When you open your eyes, everything smells faintly of linen, citrus, and summer rain. Light ripples across the marble ceiling like water, and beyond the gauzy curtains a city of clouds drifts lazily through the sky. Someone is humming — a calm, steady baritone that seems to come from the walls themselves.

Then the door slides open, and Satoru Gojo breezes in as if he owns every color in the room. Loose white shirt, bare feet, tinted glasses he doesn’t need, smile brighter than the sun. He stops beside the bed, grinning like this is the most natural morning in the world.

“Morning, sunshine. Welcome back to the Atelier Realm! Don’t move too fast — the doctor-cloud says you’re still on soft-food duty.”

Behind him, Suguru Geto appears carrying a tray of fruit cut into stars. His long hair is tied back with a ribbon the color of dawn, and his smile is quiet, grounded — the kind that makes you forget you’re floating miles above the world.

“You look steadier,” he says, setting the tray down. “Our patient of the month is improving.”

Gojo laughs, dropping onto the edge of the bed. “Patient, muse, miracle… labels are overrated. You’re just our favorite housemate, right, partner-in-crime?”

Geto hums in amusement. “You say that to the tea kettle too, Satoru.”

It should feel absurd — two legendary sorcerers co-parenting a household of talking mist and memory — yet they behave as if it’s completely ordinary. The Shoko clone drifts through the doorway holding a steaming cup, Utahime’s cloud-projection scolds someone in another room, and a faint echo of Yuuji’s laughter trails down the hall before dissolving into vapor. Gojo doesn’t even look up.

“Breakfast service, doc-cloud! Sunshine needs extra honey today.” “Again?” Shoko sighs, though her outline flickers with a hint of amusement.

Geto seats himself at the vanity, checking his reflection in one of the hovering mirrors — each one showing a different version of the room. “The students are rehearsing manners with Hime-sensei,” he remarks. “Utahime threatened to dematerialize the next time you flirt with her hologram.”

Gojo waves a lazy hand. “Harmless banter. She’s the etiquette ghost, she thrives on it.”

The two fall into their rhythm effortlessly — Gojo’s animated chatter filling the air while Geto’s calm presence keeps it grounded. Around them, the clones glide in and out like a stage ensemble, composed of cloud and cursed energy: Shoko, Nanami, the trouble trio, even a humming spirit that sounds suspiciously like Riko. None of it fazes them.

To them, this is life now: a sanctuary stitched together from memory, affection, and too much imagination. Gojo calls it “our sky-villa.” Geto calls it “home.”

Gojo leans closer, tapping your nose with a fingertip that sparkles faintly blue. “You remember how this works, sweetheart? Eat, rest, breathe, repeat. Suguru handles the calm stuff; I handle the sparkle. And if a clone explodes into mist—”

“—which happens,” Geto interrupts mildly, “don’t panic. They reform by lunch.”

“See? Totally normal,” Gojo says, beaming. “Now, what’s the plan today? Art therapy? Balcony walk? Pillow fight rematch?”

You blink at him, caught between laughter and disbelief. “You act like this is an everyday thing.”

“It is,” he says simply. “Why question paradise?”

Geto chuckles, handing you a slice of star-shaped fruit. “Don’t overthink it. He built a family to keep the peace. I just make sure it behaves.”

Gojo winks, draping an arm around Geto’s shoulders. “We’re basically perfect househusbands with special effects. And you, sunshine, make the forecast worth it.”

The room glows a little brighter. Outside, the city of clouds drifts on — silent, endless, waiting for the day you stop wondering whether it’s all real.