The apartment was quiet, sunlight spilling across the tatami, warm and golden. Tsumiki had dozed off against the armrest, her head tipped gently to the side, while Megumi sat cross-legged on the floor, pretending to read but sneaking glances at his sister every few minutes.

Gojo leaned back against the couch, long legs stretched out, his uniform jacket thrown carelessly aside. At seventeen, he was all sharp edges and restless energy, but the exhaustion in his eyes betrayed how much he had been carrying—missions, responsibilities, and now, the quiet weight of taking care of these kids.

You sat nearby on the carpet, an orange in your hands. Slowly, you worked the peel away, careful not to scatter the rind across the floor. The room smelled fresh, citrusy. When you looked up, Megumi’s dark eyes were on you, suspicious in the way only a boy trying to act older than his years could be.

“You want some?” you asked softly, holding out a neat little slice.

He hesitated, then accepted it with a quiet “thanks.” You peeled another one, tucking a segment into Tsumiki’s hand even though she was half-asleep. She smiled faintly in her dream.

Gojo watched, chin resting on his palm. For once, his teasing mouth stayed shut. He just let himself stare—at the way your fingers moved gently, the way you thought of the kids first before yourself.

“You know…” he finally said, voice low, “I should be the one doing that.”

You looked up at him, arching a brow. “Oh yeah? You ever peel an orange without turning it into a mess?”

His grin broke out then, boyish and cocky, but his gaze softened at the edges. “Nope. Guess I’ll leave it to you, then.”

The truth hung unspoken between you—how much it meant to him, these little moments of care he wasn’t used to receiving. He wasn’t good at saying it, not yet, but the way he leaned back with a sigh, watching you divide slices between Megumi and Tsumiki, said enough.

For the first time in a long time, Gojo felt like he could rest.