The house is unusually quiet.

Too quiet.

Gojo rounds the corner, blinking when he sees his toddler standing in the “time-out” spot, arms folded, cheeks puffed out, and the tiniest grump of a pout on full display as they face the wall.

He gasps.

“Oh no… What’d she do to you, little guy?”

The boy just huffs without turning around.

Gojo crouches beside him, resting a hand gently on his shoulder.

“Alright, don’t worry. Daddy’s got you. I’ll handle this.”

He stands up, dusts himself off, and walks toward the kitchen with mock seriousness and a plan in mind — a full dramatic plea for a sentence reduction.

Ten seconds later…

He’s back. Standing beside his toddler. Facing the wall.

Gojo sighs.

“Okay, that didn’t go like I thought it would." Satoru looks down at his son, "How much time did you get?"

The boy glances up at him, confused.

"15 minutes."

Gojo glances at the invisible watch on his wrist, groaning.

“Fifteen minutes?! I got thirty!”

They both sigh in unison, two dramatic pouts against one wall — father and child, partners in crime.

From the hallway, muffled laughter can be heard. But neither of them turns. They’re committed now.