Aaria

You opened the door and there he was.

You're barefoot, hair loose, wearing the small strapped night suit you sleep which now no one is there to see it. Thin fabric, familiar straps digging lightly into your shoulders. You'd forgotten how exposed you look like this until you see his blue eyes drop, then snap back up, guilt flashing across his face like he's touched something sacred without permission.

He looks wrecked.

Not messy-drunk or careless. Just stripped down.

Like the alcohol finally loosened the knots he's been choking on for weeks.

For a second, neither of you speaks. You can feel his attention on you anyway. How his gaze lingers, not hungry, not possessive, but aching. Like he's cataloguing everything he lost. The curve of your collarbone. The softness you used to press into his chest. The way you're holding the door half-closed, like you don't trust yourself.

"You shouldn't be here," you say finally.

Your voice is steady. You hate that it sounds like you've healed. You haven't.

He swallows. Rain drips from his hair onto the floor between you. "I know."

You wait for a joke. It doesn't come.

He looks at you again, slower this time, eyes glassy with too much truth. "You look... tired."

Something inside you tightens. "You came all the way to say this?"

He flinches, like the words physically hit. "Yeah," he murmurs. "Sorry."

Silence stretches. Heavy. Loaded.

You can feel the night pulling at you, the late hour, the quiet apartment, the version of yourself that almost lets him in just because it's familiar.

Because it would be easy to fold. To let him touch you. To cry into his neck and pretend love alone could fix what broke.

You don't move.

"Are you drunk...Satoru? You questioned the obvious.

"Yes," he says, not as an announcement, but like a confession he doesn't know how to hold. "I didn't plan to come here. I just... stopped lying to myself."

Your fingers curl around the edge of the door.

"And that brings you to me?"

His laugh is weak. "It brings me to the part where you left."

It stings.

"You walked out while I was still trying to talk to you," he continues quietly. "I kept thinking...if I say the right thing, if I explain myself better, you'll stay."

You remember that night too well. His voice filling the room. Your chest feeling smaller and smaller.

"I told you I couldn't do it anymore," you say. "I told you I felt like every disagreement turned into a debate I had to survive."

"I know," he says. "I know that now."

You shake your head. "You knew then. You just didn't stop."

He closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them again, they're wet.

"I told myself you were being dramatic," he admits. "That you were escalating things. That you were... too much."

Your breath catches despite yourself.

"And that was the moment I lost you," he continues, voice low and wrecked. "Because you weren't too much. You were just asking me to listen and I made you feel like that was a flaw."

The alcohol makes him honest in a way he never let himself be sober. No defenses. No clever reframes.

"I was such an asshole," he says. "I didn't know how to love you quietly. I thought intensity was the same thing as care."

Your eyes burn. "You made me feel like I had to leave to be heard."

"I know," he whispers. "And I hate that it took losing you for it to sink in."

He looks at you again, slower now, taking in the exposed skin around those straps of your night suit, the way your arms are wrapped around yourself. Not desire but remorse.

"I know if I come in," he says carefully, "you'll break. And I'll hold you. And we'll pretend that's enough."

Your throat tightens. He knows. He's always known.

"I don't trust this," you admit. "I don't trust that this isn't just the alcohol talking."

"It is," he says. "But it's also the first time l've stopped protecting myself from the truth."

Rain drums against the silence.

"I'm not asking you to take me back," he says.

"I'm asking you not to think you were the problem."

You don't answer.

He nods, like he expected that. Takes a step back.

The distance hurts more than closeness would have.

"I'll go," he says. "I just needed you to see me own it."

You watch him turn away, shoulders heavy, pride finally gone.

When the door closes, you rest your forehead against it, shaking. Because you're still hurt.

Because he's still hurting.

And because loving each other was never the problem, it was learning how not to destroy each other that broke you both.

The cicadas sang the entire afternoon, their endless chorus melting into the warmth that wrapped around your small home. Summer in Japan had a way of settling into your bones, heavy and slow. The air carried the faint scent of blooming hydrangeas from the corner of your yard, mixed with something sweeter, something softer that Sukuna had quietly come to associate only with you.

You sat on the engawa just outside the house, a thin cotton sundress draped loosely over your body, the fabric shifting every time the breeze decided to be kind. The dress used to fall straight, but now it curved gently over the small swell of your stomach, the barely-there bump that had begun to change everything. Four months in, and you could no longer pretend it was invisible.

Neither could he.

Your fingers traced the edge of the page in your book, though your attention had long since drifted away from the words. It was one of those ridiculous, overly dramatic romance novels that you pretended to read for the plot, though Sukuna had caught on far too quickly.

He leaned lazily against the wooden pillar behind you, arms crossed, watching you with an intensity that had not softened since the day he fell in love with you. If anything, it had only deepened. Sharpened by something more dangerous, something almost reverent.

"You're blushing," he said, voice low, amused, already knowing why.

You didn't look up. "It's hot."

"It's not the weather," he replied, stepping closer.

"What are they doing now in that book of yours?"

You turned the page a little too quickly. "Nothing." His shadow fell over you, large and familiar, and then he crouched beside you, one hand coming to rest on your knee, thumb brushing absentmindedly over your skin. "You're reading Erotica again, how many book husbands do you have by now?". He's always so jealous of them.

You finally glanced at him, eyes narrowing slightly.

"Why are you always watching me?"

"Because I am your only husband," he said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, like it needed no explanation.

Your expression softened despite yourself, though you huffed lightly. "I love my girls", he added, voice quieter now, gaze drifting down to your stomach.

And just like always, your breath caught.

"Don't say that," you murmured, looking away, suddenly very interested in the page again. "It makes me emotional."

He smirked faintly, but there was something gentler in his eyes now. "But you both are my girls. Aren't you now?".

"Everything about this pregnancy makes me emotional, I'm sure you find me annoying now Suku," you shot back, though there was no real bite to it.

His hand moved slowly, deliberately, sliding from your knee to rest just beneath your bump, careful, always careful, like he was handling something sacred. The first time he touched you there, he had been almost hesitant, as if unsure whether he was allowed. Now, he did it instinctively, like breathing.

"Ho can you say that about my wife hmm? Ilove your new wobbly walk now," he said, more to himself than to you.

You rolled your eyes. "That's not very romantic."

"It is to me," he replied. "Everything about you is." Your lips pressed together, trying and failing to hide the small smile threatening to form. You shifted slightly, adjusting your position, and he noticed immediately.

"Wait," he said, already moving. Before you could protest, his hands were on you, one supporting your back, the other guiding your arm as he helped you sit more comfortably. The movement was smooth, practiced, like he had memorized every way your body needed to be handled now.

"I could do that myself," you muttered.

"You could," he agreed. "But you don't have to."

There was no arrogance in his tone, only certainty.

You sighed softly, letting yourself lean into the support for just a moment longer than necessary.

Your body had been changing in ways you were still getting used to. Your balance felt off some days, your energy unpredictable. Even your scent had shifted, something warmer, fuller, something that seemed to draw him closer rather than push him away.

If anything, he touched you more now.

"You're staring again," you said quietly.

"'ve always stared at you baby," he replied. Your cheeks warmed under his gaze, especially when you noticed where his eyes had settled. Your chest had changed too, fuller, heavier, and far more sensitive than before. The loose dresses had become less about style and more about comfort, though he seemed to appreciate them in ways you pretended not to notice.

"Sukuna," you warned softly.

"What?" he asked, completely unrepentant. "You expect me not to look?"

You shook your head, laughing under your breath.

"You're impossible."

"Yeahh, so what?," he countered. You didn't answer that, but you didn't need to.

A gentle breeze passed through the yard, rustling the leaves, carrying with it the distant sound of wind chimes from a neighboring house.

Somewhere, a child laughed, and the world felt quiet in that fleeting, perfect way.

The pages of your book started flipping because of the wind. He noticed everything.

"Come inside," he said after a moment. "It's getting too warm out here."

"I like it here," you replied softly. He studied you for a second, then nodded. "Fine. Then at least let me help you up properly later."

You smiled faintly, leaning back against the pillar, your hand absentmindedly resting over his where it still lingered near your stomach.

"Okay," you said.

The cicadas continued their endless song, the sun dipped a little lower in the sky, and Sukuna stayed exactly where he was, beside you, watching over you in that quiet, unwavering way that made everything feel safe.

Like this was enough.