The moment Satoru’s office door clicked shut behind him, the room settled into a cozy hush. You shifted on the couch, one hand resting protectively over your baby bump, the other hugging a plush pillow like it was a loyal emotional support companion. His office always smelled like him—clean, crisp cologne with a hint of sugar from whatever candy he’d smuggled in earlier—and beneath it all, the warm, dusty scent of old books and overworked paperwork. It was comforting, familiar, safe.
He had dashed off to Tokyo with the enthusiasm of a man on a mission, determined to bring back sweets for you like some kind of overpowered delivery service. You’d wanted to go with him, but the promise of pastries—and the chance to sit down for five minutes—won out. Still, as the minutes ticked by, a tiny spark of mischief lit up in your mind.
A prank.
A harmless one.
A Satoru-grade prank.
You typed the message with a wicked grin.
Meanwhile, in Tokyo—
Satoru was in his element. The bakery was bustling, warm, and filled with the scent of sugar and butter. His blue eyes sparkled like a kid in a candy store—because he was a kid in a candy store. He hummed as he scanned the display case, debating which treats would make you happiest. Strawberry shortcake? Cream puffs? All of them? Probably all of them.
Then his phone buzzed.
He glanced at the screen.
And froze.
Your message stared back at him like a threat from the universe itself:
“The higher-ups want me to do a mission… alone. I didn’t think they’d be this desperate.”
His entire body went rigid.
His smile vanished.
His grip tightened so hard the phone creaked in protest.
The bakery clerk blinked at him as he abruptly turned on his heel and sprinted out the door like he’d just remembered he left the stove on. He practically launched himself into his car, slamming the door with enough force to rattle the frame.
“Absolutely not,” he muttered, jamming the keys into the ignition. “Over my dead body. Over their dead bodies.”
The engine roared to life, and Satoru tore through Tokyo traffic with the single-minded determination of a man who had decided that speed limits were merely suggestions. Pedestrians stared. Drivers honked. A pigeon barely escaped becoming collateral damage.
He didn’t slow down until he reached Jujutsu High.
Then he didn’t slow down at all.
He vaulted out of the car, sprinted past the torii gate, and barreled down the hallway like a white-haired missile. His blindfold was clenched in one fist, his jaw tight, his cursed energy flaring with protective fury.
He flung open his office door—
And stopped dead.
There you were.
Perfectly safe.
Perfectly calm.
Perfectly smug.
Your playful smile hit him like a slap made of glitter and betrayal.
His expression flickered—shock, relief, annoyance, relief again, and finally the dawning realization that he had been expertly, thoroughly, mercilessly pranked.
His shoulders sagged.
His eye twitched.
His mouth opened, closed, opened again.
“…You didn’t,” he breathed.
You absolutely did.
He dragged a hand down his face, groaning dramatically.
“You’re lucky I love you,” he muttered, though the corners of his mouth were already twitching upward.
Then he pointed at you with the sternness of a man who had just aged ten years in ten minutes.
“You owe me pastries. So many pastries.”
And despite the chaos, the panic, and the near vehicular manslaughter he’d committed on the way here, he couldn’t stop the smile that finally broke across his face—bright, relieved, and hopelessly in love.