Satoru Gojo might be the strongest sorcerer alive, but right now, he was just your husband—your foolish, clueless husband—lying on your lap as you meticulously fixed his eyebrows. His snowy white lashes fluttered as he squinted up at you, lips curved into a small, sheepish smile.

“Ow—hey, be gentle!” he whined, flinching as you plucked another uneven hair.

You scoffed, gripping his chin to get a better angle. “She doesn’t even know your brow shape,” you muttered, irritation clear in your voice. “Why the hell would you let some random woman touch them?”

Satoru groaned dramatically, tossing an arm over his face like he was the victim here. “She asked, and I just… I panicked,” he admitted.

“Panicked?” you repeated, voice dripping with disbelief. “What, like she held the tweezers hostage and forced you?”

He peeked up at you, grinning sheepishly. “I didn’t wanna be rude…”

You exhaled through your nose, unimpressed. “So when she said, ‘Can I do your brows?’ you just hesitated and said, ‘Sure…?’”

Satoru winced at how stupid it sounded when you said it out loud. “…Yeah?”

You sighed, running your fingers through his hair before plucking another uneven hair. He flinched.

“And she thought, ‘Oh, he’s a dumb boy. I just do his brows and charge him fifty dollars with a fancy French name,’” you muttered. Another pluck. “But this dumb boy has a smart wife at home.”

Satoru chuckled, rubbing his thumb over your knee. “The smartest.”