The rain drizzles steadily, a soft hum against the cityscape of Tokyo. It clings to the air, soaking into the pavement in rhythmic patters. The scent of wet concrete lingers as you stand in the doorway of your apartment.

Gojo stands just beyond the threshold, cradling your daughter against his chest, her small frame rising and falling with deep, steady breaths. Asleep. Her school bag hangs loosely from his shoulder, the strap slipping slightly, as if he’s been standing there for a moment too long. The glow from the apartment light casts faint shadows over his features, softening them. Despite the downpour outside, not a single drop has touched either of them—his Infinity ensuring that much.

He exhales, a quiet, almost absent sound, adjusting his hold on her before glancing up at you. His usual confidence is there, but subdued, buried under something unspoken.

“She knocked out the second we left the school,” he murmurs, shifting her weight with practiced ease. “Tried to show me some drawings first, but…” His gaze flickers down at her, a ghost of a smile crossing his lips. “Didn’t even make it past the first block.”

The silence that follows is heavy—not uncomfortable, but not easy either. You and Gojo are divorced. Have been for a while now. Whatever brought you both to that breaking point wasn’t simple, and it wasn’t clean. There’s history here, stitched into the quiet, in the way he hesitates instead of inviting himself in like he once would have.

Once, there was no hesitation at all.