universe hadn’t twisted the knife deep enough, you found out you were pregnant just as the flowers began to bloom.

But then—there was Megumi.

And winter was never the same again.

It became the press of tiny mittened hands in fresh snow. The determination of little fingers shaping crooked snowmen in the yard. The flicker of birthday candles reflecting in his emerald eyes. The excitement on Christmas morning, the way his laughter echoed through the house, warm enough to thaw even the coldest days.

Winter became Megumi.

And for the first time in years, you found yourself falling in love with it all over again.

But as you drive away from the school, one thought cuts through the warmth like ice:

Megumi is turning six soon.

The realization drops like a stone in your chest.

Six years since he was born.

Six years and nine months since Toji walked out of your life.

Toji.

God, damn it.

You’ve tried not to think about him. Not since Suguru. Not since Sukuna.

He left. Disappeared. No contact. No way to reach him.

You tried. You tried your hardest to bring him back into your son’s life—but you couldn’t find him. So you made peace with that. You let yourself move forward. Guilt wasn’t something you let yourself carry. Not when you had done all you could.

But now?

Now, Suguru pressed Toji’s number into your palm.

Now, Sukuna—Megumi’s best friend’s uncle—is someone you’ll be seeing at every event, every birthday, every class performance.

And suddenly, the guilt won’t stop gnawing at you.

Toji isn’t gone. He’s just a phone call away.

Megumi is turning six this year. Will you really let another year pass—knowing you could change everything?

You could reunite them.

You could give your son a father, no matter how much he pretends not to care.

And Toji...

God, Toji.

You could tell him he has a son.

So why haven’t you?

⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡

The Zenin Tower stands like a dagger in the heart of Tokyo—a gleaming skyscraper of glass and steel, sharp-edged and cold, looming over the city like it owns it.

And on the very top floor, the man who practically does own it sits hunched over his desk, eyes locked on the glow of his screen.

Toji Zenin.

His fingers hover over the keyboard, unmoving. The only sound in the room is the faint hum of his computer, casting a pale light across his dim office. His gaze is fixed—zoomed in on a single photo. A tiny square image.

Your profile picture.

It's stupid. He knows it’s stupid. He has no reason to be looking at you, no business even thinking about you.

But there you are. Smiling.

And here he is. Staring.

He tells himself it’s just curiosity. That’s all. After all, ever since Sukuna—loud, smug bastard—started randomly bringing you up in conversation, it’s like your name’s been carved into the back of his skull.

He can’t shake it.

Five years. It's been five goddamn years.

He figures... he can look now, right? Just one little peek. Not like you're going to know.

But then the door creaks open.

Toji jolts, snapping out of it, and turns just in time to see Maki walk in. She stops cold.

“Mr. Zenin? I brought the files you—” Her voice halts mid-sentence, eyes flicking from him... to the screen... and back again.

Her brows lift. A slow, mischievous smile creeps across her face. “Is that Auntie Y/N?”

Toji’s whole body goes rigid.

His jaw clenches, fingers curling into a tight fist. He resists the urge to bark at her for barging in unannounced.

On the screen, your face is still lit up. That same damn smile.

He snatches the files from Maki’s hands and slams them onto the desk. “You’re a terrible intern,” he mutters. “Get out.”

But Maki, being Maki, doesn’t budge. She strolls over and plops herself into the chair across from him, peering at the monitor like she’s watching a movie.

It’s been years since she’s seen you. Back then she was just a kid, too young to grasp why you left, only old enough to know she liked having you around.

“If you tell your sister, you’re dead,” Toji growls, not looking at her. “Mai can’t keep her mouth shut. If Gojo hears about this—”

“I know, I know,” Maki says, adjusting her glasses with a smirk. “Gojo will never let you live it down.” She leans back in the chair, tone softening. “Relax, Uncle Toji. Your secret’s safe with me.”

A beat passes.

Then, casually: “So... are you guys back together, or...?”

Toji freezes.

It’s the kind of question that would normally earn someone a broken nose—but coming from Maki, it just... digs. There’s something vulnerable in the way she asks it. Almost hopeful.

He doesn't answer. Just glares at her until she raises her hands in mock surrender and finally gets up to leave.

The door clicks shut behind her.

He waits, making sure she’s actually gone, before turning back to the screen.

Your account’s private. All he has is that damn picture. So he took a screenshot. Zoomed in until the pixels started to blur.

Every detail—your eyes, your smile, even the curve of your jaw—burned into his mind like a brand.

But it’s the necklace that ruins him.

A thin chain, delicate. And hanging from it... a small pendant.

The letter M. Toji’s stomach twists. Who the hell is M?

He shoves the thought away, slamming his computer shut with a grunt. No. He’s not doing this.

He grabs his phone and fires off a message into the group chat “Horizon tn?”

Horizon—the sleek, members-only bar perched on the top floor of a neighboring skyscraper.

It's where they always meet. High ceilings, panoramic city views, and shelves of liquor that cost more than most people’s rent. Opulent, discreet, and just far enough from reality to let them pretend.

The response is immediate.

Satoru: “I’ll be there. Need a drink ASAP.” Suguru: “That was way too fast. Are you even at work?” Satoru: “...I may or may not be in the parking lot of your building rn.”

Toji snorts. Idiots.

But maybe that’s what he needs tonight—mindless distraction, great views, too much whiskey, and people who talk too much. Maybe it'll be enough to shut his brain off.

At least for a few hours.

⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡

“Okay, and here’s your bouquet! Thank you for trusting me with this—I’m sure she’ll love it.” You offer a warm smile as you hand over the arrangement, a delicate bundle of soft pinks and creams wrapped in craft paper and tied with silk ribbon.

The younger man nods gratefully, checking his watch before practically bolting out the door. You blink, watching him leave in a frenzy, eyebrows lifting slightly.

How does someone look that sweaty when it’s below freezing outside?

Still, a sale is a sale, and you’re grateful. Business always slows in the winter. You’ve learned to rely on early brides with long timelines and your own careful budgeting to keep the flower shop afloat during the cold months.

You glance down at your watch and sigh. A few more hours until Megumi’s school pickup. A small smile plays on your lips.

Has he started working on his snowman yet?

The thought lingers sweetly as you decide to use the lull to get a few things done. From the back room, you pull out an old cardboard box that’s been collecting dust.

It’s part of a shipment you never got around to unpacking. Brushing it off, you slice it open to reveal rows of colorful packaged ribbons, neatly coiled and still untouched. You start sorting through them, placing each spool into its designated drawer.

Time passes easily like this—your hands busy, your mind wandering.

Megumi’s birthday is coming up. You really need to start prepping for it.

His birthdays have always been quiet. Your family lives far from Tokyo, and your social circle all but disappeared after the breakup with Toji. You’re introverted by nature, and after everything that happened...well, letting new people in hasn’t been easy.

But this year is different.

Megumi’s in school now—and not just attending, but thriving. He’s formed real friendships. You used to worry that he’d inherit your shyness or Toji’s stoicism, but he’s surprised you in the best ways.

His best friend is Yuuji, of course. And then there’s the sweet girl in his class, Nobara, with her ginger-brown hair and maple-colored eyes. He talks about her all the time.

He has others too. A whole group. And the thought of finally being able to throw him a proper birthday party fills you with a quiet excitement.

Well—proper in your terms.

Which really just means decorating your small apartment, ordering too much pizza, and buying themed party cups and napkins. But still! It’s something.

Still, beneath the excitement… a gnawing pit of guilt twists in your stomach.

Yuuji’s of course going to be there.

Which means there’s a very real possibility Sukuna might find out.

And if Sukuna finds out about Megumi’s birthday… does that mean Toji might, too?

You don’t even know how to begin to unpack that thought.

How does he not know?

How does Sukuna—a chaotic, unfiltered menace—stand a better chance of knowing the day your son turns another year older… than his own father?

The thought is haunting.

You press your palms into the wooden counter, steadying your breath.

It’s been years. And yet... sometimes, it still feels like you’re picking up the pieces of a life that no one else remembers breaking.

⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡

Horizon is bustling tonight, still relatively quiet compared to other bars, but the energy is undeniable.

The soft hum of conversations mixes with the clink of glasses and the low thrum of music.

Despite the liveliness, the group of four lifelong friends is immediately escorted to a prime table located toward the back, next to the floor-to-ceiling crystal windows that offer an expansive view of the city below. No wait time needed.

Moments later, the suited-up waiter arrives, setting down their drinks with practiced precision, only lingering long enough to make sure they’re satisfied before disappearing into the shadows of the bar.

Toji doesn’t bother looking at his drink, his eyes fixed on the city lights. The glass in front of him remains untouched, a token of the evening, but his mind is elsewhere.

Satoru leans back in his chair, his usual mischievous grin in place “Toji, man, what’s with the sour face tonight?”

“His face is always like that,” Sukuna shrugs, his voice smooth as always, though his gaze is sharper than usual, eyes flicking between Toji and the others.

Toji doesn’t even flinch. He’s heard it all before.

But tonight is different. His posture is tighter, his gaze further off. The air around him is thick with something unsaid.

“I saw Y/N today.” The words come out gruff, almost reluctant, slipping out before he can stop them.

The table goes silent. Well, the table freezes, except for Suguru, who’s halfway through a drink and ends up choking on it. He sputters, trying to regain his breath.

“You what?” Satoru gasps, eyes wide as if the room just tilted. His voice is loud, carrying the shock, and Toji shoots him a glare, annoyance flashing in his eyes.

Suguru, still struggling to breathe, looks between the two men, mind racing. The tension builds in the space between them.

Toji rolls his eyes. “Not—I didn’t see her. She just popped up as a recommended account on my phone. I looked through her profile.” He says it with a nonchalance that doesn’t match the weight of the words hanging in the air.

The lie is faint but there, a quiet undercurrent of denial.

He won’t admit that he spent hours, hunched over his work desktop, memorizing every detail of your face as it is now—without him.

Sukuna, who’s been quiet up until now, blinks, his eyes widening slightly. Whether it's interest or amusement, it’s hard to say.

“…Well, tell us!” Satoru leans forward, his grin widening “What did you see? Still giving off that ‘hot girl next door’ vibe, or has time changed things?”

Toji glares at him, narrowing his eyes. “Shut up, Satoru.”

He takes a long drag from his cigar, the smoke swirling around him like a personal storm. “I only saw her profile picture. She’s moved on, too. Some guy whose name starts with the letter M.”

The table falls into absolute silence. The shift in the mood is palpable, like the room itself is holding its breath.

Suguru freezes, his grip tightening around his glass. “She… the letter M?” The words barely escape him, his mind already connecting dots too fast for comfort.

Toji shrugs, his face unreadable. “Didn’t look too deep into it,” he mutters, but the weight of his words is obvious. The regret is there, barely concealed in his jaw's tightness.

The silence stretches. Suguru’s eyes flicker across the group, briefly landing on Sukuna. But Sukuna’s eyes are cast downward, not meeting anyone’s gaze. His tongue prods the inside of his cheek, as if he’s chewing on something unspoken.

Suguru watches him, suspicion settling in. Something doesn’t feel right.

Sukuna’s gaze lifts, meeting Suguru’s. A shared understanding passes between them. It’s unspoken, but it’s there.

Suguru’s mind drifts back to the last time he spoke with Y/N. She had mentioned her son. Megumi.

Shit.

Sukuna knows about Megumi.

Suguru’s brow furrows, his stomach twisting as he connects the pieces. He’s about to say something when Satoru cuts through the tension, his voice light but carrying a more serious undertone.

“Forget her, man. You need to get over this.” Satoru leans back in his chair with a casual grin.

“Y/N? She’s not worth it. Look, you’ve been carrying this shit around for too long. There’s a whole world of women out there, and you’re an eligible bachelor, Toji. You’re not getting any younger.” He shoots a wink around the table.

“But hey, don’t take my word for it. Look around.”

Satoru gestures toward the bar, where a woman in a red dress stands out with her long legs and confident stride. She briefly glances over at their booth, her eyes meeting Toji’s for a split second before she moves on.

Satoru leans closer, nudging Toji’s arm. “That one. Nine o’clock. Red dress. She’s been eyeing you since we walked in. You could do a hell of a lot worse than her.”

Toji glances toward the bar, his gaze catching hers for that fleeting moment.

“I’m not interested,” Toji mutters, his voice low.

“Not yet,” Satoru counters, his grin still wide. “But you could be. You can’t keep living in the past. Move on, man. Get a fresh start.” His sunglasses stay perched on his nose, despite it being nearly 10 PM. “The world’s full of new faces, and she’s giving you the look. Don’t waste it.”

Suguru observes silently, his thoughts still lingering on the implications of Toji seeing Y/N’s profile.

It’s clearly weighing on him more than he’s letting on. Something’s off, and it’s not just about the woman in the red dress.

“Honestly,” Satoru continues, his expression sobering a bit, “you’ve got to stop torturing yourself. If she’s moved on, so should you. Don’t waste your time on someone who doesn’t even think about you anymore!”

Toji’s grip tightens on his glass again, his thoughts clearly elsewhere.

Satoru’s voice slices through the fog in Toji’s mind. “You know what I’m saying, right? Y/N’s just a chapter. The rest of your story’s still unwritten.”

The table falls into a heavy silence, even Sukuna seems mildly uncomfortable, the weight of the moment settling in. Suguru’s fingers remain tight around his glass, his unease growing.

After what feels like an eternity, Toji exhales slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly.

“Yeah,” he mutters, quieter now, “I hear you.”

His gaze drifts back toward the bar, the woman in the red dress still lingering in his peripheral vision.

This time, he doesn’t look away.

⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡

The morning light filters through the curtains as you sit at the small table in your cozy home office, a cup of tea cooling beside you.

Megumi had already been sent off to school, his tiny school bag slung over his shoulder with a quiet goodbye and a kiss to his cheek.

The day stretches out in front of you—one that should be filled with excitement as you prepare for your son’s upcoming birthday. But instead, you find yourself distracted, too caught up in your thoughts to focus on much else.

Today, you’d decided not to open up the shop.

There was no rush. The quiet hum of the day gave you space to focus on what mattered most: the little things that would make Megumi’s birthday special.

You had spent the morning working on the invitations, carefully cutting out star-shaped glitter and drawing planets by hand. It was a space-themed party this year—his favorite.

The thought of his face lighting up when he saw everything come together made your heart swell with anticipation. It was going to be perfect!

But after a while, you felt the weight of exhaustion creeping in, a dull ache in your back from bending over the crafting table for too long. You needed a break.

You let yourself slump back in the chair, your fingers instinctively reaching for your phone.

Scrolling through your social media feed, you absentmindedly flicked through posts about upcoming events and news. Until a headline stopped you cold.

“Japan’s Top Bachelor, Taken?”

Your eyes flicker to the article without thinking much of it.

It’s something you’ve seen before—rumors swirling about Toji, the man who once held your heart. But this time, it’s different. The accompanying picture catches your eye immediately: Toji, dressed in his usual sleek suit, his tall figure almost impossible to miss. But what freezes you is the woman standing beside him.

Her red dress—a flash of color that pops against the dark interior of the bar. She’s holding his hand.

A tight knot forms in your stomach, the familiar ache making its way back to your chest. He’s moved on. Of course he has.

It’s been years!

The two of you hadn’t spoken in ages, and yet, seeing him with someone else feels like a punch to the gut, a reminder that you’re no longer a part of his life.

Your finger hovers over the phone screen, the headline now a blur as your eyes focus on the image.

His hand is entwined with hers, the kind of intimacy that once felt so natural between the two of you. The way he held you, so easily, so without hesitation. The look on his face, carefree, almost like he belongs in this world of flashy lights and shallow glances.

A soft sigh slips from your lips before you even realize it.

Why does this hurt so much? You’ve done your best to let go of him, to bury all those emotions that once felt so real, so impossible to erase.

He’s been gone from your life for so long, replaced by a new reality, one that revolves around Megumi and the quiet routine you’ve built.

So why does it feel like your heart is shattering all over again?

You try to shake it off, forcing yourself to move past the photo, to focus on the tasks at hand. You look at the half-finished invitations, the space-themed designs scattered across your desk.

The small part of you that is still you pulls yourself together. Megumi’s birthday is what matters today. That’s your priority.

But even as you return to the crafting table, the ache in your chest doesn’t go away. You can’t shake the feeling of his absence—of the life that once existed between the two of you. The ghost of it lingers, no matter how much time has passed.

Toji’s hand in another woman’s. It’s a picture you never thought you’d see.