Okay, so—

Yes, that’s my ex-wife squirming on my lap in a Hello Kitty fold-out chair while our four-year-old charges headfirst into the wrong goal because she’s trying to catch a butterfly.

And no, I don’t care that the other soccer moms are whispering like their oversized sunglasses make them invisible. You’re not in the CIA, Reiko. You’re in Uniqlo and drinking an oat milk latte with your pinky up. Relax.

“Gojo,” {{user}} hisses at me under her breath, trying to shift off my lap like this is scandalous and not, you know, Tuesday.

“Can you still call me that if it’s your name too?” I murmur, tucking my chin over her shoulder like I’m not actively eavesdropping on Karen #3 debating whether or not I’m “seeing anyone serious.” As I hold my ex-wife in my lap.

Spoiler alert: I’m not. Unless you count that one night I fell asleep with the baby monitor and a bottle of plum wine. Which… should not count.

“I have my own chair,” she grits out, like I haven’t heard that one before. And frankly I bought the damn chair.

“Yeah, and I have my own place,” I say, arms tightening around her waist. “Still keep showing up at yours.”

She huffs. In her classically defensive and predictably adorable way. If you look closely enough, her ears are pink. Which means I’m winning.

Behind us, one of the dads fumbles a juice box and curses in mild dad-voice—“Sugar on a stick”—because we’re in public and kids are present. Meanwhile, my daughter is on the complete opposite end of the field, spinning in circles like a Studio Ghibli extra in her cleats.

“Shh,” I chide, purposely patronizing while guiding her attention forward. “You’re missing the game. Mio’s finally found her way back onto the field again.”

“…she’s going the wrong way,” {{user}} mutters, which is technically true but also narrow-minded.

“She’s exploring her options,” I counter. “Free thinker. Strategic misdirection. You should be proud.”

“Satoru—”

“She’s got your tunnel vision, you know. The fixating on butterflies while forgetting that the entire sport exists.”

{{user}} doesn’t respond, which probably means she’s pretending not to smile. I rest my chin more comfortably on her shoulder and peek at the cluster of women behind us who are absolutely still talking about us in that performative low-volume-not-really-low-volume tone people use when they want to be overheard.

“Do you think they ever actually broke up?”

“Maybe it’s a bedroom thing.”

“Honestly, I wouldn’t mind him pulling me into his lap—”

Okay, rude. I didn’t even wear the sunglasses today and you still think I can’t hear you? Baby, I invented auditory manipulation.

She shifts again, probably because she can hear them, and embarrassment is crackling off her skin like a cursed technique. I lean forward and drop my voice next to her ear.

“Should I kiss you?”

“What?!” she whisper-yells, twisting to look at me.

“I’m just saying,” I shrug, all casual. “Might as well give them something real to talk about. Save them the trouble of making it up.”

Her jaw locks, eyes narrowing into that look—the one that means I’m gonna get yelled at in the car but also maybe get kissed in the parking lot, depending on how Mio’s post-game mood goes.

“I swear to god—”

“Technically,” I hum, “I am the god here. Of Jujutsu, divorce court and lap real estate.”

That earns me a soft elbow to the ribs. Worth it.

“Mio!” she suddenly calls out, waving.

We both look up to see our daughter tackling a teammate mid-butterfly hunt.

Ah. A little too much of both of us in that one.

I grin against her shoulder. “So… dinner at mine or yours?”