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Utahime had no idea how she had ended up in this nerve-wracking situation. Just one short hour ago, she had been peacefully grading papers, actively pretending she was not hopelessly in love with a certain six-foot-tall man-child.
Then, without any warning, Gojo had simply popped beside her desk and announced, "We’re going to visit my mom!"
Because the universe clearly had a grudge against her, the word "yes" had tumbled out of her mouth before her brain could shout a warning.
Now she was walking down an ancient stone path that led to the heart of the Gojo estate. Her palms were sweating and her thoughts were running in panicked circles.
She was about to meet Mayumi Gojo.
The matriarch of the most powerful sorcerer clan. The woman who had somehow survived raising Gojo Satoru.
The woman Utahime had already decided would take one single look at her and silently declare her irredeemably substandard.
Gojo, of course, was unaffected. He wasn't even walking like a normal person; he was more like a stray balloon drifting on a breeze.
She muttered under her breath, “I cannot believe I let you talk me into this.”
That lazy smile spread across his face. It was a smile that had no business making her heart do a clumsy little flip. “Hime, relax! She’s gonna love you.”
She stared at him. “You didn’t even tell her you were bringing me, Satoru.”
He just shrugged one shoulder. “Eh. Semantics. She’s got a good feeling about you, I’m sure.”
She resisted the urge to strangle him right there on the sacred family walkway. It would save his mother the trouble of judging her as an unworthy partner, though it might create some awkward questions about the murder.
They finally reached the main entrance, flanked by two towering doors. The moment Gojo slid the door open with a careless shove, every servant within a twenty-foot radius froze in place like startled deer.
Six pairs of eyes landed on Gojo first. Slowly, all of those eyes slid directly to her.
Their collective expressions softened with a deep-seated pity that made her stomach twist.
They looked mournful; almost sympathetic. It was as if they were all silently whispering to her, Oh, you, poor woman. You have no idea what you’ve just walked into.
But Utahime misread it entirely.
Gojo, meanwhile, had already drifted toward a pedestal holding a white porcelain vase so delicate it probably had nightmares about earthquakes.
Utahime crossed the space in three quick strides and slapped his hand away.
He cradled his hand to his chest as if she’d used a hammer. “Ow! Violence!”
“Don’t touch things,” she hissed.
“But it’s pretty,” he argued, pouting.
“It’s older than your brain cells,” she shot back, stepping subtly between him and the vase.
The nearest servant closed his eyes in visible relief.
Gojo wandered further into the hall. His attention was caught by a ceremonial rack of polished weapons. “Uta, look! A spear! Is it cursed? It looks cursed.”
“It is not cursed,” she stated with more certainty than she felt, and this time she grabbed the sleeve of his jacket and yanked him bodily backward.
If Utahime had turned around in that moment, she would have witnessed the entire staff exchanging a series of meaningful looks. Their silent conversation was perfectly clear: She’s the one. She manages him.
But Utahime was far too busy preventing property damage to notice her skyrocketing approval rating among the household staff.
They finally reached the entrance to the inner hall, and Gojo, perhaps sensing they were nearing the boss level, behaved just long enough to stand quietly beside her. He then slipped his hand into hers.
“Relax,” he murmured, giving her fingers a gentle squeeze. “My mom’s gonna think you’re great.”
“You cannot possibly know that.”
“I do,” he said, with the confidence of someone who has never been wrong in his life (a fact he would vehemently argue).
“How?” she whispered.
He grinned down at her, a handsome expression that was unfair. “Because you already keep me alive and out of trouble better than anyone else on the planet. It’s a full-time job, and you’re overqualified.”
Before she could formulate a response, a voice echoed through the hall.
“Satoru?”
They turned in unison.
Mayumi Gojo stood in the doorway, clad in a graceful kimono, her hair clipped back neatly.
Utahime bowed, so deeply and formally that a concerning pop sounded from somewhere in her spine.
Mayumi’s eyebrows lifted just a fraction.
Utahime had no idea what that subtle movement meant, but Gojo tensed beside her, his grip on her hand tightening slightly as if he expected to be sent to his room without supper.
Mayumi stepped closer and studied Utahime’s face with a softness the younger woman had not anticipated. “You must be Utahime.”
Her voice was smooth and elegant. So she did know I was here...
“Yes, Gojo-sama,” Utahime said, hoping she didn’t sound like she was auditioning for a role in a period drama about her own execution.
Mayumi nodded slowly. “I see.”
Utahime blinked, lost. I see what? What do you see? Is it acceptable?
Mayumi spoke again, gesturing inward. “Welcome. Please, come in.”
With the stiff posture of a soldier marching onto a minefield, Utahime followed Mayumi into the inner hall.
The room was breathtakingly beautiful. A low table was arranged with exquisite seasonal flowers, and what were undoubtedly priceless heirlooms rested on every shelf.
Gojo simply flopped down onto a floor cushion as if it were a beanbag in his living room. “Man,” he sighed, stretching his long limbs out in every direction, “feels like forever since I’ve been home. You got any snacks?”
Mayumi didn’t even glance in his direction.
“Your shoes,” she said.
Gojo paused mid-sprawl. “Oh. Right.” He scrambled back up with uncharacteristic haste to properly remove them, nearly tripping over his own feet.
Utahime had already gracefully removed her own shoes and arranged them neatly side-by-side.
They sat. Or rather, Utahime and Mayumi sat down, while Gojo folded his lanky frame into a pretzel-like shape that defied human anatomy.
Her heart hammered against her ribs as she accepted her tea cup with both hands. “Thank you,” she said.
Mayumi’s eyes noted the exact, proper placement of Utahime’s fingers on the porcelain. “You are familiar with this particular style of tea service?”
“Oh - yes,” Utahime replied. “The Toei school. My grandmother studied under one of their masters, so she was… quite strict. We had a lot of practice sessions growing up.”
Mayumi’s brows lifted by one precise millimeter.
In the silent language of the Gojo clan, that one millimeter was the equivalent of a roaring standing ovation.
Utahime, still braced for polite criticism, completely missed it. She took a careful sip.
Gojo chose that moment to slurp his own tea loudly.
Mayumi set her own cup down. “And you teach at the Kyoto school, I understand?”
“Yes,” Utahime answered. She was actively ignoring the fact that Gojo had now leaned his full weight against her shoulder, draping himself there as if he were a bothersome housecat. “I handle the curriculum for first and second-year students.”
“That requires a significant amount of patience, I imagine.”
Utahime offered an acknowledging nod. “It is certainly considered a core part of the job description.”
Gojo beamed. “Yeah, she’s super patient! She puts up with me all the time, and I’m way harder to handle than any snot-nosed stu - ”
Utahime drove her elbow slightly into his side before he could finish that disastrous sentence.
Mayumi’s lips twitched.
Desperate to salvage the conversation, Utahime continued, “Your estate is truly beautiful. I’ve read about some of the distinctive Gojo architectural influences in historical texts, and it’s fascinating to see them in person.”
“Which period?” Mayumi asked.
Utahime didn’t hesitate. “Late Heian, early Kamakura. Particularly the courtyard structure - there’s a specific flow to the walkways and garden placements. I read it was designed not just for aesthetics, but to help circulate and purify spiritual energy passively.”
Mayumi actually leaned forward an inch.
Gojo’s jaw dropped open. “Wait… that’s why the hallways are all twisty like that? I always thought it was because some ancient ancestor got really drunk and lost during construction and everyone was too polite to tell him he’d done it wrong.”
Mayumi exhaled a soft breath that was not quite a sigh. “No, Satoru. It was a conscious design.”
“Ah,” he said, nodding.
Utahime hid her flaming face behind her teacup.
Mayumi turned back to her. “You have a scholar’s eye for detail.”
“Oh, no, not at all - ” Utahime waved a humble hand, her cheeks still warm. “I just tend to read too much when I’m nervous. It’s a bad habit, really.”
“That,” Mayumi stated, her tone leaving no room for argument, “is a strength, not a habit.”
Gojo blinked, his head swiveling between the two women as if watching a bewildering tennis match. “Hold on. Time out. Is Mom… actually praising someone? In this house? On this actual day? Is the world ending?”
Mayumi did not respond to him. Instead, she reached forward and poured Utahime a second cup of tea - a significant honor that no one had thought to warn Utahime about. “It is refreshing,” Mayumi said, her eyes resting on Utahime with something akin to approval, “to host someone with such proper grounding.”
Gojo clutched at his chest. “I am grounded!”
“You are havoc with legs,” Mayumi replied without a hint of malice.
Utahime bit back a surprised laugh so fast she almost swallowed her own tongue.
Mayumi continued, speaking directly to Utahime. “I must say, I also appreciate how observant you are. You noted the subtle adjustment to the perimeter wards as we entered the main hall, didn’t you?”
Utahime blinked, surprised to be called out. “I… did. The barrier shift was very subtle, but the pressure change was distinct. I felt the calibration.”
Mayumi looked… quietly pleased. A satisfied warmth settled in her eyes, as if Utahime had just correctly answered the final, trick question on a secret twelve-stage exam she’d never been told she was taking.
She probably thinks I’m showing off. Or being a know-it-all. Why did I have to mention the architecture?
Gojo, perhaps feeling conspicuously left out of a conversation happening two feet away from him, decided to remedy the situation by letting his entire head drop directly into her lap.
Utahime’s entire body went rigid. “Gojo - what are you - get up! This instant!”
“What? Your lap is comfy. It’s a premium lap,” he declared.
Mayumi fixed him with a look so pointed it could have sliced through diamond. “Satoru. Sit. Properly. Now.”
He sat up instantly, hands placed neatly on his knees.
Utahime, feeling the weight of secondhand scolding, forced her own posture even straighter.
But she couldn’t keep dancing around this hovering tension forever, pretending the unspoken questions weren’t sucking all the air out of the beautiful room.
Not if what she had with Gojo was going to mean anything real. And he was a good boyfriend, in his own incomprehensible way.
He walked her home every single time, even when it was miles out of his way, citing 'rogue curse activity' she was pretty sure he made up.
He captured her cold hands in the dead of winter, warming them between his own without a word, as if it were a sacred duty.
He’d once tried to cook her a romantic meal and successfully summoned the local fire brigade, which was almost more impressive than a successful pasta dish.
He practiced the art of shutting up with the strained focus of a monk trying to achieve enlightenment, which was frankly more touching than if he’d been naturally quiet.
And sometimes, in the rare moments when he forgot to perform, he just looked at her like she’d hung the stars and was genuinely surprised they’d let someone that brilliant get so close to the ground.
So she had to try. For them. She had to address the kimono-clad elephant in the room, even if it meant getting trampled.
Utahime inhaled a bracing breath. “Gojo-sama… I… understand that my presence here might be… difficult for you to accept.”
Mayumi blinked. “Difficult?”
Gojo’s head snapped toward her. “Uta. What are you doing? No, stop - ”
“I just want to say,” Utahime pressed on, “that I respect your concern. Satoru is… well, he’s Satoru.”
He made a small noise beside her, as if she’d just described him as a fungus.
“And I know you’ve always been protective of him,” she continued, the sentences tumbling out now that the dam had broken. “I assume… it must be because you believed no partner could ever hope to match his strength, or his status, or his… presence.”
Mayumi looked at Utahime as if the younger woman had just announced that the sky was made of green cheese and that rivers flowed uphill.
“I’m not saying that I am worthy,” Utahime hurried to add, misinterpreting the silence. “Only that I care about him deeply, and I’m willing to work hard to be someone who - ”
Mayumi lifted a graceful hand. The matriarch leaned forward slightly, her voice now brimming with something akin to amused pity. “My dear child… do you truly believe I opposed his past… entanglements… because I thought no one else was worthy of him?”
Utahime swallowed. “Yes…?”
Mayumi’s eyes slid pointedly to her son. “Oh, dear. No.”
“Mom, for the love of all that is holy and also quiet - ”
“I opposed his previous… situations,” Mayumi stated, “because I believed, quite firmly, that he was not fit to be anyone’s husband.”
Utahime could only stare.
Mayumi continued. “This is a man who should not be trusted with pointed scissors, let alone a marital bond. He once set the entire east meditation garden on fire because he tried to make ‘gourmet’ hot chocolate over a ceremonial spirit-brazier.”
“THAT WAS ONE TIME, AND IT WAS AN EXPERIMENT!” Gojo wailed.
“He does not know how to fold laundry,” Mayumi added.
“I can fold laundry!” he protested, waving his arms.
“No, Satoru. You compress laundry. Into wrinkled balls of textile resentment.”
Utahime had to raise both hands to cover her mouth.
Mayumi gestured toward her son with one dismissive wave. “Why would I willingly unleash this upon some unsuspecting spouse? What has the world ever done to me to deserve such cruelty?”
The matriarch took a sip of her tea.
“A married Satoru,” Mayumi began. “I considered it a form of warfare against whatever poor family was foolish enough to accept his betrothal proposal.”
“Mother, I am a grown man. The strongest - ”
“ - and yet you have the domestic sense of a concussed raccoon,” she finished. “Imagine it. The wedding. He would get bored during the ceremony. He would attempt to liven it up by making the flower petals orbit the priest’s head at mach speed. The reception would be worse. He would challenge the bride’s elderly grandfather to a dance-off and win, humiliating a war hero.”
Utahime was torn between horror and the urge to burst into unladylike laughter.
“Then, the marital home,” Mayumi continued. “He would use his Infinity to avoid doing the dishes. He would ‘redecorate’ by using Hollow Purple to create ‘architectural negative space’ in the living room wall. You would have a direct view into the neighbor’s bathroom.”
“It would be modern!” Gojo argued.
“It would be a lawsuit.” She turned back to Utahime. “The children. Can you imagine?”
Utahime, who could not, shook her head, enthralled by the story.
“He would teach them to use Reverse Cursed Technique to stay up past bedtime. He would use Six Eyes to cheat at board games against a four-year-old. He would tell them the Tooth Fairy is a cursed spirit he personally exorcises on a monthly basis and demand a tactical report for every lost incisor.”
“I’d be a fun dad…” he mumbled.
“You’d be a menace,” Mayumi corrected. “You’d show up to Parent-Teacher Day wearing those blindfolds and convince the entire first-grade class that their math teacher is a secret agent for a rival clan.”
She leaned back, sighing with the weight of a thousand prevented catastrophes. “So you see, Utahime. My concern was never about you being unworthy of him. It was always about him somehow ruining a perfectly lovely, competent person’s life with his… particular nature.”
Utahime whispered the words, barely audible. “His… nature.”
“His,” Mayumi said, enunciating clearly, “spectacular inability to function as a standard adult human being.”
Utahime couldn’t hold it back any longer - a breathless laugh escaped her, puffing out from behind her hands.
Mayumi’s eyes crinkled ever so slightly at the corners in response.
Gojo scowled. “You’re both ganging up on me. I see how it is. A coup.”
“You bring these commentaries upon yourself,” Mayumi said, not unkindly. “You are a living exhibit.”
Utahime tried desperately to school her expression back into something polite and neutral, but the smile kept breaking through, tugging irresistibly at the corners of her lips.
Mayumi leaned toward Utahime. “To be perfectly honest with you, my dear, I expected to open the door today and find a hollow-eyed woman who had been dragged through six months of emotional mud.”
Utahime blinked. “Oh.”
“But instead,” Mayumi said, a note of wonder entering her voice, “I find someone composed. Intelligent. Patient beyond any reasonable measure. And clearly the only observable force in this universe capable of physically stopping him from opening a legendary cursed artifact just to ‘see what happens.’”
Utahime’s heart gave a sudden thump against her ribs.
Mayumu finished. “And if anyone in this troubled world can survive being my son’s partner without requiring a permanent vacation in a distant spa, it might just be you.”
Utahime’s lips curved into a real smile this time.
“You also have very elegant posture,” Mayumi remarked.
Utahime blinked, caught off guard by the sudden return to formal compliments. “Oh. Thank you very much.”
“Your etiquette is impeccable as well,” Mayumi added, her gaze sweeping over the drape of Utahime’s sleeves and the way her hands were folded in her lap. “And that kimono suits you beautifully. The color is perfect. Refined, understated… truly tasteful. It speaks of good judgment.”
Utahime felt the heat rush to her cheeks. “I… I appreciate you saying so. Truly.”
Mayumi folded her own hands neatly on the low table, her demeanor turning direct and businesslike as she addressed her son. “Satoru. A word of unsolicited, but vital, advice. Do not mess this up. This is quite clearly the best thing that has ever happened to you. Do you understand?”
Gojo choked on what was left of his pride. “Mom - what are you - You can’t just say things like that out loud! There are social conventions! My ego has needs!”
Utahime, mortified on his behalf, rushed to interject. “Gojo is… he’s really very kind when he wants to be! And he’s dependable in his own way! And he - he tries very hard, sometimes - ”
“My dear,” Mayumi interrupted gently. “For your own long-term peace of mind, I suggest you lower your expectations. It prevents disappointment.”
“Mother. That is cold. I am your only son.”
“I raised you,” she replied. “I know what you are.”
Utahime had to press her entire hand over her mouth.
Mayumi pretended not to notice the struggle and seamlessly changed topics. “Utahime, would you do us the honor of staying for dinner? The kitchens have prepared something special. I took the liberty.”
Utahime straightened reflexively. “If… if that is your wish, and if it’s not too much trouble for the household, then I would be honored and very pleased to.”
“I would like it very much,” Mayumi affirmed with a firm nod. “Actually… if your teaching schedule allows for it, I do hope you’ll consider staying with us for a few days? The estate is quite peaceful. The gardens are lovely at this time of year. I would personally enjoy the opportunity to spend more time with my future daughter-in-law.”
The words seemed to fizzle and explode like fireworks behind Utahime’s eyes. “Daughter-in-law?! We’re just - we’re not even - we haven’t discussed - ” She floundered, her words dissolving into an incoherent stammer.
Gojo nearly upended the low table in his shock, catching his teacup just before it toppled. “What is happening right now? Have you been possessed by a forward-minded matchmaking spirit? Should I get an exorcist?”
Mayumi ignored him with the skill of a woman who had centuries of practice tuning out nonsense. “You don’t have to answer now, of course. There is no pressure. Just consider it an open invitation. The west wing guest room is always prepared.”
Utahime’s cheeks were burning so fiercely she was surprised the steam from her tea wasn’t boiling over from the proximity. “I’ll… certainly think about it. Thank you.”
“Wonderful,” Mayumi said.
Then she rose to her feet and stepped around the table, leaned down, and wrapped Utahime in a firm and unexpected embrace.
Every muscle in her Utahime’s body locked. After a heartbeat, she melted into the hug, her own arms coming up hesitantly to return the gesture.
“Come back soon,” Mayumi murmured. “You are a delight.”
Utahime could only nod, afraid that if she spoke, she might do something embarrassing, like cry or laugh maniacally.
Mayumi released her and turned, in an instant, the unamused force of her attention to her son.
“And you,” she said, her voice dropping back into its commanding register. “Do try not to break anything for the remainder of the week. For the sake of the heirlooms. And my blood pressure.”
Gojo spluttered, indignant. “I’ve been a model of perfect restraint!”
As if summoned by his bold declaration - the priceless white porcelain vase on a nearby pedestal, the very one he had been scolded from touching earlier, gave a precarious wobble.
It teetered for a heart-stopping second.
Then it settled back onto its base, perfectly still.
Mayumi inclined her head to Utahime once more. “I’ll be waiting just outside, dear. Take your time.”
Then she swept out of the room, leaving behind a silence that felt charged.
“…Did my mother,” Gojo began, “just formally adopt you and disown me in the same afternoon?”
Utahime hid her face behind her wide sleeve, her voice muffled by fabric. “I - I don’t know what just happened. I think I won a game I didn’t know I was playing.”
Gojo slumped forward onto the table. “Love this for you. It’s horrible for me. My own ancestral home has turned against me. The staff, my mother… I’m surrounded.”
Utahime finally lowered her sleeve. She couldn’t keep the triumphant smile from curling her lips any longer.
It was unmistakable. An alliance had been forged.
And Gojo Satoru, the strongest sorcerer alive, was now hilariously outnumbered.