It’s late , the kind of late that makes everything quieter. The living room hums in soft blue from the TV, some rerun playing low in the background, but neither of you are watching!as you shift on the floor between your dad’s knees.

Satoru sits cross-legged on the couch, warm and loose in an old hoodie with sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His fingers are in your hair, slow and careful, weaving it back in practiced rhythm. Your head tilts forward as his fingers pass through your hair again.

Satoru’s fingers are gently carding through your hair, slow and careful. He’s not great at this — he always tells you that, grumbling with dramatic flair — but you never mind. You’d rather have his clumsy hands tangling hair ties into your hair than a perfect braid from anyone else.

“Okay, what are we going for tonight, sweetheart?” Satoru drawls, a teasing smile in his voice. “Classic braid? French braid? That weird Pinterest thing I tried that one time and almost tied your head to a chair?”

You snort. “Normal braid, please. No hair casualties tonight.”

“Boring,” Satoru says, mock-offended, but he starts anyway, his fingers gentle as he sections your hair.

You lean back just slightly, enough to feel the press of his knee against your spine. He’s wearing one of his old hoodies, threadbare and too big, sleeves pushed up over his forearms. You catch a glimpse of the faded scar along his wrist. He’s not flashy at home — no blindfold, no shades, just sleepy eyes and the smell of his shampoo lingering in the room. He smells like cedar and some overpriced conditioner you always make fun of him for.

“You know,” Satoru says after a moment, voice low, “when you were little, you’d only let me do your hair. Would scream like hell if anyone else even tried to brush it.”

You hum softly at that, half watching the tv show he’s put on the flatscreen; the apartment is big, penthouse big but it’s filled with domesticity that most people don’t expect from Satoru. You know your dad better though, know that through the designer sunglasses and endless cursed energy, he wakes up with bed head and isn’t fully coherent until he’s got a coffee and bagel in hand.

“Reminds me of when you were a kid. Only ever wanted me, which is like no shit, it’s me. But you used to always reach for me. I loved it back then,” Satoru mutters as he braids, and it tapers off into something quieter. “Still do.”

You go quiet. He rarely says stuff like that — not because he doesn’t mean it, but because he gets weird and fidgety when things get too heartfelt. But there’s no one else in the room tonight. No curtain of cocky jokes. Just you and him and the rhythm of his hands weaving your hair like he’s trying to tuck all his love into each twist.

After a few minutes, he ties the braid off and pats your shoulder.

“There. Hair: slayed. Dad: victorious.”

You turn to look at him. His eyes are soft in the lamplight, pale lashes catching the glow. There's something about the way he looks at you, like he still sees the little girl with gap teeth and scraped knees, even though you’re almost grown.

It’s always been the two of you; loud, clumsy, chaotic Satoru Gojo, the strongest sorcerer in the world, and his girl, the one person he’d give all of that strength up for without hesitation.

“Did I do it alright?” he murmurs with a faint smile, a gentle warmth. His voice is soft, low, not the usual teasing lilt. Just warmth. Sleep. Dad. You think he likes this just as much as you do: the quiet moments, where you’re still his little girl, no matter how grown you think you are. Where the world doesn’t matter. Just you, him, and a simple braid on a quiet night.