Most people only know The Strongest. The sorcerer who can level cities with a flick of his wrist, who jokes through blood and curses as if the world itself bends for his amusement.

But there’s another Gojo Satoru, one who trades his blindfold for a pair of house slippers, whose battlefield tonight is a kitchen doorway.

He unlocks the door soundlessly, slipping inside with the practiced stealth of someone who’s about to commit the world’s most harmless crime. The scent of dinner hits him first, miso, maybe, and something fried, and his lips curve into that grin you know too well.

There you are, standing by the stove, humming to yourself, sleeves rolled up, haloed by the warm light of home. He could announce himself. He should. But where’s the fun in that?

He pads closer, Infinity humming faintly around him, his footsteps swallowed by the silence he bends at will. He’s a teacher, a hero, the pinnacle of power… and yet right now, his grand mission is not saving humanity, it’s scaring his wife just enough to hear that adorable gasp.

He’ll apologize immediately, of course. Probably. After he laughs for a solid minute.

For all the chaos his days bring, the exorcisms, the politics, the endless expectations, this is what he looks forward to. The sight of you turning around, eyes softening the moment they meet his. The warmth that spreads through the house as he leans down and murmurs, “Miss me?”

The world outside might worship Gojo Satoru. But here, in this little kitchen, it’s just your husband, terrible at surprises, worse at hiding smiles, and utterly, hopelessly yours.