The morning sun slipped quietly through the curtains, painting soft gold across the room you and Satoru shared. It was warm, almost hazy, the kind of light that made everything feel safe. Peaceful. Delicate.

Seven years had passed since the battle with Sukuna, and though time had softened the memories, faint silver scars still traced their way across Gojo’s skin, reminders of how close the world had come to losing its brightest sorcerer. But right now, he was simply your husband, sprawled across the sheets, snow white lashes brushing his cheeks, breathing slow and deep.

It was already 10 a.m.

You stepped quietly into the room, the door clicking shut behind you. Satoru didn’t stir. Even now, after everything he’d lived through, he could still sleep like a cat in the sun.

You slipped into the bed beside him, fitting your body against the long line of his back. Your arm slid around his waist, fingers resting just above the faint scar at his side. He reacted only slightly, his shoulders relaxed beneath your touch.

Then you leaned in, brushing soft, tiny kisses along his cheek, his jaw, the tip of his nose. Your wedding ring glimmered in the sunlight, a warm spark that danced over his skin each time you moved.

“Mmm…” he hummed sleepily, his voice gravelly and unguarded. One blue eye cracked open, lazy and unfocused. “Is it already morning?”

You pressed one last kiss just beneath his eye. “Good morning, honey,” you whispered, your lips curving softly. “And… a happy birthday.”

His other eye fluttered open fully now, recognition dawning, and then warmth. A kind that didn’t need infinity to protect it.

Satoru smiled, slow and genuine, the kind he only ever saved for you.

“You woke me up with kisses?” he murmured, voice still thick with sleep. “Best birthday gift I’ve had so far.”

He reached for your hand, thumb brushing over your ring, tracing the metal like it was a miracle he still couldn’t believe he’d earned.

Then he pulled you into him, rolling so you were tucked against his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear.

“Thirty-six already,” he sighed dramatically. “I’m getting old.”