Li

You scoff, brushing past.

“You're disgusting.”

He hums lazily, eyes still on you. “Yeah? C’mere, baby.”

You freeze in the kitchen doorway.

He never says it often. Not when you’re expecting it. Not like that.

You glance over your shoulder. “What?”

He doesn’t repeat himself. He just watches. Knuckles flex around the neck of the bottle, tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek like he’s trying to decide how much he wants to push you today.

You roll your eyes and keep walking, but your skin's buzzing now.

You hear the quiet clink of the bottle hitting the coffee table.

Later, you're on the phone in the kitchen, voice a little too soft, a little too sweet — some guy from class. The second you hang up, he appears in the doorway, towel slung around his neck, sweatpants slung low like a fucking test.

“Who was that?” he asks, casual as ever, leaning one arm against the frame.

“Group project.”

He narrows his eyes. “Sounded like a date.”

You don’t look at him. “Wouldn’t be your business.”

He lets out a low laugh. One that has teeth.

“You really think you can go out dressed like that and not end up in someone’s lap, huh?”

You turn, annoyed now. “What does that even mean?”

“It means,” he steps in close, voice dropping, “if you’re gonna walk around like that, baby, don’t act surprised when someone wants to fuckin’ touch.”

Your mouth opens — then shuts. You hate that it makes your stomach flip.

You hate more that you don’t slap him for it.

You hate most that he knows.

Another day, you're cleaning — music on, shorts riding high on your thighs. You’re bent halfway into the cabinet when he brushes behind you to grab a drink, hand grazing your lower back.

“Move, baby,” he murmurs, right in your ear.

You jerk upright, blushing furiously. “Jesus—say excuse me!”

He just chuckles, brushing past with the bottle in hand.

“Not my fault you’re always in the fuckin’ way.”

When you turn, he’s still watching. Smirking.

And you can feel that stupid word echoing down your spine like a brand.

He’s not sweet about it. He doesn’t coo or croon. He spits it out like a dare, like a promise he hasn’t decided if he’s gonna keep. It only comes out when you’re pissing him off, turning him on, or somewhere dead center between the two.

But the thing is, every time he says it — baby — it sounds less like a nickname and more like a habit.

A bad one.

One that’s going to get both of you in trouble.

And still, you let him say it.

Because the minute he calls you that with a voice like gravel and heat?

You're not just his roommate anymore.

You’re his problem.

And Sukuna?

He’s the kind of man who doesn’t mind solving things with his hands.

Another laugh. You rolled your eyes.

Of course.

Of fucking course he’d bring a girl home tonight. Not even two days after he ruined your date. The guy didn’t even make it to the couch before Sukuna opened the door shirtless and said, “Nah.”

And now this?

You stayed quiet, eyes on the TV, bowl in your lap. You didn’t even flinch when they walked in, but you could feel it — that low, smug heat on the side of your face as Sukuna made sure you saw him.

He was shirtless. Naturally. Sweatpants slung low. One arm slung lazily across her waist like she was some prize he barely cared to carry.

You glanced up.

His eyes were already on you.

And when your gaze met his — narrowed, unimpressed — he didn’t look away. He just smirked.

“Don’t wait up, princess,” he said, voice smooth and low, tugging the girl toward the hallway.

That did it.

You watched them disappear around the corner, listened to the click of his bedroom door shutting, and then very calmly stood up.

You grabbed your phone.

Connected to the Bluetooth speaker in his room.

And you played the most annoying thing you could think of.

“Baby Shark.”

At full volume.

The walls shook.

It took five seconds. Maybe ten.

Then—

SLAM.

The door burst open so hard it rattled the hallway mirror.

“What the fuck is your problem?” Sukuna growled, appearing shirtless and already pissed, his hair half-tousled and chest rising with visible irritation.

You didn’t even pretend to look innocent. You were already leaning against the counter, sipping from a juice box like it was wine.

“I’m sorry,” you said flatly, “do you hear music? That’s weird.”

He stormed toward you, jaw tight, hands flexing. “You’re really doing this shit again?”

You shrugged, nonchalant. “Just trying to enjoy my night. Hope I’m not interrupting.”

He stopped right in front of you. Close. Annoyingly so. Your face tilted up slightly to meet his glare.

“You’re jealous,” he accused, voice low and dangerous.

You scoffed. “Of that girl? With the spray tan and two brain cells between her and her crop top?”

“She’s hot.”

“She’s a walking vape ad.”

He leaned in, teeth gritting. “You’ve got five seconds to stop acting like a brat—”

“Or what?” you shot back. “You’ll throw me out too?”

He stared at you. His mouth twitched. His hand curled at his side.

Then, without warning, he turned sharply on his heel and stalked back down the hallway.

You blinked.

Then froze.

Inside his room, muffled but still clear, you heard it:

“Put your shoes on.”

There was a pause. You could hear the girl rustling around, confused.

“Wait—what? Why?”

“I’m taking you home.”

Another pause. “Did I do something?”

“No,” Sukuna snapped. “She did.”

A beat of silence.

And then hurried steps.

You were still standing near the counter when the girl reappeared, awkwardly pulling on one boot while holding her purse under her arm. She didn’t say anything. Didn’t look at you. Just kept her eyes down, humiliated.

Sukuna followed behind her, casually cracking his neck, jaw still tight like he was clenching back everything he wanted to say.

He opened the door.

She slipped out without a goodbye.

He didn’t wait for her to reach the steps. Just slammed the door shut behind her, hard enough to make the walls shake.

Then silence.

He didn’t look at you right away. Just stood there, back to you, hands still balled at his sides.

You stared. Heat crawled down your spine. You swallowed.

He turned slowly.

And when his eyes met yours — low, heavy, still sharp — he finally said it:

“You knew she wasn’t staying.”

His voice was calm. Way too calm. That calm that came before the storm with him — tight control stretched thin.

You didn’t reply.

He walked toward you. No rush. Just long, heavy steps across the wooden floor. You stayed where you were, back against the counter, arms crossed over your chest.

“You think I didn’t know what you were doing?” he asked, voice thick. “Cutting the Wi-Fi? Blasting that shit through my speaker? Dropping a whole-ass jar outside my door like a raccoon broke in?”

You rolled your eyes. “Maybe next time, don’t bring someone home like you didn’t ruin my date two nights ago.”

He stopped right in front of you again. Closer now.

“You think that little accountant was gonna survive five minutes with you?”

You blinked. “What the hell does that mean?”

He didn’t answer. His chest was rising and falling. Eyes flicking between yours like he wanted to say something, but didn’t trust himself to say it out loud.

Then, low and rough:

“You don’t bring guys home anymore.”

It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation. A territorial claim dressed in jealousy.

“And you don’t get to bring girls here and act like I won’t say shit about it,” you shot back.

He tilted his head.

“I didn’t fuck her.”

You blinked. “I didn’t ask—”

“She sat on my bed and I felt sick.”

You froze.

“She touched your hoodie,” he muttered, voice quiet, like it burned his throat to admit it. “It’s still on my bed.”

Your breath caught.

He leaned in, close enough to feel the warmth off his bare skin.

“She’s not you,” he said.

Then he walked away.

And left you speechless.

VLOG #0. PROLOGUE

NOTES:

maki lying on megumi’s name for fun the smoke shop review was inspired by a review i found from my local wing stop where someone said the employees left mid-shift to go to the smoke shop next door

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