He spent his free time exactly three ways: behind his drum kit in Suguru's garage, buried in a Digimon rewatch he'd already seen four times, or three hours deep into a raid with a headset clamped over messy white hair, screaming at Nanami through the mic to actually heal him this time. His dorm room looked like a Best Buy had a baby with a comic shop — string lights, a wall of figures still in their boxes because "they lose value if you open them," and a corkboard covered in setlists for a band that had, generously, played six shows.

Satoru always knew that if he fell for someone, it would be a nerd. He just never pictured it looking like you.

You met him because of a spilled iced coffee and absolutely nothing more romantic than that.

It was the first week of the semester, campus still humid and overcrowded, and you'd been power-walking across the quad with a garment bag over one shoulder and a stack of sketchbooks under the other arm when a very tall, very loud boy backed directly into you without looking. Your coffee went down his band tee — some faded shirt with a logo you didn't recognize, letters half peeled off — and his drumsticks clattered onto the pavement.

"Oh my god," you'd said, mortified, already fishing napkins out of your bag like you kept a small pharmacy in there. Which, to be fair, you kind of did.

"Don't apologize," he said, grinning down at the stain like it was the best thing that happened to him all week. "This shirt was already ugly. You just gave it character."

You blinked at him. He was obnoxiously tall, silver hair falling messily over startling blue eyes, and there was a confidence radiating off him that didn't match the drumsticks or the Digimon keychain clipped to his backpack. He didn't carry himself like the guys you'd catalogued back home — the shy ones who blushed and stammered over a group project. He looked at you like he already knew the ending of this conversation and thought it was funny.

"I'm Satoru," he said, sticking out a hand like this was a business meeting and not a crime scene of oat milk. "Drummer. Certified genius. Currently drowning in caffeine that isn't mine."

"That's on you for walking backwards."

"I was doing a bit for my friend." He jerked his thumb toward a guy with a long black ponytail standing several feet away, watching the whole thing with the weary patience of someone who had clearly done cleanup duty for Satoru before. "Suguru doesn't think I can walk and talk at the same time. I was proving him wrong."

"You were proving him right."

That got a laugh out of him — a real one, loud and delighted, like you'd said something far funnier than you meant to. "Okay. I like you." He said it so easily, like liking people was a decision he made in real time and didn't think twice about. "What's your major?"

"Fashion design."

"Perfect." He picked his drumsticks up off the ground, twirling one between his fingers with the kind of muscle memory that only came from years of doing it. "You can redesign this shirt. Character and all."

You should've walked away right then. You had a class in eleven minutes and a stained blouse of your own to deal with. Instead you found yourself saying, "I don't do charity work," and watching his grin widen like you'd thrown down a gauntlet instead of an insult.

"We'll see about that, coffee girl."

You didn't expect to see him again. Campus was big, your circles didn't overlap, and you'd mentally filed him under loud, cute, forgettable the second you sat down in your first lecture. Except campus, as it turned out, was smaller than you thought, and Satoru Gojo was apparently everywhere.

He was in your general ed elective, three seats over, doodling little digital monsters in the margins of notes he wasn't taking. He was at the campus coffee shop your roommate dragged you to, holding court at a corner table with three other guys — the ponytail one, a stoic blond who looked like he paid taxes for fun, and someone with tattoos creeping up his forearms who kept flicking Satoru in the back of the head every time he got too loud. He was at the party your friend Utahime insisted you go to, standing on top of someone's coffee table doing an impression of a professor that had half the room in tears.

And every single time, he found you first.

"Coffee girl." He'd taken to calling you that instead of your actual name, which you found insufferable and, somewhere you weren't proud of, kind of charming. "Fate keeps throwing us together. I think the universe wants me to fix my fashion sense."

"The universe wants you to stop backing into people."

"Same thing, honestly."

It became a rhythm you didn't ask for and didn't stop, either — him dropping into the seat beside you before lecture with some ridiculous opener, you rolling your eyes and answering anyway. He asked about your sketches once, actually asked, leaning over your shoulder close enough that you could smell his cologne — something warm, a little spiced, nothing like the Axe body spray you'd assumed a guy like him wore.

"You drew that?" He was looking at a half-finished dress design, all sharp lines and asymmetric draping, like it was something out of a museum instead of the back page of your notebook.

"It's not done."

"It's sick. You're actually insane for this." He said it with none of the performative flirting from before — just plain, unguarded awe, like he'd forgotten to be cocky about it. "I can't draw a stick figure that doesn't look like it's having a medical emergency."

"I find that hard to believe. Aren't you obsessed with Digimon? Don't you have to draw those?"

"I collect them. Different skill set." He tapped the page. "This is actual art. What I do is scream into a headset until Nanami mutes me."

You found out, slowly and against your will, that he wasn't just loud confidence stacked on top of nothing. He knew music theory cold, could break down a chord progression on the spot, had strong and extremely specific opinions about which Digimon partner was objectively the best (Angemon, he'd argue this until sunrise) and an even stronger opinion about video game soundtracks being "criminally underrated as an art form, coffee girl, I will die on this hill." He talked with his whole body, hands flying, volume climbing, and then every so often — rare, unexpected — he'd get quiet. Almost shy. Usually right after he said something too honest.

Like the day he asked if you wanted to come watch his band practice.

"It's just Suguru's garage. It's not glamorous." He rubbed the back of his neck, and for a second the cockiness dropped clean off his face, replaced by something more nervous, more real. "You don't have to. I just — thought you might want to hear it. Since you've never actually heard us play anything."

You said yes before you'd fully decided to.

The garage smelled like reverb and stale energy drinks. Suguru — Suguru Geto, you learned, the guy with the ponytail — was tuning a guitar with the focus of a surgeon, occasionally throwing dry commentary at Satoru that made the whole room laugh. Shoko sat cross-legged on an amp, painting her nails an unbothered black, bass propped against her knee like an afterthought even though she was clearly the best musician in the room. Nanami — tax-paying-energy Nanami — adjusted his keyboard stand with military precision and gave you a polite nod that felt like the most normal interaction you'd had all week. And Sukuna, tattooed and terrifying in a way that made you instinctively step half a foot closer to Satoru, sat behind a second guitar looking like he was personally offended by the concept of being in a band.

"This is coffee girl," Satoru announced, flopping down behind his kit like he owned the room, which, in fairness, he kind of did. "She's here to witness greatness."

"She's here because you wouldn't shut up about her," Suguru said, not looking up from his guitar. "For two weeks."

"Slander."

"Documented slander," Shoko added without looking up from her nails. "He has a note in his phone."

Satoru's ears went pink. It was the single most satisfying thing you'd seen all semester.

"Play the song, Satoru," Sukuna said flatly, "before I lose the will to be here."

They played. And you understood, watching him, why he never took his classes seriously — because this, clearly, was where all of it went. He wasn't just loud behind the kit, he was precise, locked in with Shoko's bass in a way that looked like something they'd built over years, sticks a blur, head bobbing, completely unselfconscious in a way you hadn't seen from him anywhere else. There was no performance in it. No bit. Just him, fully present, grinning like an idiot between songs when he caught you watching.

After, while the others packed up, he sat down next to you on the busted garage couch, sweat-damp and buzzing with adrenaline, close enough that his knee brushed yours.

"So?" He tried for casual. Missed by a mile. "Verdict?"

"You're actually good."

"Actually good, or good-good?"

"Don't push it."

He laughed, and something in his face softened, the cocky mask slipping sideways just enough that you caught the boy underneath it — the one who kept a note in his phone, who got shy about the things he cared about most, who'd apparently been talking about you for two weeks before he worked up the nerve to invite you here.

"Hey," he said, quieter now, no audience left to perform for. "I know I'm — a lot. Loud. Whatever. I don't really do subtle."

"I noticed."

"I'm serious about this, though." He gestured vaguely between the two of you, and for once he wasn't smirking. "I don't want this to be a bit."

You should've had a witty comeback ready. You always did, with him — it was half the fun, the back-and-forth, the way he pushed and you pushed back just as hard. But something about the way he said it, stripped of all his usual bravado, made the words catch in your throat instead.

"It's not a bit," you said instead, quiet. "For me either."

The grin that broke across his face then was different from all the others — not performing, not for the room, not for a bit. Just for you.

"Good," he said. "Because I already told the guys you're my girlfriend. Retroactively. As of two weeks ago."

"Satoru."

"What? I was manifesting."

You shoved his shoulder, and he caught your wrist on the way, lacing his fingers through yours like it was the easiest thing in the world, like he'd been planning exactly this move since the coffee spilled down his shirt. Across the garage, Suguru caught the two of you and rolled his eyes so hard you were fairly sure it hurt.

"Finally," he muttered.

Nobody in that garage was surprised. Apparently you were the last one to figure it out — that the loudest, cockiest, most insufferable nerd on campus had quietly, embarrassingly, been falling for you since the first day you soaked his shirt in oat milk latte and told him he deserved it.

shoko and utahime hum, ready to hear your story.

"so yuji made me do this prank call on sukuna, i don't know where he got this idea from maybe from a youtube video or his friends whatever, but yuji wanted me to call sukuna to say something stupid, like to say goodnight randomly to him right?"

the women at the table nod, listening along to you.

"and so i did it and-"

"wait you did it?" utahime interrupts with shock.

"yuji wouldn't stop going on about so i just thought 'fuck it' and, well i thought sukuna would understand that i wasn't serious about it but..." you trail off.

"but?" shoko chimes in.

"and then the next time we saw each other in person he was like weird-"

"a good weird or a bad weird?" utahime asks.

"i don't know, but like- he told me that i could call him anytime and to remember that. i don't know if he was serious but i can't stop thinking about it."

the reactions of the girls aren't surprising but they do raise a brow. they pause to take a sip of their drinks, collecting their thoughts and judgements. you shuffle awkwardly in your seat trying to regulate yourself in front of them.

utahime finally lets out a sigh, "oh i think he wants you back."

"what?" and almost immediately you can feel your face burn up just at the thought of sukuna still having feelings for you.

utahime nods, "trust me girl, you gave him a small opening and he's going for it."

"but it was a joke, i only called him because of yuji- without that i wouldn't have any motive to call him."

"but that's why he's going for it. who knows when his next chance to stir you up will be." shoko murmers.

your shoulders drop, your gut feeling anxiety from this conversation. "it's been years since we've been together..."

"so you don't want him back?" shoko questions.

"god no."

"are you 100% on that?" utahime asks, and at this point it feels like you're being interrogated by these two.

"yes?" your tone betrays you, not feeling confident in your answer.

"you have no feelings whatsoever for him?" shoko strikes again, asking for clarification.

a pause follows her question and there's no immediate answer that comes from you. the two women stare at you, expectant for an answer that you can't confidently give which tells them all that they need to know.

"i don't know." you finally admit, staring down at your lap. "i don't know if he's just playing and teasing me or if he's being serious."

utahime reaches out to you, placing a hand on your knee. "to me, it sounds like he's starting to win you back or at least he's introducing the idea. at the end of the day the heart wants what it wants."

shoko speaks up, fingers picking at her pack of cigarettes " all i do know is that you look like you want to pick up that phone and call him. you better do that soon girl."

/

you return back to a quiet house with yuji being at sukuna's for the weekend. you make a mental reminder to pick up after yuji's toys and clothes scattered everywhere but you'll do that tomorrow.

you're not completely drunk but you would be lying if you didn't admit that the alcohol has you tipsy. and when tipsy suddenly all decisions get the green light from your brain.

your first immediate thought is to head to the couch and pull out your phone, thumb clicking on the contacts app.

scrolling through your alphabetical list of names you reach 's' and your eyes search for sukuna. you know you really shouldn't but the devil on your shoulder - which is the alcohol - keeps prompting you to continue.

'call him. call him. call him. he'll pick up, watch. watch. call him.'

with your heart in your throat, your thumb immediately presses on the phone icon and before you know it the line is ringing. placing the phone on speaker, you bite down on your bottom lip in anxiety.

for a moment you think he won't pick up. for a moment you think you're a fool for even trying. for a moment you think you'll wake up with all this regret and the embarrassment that he'll have a notification saying 'missed call' from you. for a moment-

he picks up.

there's a shuffle for a split second before you hear his voice. it's low and raspy, his tone evident of the late hour that you're calling him.

"that was fast." he says and again you're confident that there is a smirk right there on sukuna ryomen's lips.

for a moment you're almost afraid to respond but the alcohol keeps you talking. "what was?"

"you calling me." sukuna sounds like he's been by his phone all evening waiting for you to call. his tone is expectant and unfortunately a little teasing.

"i just wanted to check up on yuji." you spill out, thinking about an excuse, any excuse.

sukuna lets out a pitiful sigh, "just missed him. he's sleeping. he's been fine though."

unbeknownst to you, yuji is wide awake in his room probably playing video games or watching cartoons. fortunately for him there's no real bedtime when it comes to staying at his dad's house.

"how was your girls night?" sukuna asks, "did you drink much?"

"good." you say, raising a brow. "and not a lot."

"that's good." he murmurs, "now you can't say calling me was a mistake and that you were drunk out of your mind."

"i mean, you did offer me to call you."

"i didn't think you would take me seriously."

"you were right in thinking that."

"but you still called."

"yeah, for yuji." you correct.

"but you're still on the line."

"oh, so you want me to go?" you tease and it's obvious bait but he takes it.

"no. talk to me." his tone is firm and sultry, enough to make you giddy, enough to put a smile on your face that you keep trying to hide with your hands.

"about what?"

"anything, enlighten me."

so you begin telling a new and updated story about that one co-worker at your job that seems to cause nothing but headaches. sukuna remembers your stories from your marriage, how you would come to bed some nights just ranting about them.

and before you know it an hour has passed and the two of you are still talking. well it's mostly you doing the talking because you're tipsy and your mouth can't stop running but sukuna throws in little hmms and grunts here and there to show that he's listening.

sukuna's raspy voice is almost enough to send you sleep and it deeply reminds you of the past and how it used to be, how you were feeling those vibrations physically as you laid on his chest telling him about your day.

but now you're doing it over the phone and your entire body gets overtaken by feeling of nostalgia, a small part of you wishing that you were on his chest talking about everything and anything.

your rambling comes to an abrupt end due to your emotions and your voice is a little quieter. "are you still listening?"

"course'" he says, and he lets out a breath before speaking again. "but i gotta go soon, the baseball game's early tomorrow."

"right, sorry, sorry, i'll let you go to bed." you internally curse yourself for getting a little too ahead of yourself.

there's an awkward pause before sukuna speaks again.

"you should come tomorrow. i'll buy you a ticket."

you freeze, "uhhhh i-" on defence your mind immediately searches for an excuse, "i'm busy..."

"doing what?"

"things." you lie knowing the only thing you have to do is clean up the house.

"hmmm things." sukuna says, his tone is evident that he doesn't believe you. there's another pause before he speaks and just when you think you've avoided anymore contact with sukuna his next sentence is enough to give you whiplash.

"well, if you're busy tomorrow then maybe some other time this week we could- uh- go for drinks or something..." if you were more sober you'd pay more attention to how nervous sukuna sounds right now, finally spitting out his words.

"drinks?" you repeat.

"casual. parent to parent. talk about yuji's behaviour or whatever."

"right, as if it's something that you couldn't tell me right now? you just told me he was fine."

"should definitely be said in person. i can get jin to watch him in the meantime."

"are you sure?" you ask, immediately suspicious.

"positive."

even though you know you shouldn't agree to this and the sober you in the morning will regret your response you can't help but agree to sukuna's plans. you know what he's trying to do and you can't help but fall for it. there's a long pause before you speak again.

"alright then. text me the details. goodnight sukuna."

"goodnight baby."

and before you could even reprimand him for calling you baby when he shouldn't be, he's hung up the phone. smooth fucker, you think to yourself but deep down in the pit of your stomach you feel giddy as a teenager.

"i need to pull myself together." you mutter to yourself, gathering up the energy to finally go to bed. throughout your bedtime routine you can't help but reminisce on your conversation with sukuna, you spent an hour on the phone talking to your ex-husband that you previously wouldn't spend ten minutes minutes talking to.

your thoughts, even whilst tipsy confuse you. you get a rush of adrenaline to keep the giddy feeling going.

and that's when you remember the box.

in the closet, sits a box in the top corner that you've been ignoring for years. today out of all days, this tipsy version of you chooses to go down memory lane. it's a small box, previously used for yuji's old school shoes but now it holds the sentimental things of your previous marriage that you didn't have the heart to throw away.

a few photographs. a letter. but the most important of them all, your wedding ring.

you hold up the ring in the light and it still glistens like brand new. at that moment everything comes back to you - all the worst memories that your ring has witnessed. arguments and fights and spilled tears.

it's a miracle that you and sukuna get along as exes despite the past as you know other divorced couples wouldn't have the same privileges.

as you place the ring back and close the box, you remind yourself of the person that you are now not the person that you were back then.

you won't ruin this current dynamic because of the slight chance of old feelings. you won't do that to yourself.

and most importantly, you won't do that to yuji.

you can't go back.

a/n: thank you for reading!!! part 4 i expect to dive into sukuna's pov more before their 'meet-up' and sneak peek into their backstory!

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