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You wake up initially to the wafting aroma of toasted garlic and chicken.
Then, it's the singing and shouting.
Some muffled, yet unbearably loud singing and shouting.
Raising your head from the mattress, you toss your comforter aside and mutter complaints to yourself about how you simply can't get a wink of beauty sleep ever since Nanami headed out.
Furthermore, with Gojo as the babysitter, you worry about what has become of your son in the past three hours.
Rolling over, you start crawling groggily on all fours to the edge of the bed only to be stopped...
...because you notice an uncomfortable moisture between your thighs.
Both perplexed and alarmed, you have one arm gently snaking down while you silently pray, begging any divine spirits out there that your period hasn't started because you most certainly didn't want to deal with stained underwear and soaked bedsheets.
Hesitantly, you palm your crotch.
Retracting your hand, you are genuinely surprised that there's not a trace of blood.
It's surely wet, though.
No, not only are you wet but you are also sticky.
Confused, you run your fingers through the slick again, later marveling at how the fluids connect and then stretch between your digits, dragging between your fingers until sheer gravity snapped the translucent strings in half.
"A wet dream?" you ask the quietly observing wall, waiting for answers when you knew very well it would never respond.
Come to think of it, you remember a fuzzy figure in your dream.
The image is still faint in your head.
A pale luminescence amid a warm-lit background...a set of sparkling blue eyes that would put the stars to shame...gentle and platinum locks that—
Gojo Satoru.
You immediately slap a hand over your mouth.
A wet dream about...Satoru? An initial wave of shock followed by embarrassment crashes down on you at the thought that you fantasized about the man you'd sworn to hate.
While you hate to admit it, for some reason, just recalling makes you feel all warm inside.
Heck, why are you like this?
There is absolutely no reason for your heart to tumble while you think back to the blurred images in your head, but you are such a lovesick fool for all the wrong reasons.
"Whatever," you shrug. No one will know.
The idea makes you feel better as you wipe your drenched fingers with a nearby tissue, stepping into slippers afterward.
Then, walking out into the living room certainly distracts you for good.
The first thing you notice is Elsa on the TV screen.
Next are the crayons littered on the floor like colorful confetti.
The Squishmallow fort that is typically arranged neatly by the sofa has also been knocked down.
An avocado lies sadly without its other half, and a pink cow debates its existence with its face flat on the floor.
Haru and Gojo, however, are clearly the stars of the room.
Not only does Haru have his father's blindfold draped onto his smaller frame like a scarf, but they are also both cha-chaing real smooth on the living room's coffee table while singing into a Todoroki plushie-turned-microphone.
"Let it go! Let it go!" they screech off-beat. "Can't hold it back anymore!"
You force your dropped jaw close.
"What on earth..." you begin, only to realize that your voice is drowned out by what sounds like the chorus of a thousand dying animals.
The living room is a mess.
And so are you.
And so are they.
Right when you are judging whether you were too embarrassed from your dream to reprimand Gojo, your son notices you standing by the hallway, jumping from his stage and running to you all sunshine-y with glee.
"Good evening, Mommy!" Haru giggles cheekily, unaware of the trouble that he has caused. He wraps his tiny arms around your hip like you were one big oak tree.
Noticing how his eyes are shimmering with happiness, you ease up a bit and could not help but to smile with him, even though Gojo was stepping off the table at the corner of your eye.
"You're watching Frozen? Without me?" you ask, not surprised at Haru's choice given his ardent love for the movie.
The boy sheepishly nods. "Yes."
"Haruto, this is your," you pause for a moment to glance at a sheet with tally marks taped to the wall, "your twenty-third time watching Frozen!"
Since he had dragged you to many of these watch sessions, you and Haru have practically memorized the script by now.
Little kids, though, love repetitiveness.
Haru, for example, purses his lips to hide the grin underneath his guilty and apologetic exterior, only to soon bubble with the contagious giggles that he could no longer contain.
"But Mommy, I have the best idea!"
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SORRY FOR THE LATE UPDATE. I'm in the middle of finals, and the og chapter became way too long, so it's now split in half.
