“Gojo.”

Megumi’s quiet voice drifted through the room, tugging you and Satoru out of sleep. Gojo responded with a low grunt, rolling over and slinging an arm across your waist like a warm, possessive weight, determined to anchor himself there.

It had been a year since Gojo had taken Megumi in, yet the memory of the first day he’d introduced you to the boy remained sharp and clear. A few months after that, you’d moved in with Satoru—an adjustment that still felt surreal some mornings like this.

“Gojo, you said we were going to the aquarium today.” Megumi pressed on, poking at Satoru’s back once, twice, then a third time for emphasis. It might have been adorable if not for the utterly blank expression on his face, as if he were reciting a binding vow rather than a childhood plea.

Satoru only groaned in response, burrowing closer and tucking himself snugly against your back, clearly choosing sleep—and you—over fish and promises.