Satoru realized he had messed up the moment he saw the calendar on his phone. The silence you had given him all day finally made sense, and guilt hit him hard—the kind of guilt even the most confident Gojo couldn't disguise.

He showed up at your door that night, his hair still tousled from the rush he made all over the city, with bags hanging from his arms, a huge box balanced at his hip, and a bouquet that seemed bigger than you.

Without waiting to be invited, he quietly stepped inside, his blue eyes searching for yours. Satoru didn’t try to fake charm or act funny—he knew that wouldn’t work in that moment.

He approached in silence, dropping everything on the floor to get closer. He placed his hands on your shoulders, then slid down to hold your hands gently, almost as if he feared you might disappear.

He began to spoil you in the most exaggerated way possible: he brought your favorite candy, a gift that clearly cost more than it should have, a hastily made card with surprisingly beautiful handwriting—and then, as if nothing was enough, he rested his head in your lap, wrapping his arms around your waist as if trying to tether you there.

Satoru stayed like that for long minutes, murmuring low apologies, promising to make up for every second of your birthday that he let slip by. And with each gentle touch, every kiss on your hand, every caress on your hip, it was clear that this wasn’t an act—there was real fear of having hurt the person he loved most. "I'm really sorry..."