satoru loves to spoil his daughter. (,,> ᴗ <,,)
the first thing you notice when you wake up is that satoru is not in bed.
which is suspicious, because your husband treats sleep like a sacred ritual.
you blink at the sunlight pushing through the curtains, reach for your phone — 7:12 a.m. — and frown.
it is his day off, so it is too early for him to be alive on purpose.
but then you hear it. whispering from down the hall. dramatic whispering that belongs to cartoon thieves or satoru trying to be subtle.
you drag yourself out of bed and follow the sound to your daughter’s room. the door is half open. satoru is crouched beside her bed in wrinkled pajamas, his white hair wild and of course, his sunglasses on for absolutely no reason.
your five-year-old is already vibrating with excitement. “did she come? did she come?”
“of course she came,” satoru whispers, a bit offended. “do you think the tooth fairy would skip the bravest little sorcerer princess in tokyo?”
you lean on the doorframe. “why are you two already awake? and you,” you point at satoru, “yes, you. why are you wearing sunglasses inside at seven in the morning?”
he jumps. actually jumps.
he turns his head around slowly. “my head hurts. and it’s tooth fairy day!”
“mama! mama look! she left something!”
she lifts the pillow with both hands.
there is a thick stack of bills underneath it, clipped together neatly with a shiny silver paper clip.
not coins. not a folded note with glitter.
cash.
you step forward slowly and slide one bill free.
there were at least five hundred dollars.
you turn your head toward him, terrifying calm. “what is this.”
he presses a finger to his lips. “shh.”
“satoru.”
“shh,” he repeats, more urgently. “don’t say anything. you do not want her to know that the tooth fairy does not exist, do you?” he whispers in your ear while you watch your daughter still jumping on her bed from the excitement.
you grab his sleeve and drag him into the hallway, closing the door while your daughter happily counts like a tiny accountant.
“she is five years old,” you whisper-hiss. “you cannot give her five hundred dollars for losing one tooth. she will become spoiled.”
he leans against the wall, unfazed. “first of all, relax. second — babe, hear me out, please. it is her first tooth.”
“normal people give five dollars. maybe ten.”
“normal people are boring. that is why we are not normal.”
“normal people are responsible.”
“i am responsible,” he says. “responsibly generous.”
you stare at him dead in the eyes.
he sighs. “baby, look at me. i am satoru gojo, i am rich. why should i not spoil my daughter? she is the best baby girl ever. she deserves to be spoiled.”
“satoru, she is going to expect five hundred dollars every time now.”
“great,” he says. “that is long-term motivation for dental care.”
“that is not how psychology works.”
he bends closer, his voice softer now. “did you see her face when she checked under the pillow?”
you hesitate — because you did. pure disbelief. wonder so big it almost hurt to watch.
he smiles gently. “she treated that tooth like treasure. she brushed it twice. wrapped it in tissue. wrote a note and redrew the heart three times because it was not symmetrical. she said she was way too excited for the tooth fairy. baby, i just could not give her a sad five-dollar bill like a parking refund.”
you really try to stay annoyed, but the edge is gone.
he notices immediately and moves in, his arms sliding around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder. he was so pleased with himself.
oh, you hate him.
“also,” he adds, “i left fairy glitter.”
your eyes widen.
“and a note in curly handwriting.”
“you practiced fairy handwriting.”
“for forty minutes,” he says proudly. “cramped my hand but definitely worth it. i never noticed how my handwriting sucks before.”
you hated how much of a good dad he was.
you press your lips together to keep from laughing, failing anyway. he squeezes you tighter in victory.
“okay, i will leave it alone this time.” you point your finger at his chest. “but you are not doing this for every tooth.”
he looks down at your finger like it personally offended him, then back up at you, one of his eyebrows lifting above the rim of his sunglasses.
“satoru. i’m serious.”
“okay, okay.” he catches your wrist gently, thumb warm where it rests against your pulse. “i hear you.”
“do you? really?”
“no,” he answers honestly. “but i enjoy the performance.”
you try to pull your hand back; he does not let go. instead he leans in.
“counteroffer,” he whispers. “we pretend i agreed and future me handles future crimes.”
“that is not how agreements work.”
“it is how marriage works.”
you exhale through your nose. he grins — victory again, stupidly pretty and fully aware of it.
you shake your head. “you are impossible.”
“and yet,” he says, tapping your pointed finger back toward your own chest, “you picked me.”
he finally releases your wrist but only to slide his hand into yours instead, squeezing once before heading back toward the room.
you follow, already knowing this is a battle you definitely did not win.
you walk back into the room together. your daughter is stacking the bills into uneven towers, already planning to buy a castle, a spaceship and ‘at least twelve dogs.’
satoru kneels beside her, hyping every idea like it is genius.
ridiculous man.
over-the-top father.
but the way he looks at her — like she hung the stars herself — makes the whole insane five-hundred-dollar tooth feel, somehow, exactly right.
this is actually inspired by zayn talking about his daughter!! here.
