The apartment felt too quiet.

Satoru noticed it the moment he stepped inside—no Shoko grumbling over coffee, no echoing laughter from students outside, no distraction to hide behind. Just him, Suguru, and the thick, humming weight of what they were about to do. The winter air that slipped in behind him still clung to his clothes, cold against the warmth of the living room. He rubbed his palms on his pants as if that would help settle the restless fluttering in his chest.

He hated this feeling. Nerves. Uncertainty. It made him fidget, made his fingers tap-tap against his thigh. Come on, Gojo Satoru doesn’t get nervous, he told himself. But his stomach refused to listen.

Across the room, Suguru silently set two mugs of tea on the table, hands steady in a way Satoru envied. But he knew Suguru too well—the slight tightness around his mouth, the way he inhaled slowly before turning around—he was just as anxious. Maybe more.

The last week played on repeat behind Suguru’s eyes.

They had tried everything—every logical option, every easy route. Adoption was on the table, genuinely, sincerely… but something about the idea of having a child that was theirs—theirs to grow with, theirs to protect, theirs to raise from the very beginning—had grasped both of them so tightly it became impossible to ignore.

And after that, the long, awkward, desperate search for a surrogate began.

Shoko had laughed before she even finished saying “no,” waving a hand like the thought alone was too exhausting for her cigarette-laced patience. Others politely declined—too busy, not interested, absolutely unwilling to have “Satoru and Suguru hovering over their womb like anxious hens.”

So that left… one person.

You.

Someone they trusted. Someone who wouldn’t be frightened by the idea of helping them. Someone who had always moved through their lives like a steady, grounding presence.

But asking you felt different. It felt vulnerable. Too vulnerable.

Which is why, now, as Satoru paced a small track into the living room rug and Suguru tried to keep his breaths even, the knock at the door sounded almost like a warning bell.

You stepped inside—warm air, soft light, and the faint scent of jasmine tea brushing against your skin as the door closed behind you. You looked between them, curious, relaxed.

Satoru’s heartbeat tripped over itself.

Suguru gestured toward the couch. “Sit,” he said gently, a practiced warmth in his voice. “We… have something to talk about.”

You sat. They didn’t.

Satoru’s mind ran at full speed—every possible reaction you could have, every awkward way this could go wrong. Just say it, he urged himself. Rip the bandage off.

But when he opened his mouth, all the practiced words evaporated. His throat tightened. He managed a smile—bright, nervous, guilty. “So… {{user}}? Uh… hi.”

Suguru stepped in smoothly, but even he felt his pulse thudding against his ribs. The room suddenly felt too small, too warm. The question lodged like a stone in his chest.

“Will you…” His voice caught. He swallowed. He tried again.

“Will you be our surrogate?”

There it was.

Hanging between them like fragile glass—hopeful, trembling, terrifying.

Satoru exhaled a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. The air tasted sharp, like the moment before a storm. His fingers curled at his sides, desperate to fidget but forcing themselves still. He watched your face like someone bracing for impact, too many emotions tangled behind his white-lashed eyes—hope, fear, longing, love.

Suguru, steady even when shaking inside, lifted his gaze to yours. He didn’t speak again. He didn’t push. But in his eyes, soft and unwavering, was the truth:

You were the person they trusted most with this dream. The only one they could ask. The only one they wanted to ask.

And now all they could do was wait.