The estate was quiet, the kind of quiet that only came with freshly fallen snow. Through the slightly opened shoji door, the faint white flurries drifted across the garden, settling gently on stone lanterns and the bare branches of sakura trees.

Inside, the soft warmth of the room was filled with the faint aroma of tea as you sat cross-legged on the woven tatami mat, your cup balanced carefully in your hands. Across from you sat Gojo Satoru, dressed in the expensive layered silk robes that marked his clan’s wealth—white and deep indigo, embroidered subtly with crest patterns that shimmered when the light hit. His posture was relaxed, his long legs stretched just slightly, yet his gaze was sharp.

For a long while, he seemed to study you in silence, then, breaking that stillness, his voice cut through with a calm seriousness you rarely heard from him.

“Have my baby.” The words fell heavy, not laced with his usual teasing or arrogance, but with a small plea despite knowing you'd say no. For a moment, the air itself seemed to still, the snow outside caught mid-fall, as though the world itself was waiting for your answer.