You and Gojo were strolling through a local market—he was mostly there to carry bags and sneak snacks while you handled the actual shopping.

It was casual, slow-paced. He wore his usual blindfold but had ditched the uniform jacket, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hands lazily in his pockets. Every now and then he bumped your shoulder with his or held up two ridiculous-looking fruits to ask which one looked more like Nanami’s soul.

He’d wandered off for a minute to buy something sweet (obviously), leaving you near the flower stall. The vendor—a kind older woman—smiled as you examined the bundles of peonies and lavender.

“You picking these out for someone special?” she asked with a warm smile.

Without thinking, you replied:

“Oh, yeah. My husband loves this kind of stuff.”

You were so used to being with Gojo, to referring to him as yours, that the word slipped out easy. Natural.

And he heard it.

From behind the stall, he froze mid-step. His brain short-circuited for a second, hands full of mochi he was about to brag about.

Husband? You just called him your husband? Publicly? Casually? With no hesitation?!

A huge, stupid grin spread across his face.

You turned as he walked up beside you, just in time to catch the unmistakable spark in his expression.

“So,” he said, gently elbowing you. “Your husband, huh?”