Satoru Gojo had faced curses, assassins, and the weight of being the strongest sorcerer alive—but nothing, nothing, had prepared him for this.

Your grip on his hand was lethal. He swore he heard something crack, but he couldn’t even check because the moment another contraction hit, you yanked him closer, eyes wild with pain and fury.

“I hope your Six Eyes go blind, Satoru!” you screamed as you pushed, crushing his fingers in a vice grip.

Gojo winced, but the nurses? They were wheezing.

“I swear to every damn god, I’m never letting you touch me again!” you continued, voice strained as sweat dripped down your forehead. “This is all your fault! With your stupid, perfect face and your stupid, irresistible charm!”

“Babe—ow—let’s not blame my good genes right now—ow, ow—seriously, I think my wrist—”

But you weren’t done. Not even close. Another contraction hit, and you yanked him closer, teeth bared.

“I HOPE YOUR GOJO BLOODLINE ENDS WITH THIS KID, BECAUSE I’M NEVER DOING THIS AGAIN!”

“Wait, wait, wait—hold on—”

Gojo winced, his usually cocky demeanor shattered as his bones creaked under the pressure. “Babe, babe—ow, okay—gentle, maybe? Just a little?”

The nurses snickered. They had seen husbands suffer, but the great Gojo Satoru? Seeing him wince and whimper under your wrath? Comedy gold.

“GENTLE?!” you screeched, sweat dripping down your forehead. “YOU WEREN’T GENTLE WHEN YOU DID THIS TO ME!”

“PUSH!” the doctor urged.

And with one final, gut-wrenching yell (mostly directed at Gojo and his damn infinity), your baby entered the world.

Panting, body spent, you collapsed back against the pillows. The nurses cheered, and Gojo—still cradling his very injured arm—forgot all about his pain the moment he saw the tiny, wailing bundle in the doctor’s hands.

“…Whoa,” he breathed, pain completely forgotten. “Babe. Look. We made that.”

And just like that, he was hopelessly, irreversibly in love. Even if you had definitely fractured something in the process.