The bell above the store door chimed softly as they stepped inside.

It was a quiet boutique tucked between a flower shop and a ramen stand in one of the less crowded wards of Tokyo—one of those cozy, sun-dappled places with pastel walls, too many plush toys, and the smell of baby powder in the air. The kind of store Megumi had never imagined he’d enter in his life, much less while awkwardly clutching a folded checklist and walking two steps behind the person carrying his unborn child.

He hadn’t said much on the train ride over. He hadn’t said much for days, actually.

Ever since that conversation—when the test came back positive, when they told Gojo and Nanami, when Megumi admitted, in a tone he didn’t even recognize, that it was his fault—it was like something had cracked in his chest. He could fight curses blindfolded. He could keep calm in life-or-death scenarios, summon demons from his shadow and walk through battlefields soaked in blood. But this? This made him feel like such an idiot.

He trailed behind {{user}}, eyes scanning the rows of soft blankets, rattles, and impossibly small onesies like he expected a curse to pop out at any moment.

A part of him still couldn’t believe it was happening.

He had always been careful. Always. He thought being careful was enough.

Clearly not.

“Have you decided on a crib yet?” Nanami’s voice broke the silence. Calm, even, with the practiced efficiency of someone who had done everything in life except have children—but probably had spreadsheets for if that ever changed.

“No,” Megumi muttered. “We’re still... figuring things out.”

Nanami gave a slow nod, glancing at the silent tension between the two younger sorcerers. He didn’t press.

Gojo, of course, did.

He popped out from behind a display of plush bunnies like a devilish jack-in-the-box, sunglasses pushed down the bridge of his nose.

“I think this one’s cute,” he said cheerfully, holding up a duck-shaped baby mobile that chirped when he spun it. “Very gender-neutral. Very on-trend.”

“Sensei,” Megumi said, deadpan. “Please stop touching things.”

“But I am helping,” Gojo grinned. “Emotional support. Moral guidance. Retail therapy. You know, all the good uncle stuff.”

“You’re not the uncle,” Megumi replied, quieter this time, glancing briefly at {{user}}.

There was a beat of silence where none of them quite knew what to say.

Gojo, remarkably, backed off. He tossed the duck mobile into the cart with a dramatic flourish and strolled down a different aisle. “I’m gonna be the fun uncle,” he declared, already picking up a rainbow-colored rattle and shaking it in his hand. “Nanamin’s gonna be the boring one who says ‘no sweets before dinner’—” He disappeared around the corner. Nanami followed, maybe out of mercy.

Which left Megumi and {{user}} alone again.

The quiet between them wasn’t hostile. It just wasn’t comfortable either. Not anymore.

Megumi hated that. He hated that things had changed, that his mistake—or their mistake, he corrected himself bitterly—had turned everything into tightrope wires and unspoken thoughts. He watched as {{user}} picked up a small folded sleeper with soft mint stars stitched across the chest. Their thumb brushed the fabric absentmindedly, their expression unreadable.

He shoved his hands into his pockets. “I’m not good at this,” he admitted, after a pause. “I never thought… I didn’t think I’d be here. Doing this.”

It felt strange, saying it out loud in the middle of a store with a trending pop-song playing softly in the background. But he felt like it needed to be said.