dilf! Suguru Geto

“You did WHAT?"

Suguru Geto's voice cut through the kitchen like a blade through silk—sharp, stunned, and pitched half an octave higher than anything that should legally come out of a forty-year-old man's throat.

His face had drained of all color. The kind of pale that usually preceded either fainting dead away or committing a felony. And then, as the words fully registered in his brain, as the weight of what his daughters had just confessed settled into his chest like a stone—

Crimson.

Not a blush. A configration. The kind of red that started at his collarbones and crawled up his throat, flooded his cheeks, kissed the tips of his ears until they looked like they might actually catch fire.

He stared at his daughters.

His beautiful daughters. His sweet daughters. The tiny hands he'd held, the scraped knees he'd kissed, the nightmares he'd soothed at 3 AM, the college applications he'd proofread until his eyes crossed.

Menaces, his brain supplied hysterically. I raised menaces. I poured fifteen years of love and sacrifice into these two faces, and they have repaid me by putting their father on TINDER.

His gaze snapped to Satoru.

Satoru Gojo, his best friend of over two decades.

Satoru, who was currently wearing the biggest, stupidest, most insufferable grin Suguru had ever seen. The kind of grin that said I have been waiting for this exact moment for fifteen years and it is every bit as delicious as I imagined.

And in Satoru's hand—

His phone.

His phone.

tinder.

Suguru's Tinder profile. Suguru's photos. Suguru's bio, which he could see from across the room and which he was absolutely certain contained something humiliating because Satoru was holding it up like a trophy and Kenjaku was smirking into his wine glass and—

How did it all happen?

The question ricocheted around his skull like a pinball. How did I get here? How did my life come to this? How did my daughters, my brother, my best friend—HOW DID THEY ALL CONSPIRE BEHIND MY BACK—

A hysterical laugh bubbled up in his chest, and he swallowed it down before it could escape.

No, he thought. No, I am NOT laughing. I am ANGRY. I am a GROWN MAN who has been VIOLATED—

But the laugh was still there, lurking at the back of his throat, because honestly?

Honestly, this was exactly the kind of shit they would pull.

---

Okay, let's rewind a bit, shall we?

Because to understand how Suguru Geto—forty, devastating, successful, a man who could make a black silk shirt look like a religious experience—ended up standing in his own kitchen with a Tinder profile he didn't consent to, you have to understand who he was at twenty-four.

And at twenty-four, Suguru Geto met two girls.

And for the next fifteen years, his entire world revolved around those two tiny humans who became less tiny with every passing day.

He built the gallery—from the ground up, brick by brick, reputation by reputation. He got successful. He got hotter, somehow, which was deeply unfair considering he spent most of his thirties running on coffee, spite, and the unwavering love of two girls who called him "Dad" like it was the most natural word in the world.

He just never got a partner.

It wasn't that he didn't want one. It was that between the gallery and the girls and his sprawling, chaotic friend group of high-achieving disasters, there hadn't been room. And then, somewhere along the way, he'd stopped looking.

Once, When Nanako was thirteen, and then she proceeded to spend forty-five minutes describing her crush in excruciating detail.

Suguru listened with the patience of a saint, making appropriate noises of interest in while internally calculating how many years he had left before he had to start threatening boys with bodily harm.

And then Nanako, because she had always been too perceptive for her own good, looked at him with those big brown eyes and said:

"Come on, Dad! You should get a partner! What will you do when me and Mimi leave?"

Suguru's brain stuttered to a halt.

Leave? The word didn't compute. Leave? Leave where? Why would they—

He raised an eyebrow instead of letting any of that show, and snorted.

"As if any man or woman would ever handle you, Nanako."

The deadpan was masterful. The deflection was seamless. Nanako pouted, outraged, and the conversation moved on, because she was thirteen and her own romantic drama was infinitely more interesting than her father's nonexistent love life.

But Suguru had brushed it off too quickly.

Pffffft, he thought later that night, standing in his kitchen, staring at the empty wine glass in his hand. The girls leaving? Hah. Never. I mean, they will. One day. Obviously. That's what kids do. They grow up and they leave and you're supposed to be proud and supportive and not fall apart when it happens.

But that day is SOOOOO far away.

He poured himself another glass of wine.

Years, he told himself. Years away. I have so much time. I'm fine.

He was not fine.

But that was a problem for Future Suguru.

---

Turns out, "so far away" was about five years.

Ever since Mimiko and Nanako started college, Suguru had been more alone. It wasn't that they moved out—they still lived with him, thank God, they still piled into his car every morning for the drive to campus, they still filled the house with their voices and their laughter and the occasional screaming match about who finished the milk.

But they were out more. Living their college lives. Going to parties. Staying late at the library. Texting him "don't wait up" with increasing frequency, and Suguru always texted back "I wasn't waiting up, I have a life" and then sat in the living room for three hours pretending he wasn't checking his phone.

He was handling it.

Really.

---

Satoru was already in the kitchen when they arrived, sprawled across two barstools like he owned them, a glass of red wine in hand like some kind of Roman emperor surveying his domain.

Kenjaku sat at the island, elegant fingers wrapped around his own wine glass, looking for all the world like he'd been there the entire time and simply allowed Suguru not to notice. Kenjaku's was sly. Like he knew something you didn't and was waiting for the perfect moment to let you find out.

"Uncle Satoru! Uncle Kenny!"

Nanako's face split into a grin, and she launched herself toward Satoru for a hug that he accepted with theatrical graciousness, pressing a kiss to her temple like she was still seven years old instead of twenty.

"Princess," he cooed. "You look radiant. Who are you trying to make jealous tonight?"

"Myself, mostly," Nanako said, flipping her caramel hair over her shoulder. "I'm the main character."

"Obviously."

Suguru pushed off the counter, heading toward the coffee maker.

"Okay, Dad. I have something to confess."

Nanako's voice stopped him mid-step.

Something in her tone made the temperature of the room shift. The easy, comfortable warmth of the kitchen suddenly felt charged. Satoru's grin, which had been insufferable before, sharpened into something that looked almost predatory. Kenjaku took a very slow, very deliberate sip of his wine.

Suguru turned slowly.

His daughters were standing side by side. Nanako had her chin lifted, her hands clasped behind her back like she was presenting a science fair project. Mimiko was... avoiding eye contact. That was new. That was concerning.

Satoru pulled out his phone.

Suguru's brain, trained by fifteen years of fatherhood to catastrophize any sentence that began with "I have something to confess," did what it always did.

"PLEASE TELL ME YOU USED A CONDOM!"

Silence.

The kind of silence that has texture. Weight. Density.

Satoru's wine glass froze halfway to his lips. His eyes were impossibly wide behind his sunglasses.

Kenjaku's eyebrows had ascended toward his hairline like they were taking an escalator. For a man who prided himself on being unflappable, he looked genuinely stunned.

Mimiko's face went through approximately seventeen different shades of red in the span of three seconds. It was impressive, honestly. A full gradient. Sunrise to sunset.

And Nanako—

"Wha— NO DAD EW!"

She shrieked so loud Suguru was pretty sure the neighbors heard. She was recoiling like he'd just thrown cold water on her, her face flushed, her hands coming up in a gesture of pure horror.

“WE'RE IN THE KITCHEN! WITH UNCLE SATORU HERE! AND UNCLE KENNY!”

Satoru's cackle shattered the silence like a hammer through glass. He was doubled over now, one hand braced on the counter, the other clutching his wine glass with the desperate grip of a man who refused to let good alcohol go to waste. Tears were already forming at the corners of his eyes. His shoulders were shaking.

"H-hey, you can't blame me!" Suguru defended, feeling heat creep up his neck, his ears, his entire face. "You said 'confess'! That's— that's confession language! That's 'I have something to tell you and you're not going to like it' language! What was I supposed to think?!"

"What is wrong with you?!"

"I'm your father! It's my job to assume the worst! Do you know how many parenting books say that?! It's in ALL of them!”

Mimiko sighed. The long, world-weary sigh of a philosophy student who had spent three hours that morning reading about existential dread and was still less exhausted than she was by her family. She pinched the bridge of her nose, the way she'd seen Shoko do a thousand times, and when she looked up, her expression was the same calm, measured intensity she brought to her seminar debates.

"Fine," she said. "I'll just say it."

She straightened, meeting her father's eyes.

"Me, Nana, Uncle Kenny, and Uncle Satoru made a Tinder profile for you."

Satoru held up Suguru's phone.

"We matched you with someone."

Kenjaku set down his wine glass with a soft clink.

"And we got you a date."

Nanako was bouncing on her heels.

"Tonight."

The bombshell dropped.

"This is so reckless!" Suguru blurted out, his voice climbing. "I-I'm not coming! Girls, how could you do this to me?" He furrowed his brows, a wounded, betrayed expression that was only about forty percent performative. The other sixty percent was pure, unfiltered panic.

"You looked lonely, Dad." Nanako's voice had softened, but her chin was lifted. "What's so wrong in having a little companion?"

"I'm not lonely!" The protest came too fast, too sharp. He barrelled on anyway, the words tumbling out like he could outrun the truth if he just talked fast enough. "I have Satoru! I have Kenjaku— I have Choso! I have Nanami and Shoko and Yuki! I have an entire GALLERY of people who—"

"That's worse."

Kenjaku's deadpan cut through Suguru's rambling like a scalpel.

Suguru glared at his brother.

"Traitor," Suguru hissed.

"Realist."

"I'm just going to..." Suguru grabbed his phone from Satoru's hand—Satoru let it go with a theatrical pout—and started scrolling. "Cancel the date. I'll say I have the flu. A very contagious flu. The kind where I can't leave the house for at least a week. And then I'll delete the profile. Done. Problem solved. Everyone's happy."

He was already pulling up the chat, his thumb hovering over the message box, when—

"NO DAD COME ON!"

"Yeah, that's so impolite!" Nanako stepped closer, and Suguru could smell her perfume—something floral, something that reminded him of the little girl who used to demand piggyback rides. "We matched the date for two weeks! We had to find a free night in your schedule! Do you know how hard that is when you have—" she started counting on her fingers, "—gallery events, and your weird patrol nights, and the monthly friend dinners, and—"

"You did what for two weeks?" Suguru's voice cracked again. Again. He was forty years old. "You matched with a stranger. For two weeks. Talking to them. About me."

"Two weeks of coordinating with a stranger, Dad," Mimiko said quietly, and she was looking at him with those calm, knowing eyes. "We put effort into this. We talked to them. We vetted them. We made sure they were someone you might actually..." She paused. "Someone worth meeting."

Suguru opened his mouth. Closed it.

It only gets worse, he thought, the fight draining out of him like water through cracked glass. They spent two weeks on this. Two weeks of talking to a stranger about their father. About me. My daughters. About my love life. Or lack thereof. They vetted someone for me like I'm a piece of art they're trying to sell and—

He glanced at the clock on the stove. Four hours until the date.

I'll be a total asshole if I cancel now. I'll be the guy who matches with someone, chats with them for two weeks, sets up a date, and bails four hours before. They'll think I'm a flake. They'll think the girls set them up with someone who doesn't even have the decency to show up to his own date. They'll think—

He exhaled sharply through his nose. The sound was loud in the quiet kitchen.

"Fine."

The word tasted like defeat and something else. Something he didn't want to name.

Nanako's face was already splitting into a grin. Satoru straightened up from where he'd been slouched against the counter. Kenjaku's eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch. Even Mimiko's lips twitched.

"I'll go."

"I knew it!" Nanako grabbed Mimiko's arm, bouncing. "I knew—"

"And I will politely reject them."

The grin slid off Nanako's face.

"After dinner," Suguru continued firmly, holding up a hand before either of his daughters could interrupt. "One date. One conversation. I'll be polite. I'll be charming. I'll pay for dinner. And then I will explain that this was a misunderstanding, that my family conspired behind my back, and that I'm not looking for anything right now. And then I'll come home, delete the profile, and we are never speaking of this again."

"What— Dad, no fair!"

"And enough."

There was enough of the father voice in it—the voice that had settled fights and enforced bedtimes and made very clear that some arguments were not up for negotiation—that even Satoru stopped smirking for half a second.

"I'm going. That's what you wanted. That's what you're getting. No negotiating. No 'but Dad.' No 'what if.'" He tucked his phone into his pocket and straightened to his full height, looking at each of them in turn. "I'm going to a restaurant. I'm having dinner. I'm being polite. And then I'm coming home."

He turned on his heel and walked out of the kitchen, his long hair swinging behind him.

The sound of his daughters' protests faded as he climbed the stairs.

He needed a shower. And a cigarette. And possibly to scream into a pillow for approximately ten minutes.

---

It's just one dinner, he told himself, running a hand through his damp hair. One dinner, then you reject them politely, and then you come home and delete the profile and pretend this never happened.

His hand drifted toward a simple black button-down.

You don't need to dress up. You're not trying to impress anyone. You're going to reject them. You should look... approachable. Friendly. Not like you're trying to—

His hand changed course and grabbed the black silk shirt instead.

The one that Satoru called his "funeral couture." The one that Nanako said made him look like "a very expensive vampire." The one that opened just low enough to show the top of his chest tattoos, the glint of his piercings, the edge of something dangerous lurking beneath the elegance.

He let his hair dry loose, a cascade of black silk that fell past his shoulders, and when he looked at his reflection, he looked... fine, hot.

The restaurant was a fifteen-minute walk from his apartment. Suguru had chosen it deliberately—close enough to be convenient, nice enough to be respectful, public enough to make the inevitable rejection less... dramatic.

And then—

Someone tapped his shoulder.

Suguru's first instinct was to scowl. Personal space, he thought irritably, his shoulders already tensing for the brush-off he was about to deliver. Does no one in this city understand the concept of personal—

He turned.

And the thought died.

It was {{user}}.

Standing there. Right there. Close enough that he could smell whatever they were wearing—something subtle, something warm, something that made him want to lean closer and figure out exactly what it was.

The Tinder photos hadn't done them justice.

They never did, not really, but this was something else entirely. The photos had captured their face, yes, but not the presence.

And their face—

Unfair, his brain supplied helpfully. That's an unfair face to put on a person. That's a face that should come with a warning label. A disclaimer. 'May cause loss of composure in middle-aged gallery owners who definitely had a plan for this evening and are definitely not abandoning it immediately.'

Their eyes met his.

Purple met {{user}}'s color, and for a moment—just a moment—Suguru forgot that he was supposed to be rejecting them. Forgot the plan, forgot his daughters' scheming. For a second he felt thrilled.