When a late-night craving leads to a broken rule, a husband's strict belief in discipline clashes with his wife's spontaneous nature, creating an unexpected emotional journey that will redefine their relationship and future together with Nanami Kento.
The clock on the wall read 3:17 AM when your craving hit. It wasn't a gentle whisper of desire but a desperate, screaming need for something sweet. You'd been so good for weeks—following Nanami's routine with religious precision, waking at 6:00 AM, exercising, eating balanced meals, and most importantly, adhering to his "no sweets after 8 PM" rule.
But tonight, your willpower had crumbled.
Slipping out of bed as quietly as possible, you padded to the kitchen. The floorboards creaked beneath your feet—tiny sounds that seemed amplified in the silent apartment. Your heart pounded with each step, not just from fear of waking Nanami, but from the thrill of rebellion.
The chocolate cookies were calling to you from the top shelf. You stood on your tiptoes, fingers just brushing the package when the kitchen light flickered on.
Nanami's voice was dangerously quiet, devoid of its usual warmth. He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, wearing only pajama pants. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes were burning with something you'd rarely seen directed at you: disappointment.
"I… I was just hungry," you stammered, hand still reaching toward the cookies.
"At 3:17 AM?" He stepped closer, and you instinctively pulled back. "For cookies?"
The silence stretched between you, thick with tension. You finally grabbed the package and pulled it down. "I know it's after 8," you admitted softly. "I just really wanted something sweet."
Nanami's jaw tightened. "We had an agreement."
"No." His voice cut through yours. "Don't make excuses. Discipline is what keeps us alive in this world. It's what separates us from the chaos." He took another step forward, now standing directly in front of you. "I thought you understood that."
"I do understand! I've been trying so hard, Kento. Really, I have."
"Trying isn't enough," he said, his voice rising slightly. "I need consistency. I need to know that when I'm out there fighting curses, you're taking care of yourself. That you're following the routines that keep you safe."
"It's just cookies!" you protested, your own frustration building. "It's not like I'm doing anything dangerous!"
"Discipline starts with the small things," he countered, his anger now palpable. "If you can't control yourself with cookies, how can I trust you to follow more important rules when I'm not here to remind you?"
Tears welled in your eyes. "That's not fair. I'm not a child."
"Then stop acting like one!" The words burst from him with surprising force. "Everything I do—every rule, every routine—is to protect you. To ensure we have a future together. A healthy future."
You looked down at the package in your hands, suddenly feeling childish and foolish. "I'm sorry," you whispered.
"Sorry isn't enough right now." He ran a hand through his hair, his frustration evident. "I need to know you're taking this seriously. Our health, our future—it depends on these choices."
"I do take it seriously," you insisted, tears now streaming down your cheeks. "I do it all for you. Because you do so much for me."
"Then show me," he said, his voice softening slightly but still firm. "Show me with actions, not just words."
He turned and walked toward the living room. You followed, still clutching the cookies like evidence of your crime.
"To sleep on the couch," he said without turning back. "I need some space right now. We'll talk more in the morning."
You watched as he arranged himself on the sofa, his back deliberately turned to you. The distance between you felt like a chasm.
"I love you," you whispered into the darkness.
There was a long pause before his response came, muffled by cushions. "I love you too. That's why this matters so much."
You stood there for a moment longer before retreating to the bedroom, the unopened cookies still in your hand. You placed them back in the kitchen cabinet—this time on a lower shelf where they'd be easier to reach tomorrow, when the sun was up and rules could be properly followed.
As you lay in bed alone, you understood something about Nanami's anger. It wasn't about control—it was about fear. The fear of losing you to carelessness, to preventable health issues, to anything that might steal your future together.
And in that moment, you made a silent promise: tomorrow, and every day after, you would try harder—not just for him, but for the future he so desperately wanted to share with you.
The first light of dawn filtered through the curtains, painting stripes across the living room floor. You woke with a start, the events of the night rushing back to you with painful clarity. The couch was empty.
You found Nanami in the kitchen, already dressed for work in his usual crisp shirt and tie. The scent of miso soup and rice filled the air. On the counter sat two perfectly arranged breakfast bowls—just as always.
"Morning," you said softly, approaching him.
"Good morning," he replied without turning. His tone was civil, professional—the kind of voice he might use with a junior colleague at the office.
You wrapped your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your cheek against his broad back. "I'm sorry about last night."
He stiffened slightly but didn't pull away. "I've made breakfast."
"Kento…" You moved to face him, reaching up to cup his cheek. "Please don't be angry with me."
He caught your hand before it could touch his face, gently but firmly lowering it. "We need to eat before it gets cold."
The rejection stung more than you'd expected. "I slept terribly without you," you tried again, leaning in to kiss him.
Nanami turned his head just enough that your lips landed on his cheek instead of his mouth. "The traffic will be heavy today. I need to leave soon."
You stepped back, frustration beginning to bubble beneath your guilt. "You're still mad about cookies? Seriously?"
His eyes met yours, and you saw it again—that disappointment that cut deeper than any anger could. "It's not about cookies. It's about discipline. About promises."
"It was one time!" you protested, your voice rising. "I've been following your ridiculous schedule for weeks without complaint!"
"Then one more night shouldn't have been difficult," he countered calmly, which somehow made it worse.
"Maybe I don't want to live like a robot!" you snapped. "Maybe I want to eat cookies at 3 AM sometimes!"
Nanami sighed, the sound heavy with something like weariness. "We can discuss this when I get home."
He turned to serve the breakfast, placing a bowl before you with precise movements. You watched him, torn between anger and hurt. He was still taking care of you—still making sure you ate properly—even while withdrawing the affection you craved.
"I love you," you said quietly as he sat down across from you.
"I love you too," he replied automatically, as if reciting a line rather than speaking from the heart.
You ate in silence, the rice tasting like ash in your mouth. Every spoonful felt like a punishment. When you finished, you carried your bowl to the sink.
"I'll do these," he said, taking it from your hands.
"Let me help," you offered.
You watched him clean the kitchen with his usual efficiency, his movements methodical and precise. Everything in its place, just like he wanted it. Just like he wanted you.
When he was done, he retrieved his briefcase and keys from the hook by the door.
"Kento," you called out as he reached for his shoes. "Please don't leave like this."
He paused, back still to you. "I'll be home by seven."
"Will you still be angry then?"
Nanami turned to face you fully. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes held that same disappointment from the night before. "I'm not angry. I'm concerned."
With that, he was gone—the soft click of the door echoing in the sudden silence of your apartment.
You stood there alone, surrounded by the order and discipline he valued so highly, feeling more rebellious than ever before. If he wanted a robot, he should have married one.
Then why did his parting words—"I'm not angry. I'm concerned"—hit you harder than any anger could have?
The silence Nanami left behind was suffocating. You stood in the pristine kitchen, his words echoing in your mind. I'm not angry. I'm concerned. What kind of husband was more concerned about cookies than his wife's feelings?
Despite the hearty breakfast he'd prepared, a new craving gnawed at your insides. Chips. Salty, crunchy, processed potato chips. You hadn't bought them in months—Nanami preferred fresh vegetables as snacks—but today, you needed them.
"Stupid rules," you muttered, rummaging through the pantry where you'd hidden a bag behind the organic rice cakes. "Stupid discipline. Stupid husband."
The first chip was heaven. The second, nirvana. By the fifth, you started to feel strange—not guilty, not satisfied, but… different. A strange lightness in your head, a disconnect between your hands and your brain. You kept eating anyway, defying the voice that sounded suspiciously like Nanami telling you to stop.
When you finally came back to yourself, half the bag was gone and your hands were shaking. What was wrong with you? This wasn't just craving—this was compulsion.
The realization hit you with sudden clarity: you needed to see a doctor. Not because something was terribly wrong, but because nothing was making sense. Your body felt foreign, your impulses alien.
Grabbing your bag and keys, you headed to the local clinic. Healthcare was free here, after all—no need to worry about insurance or costs. Just a quick check-up to understand what was happening with you.
Nanami was in the middle of reviewing mission reports when his phone buzzed with a location notification. He glanced at it absentmindedly, then froze.
Your location: Tokyo General Hospital
His heart stopped. Reports forgotten, he stood so abruptly that his chair scraped loudly against the floor. Hospital? Why? Was she hurt? Sick?
Every worst-case scenario flooded his mind. Curses she might have encountered, accidents, illnesses she'd hidden from him. The cookies from last night suddenly seemed trivial—laughably insignificant.
"I'm leaving," he announced to Ijichi, who looked up in surprise.
"But Nanami-san, the meeting—"
Nanami was already moving, his long legs eating up the corridor. Outside, he didn't bother with hailing a cab. He broke into a full sprint, his dress shoes pounding against the pavement as he wove through pedestrians with practiced efficiency.
The fifteen-minute walk became a five-minute desperate race. His mind raced faster than his feet. What if she's seriously ill? What if it's something I missed? Something I could have prevented if I'd paid more attention to her health rather than her habits?
Guilt and fear warred in his chest. He'd been so focused on discipline, on routine, on preventing future problems that he might have missed something happening right now.
Bursting through the hospital doors, he scanned the waiting area frantically. And there you were—sitting calmly in a plastic chair, looking perfectly fine, scrolling through your phone as if you were waiting for a haircut.
The relief that washed over him was so intense it made his knees weak, followed immediately by a surge of irrational anger.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded, voice tight with emotion.
You looked up, startled. "Kento? What are you—"
"I saw your location. The hospital." He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair. "I thought… I thought something happened."
"Oh." Your expression softened. "I'm sorry. I just felt weird after breakfast and wanted to get checked out."
"Weird?" he repeated, his professional demeanor crumbling. "What kind of weird? Are you in pain? Did you encounter a curse?"
"No, nothing like that. Just… off." You gestured to the empty seat beside you. "I'm waiting for test results."
Nanami sank into the chair, his body still vibrating with adrenaline and fear. He reached for your hand, then stopped himself, remembering his coldness from this morning.
"I was so worried," he admitted quietly, all his anger dissolving into concern. "When I saw the notification…"
"I didn't mean to scare you," you said, your voice gentle now. "I just needed to understand what's happening with me. With the cravings, the mood swings…"
He looked at you then—really looked at you—and saw the confusion in your eyes that mirrored his own fear. The discipline, the routine, the rules—all of it forgotten in this moment of pure vulnerability.
"Whatever it is," he said, his voice firm but warm, "we'll face it together. I'm sorry about this morning. I was… unreasonable."
Before you could respond, a nurse appeared at the doorway. "Mrs. Nanami? The doctor is ready to see you now."
Nanami stood immediately, his protective instincts kicking in. "I'm coming with you."
As you followed the nurse down the corridor, his hand found yours, fingers lacing together in silent apology and solidarity. Whatever the test results revealed, you would face it together—discipline be damned.
The doctor's office was sterile and white, the air thick with unspoken questions. You sat on the examination table, Nanami standing rigidly beside you, his hand hovering near yours but not quite touching.
"The results came back," Dr. Watanabe said, looking at her chart with a small smile. "Everything looks perfectly healthy, Mrs. Nanami. In fact, very healthy."
You exchanged a nervous glance with Nanami. "That's… good, right?"
"Very good." The doctor looked up, her eyes twinkling. "You're approximately six weeks pregnant."
The world tilted. Nanami's hand finally found yours, his grip surprisingly tight. "Pregnant?" he repeated, his voice barely audible.
"Congratulations to you both," Dr. Watanabe continued. "The cravings, mood swings, fatigue—it all makes perfect sense now. I'd recommend adjusting your diet slightly, but overall—"
"Pregnant," Nanami said again, this time with dawning wonder. He turned to you, his eyes shining with an emotion so raw it took your breath away. "We're having a baby?"
A perfect, wicked idea began to form in your mind. This was it—the ultimate revenge for his coldness this morning, for making you feel childish and undisciplined.
Tears welled in your eyes—not of joy, but of masterful feigned distress.
"How could you?" you whispered, pulling your hand from his.
Nanami blinked, confused. "What? I don't—"
"You yelled at me!" you cried, your voice rising with practiced anguish. "You disciplined me for feeding our child! For having cravings that I couldn't control because I'm growing a human being inside me!"
The doctor's smile vanished. "I think I should give you two some privacy—"
"No!" you sobbed, turning your full attention to Nanami. "You slept on the couch! You treated me like a child when I was carrying your baby! All because I wanted cookies at 3 AM!"
Nanami stood frozen, his face a mask of horror and dawning realization. "I… I didn't know. I swear, I didn't—"
"You stopped me from feeding our child!" you wailed, pushing weakly at his chest. "You called me undisciplined! You said I couldn't control myself!"
"Don't 'baby' me!" you cried, sliding off the examination table.
With one final, dramatic sob, you turned and fled the room, leaving Nanami standing there in stunned silence, the doctor staring uncomfortably at the floor.
The taxi ride home was a blur of Nanami's racing thoughts. Pregnant. She's pregnant. I yelled at my pregnant wife. I disciplined her for feeding our child.
Each thought was a hammer blow to his conscience. The discipline he prized so highly, the routine he thought would protect you both—it had all been wrong. So terribly, horribly wrong.
When he arrived back at your apartment building, he saw you disappearing around the corner toward the back entrance. He broke into a run, his dress shoes slipping on the pavement.
"Wait!" he called out, but you either didn't hear or chose not to.
He found you in the small garden behind your building, sitting on a bench with your back to him, shoulders shaking with what he assumed were continued sobs of distress.
Nanami approached cautiously, then dropped to his knees on the damp ground behind you.
"I'm sorry," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I am so, so sorry."
You turned slightly, just enough for him to see your tear-streaked face.
"I didn't know," he continued, his words tumbling out in a rush of guilt. "If I had known, I never would have—please, forgive me. I was wrong. Everything I said this morning, last night—it was all wrong."
He reached for your hand, his own trembling. "The discipline, the routine… I thought I was protecting us, but I was just being controlling. I was being a terrible husband, and now I've been a terrible father too."
You looked at him then, and for a moment, he thought he saw something other than devastation in your eyes—something like… satisfaction? But it was gone too quickly.
"I love you," he said, his voice breaking. "And I love our baby. Please, tell me what I can do to make this right."
You pulled your hand away slowly. "Words are cheap, Kento."
"Then tell me what you want," he begged, still on his knees. "Anything. I'll get rid of all the rules. I'll eat cookies with you at 3 AM every night if that's what you want. Just… please don't shut me out. Not now. Not when we're supposed to be a family."
The silence stretched between you, broken only by the distant city sounds and Nanami's ragged breathing. He waited, exposed and vulnerable, ready to accept whatever punishment you deemed appropriate for his crimes against his pregnant wife and unborn child.
The sight of Kento Nanami on his knees, his usually composed face a canvas of raw, unadulterated anguish, was a dagger straight to your heart. The carefully constructed walls of your vengeful plan crumbled into dust. This wasn't fun anymore. This wasn't satisfying. This was torture, and you were the one wielding the weapon. A wave of nausea, entirely separate from your pregnancy-induced morning sickness, washed over you. You had taken this good, honorable, loving man and broken him.
Slowly, you turned on the bench, fully facing him. The tears that stained your cheeks were no longer for show; they were real, born from a wellspring of guilt and love. You reached out, your fingers gently brushing the damp fabric of his trousers on his knee.
"Kento," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. "Get up. Please."
He didn't move, his hazel eyes fixed on a point on the ground, as if he was unworthy of looking at you. "I meant what I said," he murmured, his voice hoarse. "I'll do anything. I'll change everything. Just… don't leave me."
The final shred of your anger dissolved. "Oh, Kento," you breathed, sliding off the bench to join him on the cool, slightly damp earth. You didn't care about the pristine condition of your clothes or the dirt that might cling to them. All that mattered was closing the chasm you had so cruelly created. You took his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you. His skin was cold, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears.
"I'm sorry," you said, and the words felt inadequate. "I am so, so sorry. It was… it was a horrible, stupid, cruel joke. I wasn't actually that upset. I just wanted to get back at you for this morning, for being so… so Nanami about the cookies." A fresh, genuine tear tracked its way down your cheek. "I saw how thrilled you were, and I saw my opening for the perfect revenge, and I took it. And it was the worst thing I've ever done. Forgive me."
Confusion warred with the pain in his eyes. "A… joke?"
"A terrible one," you confirmed, your thumbs stroking his cheekbones. "I'm not a good person. I was mad, and I wanted you to feel a fraction of what I felt. But I took it way too far. You're not a monster. You're not a horrible father. You're going to be the most amazing father any child has ever had. You're already the best husband."
His posture remained rigid, but the raw panic in his gaze began to subside, replaced by a dawning, hesitant understanding. "But… the things you said. About me stopping you from feeding our child…"
"I was being dramatic," you admitted, shame flooding you. "I was playing the victim because I was being petty. The truth is, I was confused and scared myself. I didn't know why I was feeling so out of control, and your discipline, which usually makes me feel safe, felt like a cage. I lashed out. It wasn't fair."
He finally seemed to breathe, a shaky, uneven inhale that sounded like it was the first he'd taken since entering the doctor's office. He slowly lifted his hands and placed them over yours, where they still cupped his face. "I don't care about any of that," he said, his voice still rough. "I don't care about the rules or the cookies or the couch. I just… I thought I had lost you. That I had driven you away. That thought was… unbearable."
He finally shifted, moving from his knees to sit beside you on the ground, his arm wrapping around your shoulders and pulling you flush against his side. You buried your face in his chest, breathing in the familiar, comforting scent of his cologne and the crisp fabric of his shirt.
"I know," you mumbled into his shirt. "And I'm sorry I made you feel that way."
He held you for a long moment, just breathing with you in the quiet sanctuary of the small garden. The city hummed on around you, but in this little circle of his arms, there was only the sound of his heartbeat, a steady, reassuring rhythm against your ear.
"It's not just about the rules," he said after a while, his voice low and contemplative. "I need you to understand why I am the way I am. Why I'm so… rigid."
You pulled back just enough to look up at him, giving him your full attention.
"My work," he began, his gaze distant, as if looking at scenes you couldn't see. "Every day, I see it. I see lives cut short. I see people with families, with futures, with loves… gone in an instant. To curses, to accidents, to the sheer chaotic cruelty of this world." He paused, swallowing hard. "Before you, I accepted that as my reality. It was a grim path, but it was mine. I thought discipline and routine were just tools to keep me alive long enough to make a difference."
His eyes found yours, and they were filled with a depth of fear that stole your breath. "But then I had you. And suddenly, 'staying alive' wasn't enough anymore. I want to come home to you. Every single day. I want to grow old with you. I want to see wrinkles around your eyes and grey in your hair. The thought of losing you to anything—to a curse, to an illness, to something as stupid as bad health habits… it terrifies me more than facing any special grade curse. It's a fear that lives inside me, always."
His thumb traced the line of your jaw. "So I build these walls. The schedules, the rules, the discipline… they're not about controlling you. They're a desperate, pathetic attempt to control the uncontrollable. To build a fortress around the life I have with you, to keep you safe from all the things I see every day. I thought if I could just eliminate enough variables, if I could just make our lives disciplined enough, then I could protect you. That I could guarantee our future together."
Tears streamed freely down your face now, your heart aching for the weight he had been carrying all this time. The man who seemed so strong, so stoic, so unshakeable, was just as vulnerable as you were, terrified by the same darkness he fought every day.
"Oh, Kento," you whispered, your voice cracking. "You beautiful, foolish man. You can't build a fortress against life. Bad things happen. Good things happen. That's what it means to be alive."
You took his face in your hands again, pouring every ounce of your love and conviction into your gaze. "But you're right about one thing. We are going to grow old together. I promise you that. We'll have this baby, and we'll be messy and imperfect and sometimes we'll eat cookies at 3 AM. And sometimes you'll have to drag me out of bed for a run. And we'll fight and we'll make up, and we'll love each other through all of it. We are not variables to be controlled, Kento. We are a team. We're a family."
A slow, hesitant smile finally touched his lips. It was fragile, but it was real. "A family," he repeated, the word sounding sacred on his tongue.
"Yes," you said, smiling through your tears. "A family. You, me, and this little cookie-craving monster I'm growing." You took his hand and placed it flat against your still-flat stomach. "We're in this together. Your fears are my fears. My life is your life. You don't have to carry it alone anymore."
He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours. "I love you," he breathed, the words a healing balm on your soul. "More than I ever knew it was possible to love something."
"I love you too," you replied, and it felt like the truest thing you had ever said.
The kiss that followed was nothing like the ones you usually shared. It wasn't passionate or demanding. It was a seal, a promise, a gentle, reverent meeting of lips that spoke of forgiveness, understanding, and a future that you would build together, not on a foundation of rigid rules, but on the unshakeable ground of mutual love and acceptance.
When you finally pulled apart, he was smiling properly now, that rare, beautiful smile that transformed his entire face, reaching his eyes and making them crinkle at the corners. He stood up, pulling you with him, and brushed the dirt from your clothes with tender, careful hands.
"Come on," he said, his arm wrapping securely around your waist. "Let's go home. I think… I think we have some celebrating to do."
As you walked back toward your building, the setting sun casting a golden glow over everything, you felt it—a profound, bone-deep peace. The anger was gone, the revenge forgotten, the fear replaced by a quiet, unshakeable joy.
"Kento?" you asked, leaning your head against his shoulder.
"Are we still going to follow the 'no sweets after 8' rule?"
He glanced down at you, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Well," he said thoughtfully. "I think we can amend that rule. For medical reasons, of course."
You laughed, a real, genuine, happy laugh that felt like coming home. And in that moment, you knew with absolute certainty that no matter what challenges lay ahead, no matter what chaos the world threw your way, you would face it all together. And you would, indeed, grow.
Meanwhile, back at Tokyo General Hospital, a completely different drama was unfolding in the vicinity of the vending machines.
"This is undeniably the best canned corn soup in the entire Kanto region," Gojo Satoru declared, popping open another can with a satisfying hiss. "The balance of creaminess to corn-to-water ratio is perfection. It's almost worth getting stabbed by a special grade curse for."
Yuji Itadori nodded enthusiastically, his mouth full. "It's way better than the one at the school! And the pork cutlet sandwich option here? Divine!"
Nobara Kugisaki rolled her eyes, sipping her own soup. "You two would praise anything that comes out of a machine. I'm just here because Gojo-sensei promised to pay."
Megumi Fushiguro leaned against the wall, looking deeply unimpressed with the entire excursion. "We're here because Gojo-sensei refuses to eat in the cafeteria and claims this 'builds character'."
"It does!" Gojo chirped, adjusting his dark glasses. "Character is built in small, meaningful moments. Like this one."
It was in one of these meaningful moments that they heard it—a commotion from down the hall. A woman's distraught voice, raised in anguish, followed by the unmistakable sound of running footsteps.
"You're a monster! A horrible father already!"
They all turned to see you, Nanami's wife, sprinting past the vending machine area, face streaked with tears, looking utterly devastated.
Gojo's soup can froze halfway to his lips. "Well, that's not good."
Before anyone could process what they'd seen, Nanami himself came bolting around the corner, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated horror. He didn't even notice them as he sprinted after you.
"Kento, wait!" Gojo called out, but it was too late. Nanami was already gone.
The group stood in stunned silence for a moment.
"Did… did Nanami-kun's wife just call him a horrible father?" Yuji asked, bewildered.
"And run away from him?" Nobara added, her eyes wide. "This is better than the soap operas my grandma watches!"
Gojo's usual playful expression had been replaced by something uncharacteristically serious. "That's not like Nanami. He's rigid, yes, but he adores her. Something is deeply wrong here."
"He looked terrified," Megumi noted quietly.
Gojo crushed his empty soup can in one hand. "This is an intervention. Nanami is my most responsible friend—I can't let his marriage fall apart over… whatever this is. Operation: Save Nanami's Marriage is a go!"
"Should we really get involved?" Megumi started to protest, but Gojo was already herding them toward the exit.
"Of course! We're a team! We'll go to their house, we'll talk some sense into them, we'll remind them of their love! It'll be beautiful!"
Twenty minutes later, your apartment doorbell rang insistently. You and Nanami, who had just settled onto the couch with a cup of tea, exchanged confused looks.
"I'll get it," Nanami said, rising to his feet.
He opened the door to find Gojo Satoru standing there with his students arrayed behind him like some kind of bizarre intervention squad. And, for some reason, Ryomen Sukuna was there too, looking deeply annoyed, as if he'd been dragged against his will.
"Kento!" Gojo declared dramatically, striking a pose. "We're here to help!"
Nanami stared blankly. "Help… with what?"
"With your marriage crisis!" Nobara piped up from behind him. "We saw everything at the hospital!"
You peeked around Nanami, your brow furrowed in confusion. "What are you all talking about?"
Gojo pushed past Nanami into the apartment, the others trailing in hesitantly (except Sukuna, who seemed to be there under protest). "We heard her call you a horrible father! We saw her run away! We saw you looking like your world had ended!"
Nanami's expression shifted from confusion to dawning horror as he realized what they must have witnessed. "Oh. That."
"It's not 'oh that'!" Gojo insisted, grabbing Nanami by the shoulders. "This is serious! But we're here to tell you, whatever happened, you can work through it! Love conquers all!"
"Love doesn't conquer anything," Sukuna muttered from the corner. "It's a chemical delusion designed to propagate the species."
"Stay out of this, you're just here for the free snacks later," Gojo shot back before turning to you. "And you! Whatever he did, I'm sure he's sorry! Nanami can be rigid and obsessed with rules, but he's a good man! Don't throw away what you have!"
Yuji stepped forward earnestly. "Yeah! Nanamin is the most responsible person I know! He wouldn't do anything to hurt you on purpose!"
You looked at Nanami, who was now pinching the bridge of his nose, his face turning a shade of red you'd never seen before. The absurdity of the situation suddenly hit you, and a giggle escaped before you could stop it.
"This is… this is not what it looks like," you managed to say between laughs.
Nanami sighed, the sound of utter defeat. "They're… they're not getting divorced," he said to Gojo. "We're not fighting. Not really."
"Then why did she call you a horrible father?" Yuji asked, genuinely confused.
"Because…" Nanami took a deep breath. "Because I didn't know she was pregnant when I lectured her about eating cookies after 8 PM."
Gojo's sunglasses slid down his nose as his eyes widened in comprehension. "Pregnant? You're pregnant?"
You nodded, still laughing. "And I may have… overreacted a little when I found out. For revenge."
Nobara's jaw dropped. "So all that drama at the hospital… was a prank?"
"A very cruel, very effective prank," Nanami muttered, though there was a hint of pride in his voice.
Gojo's serious expression melted away, replaced by his usual mischievous grin. "Well, I'll be damned. Nanami Kento, the most disciplined man in Tokyo, got played by his pregnant wife." He started laughing, a full-bodied, infectious laugh that soon had everyone else joining in—even Megumi cracked a smile.
"That's brilliant!" Gojo declared, clapping Nanami on the back. "Absolutely brilliant! She's perfect for you!"
Sukuna rolled his eyes. "Humans and their ridiculous emotional displays. I'm leaving."
"Wait!" Gojo called after him. "We're celebrating! This calls for a feast! And we're bringing the vending machine soup!"
As the chaos erupted in your living room—Gojo already planning a baby shower, Nobara discussing baby names, Yuji asking if he could be the godfather—you found Nanami's hand in the crowd.
He leaned close to your ear. "I'm going to kill Gojo later," he whispered, but he was smiling.
"Just as long as you wait until after the baby is born," you whispered back, smiling too.
In the midst of the joyful chaos, surrounded by your ridiculous, meddlesome, but ultimately loving friends, you felt Nanami's arm wrap around your shoulders. The discipline could wait. For now, there was only celebration—and the promise of a future that would undoubtedly be anything but routine.
