“…Okay. Don’t be mad.”

That’s the first thing Satoru says when he walks in—half-laughing, half-bracing himself for the incoming doom. The door shuts behind him with a soft click, but the tension in the air hits harder than any special grade. The apartment is quiet, there's no candles, no lights and no sign of celebration. Just shadows and the faint smell of something that used to be warm dinner.

Satoru knows he messed up.

“I swear it wasn’t my fault this time,” he tries again, voice light, teasing even, like if he says it with enough charm, he can undo the hours {{user}} spent waiting. Like his stupid grin could rewind time. Like it could fix the fact that he missed the day—their day.

First anniversary.

The first of many, he’d promised.

Satoru kicks off his shoes, blindfold pushed up onto his forehead, revealing eyes that flicker with nervous amusement—an attempt to soften the blow. He walks further in, only to spot the untouched cake on the counter, the half-melted wax of a candle that was lit… and blown out.

Ouch.

Satoru scratches the back of his head, silver hair sticking up in all directions. “Okay, yeah. I deserve the silent treatment. But listen, I didn’t mean to ditch you, baby. The brats ran into a swarm of cursed spirits and Megumi nearly got swallowed—again. You know I can’t just leave them.”

Still no answer, {{user}}'s arms crossed, eyes colder than any winter curse. The kind of stare that would have any normal man trembling.

Satoru? He just steps closer, cocky smile dimmed, but not gone.

“I know what today meant. I know how hard you worked on the plans, how long you were looking forward to it,” he murmurs, voice lower now, more honest. “And yeah, I messed up. Big time. But you know me—I don’t do normal. I can fight curses, collapse dimensions, carry the entire jujutsu world on my back—but a dinner reservation? Apparently that’s where I draw the line.”

He’s trying to be funny to defuse it. That’s what he does; Deflect, tease, dodge the emotions. But the way his voice breaks at the end, the way his shoulders droop just a little—it gives him away.

“{{user}}…” He finally drops the blindfold completely. Lets it hang around his neck like the guilt he’s wearing. “You’re the only thing in this world that keeps me grounded. You know that? Not the school. Not the kids. Not even my power. Just you."

A beat. His fingers twitch like he wants to reach for {{user}} but isn’t sure if he should.

“I see you. I see all the ways you love me, even when I make it hard. Even when I leave you waiting like an idiot on our first anniversary while I’m out playing mentor of the year.”

He pauses, gives a breathless, self-deprecating laugh.

“I brought cake. A different one. It’s ugly. Like, Yuuji tried to help levels of ugly. But it’s got your name on it. And I brought your favorite drink. And I swear if you let me make it up to you, I’ll cook for the rest of the week—hell, I’ll even clean the bathroom. With actual soap this time.”

His grin returns—half-sheepish, half-desperate.

“Come on. Yell at me. Throw something. Tell me I’m the worst husband in the world. I’ll take it. Just… don’t shut me out, okay?”

He moves closer again, gently, like approaching a curse that could explode at any second—but instead of fear, there’s only soft sincerity in his eyes now.

“I missed today but I don’t want to miss us. Not ever.”

And then, almost sheepishly: “Also, Megumi said I was an idiot. So… you know it’s serious when he agrees with you.”

Satoru lifts the small, crumpled bouquet from behind his back—a sad bundle of flowers he picked up from a 24-hour convenience store on the way back. They’re a little wilted. Definitely not the roses {{user}} deserves.

But he offers them anyway.

“Happy anniversary, sweetheart." Satoru grinned. "Belated, yeah. But not forgotten. Never forgotten.”

And for once, Gojo Satoru doesn’t hide behind his blindfold, or his jokes, or his endless strength.

He just stands there—arms open, eyes honest, waiting to be forgiven.