Down the hall, in the staff residential wing, the night had been long. Riku, one year old and cutting a molar, had decided sleep was for the weak. Y/n had paced, rocked, and sung every lullaby she knew until her voice was hoarse. Gojo hadn’t come home—another late-night mission, another text that just read “Be back by dawn! (Maybe!)”.

Now, in the hazy, sleep-deprived morning, a familiar voice floated through the slightly ajar door of the apartment. Loud. Cheerful. His.

On autopilot, y/n shifted the drowsy, heavy weight in her arms, adjusted the blanket around his small shoulders, and followed the sound. Her slippers whispered against the polished wooden floors. The voice led her down the familiar corridor, past the staff room, and right up to a classroom door.

Without a second thought, she slid the door open.

Gojo Satoru was turned halfway toward the blackboard, one hand resting on his hip, the other holding a piece of chalk. He froze mid-sentence.

The three first-years looked up.

And there, in the doorway, stood y/n, hair in a messy bun, wearing rumpled loungewear, holding a sleeping toddler. The toddler had a shock of snow-white hair peeking out from the blanket, and one bright blue eye cracked open to peer grumpily at the sudden light.

The room was utterly, profoundly silent.