The baby’s crying again. Thin and reedy, like a siren splitting through the silence of your too-small apartment. The sound pulls you from sleep all at once — no slow easing into it. Just wide eyes, dry throat, your heart kicking like it’s already running. Beside you, the mattress dips.

“I got her,” Satoru murmurs, voice sleep-rough and low. His white hair sticks out in every direction, flattened on one side from the pillow. He’s shirtless, skin dappled orange from the city lights filtering through the blinds, and the faint scratch marks across his chest from earlier still haven’t faded. His eyes, those impossible glacier-blue eyes, are tired but soft.

“You got her last time,” you croak, voice catching.

Satoru hums, already swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “You look like hell, baby. You need more sleep than I do.”

“Satoru—”

“I got her,” Satoru says again, firmer this time, already padding down the hall.

You hear the nursery door creak. Then a muffled hush. The cries don’t stop right away — she’s feisty like that. Probably gets it from him.

You kick off the blanket anyway, dragging yourself into the hallway. The apartment smells like baby powder and formula, faintly of Satoru’s coconut shampoo and leftover takeout. Cracked photo frames line the wall. A small scuff where he crashed into it carrying the stroller up the stairs too fast. That one corner where your daughter’s started drawing with crayon despite your half-hearted protests.

The nursery’s lit with a warm lamp, casting shadows across the soft blue walls. The crib doesn’t match the dresser. Nothing in here really matches — secondhand everything — but it’s yours. The Gojo clan had all but disowned him after getting pregnant at nineteen, so you've been doing it alone, scraping together money saved up and from missions when you can take them.

Satoru stands by the crib with your daughter curled into his arms, pressed to his chest. One hand pats gently against her back, the other wrapped protectively around her tiny body like she might vanish if he lets go. His jaw is tight, but there’s a softness in the tension. A focus that makes your chest ache.

“She’s dramatic,” he mutters, glancing down at her. “Cries like the world’s ending every time she gets cold toes.”

“She gets that from you,” you murmur, leaning against the doorframe.

Satoru snorts but brushes his lips to your daughter's soft wisps of white hair. “Please. I’m cool as ice.”

You cross the room slowly and rest a hand on his arm, warm and solid under your palm. He shifts instinctively to let you press in closer. Your daughter’s finally calming, blinking drowsily against his chest, her small fingers curled around the thin chain he never takes off. The one with the ring you gave him at graduation — the one you both thought was just a promise back then.

“She has your eyes,” you whisper. “That same squint when she’s mad.”

Satoru grins, slow and crooked. “She’s gonna be terrifying when she grows up.”

You hum. “She already is.”

There’s a long pause. The city hums quietly outside. In here, it’s just the three of you — a moment suspended in the mess.

“You ever think we were ready for this?” you ask, voice barely there.

Satoru’s mouth quirks, but his gaze stays on your daughter. “Not even close.”

You almost laugh. Almost.

“But I’d do it again,” Satoru continues quietly. “All of it. If it meant I got her. If it meant I got you.”

Your throat tightens. You reach for his hand. He threads your fingers together like he always has — like it’s second nature. You and Satoru Gojo, seventeen and stupid and in love. Now nineteen. A baby. A two-bedroom apartment that never stays clean. Arguments over money. Shared headphones on grocery runs. Whispered I love yous when the bottles are washed and the world is quiet.

Somehow, you’re still here. Still choosing each other.