you walk in when the jjk men accidentally let your children fall while playing—panicking, whispering apologies the babies don’t yet understand, trying to stop the crying before their scary wife (you) sees.
including: satoru, nanami, toji, & geto.
warnings: MDNI, jjk men as dads, suggestive, cursing, vulgar language, lowkey crackfic
a/n: this has been in my drafts for so long lol
SATORU GOJO —
gojo knows what he is doing. he is only fully convinced it will go the way he has been anticipating.
it probably won’t.
your daughter is already giggling in his hands, tiny legs kicking as he lifts her slightly in the air.
“okay,” he says, focused for once. “watch this. this is gonna be cool.”
she squeals, approval granted, legs curling slightly.
gojo adjusts his stance, eyes narrowing behind the glasses. it won’t be a throw—not really. it’s more like a controlled drop.
he’ll just stop her midair. easy for a man like satoru.
he lets go and for a split second, everything aligns. then, nothing. no catch, and no pause.
just a soft thump.
gojo’s brain goes blank, your daughter blinks up at him from the floor, stunned, not even hurt, yet, just stunned.
“huh..” he breathes.
then her face starts to scrunch.
“oh, no- no, no.. wait!” he drops instantly, scooping her up. “that was— you were supposed to..”
her lip trembles.
“i’m sorry, sorry, sorry.” he whispers as if she understands a thing about what he is saying, or of what just happened. “i miscalculated.” he whispers quickly, bouncing her. “just don’t cry, please don’t cry babygirl.”
he’s too late. a sharp wail fills the room, and from the kitchen.. everything goes quiet.
“satoru?” your voice, laced with worry, the soft sound of a kitchen towel rubbing against your hands, and then your fast footsteps.
he freezes. “everything’s fine!” he calls, way too fast. “we’re just doing advanced techniques, mama!” he says, too loud, trying to outdo your daughter’s cries.
you step into the doorway and your eyes go straight to the crying infant in his arms. then to him. “what did you do.”
gojo swallows. “..maybe I overestimated myself. no, that’s not even possible. i just—”
the baby cries harder.
you step forward, arms already spread out. “give her to me.”
he hesitates, but only for a second. “she was supposed to stop. i was gonna teleport her to the bed.” he murmurs as he hands her over. “like… you know..”
you stare at him. “you tried to teleport her? our daughter? our ten month old daughter?”
“but when you say it like that-”
“i am saying it like that because that’s exactly what you were going for.”
you give him a look and he winces, then leans in anyway, gently brushing her hair back. “I’m sorry.. that one's on me.”
his hand trails down to your hip, squeezing gently.
a pause follows, short, awkward. then you whisper, “no more experiments.”
“yes ma’am.” he says quietly. “that’s fair..”
later, it is quiet. gojo lays beside you, struggling to keep his hands to himself.
“baby.. pleasee.” he murmurs, moving closer.
it is his tenth.. no, eleventh time asking. you fold your pillow so that both sides cover your ears. “it’s been a long day, toru. go to sleep”
“you’re still mad about earlier? i didn’t mean to drop her..”
you turn now, eyes wide in the sharp, warning like manner that gojo has feared since you met. “but you did.”
“come on, baby. you know i didn’t mean to. at least she didn’t land on her head, right?” he gets closer, fingers brushing your side.
your breath hitches despite yourself, eyes trailing down his body and landing on the hard, defined outline of his dick.
you swallow, cheeks hot, trying not to let him see just how much you want him despite your anger. but gojo grins knowingly, his hand slipping under the sheet to your thigh.
his thumb traces gentle circles there, testing just how close he can get. you clench your thighs instinctively. “fine.” you breathe.
“aw, i knew my pretty wife wouldn’t hold-”
your hand tracks from his chest to his mouth. “shh.”
“yes ma’am.”
KENTO NANAMI —
nanami has everything under control, as always.
your son is steady, small hands raised and gripping the edge of the desk, little legs wobbling but determined.
“i’ve got you. we need to perfect this so we can show your mother.” nanami says, voice softer than usual. “just one step.”
the plan is simple; help him stand, snap a photo, keep it until you’re done with training so that he can show you.
a small milestone, safe and documented.
your son looks at him, then nanami lets go. the baby takes one wobbly step forward, then another. kento’s breath catches.
“that’s it..” he says quietly, a hint of awe slipping through. “come here. come to dadda.”
your son wobbled toward him. three steps, four, and then his foot caught. a tiny stumble, then a thud.
nanami moves immediately, shaking his head, taking his son gently. “sorry, i’m sorry.” he whispers rapidly, as if he’s apologizing to you.
your son’s face crumples anyway.
“it’s alright..” he sighs, his grip tightening slightly, cradling him closer. “i shouldn’t have let you try that alone.”
a cry breaks out and footsteps approached quickly.
“ken?” you enter and see your son crying in his arms. your eyes flick to the desk and then back to him. “…what happened?”
“he walked to me,” he said quietly. “i thought i could catch him before he fell.”
your expression shifts, surprise and then concern. “he walked?” you whisper. “and you did not wait to practice this with me?”
kento shuts his eyes for a second, they’re low when he opens them again. “..yes, and i failed to support him properly.”
you step closer, taking your baby. “he just fell,” you say, too gentle. “that happens.”
nanami stays quiet for a second, throat dry. “please, don’t talk like that.. i’d rather hear you scream.”
your sons cries soften against you. nanami watches, something heavy in his expression.
“i’m sorry..” he murmurs. not just to the baby.
later the house is quiet, the kind of quiet that only comes after a long day—soft, dim, wrapped in low light and the steady rhythm of a sleeping child down the hall.
you’ve just finished getting ready for bed, sitting at the vanity, fingers absentmindedly working through the last steps of your routine.
the master bathroom door opens behind you. nanami steps out, hair still damp, a towel slung low across his waist.
“he asleep?” he murmurs, stretching behind you.
your eyes meet his in the mirror. “mhm..”
“you’re still mad?” he whispers loud enough for you to hear.
you don’t answer, you just resume your nightly routine. he sighs heavily, one hand dragging down his face.
he crosses the room sheepishly, grabbing for your shoulders and pulling you against him gently. “i’ve been thinking about you all day. forgive me, please.”
you are about to stand, turn away and get in bed, but then you feel his erection pressing tight against your back.
“i’d like to apologize properly now, darling.”
“kento—” you gasp, hands flexing where they rest against your vanity.
“shh” he says, leaning down and nibbling your ear softly, fingers tracing your jaw. he leans in, pressing gentle wet kisses against your neck.
you lean in because of course you do, it’s your husband.
TOJI FUSHIGURO —
toji isn’t trying to be dumb, because, to him, he isn’t. at least it sounds efficient, two babies, one workout.
your twins are perched on his back, giggling as he lowers himself into another push up.
“hold on,” he mutters. “don’t start sliding. i’ll never hear the end of it.”
a tiny laugh escapes your son, encouragement. your daughter slaps his back repeatedly, giggling along with her twin.
“mhm,” he groans. “real funny.” despite his words, the corner of his mouth twitches, scar stretching.
another push up, and then another, and then a shift. there was too much weight to one side and his advance faltered.
both of the twins roll off. at first, toji freezes, then he glances at them and laughs, trying to play it off—trying to distract them.
their faces distort. toji’s eyes shut as if he’s only praying they won’t make a fuss. “you’ve gotta be kidding me.”
the babies blink up at him, lips trembling—then, in perfect sync they weep.
“oh, don’t-” toji mumbles, hands reaching out for them. “not both of you..”
way too late, and from where you were, silence falls. his eyes shut again at the sound of your footsteps.
“toji?” you appear and freeze. both babies crying, toji sitting there with one already in his arm, reaching for the other.
“what did you do?”
“they rolled.” he says.
your stare sharpens and he tenses visibly. “you dropped both of them?”
“they rolled,” he repeats, more firmly.
you step inside and pick up your son. “they were on your back, weren’t they?” you say, noting the red marks on toji’s shoulders.
“maybe..”
they cry louder and toji clicks his tongue, clearly irritated.. but not at them. “they’re fine.. didn’t hit too hard.”
your daughter stops crying the moment you take her and turn away, just like that. toji goes still behind you. “…seriously?” he mutters.
you don’t even look at him. “what?”
“i had her handled.”
“mm,” you hum, swaying gently. “looked like it.”
he clicks his tongue, but there’s no real bite to it. just slightly bruised pride. by the time both babies are finally asleep, the house settles into a quiet that feels earned.
you stretch once, then move into the kitchen. you barely get started before you feel him again. toji doesn’t announce himself—he’s just there, close and warm, one hand braced against the counter beside you, the other settling at your waist.
“you know,” he starts, voice low, “they stopped crying real fast when you picked ‘em up.”
“mhm.”
his thumb brushes lightly against your side. “feels like favoritism.”
“that’s because you used them as gym equipment.”
“they were participating.. and helping.”
you snort. “they can’t even hold their heads up properly.”
“they held on just fine.”
There’s a pause. Then his hand shifts—slower now, more deliberate.
“you didn’t look this calm earlier,” he murmurs.
“I wasn’t,” you reply. “you dropped both of our babies.”
“they rolled.”
“you dropped them, ji.”
“…semantics.”
you try to step away, but he keeps you close—not forceful, just enough to turn you slightly back toward him.
“be careful,” you warn. “I’m cooking.”
“yeah,” he says, glancing down briefly. “I can see that.”
there’s a pause, then he speaks again. “you always get like this after?”
you narrow your eyes. “after what?”
“handling everything.” his mouth tilts faintly. “all calm and in control… kinda unfair.”
“toji.”
“what?” he says, completely unbothered. “just an observation.”
“you’re not subtle.”
“never said i was.” he leans closer, voice dipping just enough to make your focus slip. “should i start doing push ups with them more often?”
you elbow him immediately. “don’t you dare.”
he laughs under his breath. “if we have another,” he adds, like it’s nothing, “i won’t use them as gym equipment.”
you stop completely. “what?”
“i said,” he repeats easily, “if we have another, i’ll adjust.”
you turn slowly, staring at him. “If we have another?” you cross your arms. “you just dropped two today.”
“they rolled, baby. I'm telling ya.”
“you dropped-” you cut yourself off with a sharp exhale. “and so your solution is more?”
a hint of a grin tugs at his mouth. “i said i’d learn.”
“that’s not reassuring.”
“it should be.”
you turn back to the stove, shaking your head. “Incredible.”
there’s a quiet pause behind you, then his hand returns to your waist—slower now, less teasing.
“besides,” he murmurs, “you handled them pretty well.”
“they’re babies. i’m their mother. its the job.”
“yeah,” he says, thumb brushing lightly again, “but you make it look easy.”
“flattery’s not fixing this.”
“wasn’t trying to fix it.”
you glance back at him and this time, he’s looking at you steadily, not joking.. not entirely.
“…you’re serious,” you say.
“about not using them as weights? yeah.”
“that’s not the part i meant.”
“why not? why not another?”
the question hangs. you turn fully now, folding your arms. “becayse we already have two.”
“aand?”
“and that’s enough, they’re newborns.”
he tilts his head slightly, considering it, not dismissing, just thinking.
“maybe it’s enough,” he says.
“toji!”
“what?” he murmurs, softer now, hand still resting at your side. “just saying.”
there’s no pressure, just that same quiet certainty, like the idea doesn’t bother him at all.
like maybe, he’s already thought about it.
you hold his gaze for a second longer, then turn back to the stove—though your focus isn’t nearly as steady now.
“you can cook your own dinner,” you mutter.
a low chuckle sounds behind you. “yeah,” he says. “we’ll see about that.”
SUGURU GETO —
suguru knows exactly what he’s doing. he thought it would be harmless, teaching your one year old son how to play ball…
your boy sat in front of geto, fascinated, watching the basketball in his hands.
“alright,” geto smiles, bouncing the ball lightly. “watch closely.”
the ball hits the floor and comes back up, a simple dribble, smooth and controlled.
your son giggles and geto’s smile softens. “see? like this.”
he dribbles again, but your son reaches forward too suddenly.
the timing breaks, the ball bounces wrong, and taps right into him.
not hard, but hard enough, your son loses balance, tipping backward.
thump
geto’s heart drops
“oh!” he’s there instantly, picking him up. “i didn’t think you’d— im so sorry.”
your sons face twists. geto holds him closer.
“no, nope. its okay!” he bounces your son gently in his arms.
“suguru!” he hears you coming from your bedroom, every one of your steps suddenly exaggerated and loud in his head. “why’s he crying?! i cant enjoy one moment with the girls without you turning boy time into a mess!”
you walk in only to see his nervous expression and your baby boy, writhing in his arms. you take him gently.
“what…happened?”
“i was trying to teach him how to hoop!” he blurts out. “he fell, baby im sorry..”
“suguru you are going to watch five little monkeys with this boy every night until he falls asleep. and if he doesn't.. you're going to put it on loop. do you understand?”
“no! i’ll do anything.”
“nope. you will watch it.”
later that night, you and the girls peek through the hallway door and see geto on the couch with your son, baby sprawled on his chest like he has nowhere else to be, little fist in his mouth as he rewatches five little monkeys for the fifth time tonight.
you snicker as quietly as you can but your husband isn’t an idiot. he knows you’re watching.
notes: i get so shy writing anything lewd it feels like i’m being watched by everybody who’s ever met me in the world
BED time has become a routine your little family adored. dad!kento nanami was in love with what your family has become and his love only grows stronger by the day. he was infatuated with your son. the two of you were the most important things in his life.
“time to wash up before bed!” says kento to your son. though he’s still a blabbing toddler speaking incoherent sentences, he understands fully. your son was just as infatuated with his father was with him.
you carried him for nine months only for him to look exactly like your husband and be in love with him even more. fortunately you wouldn’t have it any other way. they were your two favorite boys. they forever will be.
your son loves bath time. and he loves it even more when kento’s the one bathing him. he would spend hours in the bath if it meant his father would stay in the bathroom with him.
when bath time is over it’s pajamas and lotion time! while bathing your son, kento lets you get unready before tucking your son in bed. but there are some nights where you both feel like being lazy and letting him get some cuddle and screen time with his two favorite people.
you’re in charge on lotion and pj’s while nanami gets himself ready for the night. you read him some silly stories and tickle him in ways that get out his stomach laughter that you love to hear.
once your husband is done getting ready, the three of you snuggle into your bed. and turn the tv on. the second you grow older, the more you shy away from children tv shows but when you become a parent that tv show becomes a statement in your household.
right now the three of you are watching tv and nanami notices that every time he moves his hand or his head away from his son, his little grabby hands move his fathers’ closer to him, eyes still locked on the tv. the two of you notice and laugh together.
this is the perfect little video that you are able to record. your two favorite boys.
you pull your phone out and motion kento to move his head again. your son notices immediately and brings up his arm to gently pull his dad’s head to rest on his shoulder again. kento does it another two times and your son follows directly after.
laughter emerges nanami again and he sprinkles kisses all over his sons face. he has his father wrapped around his little finger. literally.
nanami kento would do anything if it meant his two favorite people in the world were happy and healthy. he loved you both more than words could ever describe.
₍^. .^₎⟆ nanami kento's wife: exposed!!
ft. k. nanami + baby boy nanamin + jujutsu tech staff & students
cw, light profanity, mentions of pregnancy, mom!f!reader, reader is two years younger than kento ⋆ all ages can interact!
🏷️ @spookyreviewluminary
it started like a game of telephone, as most rumors start in school. nobara had run into you, a pretty woman, at the entrance of the school facility. she’d yet to meet you, and she wonders if you’re a new teacher from another branch of the school. you were pushing a stroller in a soft, striped grey-white sweater dress, with a tiny grey bow to the right of the collar. your feet are slipped into a pair of ugg slippers with fuzzy socks and a pair of grey tights. your hair’s swept back into a messy bun, strands framing your face, and zero makeup.
she's literally blushing— you’re so gorgeous without it. she peers over your shoulder and catches a glimpse inside of your obnoxiously large stroller that kento had spent hours researching and testing in baby boutiques. your baby is breath-takingly lovely. well, clearly, mom is a stunner, but his looks had to be a mix of the father as well. chubby cheeks, pink pouty lips, a soft button nose, and soft locks of blonde hair dusting the crown of his head that'd escaped the small knitted baby cap on his head. he’s literally an angel. his arms jerk slightly as his fists are restricted in blue mittens, and he's very pleased at the sight of your face above. nobara has to peel her eyes off his sweet face, hoping you didn’t catch her staring at your baby. could you blame her? your baby is adorable!
your voice chipper is for the morning, and a smile lighting up your face, a fresh face for the first time in weeks that isn’t your very enthusiastic in-laws or delicious baby boy. you and kento find yourself smiling at any kid, all maternal, while kento will tell you all about his students. kento’s mother was adamant about fulfilling customs; no daughter-in-law of hers is going to not partake in satogaeri shussan. she chastised kento for his lack of planning for your prenatal and postpartum period.
“how dare you not book my precious daughter’s ansei stay already!” whack— whack! kento flinches while he covers his shoulder from where she's been hitting him, his mother heavy-hitting with these beautiful, ashen rose sheepskin gloves he’d bought her as a gift, just so he and his mother had some time before you go on maternity leave. he sighs deeply with a very tired expression, preparing himself to get royally chewed out by her.
suddenly, he was trading lesson plans for pamphlets on the most luxurious maternity centers, until you’d be staying at his family’s home— your new home for the following forty-seven days. kento had to research supplies for you and the baby; how could he not? his mother provided zero assistance aside from her checklist. she waved off his panic as she knew as much as he knew. doesn't he know she had her son years ago? baby supplies are a lot different now! of course, she’s danish, but she’d loved it then, so her new daughter has to have the same!
you’d become her new best friend, kento, receiving dozens of disgustingly adorable photos and videos of you, your son, and his parents as he works. now you've brought yourself here, eight days out from your brief confinement period, to your husband's workplace. though no one knows it, aside from your friends, so the kids' minds draw up crazy conclusions.
nobara had just finished lacing her shoe, looking up to see you and satoru standing in the entrance of the building. "look at him! my little buddy, isn't he so cute? say sa-to-ruu!" he gasps, cooing at your son. "where's your otochan? hmm! say oto-chaan!" his arm wraps around your shoulder, ushering you down the hall as you push the stroller next to him and talking with you intently.
does gojo-sensei have a wife? and a baby that he never told his beloved students about? she needs to deliver this gossip to the entirety of the school and the student population: gojo satoru has a family, and his wife is very, very hot!
"where's his wife?" yuuji peeks into the glass of the door, trying to catch a glimpse of his sensei's wife and son. satoru's son will need a role model, and that will be him! he's interrupted by maki squeezing in between nobara and yuuji to press her nose against the glass. "are you sure? she seems too good for him! and she's prettier than him! no woman would sign up to make a baby with him!" maki scoffs, looking over the scene in front of her. you're talking with satoru very excitedly, satoru cradling him with the biggest smile ever.
he hadn't met baby nanamin yet, only seeing him through various photos and videos from his cellphone that his friend would show him, teasing kento for being absolutely enamored by you and baby nanamin in the softest baby wraps during brisk walks or tea time with the grandparents. they scramble to act casual as soon as they spot their teacher finally getting up, waving back to you and baby boy. "i'll see you in a little bit, let's have lunch later?" you nod eagerly, satoru chuckling at your reaction, going to find your husband so the three of you can hopefully have lunch.
nobara and yuuji blow up everyone's phones, telling their friends that their teacher has a secret family. "he's quite tiny!" "can you see his eyes?" "move your head! what does his wife look like?" "where's her ring?" "she doesn't have to wear her ring all the time. right?" "she looks super young!" the other right door clicks open, and a different broad figure steps in. it's nanami. they presume he must be checking on his friend's wife, obviously, their teacher is so polite!
"finally off house arrest?" kento pokes fun at you, taking in the sight of you and his son wrapped against your chest. you laugh, but shake your head. "your parents are too nice, stop." your tone amused, your hand playfully hitting his arm, but you can't hide how clearly you're relieved to be back in your home with your husband again. "a girl can only take so much miso, sekihan, and ginger." he chuckles and rests his hand on your hip, pulling you in closer to him. your baby boy breathes out in soft puffs with his cheek squished and lips parted sleepily. “has he been good today?” kento worries about you handling your son alone these days, wanting you not to take on too much so soon.
you look down at his cute face, nodding happily. "just didn't want to take his pacifier, but.." your index pokes his soft, plump cheek, "nothing we can't handle!" your tongue pokes out at him, and he leans in with a smug smile.
kento's light stubble tickles your face, his lips brushing your cheek before leaning in to give you a light kiss on the lips, yearning to touch you. he has zero moments, just like you, to get a good shave in. you didn't mind, as both of your days were occupied with baby nanamin. nursing, laundry, cooking, resting. your son is good, for the most part. he just loves being awake at the most inconvenient hours. can't bear to part from his mom, hell... kento has found you with the bathroom door open, as your son is pleased to see you soaking in the bath; the sight of your face is enough to keep him content in his padded baby chair.
baby nanamin is used to you; he loves being around his mom, but not so much kento.
he can get fussy when you aren't the one picking him up at night, turn his face with a stubborn whine when kento tries to give him his pacifier, and whimper sadly when they're alone together for too long. he didn't expect for his son to not know him well by now. you reassure him that your son will be inseparable from him soon enough. for now... your son has permanently taken his wife from him.
he's alone with you, and it's been a while, so giving you a good kiss was at the top of his priorities. you're blushing furiously, acting as if you two were married yesterday. "good, i wish i could take leave so i can be with you two..." his tone softens, vulnerable in a way he can only be with you. kento frowns, "maybe if i move things around... i can stay—" you nudge him and rest a hand on his jaw. "ken, you know your kids need you here to teach. he's a good baby, nurses and sleeps like a champ." it'd make things a lot worse if he attempted to take leave, not that the higher-ups believe in paternity leave.
having a child was already hard enough for your position; thankfully, satoru went to bat for you and kento, getting you an endurable three months off and telling them to stick it. a leave for kento would be impossible to. "don't feel guilty. we love you, ken. we both know how hard you try." parenthood has definitely made him softer. kento has become all mushy and sentimental, more playful and touchy towards you after you'd become pregnant. his forehead presses to yours with his arms circling your waist, letting out a sigh but feeling a bit better about it all. you two are his home, his safe place, and keep him grounded.
satoru returns soon after all this takes place, a soft knock making you two split and sit on the sofa as he leans against the wall, knowingly smirking at the sight. he's used to this; you two are always embarrassed, although everyone knows you two are married and lovebirds. "let me carry him!" he opens his arms for your son, his eyes wide as he loses the sensation of your warm chest, placed into satoru's arms. "why do you guys get to have such a cutie? i want one. look at his eyes!" satoru swears he's staring at kento's eyes exactly, just wider and less exhausted. he's a cute kento!
"i love it! i just wanna eat it! so soft, so nommable. like it’s a cherry blossom mochi!!" satoru's nose rubs against your son's cheek, fascinated now that two of his friends have a baby for him to play with, finally. "don't call him an it." kento argues, satoru waving his friend off. "your auntie shoko will meet us! can you say sho-koo!" you snort at his baby talk, kento rolling his eyes and shaking his head.
the kids have to pick their jaws up from the floor, as they clearly have everything here figured out accurately. missus gojo... is having an affair with his good friend?
"maybe.. it isn't what we thought we saw?" maki offers her friends, "she might not be married to either, just visiting her friends with a baby. everybody loves babies." well, that could be true. it isn't impossible. "but then why does gojo-sensei want the baby to call him dad?" nobara and maki don't really have an answer for yuuji's theory; they shrug with an exasperated expression, raising their palms. "well, he is weird." "weird, but his wife is having an affair!! with nanamin!"
well, this is a school made for young sorcerers, not the academically gifted. somehow, the students are convinced that their teacher is in love with their other teacher's wife.
it's the gossip of the hour amongst the school's students. meanwhile, kento is being beaten by shoko in terms of the affection your son shows. "he will be a great doctor! isn't that right baby nanamin?" shoko doesn't care for the baby voice, in his tiny face with a deadpan tone, lightening up when he smiles a bit. "at least my friends have a baby so i can hold it when it's good." kento rolls his eyes at her really wanting to pass back his cute dumpling son, "he's good all the time. stop calling my baby an it, why do you two call babies it?" shoko pats his back lightly, your son happy as a clam in your friend's arms, just fed and diapered. "good until he needs a diaper change. never call me for one of those," he can agree on that. kento still panics when he has to change his diaper; your son fusses at the chilliness or starts wailing, making him even more skittish.
eating their lunches on the grass and benches outside, maki, nobara, yuuji, megumi, and toge are sitting together. their teachers arrive back with you and shoko in tow, all laughing and smiling amongst one another. your baby is back in his stroller, sleeping soundly, as this has been his most adventurous day in his six weeks of life. brisk walks in the garden and walkway are a whole different ballpark now. he's also encountered more people in a few hours than ever.
satoru stops in front of his students, staring the kids down with a suspicious mug, looming over the kids who stop mid-bite with wide eyes. he's so weird. "these are most of my lovely pupils who have been so graciously honored with my presence as their teacher!" you snicker at his dramatics, kento and shoko groaning at satoru's introduction. you recognize a few as kento has told you all about his students before bed, recapping his days for you.
"you never told us you have a family, gojo-sensei!" yuuji springs up from his spot on the grass, his leftover roast beef sandwich falling to the pavement with a sad splat. it gets very quiet suddenly. "oi! itadori, that's rude!" nobara yanks his arm back, fanning herself with a nervous laugh as she looks between the four of you.
satoru just blinks, staring at yuuji blankly, pointing a finger at himself. "huh? who?" he looks around as if another gojo exists before he's made sure he really means him.
satoru bursts into deep belly-laughs, his eyes watering. he has to hold his stomach to contain himself. "oh god, no. that's this big guy's wife and son!" he throws an arm over kento's shoulder, yanking your husband closer. "they've been married for... what, like 4 years now?" kento clears his throat, pretending his tie needs adjusting. the tips of his ears are reddening at the mention of your marriage. "about to be!!" you chirp, already starting up about memories from when you were engaged and married. you rambled on about when you first met, the wedding, the honeymoon, your baby, and how your married life has been; hand pressed to your cheek and smile wide.
their expressions change from intrigued to drowsy as you practically tell the kids his entire life story, photos and videos galore. "okay! i think that's good enough." kento's hand covers your mouth with a straight face as you begin to cover your fifth month of marriage anniversary, where he took you for a date in tokyo, spending thousands just for you to try pricy wine and kiwami echizen snow crab. just as you were about to get to the dessert menu, your voice becomes muffled. "but kennn! i was almost near the good part." kento gives you a look as you whine, everyone silently thankful that your retellings have been put to a stop.
"you look so... young! sensei! i think she's too young for you!!" yuuji answers far too honestly, kento's lips pressing into a straight line. you stifle a laugh, "i'm twenty-six, so only two years younger!" you bump hips with kento, "don't worry... definitely not too much younger, we're pretty close." his students get quiet all of a sudden, they're never this quiet. baby nanamin lets out a totally inquisitive burp, kicking off his sock.
"SENSEI, YOU'RE TWENTY-EIGHT?!" "HE'S TWENTY-EIGHT?" "EH?! WHY DOES HE LOOK LIKE THAT AT TWENTY-EIGHT?" "I THOUGHT HE WAS OLDER..." their sensei having a family isn't nearly as astonishing to them as his real age. they had sworn that his dark circles were at least thirty-something years' worth of adulthood and crippling deadlines. he seemed so mature and he was really stern, very teacherly! how can this be? this means that: kento nanami is young? he's like... really young!
You’ll be back any minute with the confidence that Kento has fed Aina, given her a small bath, then taken her for naptime. And normally, kento is more than comfortable and confident in his abilities to provide that security in your expectations.
But Aina is not eating. She wants nothing to do with the food he’s trying to feed her. Every time he tries to nudge the spoon close to her face, she screams and pushes it away. He doesn’t have other food to give her, this is what the pediatrician recommended so naturally, that’s what you both bought.
And she wants nothing to do with it.
In a desperate attempt to make his little girl eat, he takes a spoonful onto the plastic spoon, his heart breaking as his little girl winces in distress. “Here, here, my love, see-“ he takes the spoonful into his mouth, and almost immediately, spits it back out into his palm, groaning in agony at the taste.
Him and Aina stare for a moment, then two, before suddenly, her chubby cheeks curl into a smile. He shakes his head and makes a move to the sink to wash his hands, “I’m not feeding you that. No. That’s abhorrent.”
She merely giggles more and fists the banana mush on her tray. He chuckles, “that wasn’t yummy, was it, little love? It was yucky?”
“I just bought that food.”
He relaxes at the sound of your voice, flashing you a small smile as you enter the room. You wrap your arm around his waist and rest your head on one of his biceps, “she’s a baby, she doesn’t know what good and bad food is,” you chuckle.
“Normally I would never argue with my wife, but trust me, my love, this food is awful,” he says.
“It can’t be that bad, the pediatrician recommended it.”
He watches as you take the spoon and scoop some of the blended baby food onto it, and confidently, as he did, pop it in your mouth. Immediately, to his amusement, your face twists in utter disgust and you dash to the sink, spitting out the contents into the porcelain. “Oh my god!”
“I wouldn’t lie to you, my love.”
You dry your mouth on a paper towel, “yeah no. Don’t feed that to her. Burn it if you must.”
A/N: salaryman!nanami x teacher!reader. i dont make the rules, this was a must. nanami has custody of yuji in this. also i changed my pfp, yippe
warnings: tried writing smth adorable, sweet, lots of fluff, tiny bit of angst, smut a the end (sorta).
IMAGE REFERENCE: Link to: Instagram, Oretsuu
It starts with curry.
Well. Technically, it starts with a glitter painting of a blonde man with a briefcase and some disturbingly realistic abs for a seven-year-old’s drawing.
But the curry stains come first.
And the glitter.
And then you.
*-*
Nanami Kento had not planned to fall in love. Certainly not at 3:24 PM on a humid Wednesday, standing in front of a tiny, cracked elementary school with its peeling paint and suspiciously leaning flagpole.
No, Nanami had planned to simply pick up his kid, accept the drawing with solemn gratitude, and return home to review Q3 sales reports with a glass of whiskey.
Instead, he found himself paralyzed, hand halfway in his pocket, blinking like he’d seen a curse materialize in the form of a woman who looked like she had walked out of a Ghibli movie and into his very, very tired heart.
You were beautiful in a way that should be illegal during daylight hours. Ethereal but grounded.
Like you read poetry over tea and could probably fix a flat tire without breaking a sweat. Your long, black skirt whispered around your ankles, and your cardigan—was it green? Olive? Sage? Who cared, it was soft-looking and elegant and made you look like the protagonist of a historical fantasy romance.
The kind where the prince never stood a chance.
Nanami stood no chance.
“NANAMIN!!!”
And then Yuji was gone, bolting across the courtyard with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever who had just spotted its owner after a year-long expedition to Antarctica.
“Yes,” Nanami replied, calm as ever, despite the absolute chaos buzzing in his chest.
Yuji flung a glitter-covered paper in his face.
“LOOK! I MADE YOU! I EVEN GOT YOUR TIE COLOR RIGHT!”
Indeed, the tie was yellow. There was also an unfortunate amount of glitter on his eyebrows now.
“Thank you, Yuji,” Nanami said, brushing off some of the glitter with the same dignity he used when confronting Grade 1 curses. “This is very… detailed.”
“He worked really hard on it,” said a new voice.
And then there was you.
Nanami looked up.
Up, because of course the universe would choose now to knock the breath clean out of his lungs.
You were smiling. Bright, genuine, sunshine-between-clouds smiling.
“Hi,” you said, offering your hand. “I’m Yuji’s new teacher.”
Nanami stared. Just for a beat too long.
He took it like it was going to shatter in his palm.
Your handshake was warm, confident. Your nails were painted a chipped gold. There was a faint ink stain on your palm.
You were real. Too real.
“Nanami Kento,” he managed. “I’m Yuji’s guardian.”
His voice. It rumbled like a cello note, deep and smooth and carefully measured.
Your brain short-circuited for exactly 2.5 seconds.
“Ah! Nanamin!” you said, laughing, eyes crinkling at the corners. “He’s always talking about you.”
Nanami blinked. “Oh?”
“Mmhm. Says you make the best pancakes and that your briefcase is actually a cursed tool.”
Yuji gasped dramatically. “You weren’t supposed to tell him that!”
“Oops,” you said, grinning at the boy before turning your attention back to Nanami.
He’s never been more envious of a glitter painting in his life.
“I just wanted to apologize,” you continued. “Yuji got a little excited during lunch. There was curry. And, uh, centrifugal force. Long story short, his shirt is in his bag. I hope it’s salvageable.”
Nanami blinked. “Centrifugal force?”
“He was spinning to show off his bento box.”
“I WAS SPINNING LIKE A BEYBLADE,” Yuji added helpfully.
“Right.” Nanami exhaled. “Thank you for taking care of him.”
“He’s a joy,” you said, absolutely and completely sincere.
Nanami could tell you meant it. He could also tell your earrings were shaped like little books. That you wore comfortable shoes because you were on your feet all day. That the ink smudge on your hand matched the color of the dry-erase marker clinging to the sleeve of your cardigan.
He noticed all of it. It was a problem.
The sky was the color of apricots as you handed him a trifold pamphlet.
“So, I know this is short notice, but we’re organizing a class field trip to the dinosaur museum next week,” you said, brushing a stray curl behind your ear. “Yuji mentioned you used to be an archeology major in college before you went into finance?”
Yuji nodded. “He knows ALL the dino names. EVEN THE ONES WITH THE REALLY LONG NAMES.”
“Would you be interested in chaperoning?” you asked, voice gentle but curious.
Nanami, who had not processed anything beyond “field trip” and “next week,” nodded.
You smiled.
The world tilted.
“Wonderful!” you beamed, handing him the pamphlet. “We’ll be leaving at 9:00 AM sharp. There’s a lunch break and a guided tour. I’ll put you on the group text.”
“Text,” Nanami echoed faintly.
“Thank you for volunteering!”
“Of course.”
Yuji beamed. “We’re gonna see the BARYONYX!”
Nanami had absolutely no idea what he’d just agreed to.
*-*
Later that night, Nanami sat in his apartment with a glass of whiskey in one hand and Yuji's glitter painting pinned on the fridge behind him.
He was trying very, very hard not to think about the way your cardigan had fluttered when you turned.
Or the little crease between your brows when you focused on talking to the children.
Or the way you seemed to glow, just a little, in the sunlight.
He failed.
Miserably.
Yuji appeared from the bathroom, wearing dinosaur pajamas and smelling like strawberry toothpaste.
"Nanamin," he said, flopping onto the couch beside him.
"Yes?"
"You like my teacher."
Nanami sipped his whiskey.
"Don’t be ridiculous."
"You blushed. Your ears did the pink thing."
"I did not."
"Did too."
Nanami sighed, tipping his head back against the couch.
He was doomed.
Utterly.
And it was only the first day of school.
*-*
The next morning, Gojo Satoru leaned across their shared booth at a café and said, “So. You’re blushing. Spill.”
“I don’t blush,” Nanami snapped.
“Yuji said you met his teacher. Said she looked like a pretty kung fu librarian.”
Nanami considered stabbing himself with the butter knife.
“What did you agree to?” Gojo asked, too delighted.
“A museum trip.”
“Oh my god,” Gojo cackled. “You got seduced by a cardigan. This is amazing.”
Nanami stabbed the butter.
*-*
The field trip starts with Nanami realizing he's the only man in a sea of volunteer mothers.
He feels it before he sees it — the polite tilts of heads, the way some of the moms size him up like an endangered species in khakis and good posture. He straightens instinctively.
Not that it matters. He came prepared.
And by “prepared,” he means Gojo called it a “Dilf Fit” and threatened to post it on Instagram if he didn’t wear it.
So here he is: beige cardigan, navy slacks (tailored, of course), glasses perched low on his nose, hair slightly tousled from the breeze. A look he’d call “functionally resigned with mild aesthetic intention.” But Gojo had cackled like a demon and said it screamed “emotionally available single dad with a tragic past.”
Nanami hates how right he might be.
Because then you walk in.
And your skirt—your skirt—is covered in hand-drawn, softly colored dinosaurs.
Brachiosaurus. Stegosaurus. Tiny little parasaurolophus curled in a spiral at the hem.
And you walk toward him.
“Oh no,” he mutters under his breath, which doesn’t go unnoticed by Yuji, who immediately squints up at him.
“Nanamin?”
“Nothing,” he says. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”
You’re waving, clipboard under one arm, your cardigan a soft lavender today, layered over a white blouse. And the boots. The same tiny-heeled, probably-ridiculously-comfortable boots you always wear.
But then the man himself showed up that morning, standing awkwardly near the museum entrance, a gentle expression that made him look like he’d just wandered off the set of a melancholic film about finding love in the quiet moments.
And—well.
You had not been prepared for him to be that attractive.
Which is saying something, because usually your brain does not clock this kind of thing so easily. Faces are hard. Emotions are harder. Subtext is a cursed language.
But something about Nanami made your neurons all scream in the same direction like an alarm: “ATTENTION. DILF IN CARDIGAN. WE REPEAT. HOT DAD DETECTED.”
So of course, like the absolute fool you are, you walked directly up to him.
“Nanami-san!” you say with a smile that could heal generational trauma. “Thanks for coming today. We really appreciate it.”
“My pleasure,” he replies, even as his brain screams ABORT MISSION SHE’S WEARING A SKIRT WITH DIPLODOCUSES ON IT THIS IS A HOSTILE ENVIRONMENT.
You fall into step beside him, gesturing to the kids who are already pressing their faces to the glass doors of the Natural History Museum.
“I hope you brought earplugs,” you joke, “They get really excited around the animatronic T-Rex.”
“I used to major in archaeology,” he says, playing it off. “I’ve heard worse.”
“Oh right! Yuji said you were a ‘dinosaur nerd with cool bones.’ I wasn’t sure what that meant until now.”
“Cool bones,” he echoes blankly. “Nice skirt,” he adds. Then cleared his throat like it surprised him too. “Thematic.”
You grinned. “Dinosaurs spark joy.”
And then, gods help you, you curtsied. CURTSIED. LIKE A MEDIEVAL LIBRARIAN.
You were going to die. Right there on the concrete.
You laugh anyway, then immediately start calling for the kids to get into pairs. And for the next two hours, Nanami watches you navigate chaos with the grace of a wind chime in a storm — always moving, always calm, somehow both delicate and indestructible.
He helps organize the snack break and accidentally impresses a cluster of seven-year-olds with a spontaneous lecture on hadrosaurs.
“Oh my god,” you whisper after, “You just explained cretaceous herbivores to a bunch of second graders and they understood you. That’s... incredible.”
He clears his throat. “They were attentive.”
You lean a little closer, eyes wide. “Can you stay forever?”
He almost dies.
*-*
The museum garden is surprisingly peaceful for a place surrounded by life-sized skeletons. It smells like grass and sunscreen and fruit gummies. You’re sitting cross-legged on a bench under the shade, Hello Kitty bento box in your lap, smiling as Yuji trades a grape jelly for a rice cracker.
Nanami sits beside you.
His heart stops.
Because there, nestled in your pink, compartmentalized lunch box, are four — count them, four — dinosaur nuggets.
You catch his stare and follow his gaze.
Dinosaur. Nuggets.
You didn’t think twice when you packed them this morning, still half-asleep with your hair in a messy bun and your cardigan inside out. You just thought: “The kids’ll love it. Thematic. Funny.” And also: they were on sale.
But now there’s Nanami Kento. Sitting next to you. Looking like a walking Pinterest board labeled “Divorced Hot Professor Aesthetic,” and you’re holding up a stegosaurus-shaped nugget like it’s the world’s saddest romantic overture.
“…Is that a dinosaur-shaped chicken nugget?” he asks, voice dry but—maybe—you think you detect a hint of amusement?
You blink. Then grin. “Oh. Yeah. Stegosaurus. Or... maybe a weird horse?”
Nanami adjusts his glasses. “It’s definitely a stegosaurus.”
“Thank you,” you say, overly sincerely, as if he’s just confirmed your doctoral thesis. “I try to stay on theme.”
“I noticed.” His eyes flick down to your skirt.
Right. The skirt.
It’s ankle-length. It’s flowy. It’s covered in pastel-colored dinosaur silhouettes. And you wore it on purpose—because the kids would love it and because you’re a sucker for matching your outfit to your lesson plans and because dressing like a chaotic kindergarten Pinterest board gives you comfort.
And maybe a little because someone else might notice.
(He noticed.)
He tries something wild. Something reckless.
He flirts.
Sort of.
You sip juice from a thermos with tiny stars on it.
He tries: “It’s nice. Seeing someone so enthusiastic. You light up when you talk about things you love.”
You blink at him.
“Thanks! That’s really sweet. I try not to get too annoying.”
“You’re not annoying at all.”
You pause, looking genuinely touched. “Oh. Wow. Thank you, Nanami-san. That... means a lot.”
It hits him like a train: you didn’t realize he was flirting. Not even a little.
He is doomed.
You don’t notice the way he looks at you then—soft, curious. Like he’s trying to memorize the way your face lights up when you talk about weird science facts or how you wiggle your shoulders when you’re proud of a lesson plan. He notices everything about you, always has. The chipped gold nail polish. The way you organize your clipboards by color. The fact that you hum Studio Ghibli soundtracks under your breath when you think no one’s listening.
But you’re not listening now. Because Yuji is screaming somewhere in the sand pit.
“OH NO THE FOSSIL IS DEAD AGAIN—”
You sigh. “Time to supervise the excavation, I guess.”
*-*
Term One: The Simpening.
It gets worse.
Or better.
Depends who you ask.
Nanami picks up Yuji every single day, rain or shine, and every single day you say hi. You talk. About school. About Yuji’s drawings. About the latest picture book you found on carnivorous plants.
He brings an umbrella when it rains. Offers you his coffee when you’re yawning. Buys you a little dinosaur keychain because Yuji said you’d like it. (You do. You clip it to your lanyard.)
You think it’s just—friendly. That he’s just a Very Nice Man.
You have no idea that Nanami Kento is living in emotional agony. That he goes home and lays awake thinking about the way your eyes scrunch when you laugh. That he remembers every outfit you’ve worn this semester. That he writes mental poetry about your hair.
That he tries—so many times—to flirt.
“That color looks nice on you,” he says one day, casually.
“Thanks!” you say. “It has pockets!”
He dies a little.
“You always wear such thoughtful accessories,” he tries another time.
“Oh, I got them on clearance!”
Dead. Flatline.
Eventually, he gives up entirely and just... listens. Collects every detail like sacred fossils. He watches you talk to the kids with your whole heart, watches you make jokes with Gojo, sees how Yuji glows when you praise his coloring page.
He wonders—more often than he should—what it would be like if things were different. If he had more time. Less fear.
If he could reach out.
If you’d ever reach back.
*-*
The day you wore the book skirt, Nanami stopped breathing for twelve full seconds.
It wasn’t even that flashy—okay, maybe it was. It was one of those high-waisted, pleated midi skirts with actual book covers printed on it. Little classics: Anne of Green Gables, The Little Prince, The Secret Garden, even Dune of all things, curled near the hem like it was hiding from the sun. You’d paired it with a crisp white blouse and your usual boots, and you had a book clip in your hair. A little enamel one. He noticed it right away.
Of course he did.
Nanami Kento notices everything about you. *
It’s sort of his curse.
How you always carry three pens but only use one.
How you count your steps in sets of four when you’re anxious.
How your handwriting changes depending on what mood you’re in—print when you're focused, cursive when you’re tired.
He notices the way you talk to Yuji like he’s an equal, like his little heart and brain are important.
He notices how you tilt your head when you listen, as if you’re cataloguing everything.
How you always stop to look at the clouds before you unlock your car door.
Nanami also notices that today, your earrings are little open books.
He is—officially—losing his mind.
So he tries.
He flirts.
Sort of.
“Your skirt,” he says, that evening at pickup, hands in his coat pockets, “is impressive. Is there... a theme today?”
You blink up at him, squinting against the sun. “Oh! Yeah. It’s Book Fair Week. You know—literacy encouragement and all that.”
“It suits you,” he says.
You smile. “Thanks! It has pockets.”
He almost screams.
*-*
This goes on for weeks. Flirt. Deflect. Flirt. Completely Missed Cue.
And it’s starting to hurt.
Because he really, really likes you.
But at some point—some horrible, cursed point—Nanami starts to wonder if you’re not just missing his signals.
Maybe you're ignoring them.
And not in a way that’s cute or endearing, but in a way that makes his stomach churn with the sharp guilt of a man raised in a country that taught men to be terrifying by default.
Maybe you're being polite.
Maybe you don’t like him, but also don’t want to upset him. Maybe you’re scared to reject him directly, because you don’t know what kind of man he is. Maybe you’ve been trying to gently pull away for weeks, and he’s been too selfish to notice.
So he stops.
Cold turkey.
No more flirtations. No more “thematic” compliments. No more sidelong glances. No more stolen moments when he pretends to touch your hand accidentally while passing you the clipboard.
He goes back to polite. Distant. Formal.
And it kills him.
*-*
It lasts three days.
You're folding chairs after the Friday morning assembly when you finally ask, straight-up, “Nanami-san, are you okay?”
And he just.
Snaps.
Not in an angry way—no, never. He would never raise his voice around you. But everything in him has been packed tight for weeks, and the stress is leaking out through the cracks in his carefully composed self.
“My boss rejected three quarters of my submitted quarterly figures today,” he says flatly. “I have to redo the entire proposal by midnight or risk losing our most lucrative client.”
“Oh.”
“The cat had an allergic reaction to the new litter. We had to rush him to the vet. Yuji cried for an hour. I cried for forty-five minutes. The vet bill is absurd.”
“Oh no.”
“I have not slept properly in four nights.”
“Nanami-san—”
“And I stopped flirting with you because I thought you were trying to let me down gently, and I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, but it’s driving me mad, and I’m exhausted, and I still think about your stupid weather-themed skirt from today—”
You blink.
Once.
Twice.
You look down at your skirt. Pale blue, with clouds stitched along the hem and tiny embroidered suns and raindrops. You paired it with yellow tights and a storm cloud pin.
You wore it because today’s science unit was climate and weather. The kids made rain clouds with cotton balls. Megumi told you that the sun embroidery looked like a fried egg. You’d laughed for a full minute.
Now?
You look at Nanami’s face. Pale. Tight-lipped. Scared.
And suddenly you see it. The way he’s been looking at you for months. The way he tries to speak your language. The way he cares.
“Oh,” you say.
“...I’m sorry,” Nanami adds, voice low. “I didn’t mean to overwhelm you. I just—I couldn’t not say something. Not anymore.”
You nod slowly.
“Well,” you say finally, “me too.”
He blinks. “...What?”
“I like you too,” you say, soft. “You’re very… capable.”
Nanami stares at you.
You smile. Thank him for his honesty.
And walk away.
He stands there at the school gates for an eternity.
Yuji tugs at his pant leg. “Nanamin?”
“…Yes?”
“Why do you look like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like someone hit you with a dictionary.”
Nanami puts a hand over his face.
*-*
That night, Nanami reevaluates everything.
What did you mean by “me too”? Why did you leave? Did you think he was rejecting you? Did he mess it up? Were you scared again? Did he blow it by being too direct?
He overanalyzes everything. The thank you. The smile. The pause. The weather skirt. The dinosaur nuggets.
He lies in bed and watches the ceiling. He makes a list of every interaction you’ve ever had. He’s going to lose his mind.
*-*
The next day, at pickup, he marches up to you like a man on a mission.
You’re crouching near the garden gate, showing Yuji, Megumi and a gaggle of children a ladybug on your wrist.
He clears his throat.
You look up.
“Oh, Nanami-san! Hi! Look—bug.”
“We need to talk,” he says.
You blink. “Huh?”
“About yesterday.”
You tilt your head. “Which part?”
“The part where we both admitted we liked each other and then you walked away like you’d just told me you liked my tie.”
“Oh,” you say. “That part.”
“Yes. That part.”
You let the ladybug go on a plant, you straighten up, brushing dirt from your palms.
“Sorry,” you say. “I needed to process. I don’t usually—well. Feel things. Like that.”
Nanami tilts his head. “Like what?”
“Big. Loud. Messy things. It’s hard to put them in order. And also... I didn’t want to be wrong.”
You look up at him.
“I do like you,” you say. “I just didn’t know what came next.”
Nanami is quiet for a long moment.
Then he says, “Coffee.”
You blink.
He clears his throat. “Come for coffee. With me. Tomorrow. After school.”
You smile. “Okay.”
Nanami exhales for the first time in months.
Yuji claps. Megumi sighs. Gojo, somewhere in the background (probably in the bushes), yells “I KNEW IT.”
*-*
Okay, so here’s the thing:
Nanami Kento is not someone who typically loses his composure.
He is steady. Reliable. He wears his watch two fingers above the wrist bone because it’s correct, he files his tax return early, and he drinks his coffee black, every time, without fail.
And yet.
The moment he saw you walk into that sleepy, tucked-away coffee shop on the western edge of Tokyo in your goddamn star-themed skirt—he almost dropped the ceramic mug he’d just been handed.
Cardinal blue. Gold thread. Constellations stitched by the gods themselves. The hem swaying just past your knees as you stepped in and shook the drizzle from your worn leather messenger bag. You looked like a vintage painting and smelled like chai and honey and the subtle scent of printer ink from your classroom.
He’s gonna throw up or propose. There is no in-between.
“Hi,” you said softly, pushing a damp strand of hair behind your ear. “Sorry I’m a bit late, I forgot my umbrella and had to borrow a friend’s.”
He stood when you approached, because of course he did, because manners, and helped you hang your bag over the back of the wooden chair. “No problem. I wasn’t waiting long.”
(He was. He got there fifteen minutes early like a weirdo. He’s never been this nervous in his life.)
You sat. The light was warm and soft in the little café, and rain slid in perfect, lazy streaks down the windows.
Aesthetic: immaculate.
Your skirt: criminal.
Nanami: struggling.
The date? It went stupidly well.
You liked the same books. You both couldn’t stand overly sweet coffee. You told him about your favorite classroom stories—about how Yuji tried to turn a math worksheet into a comic strip, and Megumi once corrected the dictionary in front of the entire class with no shame.
You laughed at his dry commentary. He smiled more than he had in years.
Your foot brushed his under the table by accident (you apologized, he short-circuited). You pointed out the rainbow-colored mug set near the pastry counter and whispered, “I want to live in this café.”
And when it was finally time to go?
It was still pouring.
Of course it was.
So Nanami, ever the gentleman, offered you his umbrella. Walked you to the metro. Held it tilted slightly more over you than himself, because of course he did.
And right there, under the yellow-orange glow of the metro entrance lights, you turned to him and said—
“I had a really nice time.”
He nodded. “Me too.”
Then—
You leaned up and kissed him.
Just.
Kissed him.
Soft. Light. Like stardust and sugar and everything he’d ever wanted. Your fingers brushed his jaw, and your lips pressed gently against his, and then you pulled back and said—
“Thanks for the coffee. See you Monday.”
And just walked away.
You walked away.
And Nanami just.
Stood there.
Absolutely fried.
A blank screen with the cursor blinking.
Then a gust of wind ripped the umbrella out of his hands and he had to chase it down the sidewalk in the rain like a clown, which felt incredibly on brand.
*-*
Pickups after that? Oh.
OH.
Nanami becomes a new man.
There is a kind of pep in his step that could only come from mutually confirmed crushes. He doesn’t skip (he would never), but if he did it would be between 3:18 and 3:22PM every weekday.
You make a point of saying, “Nice tie,” every time he wears the ones that match his socks. He dies. Reincarnates. Dies again.
You keep showing up in your thematic skirts. Snowflakes. Constellations. Pumpkins. Even a ramen-themed one once (he still thinks about that one at night).
You laugh at his dry flirting. You bring him little things—pressed leaves from class activities, sticky notes with Yuji quotes (“My sandwich fell into my feelings”), the occasional ginkgo leaf tucked into the pocket of his coat without him noticing.
He’s thriving.
You start holding hands casually. Nanami’s world explodes quietly in the background every time.
*-*
Then comes Christmas.
The school year winds down. There’s glitter on everything. Paper snowflakes. Holiday cards. Yuji is living on candy canes and joy. You’re exhausted but glowing.
You and Nanami have been dating (yes, dating, real word, real relationship, holy shit) for two months now, and the weekend after Christmas? That’s your dinner date night.
At his place.
Yuji is at Gojo’s with Megumi. Shoko’s coming later. There’s eggnog. It’s chaotic.
But for now?
Just the two of you.
You arrive wearing a dark green wool coat, cheeks flushed from the cold, and underneath—he catches a glint of golden thread.
A skirt again.
Of course.
This one is a deep velvet blue, stitched with little weather motifs—snowflakes, suns, clouds, golden-threaded lightning bolts. When you walk, the hem catches the lamplight like starlight.
Nanami’s already down bad.
You bring a bottle of wine, and two small gifts. He offers you slippers, makes sure the apartment is warm. There’s gentle jazz playing in the background, and the scent of roasted chicken and rosemary lingers in the air from dinner.
It’s quiet, safe, lovely.
When you hand him your gift, his throat tightens: it’s a small book of poetry. Well-worn. Annotated. Tabs and underlines and your handwriting in the margins. “Thought you might like it,” you say. “It’s the one I always borrow from the school library.”
He gives you a scarf, soft cashmere, navy blue to match your cardigan. “I thought it’d go with your weather skirts,” he says softly.
You put it on immediately. “Perfect. Thank you.”
You talk. Eat. Sip wine and tease each other, legs brushing under the table.
And when the plates are cleared, and the movie is halfway in, and the soft sound of wind against the windows hums in the background—
You reach for his hand.
Thread your fingers through his slowly.
He exhales. Tightens his grip. And when he looks over—your eyes are on his mouth.
“Come here,” you whisper.
And that’s the beginning of the end.
The first kiss is slow.
Molten.
You climb into his lap with easy confidence, your thighs straddling him as you pull his cardigan off with practiced hands. “Can I?” you murmur, fingers ghosting the buttons of his shirt.
“God, yes.”
You kiss him like you mean it—mouth warm, insistent, tongue just shy of sinful. He makes a soft sound as you slide your hands under his undershirt, palms smoothing over the firm planes of his stomach. He’s warm, solid, trembling just slightly beneath your touch.
He grips your waist, strong and grounding, then lets one hand drift up your back, feeling every ridge of your spine, every shift in your breath. You shiver, and he doesn’t miss it.
“You cold?” he murmurs against your cheek.
You shake your head. “Warm enough.”
His lips curve. “Let me make sure.”
Nanami carries you to the bedroom. Gently. Reverently.
It’s neat. Softly lit. The bed’s already turned down, the blankets inviting. He sets you down like you’re fragile and precious and peels your cardigan away, fingers brushing your arms like he’s memorizing every inch.
You’re wearing a fitted blouse. He undoes the buttons slowly, one by one, mouth dragging down your collarbone.
He doesn’t rush.
No.
Kento Nanami maps you.
With his mouth.
Your moles, freckles, the faintest scar on your left shoulder—he presses his lips to each one like a cartographer sketching stars. Every kiss is deliberate. Like a prayer.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs. “You’re so—”
You kiss him again, hands diving into his hair, short blond strands soft between your fingers. You gasp when he pulls your blouse fully off and kisses your sternum, warm mouth leaving heat that pools deep in your belly.
You guide his hand to your skirt.
He raises a brow.
You nod.
And he worships.
When he gets you naked, he doesn't stare. He studies. Like you're a miracle he’s only just earned the right to touch.
His mouth drags down your chest, past your navel, over your hip. You’re shaking by the time he kisses the inside of your thigh.
“Relax,” he murmurs, kissing your knee, your ankle, every delicate part of you. “I’ve got you.”
And he does.
His hands are steady, his mouth sinfully talented. He learns your body by sound—gasps, moans, the sharp inhale you take when his tongue flicks just right.
When you come the first time, you’re half-sobbing, fingers tangled in his hair, thighs clenching around his head.
“Fuck—Kento—”
He just holds you through it.
Kisses your hips as you ride it out. Pulls you up after, wraps you in the blanket for a minute, presses a hand to your chest.
“You okay?”
You blink at him.
“What are you?”
He laughs, low and quiet. “Yours, if you’ll have me.”
Round two begins with you pulling him onto the bed, kissing him slow and sweet and deep. You help him out of his shirt. Then his pants. Your hands roam like you’re learning him too.
“You’re gorgeous,” you breathe, lips against his neck. “So capable. Always holding everything together.”
You kiss down his jaw.
His chest.
Lower.
When you take him into your mouth, he loses it—his hands fisting in the sheets, jaw slack, whispering your name like a sin. You suck him slow. Deep. He’s breathless, ragged, hands trembling when he finally pulls you up.
“Need you,” he growls. “Now.”
You guide him in.
Both of you moaning into each other’s mouths, your nails digging into his back, his lips at your shoulder, your neck—he bites you.
It’s soft. Sharp. Possessive.
You gasp.
“Oh—fuck, do that again—”
He does.
Harder.
You mark him back with your nails.
You ride him, pressed chest-to-chest, whispering praises between every kiss. He holds your hips, guiding your rhythm, groaning your name like it’s the only word he knows.
You both come hard—together.
It’s messy.
Raw.
Feral.
And then it’s tender.
He doesn’t let you move.
He wraps you in blankets, pulls you into his chest, kisses your temple and smooths your hair.
“You’re staying,” he says. “Non-negotiable.”
You hum sleepily. “Good. Too cold to walk anyway.”
“I’ll make you breakfast in the morning.”
“Will it be dinosaur-shaped?”
A low laugh. “I’ll do my best.”
You nuzzle into him. Kiss his neck. He feels the sting from your earlier bite and shivers.
“Marked me,” he murmurs.
“Felt fair,” you reply, dreamy. “You already ruined me.”
He smiles. Kisses your shoulder. “You have no idea.”
*-*
The next morning, Yuji finds Nanami’s cardigan on the lamp.
You wear his shirt to breakfast. He hands you dinosaur pancakes shaped with a cookie cutter. You kiss his cheek.
content: no proof read!, fem!reader, dad!nanami, nanami and reader have three sons: ren (3), haruki (seven) and kaito (eight), just nanami admiring his wife and being thankful of you being the mother of his children.
nanami always thought that he would be a girl dad, he always imagined himself doting his little princess and you, but never in his life he would have thought he would end up being a father of three boys.
three boys that looked exactly like him, same blonde hair, same brown eyes and even the same facial expression of disappointment. something that gojo liked to emphasize — it’s like nanami multiplied by three.
it was a normal thursday night when you left nanami and the boys at home. it wasn't uncommon for you to go out sometimes with shoko and higuruma to have some drinks. but while you were having the most relaxing and chill night, kento was having the opposite.
"no cawots" said your son ren, as he moved the plate in front of him, a small scowl adorning his chubby face. kento sighs, tonight the boys have a wide variety of vegetables (and meat) to eat, but of course the carrots and the green beans are the least popular dishes.
"come on, my love, I put a few of them because I knew you didn't like it, look your brothers are eating everything" kento says as he points his two oldest sons, haruki and kaito as they're both too strangely quiet eating their food.
"it's not true" ren points out "they awe ex-exchanging the fwood between the twable ewytime you tuwn around" shocked by his son's confession kento turns around as he sees the two oldest cought red handed.
"ren you're a snitch" says your son haruki as kaito agrees with him.
"we're not going to play with you anymore" says kaito. kento tries to interfere but a loud cry is heard, and he sees ren crying, chubby cheeks red and with tears.
kento sighs again, in times like these he always wonders how you do it, every time you're here everything goes smoothly, the children listen, they behave. but when he's here he feels like he lacks something 'am I not a good father?' he thinks, he brushes the thoughts away, and places both hands on the table, catching the children's attention.
"okay, that's enough" he looks at his two older sons "first finish whatever you have on your plates and if I see any type of smuggling you're grounded" kaito and haruki nod at the same time, as they see his serious face "and second and last: apologise to your bother."
"we're sorry ren" both of them look down. ren looks at them still sniffling "it'z owkay"
"now let's finish the carrots, and then we will see cars, after that bed"
as if some magic words were spelled, the children finish their food and the night goes smoothly.
by the time the clock hits 10 o'clock, he's tucking in ren. as he exits the room, he finally let's his shoulders relax, going straight to the sofa kento sits, he looks at the side wall, a portrait of you, the children and him smiling widely. he looks at the other photos and smiles, never had he thought that he would be living such a fulfilling life as this.
he hears some keys giggling, and the door of the entrance opens revealing your form, he sees how you try to keep your steps light in order not to wake up anyone.
"they're all asleep" you jump at the sound of his voice.
"oh my god kento, you almost gave me a heart attack" you say as you place your hand on your chest. "how did it go? did they behave?" kento approaches you, engulffing you into his embrace.
"you're amazing you know that, right?" he says, you chuckle at his words "I told you cooking vegetables tonight wouldn't be a good idea" you smile at him, as you cup his face with your hands.
"were they smuggling the food?" you said, kento laughs "they were successful until ren snitched on them" you laugh this time. although they were a carbon copy of your husband they were still children, sometimes you wondered if kento was like this growing up.
"well, since you did a wonderful job, how about we lay here a little bit" you say as you guide him towards the sofa "you really deserve it"
"oh tonight was nothing, I should be the one doing this to you every day" he says as he sits on the sofa, he opens his legs to give you some room to sit on his thigh. "you're amazing my love, I'll never get tired of saying it"
"I'll never get tired of saying to same to you too my love. never"
The sickness had been lingering like a shadow—never quite announcing itself, but never leaving either. It crept in quietly, first as a dull queasiness, then as a persistent nausea that clung to your days like fog. You’d brushed it off at first. A bad batch of takeout, maybe. A stomach bug. Something transient. But the days passed, and the unease remained, growing roots in your body.
Now, you were hunched over the toilet, your breath ragged, your skin clammy with sweat. The porcelain was cool against your cheek, grounding you in its sterile stillness. Your hair stuck to your face in damp strands, and the taste of bile lingered at the back of your throat. You felt hollowed out.
Kento had noticed, of course. He always did. His concern had been quiet. He’d taken over the kitchen without a word, preparing meals with the kind of care that bordered on reverence. Every ingredient was inspected, every dish crafted with precision. You’d teased him about it—called him your “private chef”—and he’d only offered a soft smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“I just want you to feel safe,” he’d said one night, setting down a bowl of miso soup with hands that had defeated countless curses and still found gentleness.
But even his cooking couldn’t chase the sickness away.
You pulled yourself up from the floor, legs trembling beneath you, and leaned against the sink. The mirror caught your reflection—a pale, gaunt version of yourself. Your eyes looked too big for your face, your lips cracked and red at the corners. You looked like someone who’d been trapped in a basement for days.
You opened the cabinet above the toilet, rummaging through the clutter until your fingers brushed against a small, forgotten box. The pregnancy tests. Bought months ago, back when you and Kento had first begun to speak in hypotheticals. Children. Futures. Not plans, not yet. Just possibilities.
You stared at the box for a long moment, your heart thudding in your chest. You peeled it open, the plastic crinkling like thunder in the quiet room. Reading the instructions twice, then again, your hands trembled as you followed them. When it was done, you set the test on the counter and backed away, as if distance might soften the blow.
You sank to the floor again, knees drawn to your chest, the cold tile biting into your skin. The minutes stretched, elastic and cruel. Your mind spiraled—memories and fears colliding in a storm of thought. You remembered the way Kento had looked at you the last time you’d talked about children—his gaze steady, but shadowed. “It’s not that I don’t want them,” he’d said. “It’s just... the world is so uncertain.”
And it was. Gojo’s sudden reappearance had thrown everything into chaos. That boy—Yuuji, with the cursed energy stitched into his bones—had become a new variable in a world already teetering on the edge. Missions were piling up. Kento was being pulled in every direction, and you could see it in the way he moved—like a man walking through a minefield.
This wasn’t the time.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
You didn’t hear the alarm on your phone go off.
But Kento did.
He stepped into the apartment, the door clicking shut behind him like punctuation. His tie was loosened, his brow furrowed, his shoulders heavy with the weight of another day spent navigating the wreckage of other people’s lives. The chime echoed from the bedroom, and he followed it, toeing off his shoes with the grace of someone who’d learned to move quietly through chaos.
He found you in the bathroom, eyes glazed, leaning against the cabinet like a ghost of yourself. The alarm blared from the counter, shrill and insistent.
“Hey,” he said softly, silencing it with a tap. “What was that for?”
You blinked, startled, then bit your lip.
There was no use lying. No use waiting.
“I... I think I might be pregnant.”
Silence.
Kento didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak. Just looked at you with that unreadable expression he wore when the ground beneath him shifted. You shrank into yourself, bracing for disappointment.
He glanced at the counter. “Did you check?”
You hesitated. “Not yet.”
He nodded once, slowly. “Let’s see.”
You reached for the test, hands still trembling, and held it out to him. “Can you... I’d rather you tell me.”
He took it gently, his own breath held as if he were diffusing a bomb. His eyes scanned the result, and for a moment, you thought you saw his hands tremble. Just a flicker. Then a tear slipped down his cheek, quiet and unannounced.
“It’s positive,” he said, voice cracking into a laugh that sounded like relief and disbelief all at once.
You gasped, knees buckling, but he caught you before you hit the ground. His arms wrapped around your elbows, steady and warm.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, the words tumbling out. “I didn’t mean for this to happen now. With everything going on—Gojo, Yuuji, the missions—you’re already stretched so thin, and I don’t want to add to it, and I know we aren’t trying, and—”
“Sweetheart,” he interrupted, pulling you close, pressing kisses to your damp forehead, your cheeks, your temple. “How could I ever be upset about this?”
You blinked up at him, tears welling. “But it’s not a good time. We didn’t plan for this. It might mess up your—”
“No,” he said firmly, brushing your hair back. “It won’t mess up anything. I’ll just adjust my plans around this. Around you. Around our child.”
You stared at him, heart thudding, the weight of your fears slowly lifting.
---
By the next morning, he had already booked the appointment. You hadn’t even asked. You woke to the sound of his voice in the hallway, low and clipped, the kind of tone he used when speaking to superiors. When he returned to the bedroom, he sat beside you and placed a hand on your thigh.
“Tomorrow. Nine a.m. OBGYN had a cancellation.”
You blinked at him, still groggy, still unsure if this was real. “You didn’t have to—”
“I did,” he said simply. “It’s not negotiable.”
That night, he stayed up late. You woke once to the soft glow of his laptop, casting a pale light across his face. He was reading. Medical journals, parenting blogs, forums filled with anxious first-time fathers. His brow was furrowed, his fingers curled around a mug of tea gone cold. You watched him for a moment, then drifted back to sleep.
By morning, the kitchen had transformed. The counter was lined with prenatal vitamins, ginger chews, and teas labeled “safe for pregnancy.” He’d printed out a list of dietary restrictions and taped it to the fridge, right next to the photo of the two of you in Kyoto—smiling beneath cherry blossoms.
Your meals became fully overseen by Kento. He cooked with reverence, measuring spices, double-checking every label, every temperature. You teased him once. Called him your “bodyguard”, and he didn’t even smile. Just said, “Someone has to be thorough,” and handed you a bowl of steamed vegetables with the care of a man offering a prayer.
One afternoon, you went out for lunch together. The restaurant was quiet, the air fragrant with soy and citrus. You scanned the menu, eyes landing on the sashimi platter. You hadn’t had it in weeks, and the craving was sharp, almost physical.
“I think I’ll get—”
“No,” Kento said, gently but firmly, his hand closing over yours. “Raw fish is off-limits.”
You blinked. “It’s just—”
He launched into a quiet, impassioned explanation about mercury levels, parasites, and the risks to fetal development. You stared at him, amused, touched. His voice was calm, but his eyes were fierce—like he was around Yuuji.
You ended up with a miso-glazed salmon, cooked thoroughly, and he watched you eat like he was memorizing the way you chewed.
Another time, at a gathering with friends, you reached for a plate of fruit. Pineapple, papaya, mango. The colors were bright, the scent sweet. But before you could take a bite, Kento appeared beside you, gently taking the plate from your hands.
“Some fruits have enzymes that can trigger contractions,” he murmured, replacing them with slices of apple and pear. “Better to be cautious.”
You should’ve been annoyed. You should’ve rolled your eyes and told him to relax. But instead, you felt something warm unfurl in your chest. His protectiveness wasn’t suffocating—it was grounding. It was his way of coping with the nervousness of stepping into the new, fitted shoes of fatherhood.
He began waking with you during your bouts of morning sickness, no matter how early, no matter how exhausted he was. You’d stumble to the bathroom, and he’d be there mere moments later, holding your hair back, dabbing a damp cloth on your forehead and collar, whispering reassurances in a voice that felt like balm.
He brought you ginger tea in your favorite mug.
One morning, after a particularly rough spell, you collapsed into his arms, trembling. He held you close, his chin resting on the crown of your head.
“You’re doing beautifully,” he whispered. “I’m so proud of you.”
Your fingers curled into his shirt.
---
The bedroom was quiet in that late-afternoon way—sunlight slanting through the curtains, casting long golden streaks across the floor, the air still and warm. You were barefoot, standing in the middle of it all, folding laundry with slow, practiced movements. The scent of clean cotton and lavender clung to the fabric, soft and familiar. A half-finished basket sat beside the bed, shirts and towels stacked in neat piles.
Kento was nearby, sitting cross-legged on the rug, matching socks with determined focus. His sleeves were rolled up, and he had that look on his face—the one he wore when he was deep in thought. You’d grown used to the silence between you. It was full of small things. Shared space. Shared breath.
You reached up to place a folded stack of shirts in the top shelf of the closet, stretching just slightly. Your shirt lifted with the motion, exposing a sliver of skin above your waistband.
Kento noticed.
He paused mid-fold, eyes catching on the curve of your lower stomach. It was subtle—barely there. He stood up slowly, like he didn’t want to disturb the tranquil moment.
You were still stacking more shirts when you felt his arms wrap around you from behind. Warm. Solid. Familiar. His hands settled low on your belly, gentle and unmoving, and you froze for a second, startled by the sudden closeness.
“Kento,” you said, laughing softly. “You scared me. I didn’t hear you get up.”
He didn’t answer right away. Just pressed his palm a little more firmly, like he was checking. Like he needed to feel it for himself.
“You’re showing,” he said quietly, almost like he didn’t believe it until now.
You blinked, then looked down. “Really?”
He nodded, then guided you gently toward the mirror without a word. You let him. His hands stayed on you, steady as ever, and when you stood in front of the glass, you saw it—just a slight curve. A soft swell. Nothing dramatic, but it was there.
“I didn’t even notice,” you murmured.
You smiled, reached up to touch his cheek. “You’re staring.”
“I’m allowed,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “You’re carrying our child.”
You leaned back into him, letting your weight rest against his chest. His arms tightened around you, and you felt his breath against your neck—slow, steady. His thumbs moved in slow circles over your belly, like he was memorizing it.
Your hands joined his over the curve of your stomach. The laundry sat forgotten on the bed. The sun kept sinking. And for a little while, you just stood there—wrapped in each other, wrapped in the moment.
He shifted slightly, brushing your hair back behind your ear, then kissed the side of your neck. “You’re beautiful,” he said, voice low. “Even more than usual.”
You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you. “You’re just saying that because I’m growing a tiny person.”
“I’m saying it because it’s true,” he said. “But the tiny person helps.”
You laughed, soft and breathy, and turned in his arms just enough to rest your forehead against his collarbone.
---
The clinic was quiet in a way that made everything feel more serious. Not sterile—just still. The kind of quiet where even the sound of your shoes against the tile felt too loud. You sat beside Kento in the waiting room, your fingers loosely laced with his. He hadn’t said much since you checked in. Just nodded when the nurse called your name, just squeezed your hand once when you stood to follow her.
You could feel it in him. Not nerves exactly. Just something tightly wound. His thumb kept brushing over your knuckles, slow and rhythmic, like he needed the contact to stay steady. You glanced at him once, and he gave you a small smile.
Inside the exam room, the lights were dimmed. The technician was kind, her voice soft and practiced. You lay back, shirt lifted, gel cool against your skin. Kento stood beside you, one hand resting lightly on your shoulder, the other curled into a fist at his side.
Then the sound filled the room.
A heartbeat.
Fast. Steady. Alive.
You turned your head toward him. His eyes were wide, mouth slightly parted. He didn’t speak, didn’t move. Just stared at the monitor like it was something sacred.
You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. Kento didn’t say anything until you were dressed again, the printed scans tucked into a small envelope in your hands. On the way out, he asked for a copy of the heartbeat recording. His voice was quiet, but firm.
The drive home was quiet. You sat with the envelope in your lap, fingers tracing the edges, then pulled out the scans one by one. The tiny form. The curve of a spine. The outline of a head. It didn’t feel theoretical anymore. It didn’t feel like a maybe.
It was real.
Kento tapped his phone, and the heartbeat filled the car again—soft, steady, looping. You stared at the scans, tracing the shape of the baby’s body with your fingertip, and something inside you cracked open.
You sniffled once. Then again. Tears welled up, uninvited, and spilled over before you could stop them.
Kento glanced at you, alarmed. “Hey—are you okay?”
You nodded, but the tears kept coming. You tried to speak, but it came out as a hiccup. He pulled into the driveway quickly, parked without turning off the engine, and was out of the car in seconds. Your door opened, and he was crouched beside you, arms already reaching.
“Come here,” he said, voice low and urgent.
You let him lift you, let him carry you inside like you weighed nothing. The scans were still clutched in your hand, crumpled slightly now. He settled you onto the sofa, sat beside you, pulled you into his chest.
You cried into him, face buried in the soft cotton of his shirt. His arms wrapped around you, firm and steady. One hand cradled the back of your head, the other rubbed slow circles into your spine.
“What happened?” he asked softly. “Is something wrong?”
You shook your head, sniffling. “No. It’s just... it hit me. On the drive. That there’s a heart. A real heart. And it’s beating. And it’s inside me.”
He brushed the hair from your face, wiped a tear from your lips with the pad of his thumb. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were warm. Deep.
“I’m carrying a whole person,” you whispered. “And they’re growing. And they’re okay.”
He didn’t speak. Just held you tighter, rocking you gently like you were the child. His hand smoothed down your hair, again and again, until your breathing slowed.
“You’re doing so well,” he murmured. “I’m so proud of you.”
You hiccupped once more, then went quiet. The tears had stopped, but your face was still damp, your fingers still curled into the fabric of his shirt.
“I’m sorry,” you mumbled, voice small. “I didn’t mean to make a scene.”
He tilted your chin up gently, made you meet his eyes. “You didn’t,” he said. “You’re allowed to feel this way.”
You nodded, eyes glassy. He leaned in and kissed you softly. You melted into it, into him, into the gentle hum of the house around you.
---
Gojo arrived first, as expected—arms full of takeout bags and a bottle of sparkling cider he claimed was “the good stuff, non-alcoholic, baby-safe, and blessed by the gods of celebration.” Shoko followed not long after, hair still damp from a late shift, a box of pastries tucked under one arm and a quiet smile on her face. Yuuji showed up last, a little breathless, cheeks pink from jogging up the stairs, holding a bouquet of sunflowers he’d clearly picked up on the way.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, grinning. “I didn’t know what to bring so I brought... these.”
You laughed, taking the bouquet. “They’re perfect.”
Dinner was easy. The kind of night where conversation flowed without effort, where laughter came in waves and the food disappeared faster than you could plate it.
You waited until everyone had settled, until the table was cluttered with empty dishes and half-finished drinks, before you cleared your throat.
“So,” you said, glancing at Kento. He gave you a small nod, the corner of his mouth twitching up.
“We wanted to tell you something,” you continued. “We’re having a baby.”
For a second, there was silence. Then—
“No way!” Gojo practically shouted, nearly knocking over his glass. “You’re serious?”
Shoko’s eyes widened, then softened. “You’re really pregnant?”
You nodded, and Yuuji let out a whoop, throwing his arms in the air. “I’m gonna be an older brother? That’s so cool!”
Gojo leaned back in his chair, grinning. “Uncle Gojo has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
“God help us,” Kento muttered under his breath.
Shoko laughed. “I call dibs on being the cool aunt.”
“You’re all going to corrupt our child,” you said, smiling despite yourself.
“Corrupt?” Gojo gasped, mock-offended. “I’ll have you know I’m a pillar of moral excellence. Speaking of which—do you think the baby will like mochi? Because I feel like mochi is a personality trait, and it’s never too early to start.”
You rolled your eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet, here I am,” he said, raising his glass. “To the baby.”
Everyone echoed the toast, glasses clinking, laughter spilling into the warm air of the apartment. It felt good. It felt real. Like the future was already beginning to take shape around you.
Hours later, the house was quiet again. The dishes were done, the lights dimmed, and the two of you had been in bed for a while now. Kento had fallen asleep easily, one arm draped over your waist, his breathing slow and even.
You, on the other hand, were wide awake.
You shifted. Tried closing your eyes. Tried counting your breaths. But the craving had crept in slowly, then all at once—sharp and specific and impossible to ignore.
You turned onto your side, nudging him gently. “Kento.”
He stirred, groaning softly. “Mm?”
“I can’t sleep.”
He blinked, voice thick with sleep. “What’s wrong?”
You hesitated. “I’m... hungry.”
He sighed, already sensing where this was going. “What is it?”
You bit your lip. “Garlic butter pasta.”
He didn’t move.
“And... red bean mochi.”
There was a long pause. Then, muffled into the pillow: “I’m going to kill Gojo.”
You laughed, sheepish. “I’m sorry. I tried to ignore it.”
He sat up slowly, rubbing his face. “You’re lucky I love you.”
“I know.”
He reached for his coat and keys without another word. You sat up too, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed.
“You don’t have to come,” he said, glancing at you.
“I want to,” you replied, already pulling on a hoodie. “I feel bad.”
He looked like he was about to argue, then stopped himself. He just nodded, quietly accepting that this was one of those things you couldn’t help.
The mochi was easier to find than expected. The pasta, though—he insisted on making it himself when you got home. You sat on the counter, legs swinging, watching him move around the kitchen in sweatpants and a hoodie, hair still rumpled from sleep.
He didn’t complain. Just muttered things under his breath about “Gojo and his cursed influence” while he stirred the sauce.
When he finally set the plate in front of you, you nearly melted at the first bite. The pasta was perfect—rich and buttery, with just the right amount of garlic. The mochi was cold and chewy and exactly what you’d been craving.
You didn’t even finish the plate. Halfway through, your body gave in to the warmth and the fullness and the comfort of it all. Your eyelids grew heavy, and you leaned against Kento’s shoulder with a quiet sigh.
“Sleepy?” he asked, brushing your hair back.
“Mhm.”
He scooped you up without hesitation, carrying you back to bed. You didn’t protest. Just curled into him as he pulled the blankets over you, his arms wrapping around you like a second skin.
He kissed your forehead, then tucked your head beneath his chin.
“Better?” he murmured.
You nodded, already half-asleep. “Thank you.”
He didn’t say anything. Just held you, steady and warm, until the world faded out.
---
The third trimester had arrived like a tide—slow at first, then all-consuming. Your belly had grown into something undeniable, a round, heavy presence that shifted your center of gravity and made even the simplest tasks feel like uphill climbs. Your feet ached constantly, your back throbbed in a dull, persistent rhythm, and your ankles had begun to swell by mid-afternoon no matter how much water you drank or how often you elevated them.
You’d started groaning involuntarily when you sat down. Or stood up. Or turned over in bed. Kento had taken to watching you like a hawk, his eyes narrowing every time you winced or rubbed your lower back.
The two of you had been overjoyed to learn you were having a girl. The moment the technician had pointed to the screen and said, “Looks like a daughter,” Kento had gone quiet in that way he did when something hit him deep. Later, in the car, he’d whispered, “A girl,” like he was still trying to believe it.
Since then, he’d thrown himself into preparing the nursery. He’d insisted on keeping everything gender-neutral—soft greens, warm wood tones, muted creams. “I don’t want her to feel boxed in before she even gets here,” he’d said, adjusting the height of the mobile above the crib.
You’d laughed. “She’s not going to be forming opinions for a while, you know.”
He’d looked at you, completely serious. “She’s already a person. I want her to feel free.”
And that was Kento. Thoughtful to the bone. Headstrong in ways that made you feel safe even when your body didn’t.
Tonight, you were in the kitchen, leaning against the counter and trying to stretch out your spine. The ache had settled deep into your lower back, a kind of pressure that made you want to cry and crawl out of your own skin. You groaned softly, pressing your palms into the edge of the counter, trying to shift the weight forward.
Kento walked in, barefoot and sleepy-eyed, heading toward the sink for a glass of water. He paused when he saw you, his brow furrowing.
“Back again?” he asked, voice low.
You nodded, teeth gritted. “It feels like someone’s wedged a brick between my spine and my pelvis.”
He set the glass down and walked over, placing a hand on your shoulder. “I saw something online. Want to try it?”
“At this point,” you said, “I’d let you hang me upside down if it helped.”
He smiled, then moved behind you. You felt his hands slide around your belly, fingers interlacing beneath the curve. He adjusted his stance, braced himself, and gently lifted.
The relief was instant.
The weight shifted forward, off your spine, and you nearly whimpered. Your knees went soft, your shoulders dropped, and your head fell back against his collarbone with a quiet, broken sigh.
“Oh my god,” you breathed. “Don’t move.”
“I’m not,” he murmured, arms steady beneath you. “Just breathe.”
You did. Slowly. Deeply. The pain didn’t vanish, but it dulled—muted by the shift in pressure, by the warmth of his body behind yours, by the quiet strength in his hold.
You stayed like that for a while. Minutes, maybe. His arms didn’t tremble or falter. He just held you, patient and still, like this was the most natural thing in the world.
“I don’t deserve you,” you whispered, eyes closed.
“You do,” he said simply.
You turned your head slightly, cheek brushing his shoulder. “Your arms are going to fall off.”
“They won’t,” he said. “I’ve got you.”
Eventually, he eased you back upright, his hands lingering for a moment before releasing. You turned to face him, eyes glassy, body lighter.
“Thank you,” you said.
He kissed your forehead, then reached for the glass of water he’d forgotten. “Anytime.”
You watched him drink, watched the way his shoulders moved, the way his hair fell into his eyes. And you felt that overwhelimg onslaught of love for your husband.
---
The bedroom was quiet, lit only by the soft amber glow of the bedside lamp. You were already in bed, propped up against a stack of pillows, your legs stretched out and ankles wrapped in a warm compress Kento had prepared earlier. The ache in your back had dulled to a low hum, but your skin felt tight, stretched across the curve of your belly like it was holding something too precious to contain.
Kento emerged from the bathroom, towel slung over his shoulder, a small glass bottle in his hand. His new favorite part of the bedtime routine.
He climbed onto the bed beside you, settling in with quiet focus. “Ready?”
You nodded, lifting your shirt just enough to expose the soft swell of your belly. The marks were faint, thin, silvery lines that had begun to bloom across your skin like whispers. You hadn’t minded them much. They felt like proof. Like evidence of something growing.
Kento poured a few drops of oil into his palm, warming it between his hands before leaning in. He kissed one of the marks, then another, then another.
You giggled softly. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m thorough,” he murmured, lips brushing the curve of your belly. “She’s growing in here. I want her to know she’s loved.”
“She’s not going to remember this.”
“I will.”
He began massaging the oil into your skin, his touch gentle but firm, moving in slow circles. You closed your eyes, letting yourself sink into the warmth of it, the intimacy of being cared for like this. His hands moved with intention, tracing the shape of you like he was memorizing it.
After a while, you opened your eyes again, watching him work. “You know,” you said, voice casual, “sex is allowed during pregnancy.”
He didn’t pause. “I know.”
You blinked. “You know?”
He nodded, still focused on your belly. “I read about it. It’s safe. As long as you’re comfortable.”
You stared at him. “Then why haven’t you... I mean, we haven’t...”
He finally looked up, eyes wide. “Wait—you thought I didn’t want to?”
You shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. “I don’t know. I figured maybe I wasn’t... appealing right now.”
He sat up straighter, panic flickering across his face. “No. No, no, no. That’s not it at all. I’ve wanted to. I just... I didn’t want to push. I was waiting for you to say something. I didn’t want you to feel pressured.”
You blinked again, heart thudding. “You’ve wanted to?”
He nodded, earnest. “I’ve never been more attracted to you. You’re carrying our daughter. You’re glowing. You’re... you.”
You reached for him, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck. “You idiot,” you whispered, and then you kissed him—firm, hungry, grounding.
He responded instantly, hands finding your waist, your back, your face. The oil bottle tipped onto the sheets, forgotten. The lamp stayed on.
---
There was a low, dragging ache in your back. You were standing in the hallway, one hand pressed to the wall, the other cradling the underside of your belly, trying to breathe through it. You’d felt tightness before—Braxton Hicks, pressure, discomfort—but this was different. This had rhythm. This had teeth.
You called for Kento without raising your voice. He was already watching you from the kitchen, glass of water halfway to his lips. He set it down, crossed the room in three strides, and placed a hand on your spine.
“Is it time?” he asked.
You nodded, eyes squeezed shut. “I think so.”
The drive to the hospital was quiet. You didn’t speak much. You couldn’t. Every few minutes, another wave would hit, and you’d grip the door handle, breathing like you’d practiced, like it would help. Kento kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh, his thumb moving in slow circles.
At triage, they confirmed you were in active labor—but not ready yet. “Six centimeters,” the nurse said, cheerful in a way that made you want to scream. “We’ll get you admitted. In the meantime, walking helps. Or the birthing ball.”
You stared at her. “You want me to walk?”
“It helps move things along.”
Kento helped you into the gown, his hands steady as he tied the back. You leaned against him, forehead to his chest, breathing through another contraction.
“I don’t want to walk,” you muttered.
“I know,” he said. “But staying still makes it worse.”
You glared at him. “You’re not the one whose pelvis is trying to split open.”
He nodded solemnly. “I’m aware.”
You shuffled down the hallway, one hand gripping the rail, the other clutching his. Every few steps, you stopped, bent slightly, and groaned through the pain. You cursed. You cried. You leaned into him like he was the only thing keeping you upright.
Eventually, you returned to the room and eyed the exercise ball like it was a personal enemy. Kento crouched beside it, patting the top.
“Just for a little while,” he said. “I’ll be right here.”
You lowered yourself onto it with a groan, gripping his forearms for balance. The pressure shifted—not relief, but something different. You winced, breathing through it, forehead pressed to his abdomen.
He just held you steady, murmuring encouragement, brushing your hair back when it stuck to your face.
Time blurred. The pain sharpened, then dulled, then sharpened again. You squeezed his hand so hard he winced, but never pulled away. You swore at him. You apologized. You swore again.
When it was finally time, Kento stayed beside you, his hand in yours, his voice low and steady.
“You’re doing so well,” he said. “I’ve got you.”
You didn’t feel strong. You felt like you were being torn open. But he stayed with you, through every push, every scream, every insult you hurled at him in the heat of it.
And then—
A cry.
Sharp. New. Alive.
You collapsed back against the pillows, chest heaving, tears streaming down your face. Kento stood frozen for a moment, eyes glassy, before the nurse placed her in his arms.
Your daughter.
Tiny. Pink. Real.
He looked down at her like she was something sacred. His voice cracked when he whispered, “I’ve waited so long to meet you.”
He brushed a thumb over her cheek, then looked at you—exhausted, trembling, radiant.
“I’m going to protect her,” he said. “With everything I have.”
You nodded, unable to speak. The nurse helped you position her against your chest, and she latched almost immediately, her tiny mouth searching, finding, feeding.
Kento sat beside you, one arm around your shoulders, the other holding his phone. He snapped a few quiet photos—your face soft with awe, your daughter nestled against you, the room dim and warm.
For memory. Because your lives had changed completely from this moment onwards.
