The kitchen is loud — full of laughter, cheap party streamers curling at the edges, and fairy lights taped in chaotic zigzags across the cabinets. Someone’s got their phone out, recording as you sit in front of a slightly lopsided strawberry-frosted cake, “18!” scrawled in too-bright red icing like it’s trying to make up for the ache in your chest.

You’re smiling. But it’s that tight, practiced kind. The kind that says, I’m okay even when you’re not.

Your dad was supposed to be home yesterday. Then it turned into next week. But you know how it goes — it’s always next week when it comes to Satoru Gojo.

Being the strongest sorcerer of all time means late nights, unpredictable missions, unending expectations. Everybody needs him all the time. And he always tries. Always tries. Calls at midnight just to hear your voice. Little voice notes in the morning with blurry photos of wherever he is. Trinkets stuffed into his bag from random gift shops because “it looked like something you'd laugh at.”

But he’s still not here. And your eighteenth birthday feels too big, too sharp without him in it.

Your friends are around you, some singing a breathless version of Happy Birthday, some holding up their phones with grins, and you’re nodding, laughing, blinking fast — because if you cry now, you’ll ruin your makeup, and he’d tease you for that. Call you dramatic, his voice all soft at the edges when he wipes the mascara with the sleeve of his hoodie.

It’s always been the two of you. Since you were a baby in his arms and he was barely more than a kid himself, hair too white and eyes too tired, pacing the floor of your old apartment with a bottle in one hand and a crying you in the other. Your mom had left when you were still new to the world — just a name on a birth certificate and a faint memory of floral perfume clinging to your baby blanket. Satoru never begged her to stay. Didn’t chase her. Because he looked at you — tiny and blinking and very, very his — and knew.

He was all in.

He’s missed games and holidays. But never your birthday. Not once. And this year was supposed to be no different. So you swallow it down. Close your eyes. Make your wish. You draw in a breath. And then—

“Make room, baby girl. Didn’t fly halfway across the goddamn world to miss out on cake.”

Your eyes snap open.

He’s there.

Standing in the doorway with messy white hair still windblown from the flight, sunglasses pushed up onto his head, duffel bag hanging off one shoulder. He’s in black jeans, a hoodie that’s definitely older than you, and combat boots that clunk against the tile .

“Dad, you—”

“I made it,” Satoru says gently.

Your voice cracks as you speak, too loud and too soft at once. “You said next week—”

Satoru shrugs like it was nothing. “Wanted to surprise you.”

Your eyes go glassy. The tears hit before you can stop them, and you don’t even care that everyone’s watching — your friends going quiet, the phones lowered as they catch on. You throw your arms around his waist, burying your face in your dad’s chest. He’s solid and real and warm. He smells like gun oil and the cigarettes he sneaks when you’re not nagging about quitting and home. His arms come around you instantly, one hand smoothing over the back of your head.

“You came,” you whisper.

“’Course I did,” Satoru murmurs, voice rough. “Wouldn’t miss your birthday, not ever.”

You don’t say anything. You just hold on. Satoru stands there, arms curled around you, shielding you like he always has — even in a room full of people, even in peace. “Now c’mon,” Satoru says eventually, gently nudging you back toward the cake. “Let’s cut this thing, yeah? Smells like strawberries and you know I love those.”