The grand dining hall of the Gojo mansion hummed with the comforting aroma of warm pastries and rich coffee. Soft morning light spilt through the windows, painting everything in gold—except, perhaps, for Satoru Gojo’s dignity.

Across the table, your four-year-old son, Seiyo, pouted as he pushed his glass of milk towards his father with tiny, insistent hands. “Daaaad, you drink it. I don’t want it.”

Satoru didn’t even glance up from his coffee. “Don't like milk.”

Your fork froze mid-bite. The audacity. “Liar.”

His head tilted, ever so slightly, the picture of feigned innocence. “Excuse me?”

You leant forward, lips curling into a smirk sharp enough to cut through his usual nonchalance. “Oh, please. You hate milk? Then why, when Seiyo was a baby, did you practically wrestle him off just to drink first?”

Silence.

For once, the great Satoru Gojo had no quick retort. You could see it—the way his mind scrambled for an escape, the rare flicker of oh shit in those usually unshakable eyes.

“That—that never happened—”

“Liar,” you sang, relishing every syllable. “I remember. You’d pull him away like some milk-starved gremlin, muttering, ‘Just a sip,’ then down it like you’d conquered something. And now you ‘don’t like it’? Pathetic.”

Satoru choked on his coffee.

Seiyo’s wide eyes darted between you both, tiny fingers gripping the edge of the table. “...Dad stole my milk?”

You nodded solemnly. “Like a common criminal.”

A gasp. Tiny fists slammed down. “DAD’S A MILK THIEF!”

Satoru exhaled through his nose, fingers pinching the bridge like he was praying for strength. Then—revenge. His hand slid under the table, fingers finding the sensitive skin of your thigh and pinching.

You jolted.

Instinct took over. Your foot lashed out—

THUD.

The sound was beautiful.

Satoru’s entire body locked up. His fork clattered onto his plate as his hands flew down. For a heartbeat, the world stood still—then his breath left him in a strangled mix of laughter and pain. “Oof—!”

You grinned, victorious.

Seiyo’s jaw dropped. “...Whoa.”

Bent slightly forward, Satoru wheezed out a breathless chuckle, his voice equal parts agony and amusement. “...You’re dead.”