“Ohhh, so that’s why Megumi caught a cold so many times.”

Satoru watches from the doorway as you tug a beanie down over your sixteen-month-old son’s white hair— his son. The knit cap slips crooked almost immediately, earning you a soft, confused blink from a pair of bright blue eyes. He doesn’t protest, just stares up at you as if trying to understand why his head suddenly feels heavier. The confusion only grows when you add a scarf, then wrestle him into a tiny coat that turns him into a puffed-up bundle of fabric and indignation.

Across the room, Satoru hums thoughtfully to himself. Maybe—maybe—he should’ve paid more attention to things like layering when Megumi had been little. In his defense, Megumi had survived winters just fine. Mostly. Sure, there had been a few colds, a few fevers… but he’d turned out okay, hadn’t he?

The moment Satoru had tried to apply that same laissez-faire logic to his kid, though, you’d leveled him with a glare sharp enough to freeze cursed spirits solid. He’d surrendered instantly. Some battles simply weren’t worth fighting.

Once your son is fully bundled, you usher him outside, Satoru falling into step beside you as the three of you move through the Jujutsu Tech campus. The winter air bites the moment you step out, crisp and unforgiving. Your son’s nose wrinkles in immediate offense, a tiny huff escaping him before he tilts his head back and looks up at you—accusatory, betrayed, as if you personally invented the cold just to spite him.

Satoru grins, watching the whole thing with open amusement.

“I don’t think he’s too happy with you, doll,” he says lightly. “That look? That’s a you’ve committed a crime look.”