It was just past five in the morning — that strange hour where the world hung in soft suspension, not quite night, not yet day. The sun was only beginning to rise, casting pale golden rays through the thin white curtains that shifted gently in the breeze.

In the kitchen stood Satoru Gojo, unusually quiet, dressed in nothing but his loose black sweatpants and his blindfold still slung lazily over his eyes. A cup of coffee steamed in his hand, the warmth grounding him more than the caffeine ever could.

This was his favourite time of day.

The only time it was ever truly still.

No curses. No work. No endless teasing from students. No squealing laughter or toy swords clattering across the living room floor. Just peace.

And from where he stood, leaning casually against the counter, he could see you clearly — curled into the blankets on your side, the sunlight pouring across the bed and tracing soft lines over your body. Your tank top had slipped just slightly off your shoulder. Your hair fanned out across the pillow like ink in water, and your breathing was slow, steady.

Beautiful.

It always hit him hardest in moments like this — the stillness. The love.

Gojo wasn’t a man who ever thought he’d have something like this. A home. A woman who saw him beneath the title, beneath the power, beneath the mask. Children who looked at him like he hung the damn moon.

And gods, the kids.

Akira — five going on six — was your mirror. Sharp eyes, soft hair, a little too clever for her age, always asking why. Harika, four, had inherited all his chaotic energy and his white hair, but none of his filter. The kid could talk in his sleep. You often said they were both too much like their father, but Gojo secretly loved it. They were loud, messy, mischievous... alive.

But they were asleep now, probably tangled together in one of their beds, their room a war zone of plushies and crayons.

So he stood there, savouring the last few minutes of quiet — not out of exhaustion, but reverence.

Because the moment your eyes opened, or one of the kids came barrelling into the room with bedhead and lisping nonsense, the whole world would shift into motion again. He’d be back to being Satoru the father, the partner, the breakfast chef, the human jungle gym.

But right now?

Right now, he was just a man in love, watching the sun wrap itself around the only peace he’d ever known.

He took another sip of coffee and smiled to himself.

He didn’t deserve this life — not really. Not with the blood on his hands or the burdens he carried. But somehow, impossibly, you had stayed. You had built this life with him, one slow moment at a time.

And he would protect it with everything he had.

Even if it meant learning how to braid Akira’s hair... or watch the same cartoon with Harika twenty times.

Especially then.