eibysi

･ ⟢ ⋮ First Times ( R. Sukuna / Reader )

･ ⟢ ⋮ Crimson Tide ( R. Sukuna / Reader )

･ ⟢ ⋮ Deathly Touch ( S. Gojo / Reader )

At first, you thought it was because you’d gotten better at avoiding him. You spent most of your time shut inside your room—reading whatever books you could get your hands on, scrolling mindlessly through your phone, sleeping more than necessary. You only left when missions required it.

But eventually, it clicked. You hadn’t gotten better at avoiding him. Gojo had simply stopped looking for you.

Before that day, avoiding him had been impossible. Even if you tried, even if you went out of your way to disappear into corners of the school, he always found you. A passing comment in the hallway. A lazy greeting outside the training grounds. A sudden appearance leaning against your doorframe like he’d been there the entire time.

Gojo had the irritating persistence of a shadow on a sunny day.

You couldn’t get rid of him no matter how hard you tried.

But now?

You weren’t even trying to avoid him and he had vanished.

Your thoughts drift back to that last encounter, as they often do in the quiet hours of the night when you struggle to fall asleep.

When he finally let go of your hand, reality itself had seemed to tilt because of one touch.

Your heart had slammed against your ribs like a trapped animal. Your mind struggled to catch up with what had happened—what almost happened.

Then the anger came. Sudden and violent. Hot enough that it felt like someone had plunged your entire body into scalding water.

You remember shouting. Cursing. Every insult you knew spilling out before you could stop yourself.

Your gloves were already back on by then, fists clenched tight enough that your knuckles ached. You shoved your palms against his chest, trying to force distance between you. Trying to make him understand the danger of what he had done: the stupidity of putting himself in a situation like that, in a situation where the outcome could have been different if his stupid theory failed.

“What the fuck was that, Gojo?”

Your voice came out low and shaky, fury vibrating beneath every word.

“Do you think this is funny? Some kind of joke?” Your gloved fingers tried to curl into his shirt. “I’m not some experiment you get to play with when you’re bored.”

Your hands pressed harder against his chest. Or tried to. There was resistance there—soft and invisible, his cursed energy humming under your covered palms.

Gojo didn’t move. He stood perfectly still, his chin lowered slightly as he looked down at you. Silent. Watching. Letting the storm burn itself out. Like he had expected this reaction, like he had planned for it.

“What if it hadn’t worked?” you continued, voice rising despite yourself. Your gaze sharp enough to cut steel. “What if I actually killed you?”

You stepped back, dragging a hand through your hair hard enough that strands snagged between your fingers. You turned to face him again.

“Do you have a death wish or something?” you snapped, drawing in a sharp breath because your lungs were starting to burn.

And then—half defiance, half desperation—you ripped the gloves off your hands, throwing them to the ground, somewhere near his boots.

“I can fulfill it right now,” you spat. Your voice trembled, but you didn’t care. “Let me touch you again, and let’s be done with this shit.”

You shoved him once more. Bare hands slamming into his shoulders. Your palms met the invisible wall again. Your muscles strained against nothing.

Gojo didn’t budge. Not even a centimeter.

“You know what they would do to me if I killed you?” you hissed.

Your hands slowly fell back to your sides.

“They’d bury me alive. Piece by piece.” Your laugh had been short and bitter. “And unlike you,” you added, glaring up at him, “I’m not suicidal enough to want that.”

You cringe now when you think about it—about how you reacted.

That anger—the raw, searing heat—was new. It had burned through you so suddenly it left you reeling in its wake.

Even now, remembering it makes you grimace.

For years your emotions had been dulled. Blunted down into something manageable. Something quiet. Survival demanded it. When every careless movement of your hands could end a life it was easier to live carefully, coldly. Calculating every touch. Every reach. Every accidental brush of skin.

Feeling too much had never been practical.

So when that heat erupted inside you that morning—rage, fear, something sharper tangled beneath it—it had been overwhelming.

Too much and too fast.

Dizzying.

Yet, sometimes, when you’re alone in your room, you take off the glove from the hand Gojo held.

You don’t even realize you’re doing it at first.

The fabric slides free, exposing your bare fingers. Carefully, you trace them with the gloved fingertips of your other hand. Your heart gives a small, involuntary hitch as your finger follows the same path his did that morning. Across your palm. To the tip of your index finger. Then you press your gloved hand against the bare one, mimicking the way he had done it. Palm to palm. Fingers interlacing.

You still can’t fully believe it happened. Sometimes you wonder if you imagined it entirely because it shouldn't have been possible: no one should touch you and walk away unscathed, alive and breathing.

The only reason you know it must be real is because Gojo hasn’t appeared since. Two weeks and you haven't seen him once. The distance he put between himself and you must be deliberate.

Maybe he feels guilty.

The thought is bitterly satisfying.

If that reckless stunt finally made him realize how dangerous you actually are, then good.

If it makes him keep his distance—even better.

... ... ...

Three sharp knocks jerk you awake.

Instinctively, before your eyes even fully open, your hand goes to the nightstand—gloves. You slip them on without thinking.

Another knock.

You swing your legs off the bed and cross the room, still shaking off sleep as you open the door.

“Gojo told me to tell you that Yaga wants to see you,” Kugisaki says, sighing between words, the irritation clear in her tone. She looks mildly offended—like being used as a messenger to relay orders is the worst part of her day.

You’ve spoken with her a few times since transferring, though “spoken” might be generous. Most of your interactions happen in passing—brief moments in the hallway where she mutters complaints about training, uniforms, teachers, or the general stupidity of the world while walking past.

You usually only nod. Sometimes, you offer a polite, clipped smile.

If you weren’t living on the same floor, you’d probably ignore her entirely.

Still, the exchanges aren’t unpleasant.

She never presses you into real conversation. Half the time it feels like she uses your presence as an excuse to complain out loud, and you just happen to be the nearest person available to hear it.

“That’s all?” you ask, one hand still holding the door.

Kugisaki shrugs. “I think so.”

Her gaze flicks briefly to your hands as you shift your weight.

Kugisaki lingers for a few seconds longer before turning on her heel and leaving you to watch as she walks away.

Principal Yaga’s office sits at the far end of the grounds—you’ve been there before.

Your interactions with the man since transferring have been sparse. Yaga tends to summon you only when something requires explanation beyond what mission reports can provide.

You’ve long suspected it isn’t because he doubts your ability. It’s because letting someone with your technique operate entirely unsupervised would be reckless. Calling you in occasionally is a convenient way to keep track of you.

You knock.

"Come in."

The door slides open, and the first person you see isn’t Yaga, it’s Gojo.

He's sprawled across a couch that looks far too tiny to fit him properly. Arms thrown over the back, thighs spread, feet planted on the floor.

His head tilts slightly the moment you appear. Even behind the blindfold, you know exactly where his gaze lands—on you.

His grin spreads.

“Well, look who finally came out of hiding,” he says.

Your spine stiffens, but you don't reply.

You don’t move toward the couch either. Instead, you stay where you are near the door, hands clasped neatly behind your back. The distance between you and him remains deliberate.

You pointedly avoid looking at him and pretend he isn't there at all.

Behind the desk, Yaga taps a pen against the polished wood. He glances at Gojo once, then returns his attention to you. If he notices the tension filling the room, he doesn’t comment on it.

“You wanted to see me,” you say calmly, directing the words to him.

Yaga nods once.

His gaze lingers on the both of you for a moment longer, as though trying to assess something unspoken before deciding not to ask.

“I understand you already have missions assigned,” he says, scanning a few papers on his desk. “You’ve gone on three alone this week, right?”

You nod. No reason to elaborate.

Over time, you’ve learned that interrupting people only slows things down and wastes breath. Most explanations are unnecessary, especially when the majority of the time, people already know the answer to the question they ask, and only expect you to confirm it.

“But we have a matter that may require your attention,” Yaga continues, voice even and formal. “If you’re willing to spare the time.”

The phrasing feels strange.

In Kyoto, no one asked if you could handle something. They gave orders. Assignments were handed down with the expectation that they would be completed. No discussion.

So your answer comes immediately.

“If I’m needed, that’s all I need to know,” you say.

A soft sound travels somewhere from the touch. You ignore it. Unfortunately, Gojo doesn’t ignore you.

“Wow,” he says lightly, stretching his arms above his head. “So obedient.”

Your jaw tightens as you exhale sharply.

Yaga slides a thin file across the desk toward you.

You step forward to take it, ignoring the way Gojo’s attention seems to follow every step.

You pick up the folder carefully, making sure your gloved fingers don’t brush against anything unnecessary.

“This isn’t a top-priority mission at the moment,” Yaga begins, “but it has the potential to become one if it isn’t addressed soon.”

Your eyes flick over the pages, skimming the contents, scanning maps, reports, and notes while he outlines the bigger picture.

Three months ago, curse activity around Shibuya spiked. At first, it seemed normal—population density, the time of year, all factors considered—but by now, it should have tapered off. It hasn’t. It kept growing.

Sorcerers were dispatched to investigate. In the beginning, they suspected a coincidence. Then miscalculation. Now the reports suggest something worse.

Someone—or something—is producing curses. Breeding them. Whether it’s deliberate or accidental is still unclear, but the result is the same.

The origin point remains hidden somewhere inside the city.

For three months, teams of sorcerers have been running two operations simultaneously—containing curses before civilians notice them while also attempting to track the source. The dual focus has stretched resources thin.

You close the folder after finishing reading the final page.

“We need you to help clean up the streets,” Yaga says.

His gaze is steady when you look up.

“With your technique, the work will be precise. Quick. Discreet.” His pen taps once against the desk. “Minimal mess. Minimal attention.”

You understand the implication immediately. Your technique doesn’t just exorcise curses. It erases them.

One touch. No explosions of cursed energy. No buildings collapsing. No witnesses.

“You’ll patrol once a week,” Yaga continues. “Exorcise curses wherever they appear. If anything unusual surfaces, you report it immediately.”

Your gaze flicks to Gojo, still lounging across the couch like he has nowhere better to be, but something about the way he watches you—the tilt of his head, the faint smirk—makes your skin tighten.

Yaga follows your gaze. “This assignment originally belonged to Gojo,” he explains, “But at the moment, his focus is needed elsewhere.”

Your eyes narrow slightly. That explanation sounds flimsy, and frankly, ridiculous.

The strongest sorcerer alive, unable to handle two responsibilities at once?

You bite back the comment.

Yaga continues before the silence stretches too long.

“You are not expected to handle anything beyond curse exorcising,” he says, voice firmer now. “If you encounter the origin point of this activity—or anything suspicious that suggests it—you report it immediately.”

He leans back slightly in his chair.

“If the situation escalates beyond what you can manage and requires immediate action…” His gaze flicks toward the couch. “…you contact Gojo—he will take over.”

That's when Gojo speaks up for the first time.

“Guess we should exchange numbers.”

He pulls his phone from his pocket and holds it up in front of your face, giving it a little shake.

Behind your back, your hands tighten into fists, leather creasing under the pressure as your fingers dig into the gloves.

You don’t want to do this, but you can’t outright refuse—not here, not in front of Yaga, not without a reason that would make sense.

Reluctantly, you walk over to him, careful to keep a distance. You take the phone, enter your number without looking at him, and hand it back, pretending this is purely business.

Gojo extends his hand, two fingers wiggling expectantly in your direction.

“What?”

“Your phone,” he says, voice playful.

“I need to be able to reach you,” you reply flatly. “Not the other way around.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, peeling himself off the couch in one smooth motion, unfolding to his full height. You can’t help but crane your neck.

“I need your number too,” he says.

“For what?”

“So I know who’s calling,” he replies, lifting one finger like he’s delivering an important lecture. “First—I won't answer if there's no name attached, because what if it’s some boring salesperson trying to talk me to death?”

You roll your eyes.

“Second—” Another finger lifts. “—I need your number so I can assign you a cute ringtone.” His grin widens. “That way I’ll know it’s you right away.”

“That’s stupid,” you mutter, but you still hand him your phone.

You have a suspicion he’s joking. Unfortunately, with Gojo, that suspicion is never a guarantee. And if you ever actually needed to contact him during a mission, the last thing you want is him ignoring the call because he didn’t recognize the number.

Gojo hums thoughtfully as he types.

“No booty calls at two in the morning,” he adds lightly. “I value my beauty sleep.” He tries to wink, though with the blindfold it looks absurd.

You snort before you can stop yourself. Your mouth closes immediately afterwards, like you’re trying to shove the reaction back inside your chest.

Gojo pauses, then smiles wider.

“Wow,” he says. “I made you laugh.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did.”

“You absolutely did not.”

He chuckles softly and hands your phone back. You notice how careful he is—how his fingers deliberately avoid brushing against yours.

Across the room, Yaga clears his throat.

You don’t bother entertaining Gojo’s antics any further. With a curt nod to Yaga, you excuse yourself.

Footsteps follow you out of Yaga's office.

“Are you still mad at me?” Gojo asks.

You don’t answer. Instead, you walk faster. Not quite running, but not quite calm either. Somewhere in between, where every nerve in your body screams to put distance between you and the person behind you.

It doesn’t work.

Gojo matches your pace effortlessly. Of course he does. His stride is absurdly long—half your height in a single step.

You know he probably would leave if you gave him even a scrap of attention. But you stay silent. Though, the only one suffering from that silence is you. Still, it’s a cost you’re willing to pay.

If he’s careless with his own life—if he doesn’t care that one wrong touch from you could kill him—then fine. You’ll be the responsible one. You’ll push him away. Just like you always have with everyone else.

“I thought we were friends,” he says.

Your head whips toward him so sharply your neck protests.

“We are not friends,” you reply, clipped. “Co-workers. Acquaintances, at best.”

Your stare is sharp, laced with clear disbelief that he’d even suggest it.

Gojo sighs, his bottom lip jutting out.

You turn away again before the expression can burn itself permanently into your memory. You keep walking, no destination in mind—only the goal of eventually shaking him off.

The silence stretches like taut wire.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see him chewing idly on the inside of his cheek. He’s thinking, scheming—you can’t tell which, probably both—and it irritates you how relaxed he looks. How completely unbothered he seems to be beside someone who clearly doesn’t like him.

He opens his mouth. Then closes it again. Good. You don’t want him to talk.

But as your thoughts drift back to the file Yaga handed you, you realize there are questions you want to ask.

You don’t want to go back to Yaga; the man has better things to do than entertain your little interview, and unfortunately, Gojo is perfect for the job.

You hate admitting that even inside your own head.

“Three months… really?”

The question slips out before you can stop it.

Gojo glances sideways at you.

You chew your bottom lip, incredulous. Saving human lives shouldn’t be negotiable.

You skim the file in your mind again—the majority of those curses were minor, grade 4 and 3. But a few entries stand out. The lethal ones. Invisible things that tore through civilians before anyone even realized they were there. Hospital reports buried between mission summaries. People shredded by something they couldn’t see.

“Couldn’t you just…” you hesitate, then sigh. “I don’t know. Do a more thorough search?”

He turns his head to look at you properly, “You realize how big Shibuya is, right?”

You stop walking. Your eyes drift anywhere except his face. Just because you’re willing to talk doesn’t mean you want to actually look at him.

“We can’t exactly break into every building and start poking around,” he continues, waving a hand vaguely at the campus around you as if it somehow represents the entire city. “Turns out civilians get pretty upset when sorcerers start kicking down doors.”

You say nothing. Above you, clouds drift lazily across the sky. Sunlight warms your face. You close your eyes, letting the warmth settle over your skin while you listen.

“We tried aggressive sweeps early on,” he says, voice threading a line between frustration and amusement—almost enough to make you sympathize. “No results. Now, if we want to check even the sketchiest places, we need actual evidence to justify barging in.” His shoulders lift in a small shrug. “Evidence we don’t have.”

You open your eyes again.

“Couldn’t you just use the Six Eyes to find the hotspot?” you ask. “If someone’s producing curses, their base should have a huge cluster of cursed energy.”

Gojo rocks back slightly on his heels.

“If only it were that simple.”

That wistful humor creeps into his voice again.

You roll your eyes automatically.

“Tried it,” he says. “But Shibuya’s always crawling with curses. Multiple clusters. Multiple hotspots.” His hands slide into his pockets. “Checking all of them takes time.” A small pause. “And sorcerers we don’t have.”

You nod slowly.

The conversation slips into something almost natural. You don’t even notice when it happens. Not until the next question leaves your mouth.

“What are you even busy with that Yaga reassigned this to me?”

The moment the words leave you, Gojo grins, clearly pleased by the shift in topic.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

His tone is smug, the answer evasive.

You stare at him for exactly one second, deciding you won’t give him the satisfaction of dragging more words out of you.

"Forget it," you say.

The conversation has officially exhausted your patience. You turn around and start walking the opposite direction. This time, Gojo doesn’t follow.

... ... ...

Your first patrol is a week later—Sunday night.

Shibuya is quieter than usual—not truly empty, but thin enough that you can move through the streets without constantly worrying about civilians wandering into the wrong place at the wrong time.

The air carries a bite of early spring cold.

You dressed for practicality, not appearance. A dark hoodie with the sleeves long enough to swallow your hands. Worn jeans you don’t mind ruining. Sneakers that have seen better days but fit comfortably enough for hours of walking.

Your gloves hang clipped to your belt.

Cursed energy drifts through the city like fog, clinging to walls, crawling up streetlight poles, curling in the cracks of pavement. You can almost taste it—sour and acrid. The sensation twists faintly in your stomach, but you welcome it because the discomfort sharpens your focus.

Yesterday, Yaga sent over additional notes—copies of patrol routes, reported sightings, places where cursed energy had clustered recently.

You follow the routes at first. Methodical, precise, and almost mechanical.

The first curse appears behind a restaurant dumpster in a narrow alley.

It’s small. Grade four. Its body is a warped, grayish thing, skin textured. It shudders when it notices you, its stubby limbs twitching. Your fingers brush lightly against it.

The reaction is immediate.

The curse trembles violently, then its body folds inward. No screams. No struggle. Just a faint hiss as cursed energy compresses into nothing.

The second curse lurks down the next street.

This one is uglier. Its face bulges outward, eyes swollen and glassy, its mouth stretching too wide. Jagged teeth scrape together when it notices you. You step closer.

You touch it and it crumbles. You don’t watch the rest.

Hours pass like this.

Your technique leaves nothing behind—no explosions of cursed energy, no wreckage, no noise. Only silence.

At one point, a small group of people crosses the street ahead of you. Their laughter echoes faintly between buildings.

Your body reacts instantly. The gloves go back on. You turn away, walking down a different street until their voices fade into the distance. Only then do you pull the gloves off again.

You take more detours than necessary, not following the patrol sheet perfectly.

Pockets of cursed energy pull at your instincts, drawing you down unfamiliar roads. Abandoned buildings. Empty courtyards. Old warehouses where no one will notice if you slip inside.

Nothing unusual reveals itself. Still, checking, searching, and being thorough feels vital.

You lose track of hours as you move through Shibuya.

Eventually, the first signs of life reappear. A delivery truck rattles down an avenue, someone laughs from a late-night ramen shop. Your senses prick.

It’s almost sunrise.

Soon the streets will fill with people again.

You pause at a quiet intersection, pulling your gloves back on and zipping your hoodie up against the cold.

A slow breath fills your lungs. Your shoulders loosen slightly.

You remind yourself of the same thing you do after every mission:

You did well. The curses were handled cleanly. Most importantly, no humans died.

When you return to the school, the grounds are quiet; you head straight for the dining hall.

Last night you skipped dinner, and your stomach reminds you of that mistake with a dull, insistent ache now.

You grab a tray and sit at the end of a long table. Your chopsticks move slowly, almost lazily, through the food. You’re not really hungry, but your body demands something, and you’ve learned the hard way not to ignore it for too long.

You’re halfway through forcing down another bite when the dining hall doors slide open with a burst of noise. Three voices spill inside with it. Their conversation carries easily across the mostly empty room, bouncing off the high ceiling.

You glance up.

Three first-years walk in together. You recognize them immediately—Kugisaki, Fushiguro, and Itadori. You’ve seen them around campus often enough, usually somewhere near Gojo.

They sit at a table not far from yours.

“I still don’t understand how you’re so calm about this,” Kugisaki says with visible irritation. “If someone told me to eat some disgusting shriveled fingers and then die afterward, I’d pack my bags and leave.”

“They’re not that disgusting,” Itadori replies, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. “And it’s not like I’m chewing them, you know? It’s just... one quick swallow and it’s done.”

Fushiguro gives him a look of pure disgust, and continues eating quietly, though from the corner of your eye you can tell he’s listening closely.

“And someone has to do it,” Yuji adds with a small shrug, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “It’d be wrong not to help if I can.”

Your chopsticks pause halfway to your mouth before your hand lowers slowly back to the table.

You weren’t told anything directly. No one bothered explaining the situation to you. But rumours about a kid who ate one of Ryomen Sukuna’s fingers and became a vessel spread through the school easily enough.

At first, you assumed it was nonsense. No one should be able to become a vessel that easily—especially not for Sukuna. And definitely not some kid who apparently didn’t even know curses existed until recently.

Yet here he is.

You lower your gaze back to your food, pretending to focus on separating grains of rice with your chopsticks.

Your thoughts drift whether you want them to or not.

You hadn’t even realized the vessel was one of Gojo’s students.

You risk a brief glance towards Itadori.

Pink hair. Bright eyes. A smile that looks far too warm for someone carrying something like that inside him.

He’s just a kid, too young for any of this.

The thought makes your stomach twist because you know how this ends. Everyone does. The rumors always include the same quiet conclusion: once he’s eaten all of the fingers, the vessel will be executed.

Your chest tightens.

You can’t even begin to imagine what it must feel like—to know you're living on borrowed time.

A cold memory stirs in the back of your mind.

You remember what it felt like when your own life was weighed like that. When your worth was measured against the danger you posed. When people whispered about you like a weapon instead of a person.

You remember the quiet dread sitting heavy in your stomach while strangers debated whether you deserved to live.

You remember being terrified.

But Yuji doesn’t look terrified.

He looks… certain. Like he already accepted the outcome. Like letting other people decide his fate is simply the right thing to do, and he doesn't even intend to fight it.

The thought makes something churn unpleasantly inside you.

Someone his age shouldn’t have to carry that kind of resolve.

The more you think about it, the dizzier you feel. You stop eating entirely because each bite feels like trying to swallow sand.

Another thought slips quietly into your mind.

If it comes down to it… who would be expected to kill him?

The answer arrives immediately.

Gojo.

Yuji will probably die at the hands of his own teacher.

Your appetite vanishes completely and you stand abrupty; you are done with your meal, done with listening to that conversation, done with thinking.

The kids glance over their shoulders at the sudden sound.

You don’t meet their eyes.

Your technique does not discriminate. Your cursed energy does not pause to ask questions. It doesn’t care who deserves to die.

One touch—that is all it takes; your fingers brush against skin—curse or human—and life simply… stops. There's no struggle, no lingering screams that could echo in your mind, haunting you, no dramatic collapse or writhing on the ground in pain.

The thing you touch just crumbles, like a statue made of ash. Its cursed energy unravels beneath your fingertips. Bones powder. Flesh withers.

Curses implode inward, their malformed bodies folding like rotting flowers before disintegrating into black dust that scatters in the air; it smells like burnt rot, iron, wet mould.

Humans are worse, because their bodies don’t dissolve.

They succumb to gravity, their faces frozen, eyes wide, glassy, but dead—nothing behind them. Their bodies slump like puppets with their strings cut, muscles losing tension all at once.

The last emotion on their face becomes permanent.

With curses, your mind can pretend nothing happened. With humans, the evidence of your actions lingers, forcing you to see it, to torture yourself for doing something so vile as taking a human life.

Your technique is clean. Efficient. Absolutely terrifying.

Most sorcerers spend years fighting, bleeding, clawing their way through missions they might not survive.

You don’t.

You walk up. You touch. It ends.

In theory, it should make your life easier.

Special Grade missions arrive like clockwork. You complete them faster than most Grade 1 teams combined. The higher-ups praise your efficiency, but their calculating eyes watch like hawks, and you know what they really see when they look at you.

Not a person—a weapon. A weapon that leaves no mess. A weapon that can walk into a nest of Special Grade curses and come out untouched.

It wasn’t always like this.

You didn’t used to wake up thinking about every move, every little thing you did. You had life. Friends. Fun.

When you were younger, just a student training to become a sorcerer, your technique was manageable.

Dangerous, yes. But manageable.

Back then, a single touch only knocked your target unconscious; their nervous system collapsed under the surge of your cursed energy.

It made missions easy. You’d tap a curse—it would drop, and you’d finish the job with cursed tools.

Then it changed.

Innate Techniques can evolve. Everyone knows that. But yours didn’t just evolve. It mutated.

The first time it happened, the curse you touched didn’t collapse unconscious. It died. Its body convulsed for half a second before decaying into chunks of gray sludge, steaming on the ground like melting tar.

You remember staring at your shaking hands because your nails turned black.

When you got back to school, you spent hours scrubbing the color away, trying to peel it off like old nail polish. It never came off. You might have continued to ravage at your hands and nails if you hadn’t gotten chemical burns from trying every liquid that shouldn’t have touched your skin.

You trained after that. Obsessively. Hours upon hours of cursed energy control exercises. You tried everything the teachers suggested. Anything your mind could conceive, even if it was stupid or obviously impossible.

Nothing worked.

Your technique was absolute.

Once your skin makes contact with a living target, the process triggers automatically. There is no pulling back. No stopping it. No undoing it.

Then came the mission that changed everything.

It was only the second one since your technique had evolved.

It was supposed to be simple. An abandoned building crawling with low-grade curses. You moved through the halls like a ghost, bare hands brushing against grotesque limbs and twisted faces.

Each touch ended them. Each one dissolved. Quick and quiet—until one of the many doors lining the hallway opened.

A civilian, some maintenance worker who wasn’t supposed to be there.

He stumbled into the hallway clutching a toolbox, his flashlight shaking in his hand as he looked around in panic.

You turned the corner at the same moment he did. Behind him, something moved.

A curse. Massive. Its maw split open behind the man’s back.

He didn’t see it.

But you did.

You reacted on instinct.

Your hand shot forward. Your fingers wrapped around his arm to yank him back—to save him, to put him out of harm’s way. But in your misjudgment, it only put him in your way.

Your skin touched his.

You still remember the way his expression changed: confusion. Pain. Then a strange emptiness, like someone had blown out a candle behind his eyes. The light in his gaze gone.

The life drained from him so quickly that there wasn’t even time for a scream. Your cursed energy devoured everything that made him alive before you could even think to pull away.

His body hit the floor with a dull, heavy thud.

You just stood there, staring. Your hand still reaching toward him. Your fingers still warm from the contact.

After that day, something inside you broke.

You stopped trying to live like a normal person. You stopped trying to make friends. You stopped letting anyone get close enough to touch you, because you were dangerous. Because it was easier, simpler, safer to isolate yourself than to pretend you could play with fire.

You would be bound to screw up. One mistake, one second of carelessness, and someone else would die. You didn’t want more blood on your hands than you already had.

Your life became routine.

Wake up. Train. Go on a mission. Come home. Sleep.

Repeat, repeat, repeat.

Day after day after day.

The higher-ups stopped pretending to treat you like a student even before you graduated.

They spoke about you in quiet meetings behind closed doors. You heard the rumors anyway. They debated killing you. Some argued that your technique was too dangerous. Others argued you were too valuable to lose.

In the end, value won.

They told you to be grateful you were still alive after killing a civilian.

It didn’t matter to them that it was an accident. That you had been trying to save him. All that mattered was the result: a dead non-sorcerer, and your hands that had done it.

So you owed them obedience.

They deployed you like a Special Grade curse-extermination unit. You were sent where things were worst, where casualties were expected, where it wouldn’t matter if you ended up as one of them. Where a weapon like you could clean up the mess quickly.

And you let them treat you like that, like you were expendable. It was easier than fighting them. Easier than pretending you could have a normal life.

Sometimes you feel like a hollow shell wearing human skin.

A body that walks, a mind that moves mindlessly through routine. A voice that answers only when spoken to. A pair of hands wrapped in gloves.

Always careful. Always aware.

When you walk through crowded streets, your arms stay folded tight against your body. When someone gets too close, your stomach twists with quiet panic.

You think constantly about where your hands are. If you have gloves on. What they might touch. Who they might kill.

Power like yours should make you feel unstoppable.

Instead, it makes you feel alone.

… ... ...

You have lived and worked in Kyoto your entire life. Yet when the order came that you were being transferred to Tokyo, you didn’t question it.

You didn’t question orders anymore—not from the people who decided whether you were useful enough to keep breathing.

The message was formal and short. A relocation notice stamped by the administration of Kyoto Jujutsu High and countersigned by the elders:

Transfer to Tokyo Jujutsu High. Effective immediately.

No explanation. Not even a request for confirmation. Just an instruction printed on thick paper that you were expected to follow.

You packed that night. It took less than an hour—a detail that might have been funny if it weren’t so pathetic: your entire life fit into two bags and one cardboard box.

The train ride to Tokyo was long enough for most people to feel sentimental. You didn’t.

You watched the landscape blur past the window, expression blank, gloved hands folded neatly in your lap.

Kyoto disappeared behind you without ceremony. No goodbyes were said. No one left there to miss you. No one would probably even notice you were gone.

The transfer made sense anyway, even if no one bothered to explain it to you.

Most of your missions had been in Tokyo for the past year. Curse activity had exploded—clusters of high-grade manifestations appearing faster than they could be eliminated. The higher-ups needed their most efficient, obedient weapon closer to the problem.

Why waste hours making you travel back and forth when that same time could be spent assigning you more work?

Tokyo was louder. Bigger. Dirtier. Busier in every way.

Cursed energy seeped through the city like rot through damp wood. You felt it the moment you stepped off the train—the thick, greasy pressure of negative emotions clinging to the air: anger, fear, loneliness, resentment—all feeding the curses lurking in the shadows.

For a moment, you almost smiled. Work would never run out here.

Besides the location, nothing else has changed. Your routine stayed exactly the same—only the workload increased.

On rare free days, you trained. Alone, of course. Combat drills, endurance exercises, weapon practice—even though your technique rendered most tools irrelevant.

You trained because if you stopped moving, stopped exhausting your body until your muscles burned and your lungs ached, your mind would start wandering.

And wandering meant remembering. Remembering meant regret. Regret meant pain.

Sometimes, in rare moments of strange optimism, if you woke more rested than usual, you tried to work on your technique again.

You stood in empty training halls, staring at your hands. You tried to control the cursed energy circulating beneath your skin. Tried to imagine shutting it down, containing it—not letting it act on its own, not letting fear spread through you.

You tried to convince yourself that maybe—just maybe—you had missed something all those years ago.

Every time, the result was the same. Failure.

Despite having enough money to buy a place of your own, you moved into the dorms at Tokyo Jujutsu High, just as you had in Kyoto.

People thought it strange—a Special Grade sorcerer choosing to live in a student dormitory. But you liked the noise: quiet hallways filled with footsteps, voices echoing from common rooms, doors opening and closing, students arguing, teachers reprimanding, the faint smell of instant ramen drifting through the vents late at night.

You never joined the noise. Never stepped into the rooms where people were. Never sat with anyone during meals. Even the conversations you had were short and strictly professional: mission briefings, reports, occasional clipped responses to greetings.

You stayed at the edge of everything.

But watching people exist—hearing the messy, normal chaos of other lives—kept something inside you from completely collapsing.

Living in the dorms meant you were at least around other people. Even if you refused to touch them. Even if you never really spoke. Even if they instinctively stepped away when they noticed you approaching with a blank expression.

If you lived alone, it would be worse.

Days might pass where the only things you see are curses and your reflection in the mirror. You would go weeks without hearing another human voice. The silence would swallow you whole, eating at your mind and sanity.

So you stayed in the dorms. In the quiet margins of other people’s lives, where you could see them, but where they didn’t really pay attention to you.

You only leave campus when a mission requires it—or on the rare days when the silence of your own life becomes unbearable.

When the dorm room walls feel too close. When the air in your lungs feels heavy. When the thought of another day alone with your own thoughts makes something deep in your chest twist too tightly.

Most of the time, though, you stay.

You rarely leave the grounds of school—it’s the safest place for someone like you. Monitored. Controlled. Full of people who know exactly who you are—people who keep their distance without you having to push them away.

Outside the school walls, the world is full of fragile, soft things. Things that can die far too easily beneath your hands.

Since most days your routine never changes—training halls, mission briefings, empty courtyards after sunset when the students have already gone back inside—you know you are bound to run into Gojo Satoru, no matter how much you try to avoid him.

Like anyone even vaguely familiar with the world of sorcerers, you knew who he was long before you ever saw him in person.

The strongest sorcerer alive.

The man born with both the Six Eyes and Limitless.

A walking disaster the higher-ups simultaneously relied on and feared.

But knowing of him and actually interacting with him were two very different things.

When you lived in Kyoto, there had never been a reason for your paths to cross. Even after transferring to Tokyo, you didn’t see him much at first. He was a teacher—busy with his students, missions, politics, and whatever other chaos he liked to stir up in his free time.

Sometimes you caught glimpses of him across the courtyard.

White hair bright against the sunlight. Blindfold tight around his eyes. His tall frame slouched lazily against a railing while he talked.

Sometimes you heard his voice.

More than once he spent an early morning knocking on Kugisaki’s door—who happened to live on the same dorm floor as you—because she had overslept.

Your plan for dealing with him was simple: ignore him like everyone else, and hopefully he would do the same.

That plan lasted about a week because being the new Special Grade on campus meant attention, whether you wanted it or not.

Students whispered when you passed. Other sorcerers watched your gloved hands with thinly veiled curiosity.

Some looked afraid.

Others looked impressed.

Most just stared.

You were used to that.

Curiosity was easy to ignore.

What you weren’t prepared for was Gojo’s curiosity. Unlike everyone else, he didn’t just watch. He dared to approach you.

At first, it was subtle.

You’d be crossing the courtyard and suddenly he would appear beside you.

“Morning.”

That was it, Just a casual greeting. Then he would walk away before you could respond.

The first time you thought it was a coincidence, maybe he mistook you for someone else. The second time, you were suspicious. By the fifth time, it was clear he was doing it on purpose.

He treated you the way someone might approach a feral animal: slowly and patiently, testing boundaries.

He would stop you in passing to greet you. Never forcing a conversation you clearly didn’t want to have. Never lingering long enough to make you uncomfortable.

Just a small, polite acknowledgment of your existence.

Then he would leave.

Again.

And again.

And again.

In the beginning, you ignored him completely, but Gojo was annoyingly persistent, and, eventually, you realised something: the moment you responded—even with something as small as a quiet “hi”—he would leave you alone for the rest of the day.

So you started doing exactly that.

Offering him a single word.

You never stopped walking. You rarely looked at him. Your mouth would open just enough to answer.

He would hum in satisfaction, grin at you, and disappear.

It felt less like casual, passing conversation and more like he was training you to tolerate his presence.

... ... ...

The first real conversation you have with him happens near the cursed tool storage shed.

You’ve borrowed a few weapons earlier for training, and now you’re returning them. The morning air is cool, the gravel path quiet beneath your steps.

Halfway down the path, Gojo appears as if he’s been there the whole time and simply chose the moment to become visible.

He falls into step beside you.

You don’t look at him.

By now you’ve learned that acknowledging him too much only encourages him.

But this time, he doesn’t leave. Instead, he watches you with that unsettling focus of his. Even with the sunglasses hiding his eyes, you feel it; it makes you feel like you're standing under a spotlight.

“You know,” he says, voice light, hands tucked lazily into his pockets, “I’ve been wondering something.”

You don’t respond.

The door to the tool shed creaks as you push it open and step inside. The smell of oil, rust, and old cursed energy fills the small room.

“What?”

Gojo leans against the doorway.

He isn’t wearing his uniform today—just dark jeans and a loose shirt, sunglasses resting on the bridge of his nose.

He probably has a day off, which explains why he’s using the morning to bother you.

“You think your technique would work on me?”

Of all the things you expect him to ask, that isn’t one of them.

“I don’t see why not,” you say, sliding the blade into place. “If you lowered Infinity, that is. It requires skin-to-skin contact.”

Most people react the same way after hearing that: they immediately step back. Their bodies instinctively put distance between you and them, because the horrifying realization always lands the same way.

You could kill them by accident.

Something as simple as holding hands would be lethal.

Gojo doesn’t move. He doesn’t even flinch.

Of course, he doesn’t.

Only someone like him could hear a statement like you will die and treat it as a challenge, rather than a threat.

He rolls his eyes dramatically. “I know that.”

You turn to face him fully now, though you don’t move toward the door he’s blocking.

He pushes his sunglasses up, revealing a glimpse of bright blue behind the lenses. His expression is too amused, his grin too sharp for your liking.

“But what if I leave Infinity on?” he continues. “Technically, you wouldn’t be able to touch me at all.”

You stare at him for a moment. Then you nod once.

“Yes.”

You don’t elaborate. You don’t argue. You already know where this conversation is heading, and you absolutely are not going to participate in whatever stupid experiment he’s clearly imagining.

Gojo tilts his head, studying you carefully, his gaze pinning you to the floor.

“You’re not curious?” he asks.

“No.”

You definitely are not going to consent to testing that theory.

Because what if it fails?

What if you actually kill him?

It would be kind of funny, in a twisted way, but you are not ready to be sentenced to death—no matter how little you value your own life—just because an overgrown idiot decided to gamble with his.

“Find someone else to gamble with,” you say, hoping he’ll drop it and leave you alone.

To your surprise, he steps aside.

“Wow,” Gojo sighs. “You’re no fun.”

He shifts out of the doorway, leaving the exit clear.

For a second, you just stare at him—suspicious, waiting for the catch. He only waves you off lazily, like he’s already lost interest.

You don’t wait for him to change his mind.

You step outside immediately, warm sunlight hitting your face.

You take one step. Two. You don’t get to take a third.

Suddenly fingers clamp around your wrist like a vice. The grip isn’t rough, but it’s firm enough to stop you cold.

Your entire body jolts as if someone dumped a bucket of ice water straight down your spine.

You twist around instantly, eyes wide.

You haven’t felt fear in a long time. Your emotions have been dulled for years now—like the edge of a knife worn smooth from too much use. But suddenly that dull blade sharpens.

Fear floods your chest, spreading outward in a hot, suffocating wave—someone is touching you.

Your body tenses, muscles coiling tight. Your free hand curls into a fist as your gaze snaps down to your wrist, then back up.

“Let me go, Gojo,” you hiss.

Your voice comes out low and sharp enough that most people would step back.

He doesn’t.

“No.”

His thumb slides slowly along the inside of your wrist in a lazy stroke, deliberate enough that you feel every millimeter.

Your stomach drops.

“Come on,” he drawls, giving your arm a small tug as if trying to pull you closer. “Relax.”

You don’t.

Your shoulders lock even tighter.

“Just one itty-bitty little touch.”

“I’m serious,” you snap.

Your composure is already cracking, and you hate that he can see it.

“This isn’t a joke.”

“I won’t be mad if you off me,” he grins, teeth flashing like he isn’t asking something completely insane, like he isn’t casually inviting you to kill the strongest sorcerer alive.

When he still refuses to let go, panic spikes hard in your chest.

You yank your arm back with all your strength.

Your body thrashes, twisting your shoulder, trying to rip your wrist free—but Gojo’s grip doesn’t budge—the movement pulls your muscles painfully tight, a sharp ache shooting up your arm.

You’re in full panic now.

Heart hammering.

Breathing too fast.

You try to get away while also keeping track of your limbs, terrified that in the chaos, you might accidentally touch him somewhere.

You don’t even realize what he’s doing until it’s too late.

Your glove slips off.

You feel it before you see it—the cool wind brushing against your bare skin.

Your head jerks down.

The black sheen of your fingernails glints faintly in the sunlight.

Then Gojo flips your hand over.

His index finger presses into the center of your palm. Your skin dents around it as he drags the finger upward until it reaches the tip of your index finger.

Your chest locks so tightly it feels like your body forgets how to breathe. Air burns in your lungs. Your vision blurs.

You’re too emotionally distressed to notice something strange.

You don’t actually feel his skin.

There’s no warmth. Only a cool, distant sensation—like holding your hand just above the surface of water, feeling the movement without ever getting wet.

“Hmm,” Gojo hums.

He pulls his finger back, waiting a few seconds. Nothing happens. So he presses his palm against yours.

Flat.

Full contact.

His hand is larger than yours, engulfing your palm as he threads his fingers between yours, forcing your fingertips to graze him at multiple points.

Your knees nearly give out. The world tilts violently. Black spots flicker at the edges of your vision.

If his other hand wasn’t still wrapped around your wrist, grounding you, you’re fairly certain you would collapse right there.

Because this is wrong.

Everything about this is wrong.

Someone is touching you.

And they are still alive.

You stare down at your joined hands, as your mind refuses to process the image.

Gojo’s palm resting against yours. His long fingers stretching across your smaller hand. Your black nails stark against his pale skin. Except… not quite because there is still that invisible barrier between you.

You can feel it now if you focus—a thin, endless space.

The sight feels surreal and foreign. It’s like watching someone else’s memory.

You honestly can’t remember the last time another person touched you. Years, probably. Maybe longer.

The image feels wrong in a way you can’t fully explain: your hand. someone else’s hand. fingers intertwined.

All Friday evening dissolves into a long, relentless argument in your head.

One moment, you’re firm about it.

No. Absolutely not. Going out with Sukuna is a terrible idea—the kind of choice that ends badly. He’s Yuji’s older brother. That alone should make the thought off-limits.

The next moment, however, you're folding laundry, pretending you aren't doing this only to make sure the black dress Sukuna mentioned is clean.

You tell yourself you’re dumb for even entertaining the idea. Spending time with Sukuna would be equal to playing with fire and hoping you don't get burned.

Yet somehow an hour later, you’re sitting on the floor in front of your closet, shoes scattered, brows pinched, lips pursed, as you study each pair: your hand settles on your black heels, the kind you can walk in all night without your feet screaming at you.

You tell yourself you won’t leave your dorm tomorrow. Yet when Nobara texts, asking if you want to hang out this weekend, you lie: “Busy with studying.”

The lie sends a small ripple of guilt through you, but mostly it confirms what you already know.

Your resolve is cracking.

By the next evening, it’s gone entirely.

You linger in the shower longer than necessary, letting the hot water chase the tension down your spine. Steam fogs mirrors as you scrub your hair, rinse, repeat. The fruity body wash leaves a sweet scent clinging to your skin.

Later, in the bedroom, blowdryer in hand, your reflection looks suspiciously like someone who is definitely going somewhere tonight, which annoys you because you’re still pretending you’re not.

Still, you don't want to give in so easily, and you won't.

If Sukuna wants to take you out, he can wait.

You purposely spend longer than necessary getting ready, taking your sweet time dressing up and doing your make-up.

6:55 p.m.

You lock the dorm door, drop the key into your shoulder bag, and step out; you were supposed to meet him at six.

You walk slowly after you exit the building.

Heels clicking against the pavement, you pass the streetlamps and trees, your eyes darting everywhere but the lot where he said he’d be.

On the outside, you look composed. Your posture is straight, your shoulders drawn back, pace relaxed.

Inside, your heart is a drumroll, each beat louder than the heels against the concrete.

What if he left?

What if he got bored?

What if… he never planned to show up at all?

Finally, you allow your gaze to sweep the parking lot. And there he is.

Still waiting.

Even after almost an hour.

Sukuna leans against the passenger door of a sleek black car, one ankle crossed over the other. One arm folded across his chest while the other lazily scrolls through his phone—like he’s been here long enough to become bored and impatient all at once.

He always looks good, but tonight… tonight, he looks dangerously good. Hot.

You’ve never really seen him dressed up before. Usually, it’s workout clothes or worn jeans and a plain tee.

Now… black slacks hug his thighs just enough to hint at the muscle underneath. A crisp white dress shirt peeks out from under a leather jacket, the top few buttons left undone as if he couldn’t be bothered to finish the job.

His hair is slightly tamed, slicked back, though several stubborn strands fall across his forehead; it suits him.

Your footsteps echo against the pavement, and the sound draws his attention before you’re close enough to speak.

His head lifts, and dark maroon eyes slide down your figure once before snapping back to your face.

“Took you long enough.”

You shrug like you don’t care.

“I hoped if I made you wait, you’d eventually leave.”

You know you don’t mean it. You wanted him to wait.

“I knew you were going to play hard to get,” he says, clicking his tongue.

Heat flares in your cheeks. You bite the inside of your cheek, hoping your makeup hides the rising blush.

He pushes off the car, one hand opening the passenger door as he steps aside.

"So," he drawls, “are we going to spend another hour standing here, or are you just going to get in?”

A small smile forms on your face.

Part of you considers pushing him a little more, just to see how much you can test his patience before he has had enough. But the night air is cool, and curiosity overpowers stubbornness. You want to see what he has planned for tonight.

You make a conscious effort to avoid brushing against him as you move past.

“Only because it’s cold outside,” you say, sliding gracefully into the seat.

Sukuna huffs quietly. “Sure. Tell yourself whatever you want, as long as your ass gets in.”

Before shutting the door, his gaze travels down your legs, lingering at the ankles where they cross.

You pretend not to notice.

Then, finally, the door clicks shut.

The car ride is quiet. Not comfortably quiet, not awkwardly quiet either. Something in between—thick, humming, like a wire pulled too tight, on the verge of snapping.

You don’t try to fill the silence. Sukuna doesn’t either. He just drives.

One hand rests loosely on the steering wheel, fingers tapping occasionally, while the other shifts the gears before dropping across his lap. The movement makes his forearm flex beneath the sleeve of his jacket. His legs are spread slightly beneath the dashboard, relaxed, the dark fabric of his slacks stretching taut across his thighs every time he presses the pedals.

You try very hard not to notice, and even harder not to stare.

Your gaze stays glued to the window instead, watching the city lights smear into streaks of gold and white as the car glides through the streets.

But it’s difficult because every now and then, you feel it—that prickling awareness crawling across your skin when someone’s attention is on you.

You glance over. And of course, Sukuna is already looking. Not subtly either.

His dark maroon eyes drift over you —your shoulder, the curve of your collarbone, the way your dress falls over your legs, the way you squirm, fingers tightening around the strap of your bag.

When your eyes meet, he doesn’t look away. He holds the gaze deliberately, like he wants you to know he’s glad you caught him staring.

You snap your head back toward the window like you’ve been burned.

Sukuna’s quiet chuckle rumbles through the car a moment later.

A few minutes pass. This time, you sneak a glance.

He catches you. His brow lifts slightly, just enough to ask, "Well?" without speaking.

You whip your head back so fast your hair swings over your shoulder.

The low hum of the engine continues, the tension between you buzzing louder than the soft music playing from the radio, and still, neither of you talks.

The car slows after another ten minutes, tires crunching over loose gravel before coming to a halt beneath the warm glow of a flickering sign.

A diner.

Not the kind of place with valet parking and polished glass doors you half–expected when Sukuna told you to “dress nice.” No—this place is small, cosy, windows fogged with heat and grease, a crooked OPEN sign buzzing above the door. Through the glass, you can see checkered floors, vinyl booths, and a tired waitress wiping down tables.

You shift in your seat to face him.

“This,” you say, gesturing vaguely at the building, “is what I dressed up for?”

Something smug lurks behind his expression as he turns to look at you as welll.

“Problem?”

You scoff softly, turning back to the window. “It’s not a problem,” you mutter. “I just thought—”

“What?” His voice drops, teasing. “You thought I’d take you somewhere fancy?”

The engine cuts off with a quiet click.

“I just didn’t think you’d take me somewhere like this after telling me to dress up.”

Sukuna pushes the door open and steps out, stretching like a lazy cat who’s been sitting too long.

“Relax,” he says over the roof of the car. “It’s only a pit stop.”

He dips his head after bowing his spine to look at you when you remain seated.

“Come on. Let’s go.”

You hesitate for half a second before climbing out.

The air carries the smell of frying oil and coffee drifting from the diner.

Sukuna waits by the door, hands in his pockets, watching you walk and try not to stumble on the gravel when your heel rolls over the loose stones.

He opens the door for you, his hand brushing over the side of your hip.

Inside, the diner is warm and bright. The hum of old refrigerators and faint music from a radio fill the space. Only a few booths are occupied—an older couple sharing pie, a truck driver nursing a coffee.

Sukuna leads you to a booth near the window.

The vinyl seat squeaks as you slide in across from him.

Before you can even glance at the menu, a waitress arrives, and Sukuna orders.

“For her—burger, fries, and a chocolate milkshake.”

“How did you—”

He doesn’t look up from the menu, nor does he let you finish asking how he knows what milkshake you always order. “Yuji may have mentioned it some time ago.”

When the waitress leaves, Sukuna sets the menu down—he didn't order anything for himself—and leans back in the booth.

“You look like you’re about to ask something,” he says.

You narrow your eyes. “Since when do you pay attention to what I eat?”

“Since I noticed you skip dinner half the time.”

“I don't do that.”

“Mhm.” His eyes drift lazily over you, like he can't decide where to settle his gaze. “I can’t even count the times I pick you and your little band of idiots up somewhere, and you complain in my backseat to Nobara that you should have eaten before going out.”

When the food arrives, the smell alone makes your stomach betray you with a quiet growl. Sukuna hears it.

His grin widens.

You shoot him a glare but pick up a fry anyway, biting into it—hot, salty, greasy.

You’re halfway through your burger when movement at the table catches your attention.

Sukuna’s hand.

You freeze mid-bite.

Slowly, he reaches across and plucks a fry from your plate.

You stare as he eats it.

Another fry disappears from your plate, and then another.

“Sukuna.”

He finally looks up, chewing lazily. “What?”

“That’s mine.”

His eyes flick down at your plate, then back to you. Without breaking eye contact, he takes another fry.

Your glare sharpens.

He leans forward slightly, forearms resting on the table now, clearly enjoying himself.

“You’re glaring,” he states the obvious.

“Because you’re annoying; you should’ve ordered something if you were hungry.”

“You’re cute when you’re annoyed. And I’m not hungry.”

You bite into your burger to avoid responding.

Another fry vanishes.

You watch him from the corner of your eye, and when he extends his hand again, you grab it. Sukuna’s fingers pause beneath yours. For a moment, neither of you moves. His hand is warm; yours rests on top of it.

“Move your hand,” he says.

“Make me.”

The words slip out before you can stop them.

A slow, dangerous smile spreads across his face.

Instead of pulling away, he flips his hand, trapping your wrist in his grip. Sukuna leans forward, bringing your captured hand with him, and tugging you closer, making you lean over the table too. The distance between you shrinks until you're so close that you could count his lashes.

“You sure you wanna challenge me,” he says, “over a fry?”

Your pulse is loud in your ears.

“You started it.”

His gaze drops briefly to your lips before he releases your wrist—but not before dragging his fingertips slowly across your palm, watching as your shoulders tense for a second.

When he leans back, he steals yet another fry, eating it with the most satisfied expression you’ve ever seen.

You give up on swatting his fingers away each time he does it.

When you finish your burger and milkshake, Sukuna pays before you even have the chance to argue. He drops a few bills on the table, stands, and jerks his chin toward the door like the matter is already settled.

You mutter something half-hearted about splitting it, since he didn’t actually eat anything, but he ignores you.

Back in the car, the quiet returns. The engine hums softly as Sukuna pulls back onto the road, one hand resting on the wheel while the other taps lightly against the gearshift.

“So,” you say, folding one leg beneath the other, “where are you actually taking me?”

Sukuna keeps his eyes on the road.

“To a proper nightclub.”

One hand turns the wheel smoothly as he pulls onto the street.

“Not the little neighborhood joints you go to with your friends,” he continues, rolling his eyes. “The ones where they dilute the drinks with water and call it a cocktail.”

You do love those places and going out: sticky floors, cheap drinks, dancing until your legs ache, and your thoughts finally quiet down; nights where you lose track of time with your friends, laughing too loud and stumbling out at three in the morning.

But going out with friends and going out with Sukuna are two very different things.

Even sitting beside him now makes you hyper-aware. The air around him feels heavier somehow.

Still.

There will be drinks.

And dancing.

Somehow, you'll manage. If not… maybe you’ll just get very drunk and hope to forget about it all in the morning.

The streets start to change—buildings taller, sidewalks cleaner, storefronts brighter.

When Sukuna finally pulls up, you spot the line first. Long, crowded, people dressed up, girls in skimpy dresses, guys in pressed shirts standing in clusters.

Before you can say anything, Sukuna shuts off the engine and steps out. You’re still reaching for the door handle when he appears beside your door and opens it.

The moment you step out, his hand settles against your lower back. Casual, yet firm enough to guide you forward.

Your stomach flips slightly at the touch and the proximity of him.

When you reach the line, Sukuna doesn’t even slow down. You walk straight past everyone; you can feel their eyes: some curious, some annoyed. The bouncer at the door simply glances at Sukuna once, recognition flashing across his face, and steps aside without a word.

Inside, the music hits immediately. Heavy bass vibrates through the floor, through your ribs. The lighting is low and saturated in deep reds and violets, neon reflections glinting off glossy surfaces and mirrored walls.

The place feels… expensive.

Sukuna doesn’t stop walking.

He leads you down a dim corridor, the sound of the club growing louder with every step. Then the hallway opens, and your lips part slightly when your eyes land on the first thing that catches your attention.

Women dance on raised podiums around the space. Not completely naked—but close enough to make your brain stall for a second. Sparkling, barely-there bikinis catch the lighting while impossibly tall heels flash beneath them as they move around the poles—slow, fluid movements that look effortless.

Your eyebrows shoot up. You lean closer to Sukuna so he can hear you over the music. “You took me to a strip club?”

He rolls his eyes and scoffs.

“It’s not a strip club.”

You glance back at one of the dancers spinning upside down around a pole. “Sure looks like one.”

“If it was a strip club,” he says, leaning closer so his breath ghosts over your temple, “they’d actually be taking their clothes off.”

You watch for another second. He has a point. The dancers are more part of the atmosphere than the focus—moving slowly, rhythmically, while the real crowd fills the dance floor below.

Still, you aren't completely convinced, “Close enough.”

Sukuna smirks but doesn’t argue. He steers you toward one of the curved booths lining the walls. When you slide into the seat, the dark leather sinks beneath you—soft and ridiculously comfortable.

You look around again. Crystal glasses, low moody lights. People dressed like they belong in magazines. You’re suddenly very aware you probably can’t even afford a glass of water here, let alone a drink.

“Shots first,” he says. “Then we go dancing.”

Your eyes drift toward the dance floor, and you nod since it doesn't sound like too bad of a plan.

The shots Sukuna presents you with you don’t hit the way they normally would on an empty stomach. But even then, warmth spreads quickly—burning pleasantly down your throat, pooling somewhere in your chest before blooming outward into your limbs.

By the time you tip back the last shot, the edges of the room feel softer, the music louder, the lights warmer.

You place the empty glass down with a clink.

“Alright,” you say, already shifting in your seat. Your body buzzes, ready to start moving. “Let’s—”

You’re halfway to standing up when a shadow falls across the table—a man slides into the booth like he owns the place.

“Well, well, well,” he drawls lazily.

He stretches his arms across the back of the seat, long legs folding comfortably beneath the table.

“Haven’t seen you in a while.”

Sukuna doesn’t flinch or even look surprised to see him.

Okay, so they know each other.

You relax slightly, sinking back against the booth instead of leaving. Looks like you’re not going anywhere until the man leaves.

The stranger is ridiculously tall—even sitting, he towers over you. Messy white hair falls across his forehead, like he’s run his hands through it one too many times. His clothes are expensive, shirt half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled, and the grin that is glued to his face is the kind that screams trouble.

“What do you want, Gojo?” Sukuna asks, irritation sharp in his voice at the sudden appearance.

At the same time, Sukuna’s hand settles on your bare knee.

The touch is casual.

When he feels you tense, his thumb begins to move in slow, absent-minded circles against your skin.

Or maybe very intentional.

The motion sends a strange ripple through your stomach.

“Why do you think I want anything to do with you?” Gojo says with exaggerated innocence. He runs a hand through his white hair, then turns toward you, bright blue eyes studying you with open curiosity.

“Maybe I’m here to see if the girl needs help—” His gaze flicks back to Sukuna. “After all, she must be in trouble if she’s with a guy like you.”

You’re not sure what the correct response is. So you don’t say anything. Instead, you lean slightly into Sukuna’s side, your shoulder brushing his arm, keeping your face perfectly neutral.

Sukuna exhales through his nose.

“Don’t you have anyone else to bother?”

“Relax,” Gojo drawls, waving a dismissive hand. “I’ll be gone in a bit. I’m waiting for Suguru.” He leans further back into the booth, looking entirely too comfortable, legs spreading wider. “Might as well spend some time with my friend while I wait, yeah?”

“Just because we work together doesn't mean we're friends,” Sukuna replies flatly.

Gojo tilts his head, smirking. “You mean you work for me.”

Sukuna’s eyes narrow.

“For you? No. For your father? Yes.”

The tension between them snaps tight. You feel Sukuna tense under you before relaxing after you let your full weight sink into his side.

They definitely don’t look like friends. Still, to your mild surprise, Sukuna doesn’t tell him to leave, and the conversation continues.

Gojo orders another round of drinks for all of you. Sukuna lets him.

The two of them talk—half insults, half actual conversation—while you gradually tune it out.

Your attention drifts back to the crowd.

The dancers on the podiums move hypnotically, their bodies catching flashes of neon with every turn. Below them, the dance floor pulses with bodies moving together, a shifting sea of shadows and motion.

You take a slow sip of your drink, watching.

A girl spins around the pole closest to your booth, hair whipping behind her as she drops smoothly into another movement.

“You know…” you mumble, mostly to yourself. “I could do that too.”

“Oh?” Gojo’s attention snaps to you instantly. The conversation with Sukuna dies mid-sentence as he leans forward, suddenly very interested.

But you barely glance at him. Your eyes go straight to Sukuna.

Sukuna scoffs, though a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“Then go on,” he says.

His gaze flicks toward the nearest podium before returning to you.

“Show off what moves you’ve got.”

“Right now?”

“Got somewhere else to be?”

You press your lips together, studying his face—the smug, self-assured expression.

“You don’t think I’ll do it.”

His smirk deepens. “Oh, I know you won’t.”

The challenge hangs there between you.

Sukuna looks entirely too confident—like he already knows exactly how this will end, and it definitely won’t be with you leaving the booth.

You slide your tongue slowly across your teeth. Then you lean forward. Your voice is softer now, but there’s a sharp edge to it. “You’re that sure?”

Sukuna tilts his head slightly, eyes dragging over you in that slow, deliberate way he always does when he wants to make you flustered. “Very.”

Across the table, Gojo looks delighted.

“Oh, this I gotta see,” he says, leaning back into the booth like he’s settling in for a show, a drink balanced loosely in his hand as he taps his fingers against the glass. “Please prove him wrong. I love when he’s wrong.”

You spare Gojo a brief glance, but your attention immediately returns to Sukuna.

He’s still smirking. Still waiting for you to relax back into the seat and admit you won’t actually take him up on the stupid challenge.

Your jaw tightens.

Fine.

You slide out of the booth.

Sukuna’s thumb stills against your knee for half a second before his hand drops away completely as you stand.

The music feels louder the moment you step away.

Bass rolls through the floor beneath your heels, vibrating up your legs and into your chest. Red lights sweep across the room in slow pulses, catching on glittering fabric, polished glass, and bare skin.

For a moment, you almost turn back.

Almost.

But then you remember the look on Sukuna’s face when he said, I know you won’t.

Your chin lifts slightly, shoulders rolling back as determination settles in your chest. You’re going to prove him wrong.

You walk toward the nearest podium—the one Sukuna glanced at earlier. The one you’ve been watching.

Behind you, you can feel both men staring.

You’re not sure if it’s nerves, the alcohol in your bloodstream, or the heavy weight of Sukuna’s gaze burning into your back. Probably all three. But the combination makes your pulse race—half excitement, half nerves.

The dancer who had been performing steps down just as you approach, laughing breathlessly with someone near the floor. Her heels click away through the crowd, leaving the platform suddenly empty.

Perfect timing.

You step up.

You glance back over your shoulder. Your eyes find Sukuna easily.

He hasn’t moved. Still sitting in the booth, but his body angled toward you now, completely focused. His expression is calmer than before—almost blank. Yet his red eyes… sharp and interested, as if he can’t believe you're reaally about to do this.

Your lips curve into a smirk.

You turn back toward the pole.

You’re not a professional dancer. Not even close. But you love dancing, you know how to move your body and how to make it look good.

Your hips sway first—slow, easy—letting the rhythm settle into your body.

Your hands slide up the pole before you spin once around it, hooking your thigh around it loosely.

The metal is cool against your palm.

Your hair sways behind you as you move.

You don’t attempt any of the complicated tricks the other women do. You’re not stupid—and definitely not drunk enough to risk falling off a podium.

But you don’t need tricks.

You spin around the pole again, movements simple but fluid, flowing easily with the beat.

When you arch your back, your chest brushing the pole, your hands glide down your sides, fingertips grazing the fabric. The dress moulds to your curves, hugging every movement.

A few people nearby begin to notice.

Someone whistles. You don’t look at them, but it boosts your confidence a little. Maybe you’re not making a fool of yourself after all.

Your shoulders roll with the music, hips shifting in an easy rhythm. Your movements are relaxed, unpolished, but confident.

Your hand brushes through your hair, moving it to one side, as you glance back over your shoulder toward the booth.

Gojo is openly grinning like he’s watching the best entertainment of the night.

But Sukuna…

Sukuna isn’t smiling anymore. Not even smirking. His one elbow rests on the table, fingers touching lightly against his mouth as he watches you.

His gaze drags slowly from the curve of your waist down to the line of your legs… then back up again.

Your breath catches. It feels like he’s undressing you with nothing but his eyes.

The music shifts to a slower beat. You let your hips sway deeper with it, sinking a little lower as your fingers brush the bottom of your dress. You don’t lift it much—just a bit.

The hem rises beneath your fingertips, revealing a little more of your thighs, not enough to be obscene, but enough to tease.

Across the room, Sukuna’s eyes darken, and you can see his tongue dart out as he wets his bottom lip.

You straighten again, spinning once more around the pole before letting go.

That’s enough.

The dancer from earlier returns, climbing the steps with a playful grin. She winks at you, and you take it as your cue.

A man standing nearby offers his hand to help you down from the platform.

You accept it.

“Thanks,” you say with a quick smile before slipping back into the crowd, not giving him a chance to rope you into a conversation.

The dance floor is thick with people, bodies brushing against yours as you weave through them. Heat clings to your skin, making the hair stick to the back of your neck.

You slide back into the seat, smoothing your dress down over your thighs.

Gojo claps once, delighted. “Okay,” he says, grinning. “Did not expect that.”

Your eyes drift to Sukuna.

He hasn’t said anything yet. He’s just watching you, and the look on his face is much harder to read than before.

“You said I wouldn’t,” you tell him with a shrug, a confident smile tugging at your lips. Your voice stays steady, though there’s still a faint breathlessness clinging to it from pushing through the crowd.

Sukuna’s gaze drops briefly to your mouth.

It’s subtle—quick enough that someone else might miss it.

You don’t.

The corner of his mouth curls, but slower this time. Less smug. More… thoughtful.

“Yeah,” he nods.

His voice low, roughened slightly by the music vibrating through the room—and something else you can’t quite place.

You tug weakly at the blanket wrapped around you, the fabric stretches against your knees—pinned.

Your brain takes a few seconds to catch up with your body.

When you finally prop yourself up on one elbow and blink the sleep from your eyes, the room returns in dim blue fragments. Moonlight leaks through the curtains. The TV is dark. The apartment is silent.

And then you see him.

Sukuna hasn’t left.

He’s still sitting on the couch exactly where he was when you drifted off hours ago; your legs are still sprawled across his lap.

For a long moment, you just stare, mind sluggish, trying to process the sight of him sitting there so still. His head is tipped back against the couch cushion, exposing the long line of his throat. His lips are parted slightly, breath slow and even, as a faint snore escapes him every few seconds.

One of his hands still loosely grips his phone. The screen has long since gone dark.

Your first instinct is to move because this is ridiculous. Because you’re practically draped over Yuji’s older brother. Because if anyone walked in right now—

But the movement only makes his fingers shift down your calf and curl around your ankle.

You freeze.

Warmth of his touch seeps into your skin. Sukuna runs hot, and the heat of him spreads slowly, wrapping around you until it feels almost impossible to ignore.

Your gaze drifts back to his face.

He looks different asleep. Usually, there’s something predatory in the way Sukuna carries himself, something in the way his eyes linger too long when they land on you. Being around him sometimes feels like standing too close to a wolf that hasn’t yet decided whether it’s bored or hungry.

But right now his expression is slack with sleep.

Dark lashes rest against his cheekbones, shadows soft in the moonlight. The harsh angles of his face are gentler like this.

You notice stupid things: the faint crease between his brows that stays even while he sleeps, the small scar cutting through one eyebrow, the way his hair falls messily over his forehead.

Your gaze drifts lower before you can stop it—to the rise and fall of his bare chest. The dark lines inked across his skin spread in careful patterns, curling over muscle, disappearing beneath the waistband of his pants.

It would be smart to wake him. You should shake his shoulder and tell him to go to bed. Instead, you pull the blanket tighter around yourself, and slowly, carefully, trying not to disturb him, you curl back down.

Your head sinks into the pillow again. One of your knees shifts slightly against his thigh.

He stirs faintly but doesn’t wake.

The living room fills with the quiet rhythm of his breathing.

Sleep drags you under again.

In the morning, he’s gone.

You wake to pale sunlight and the empty weight of the couch beneath your legs.

For a moment, you wonder if you imagined the whole thing. But then you realise the blanket is tucked tighter around your shoulders than it was before you fell asleep.

A month passes.

Somehow, you managed to avoid Sukuna and the apartment almost completely. It’s not even something you plan at first. It just happens.

When Yuji invites you over to the apartment, you suddenly have assignments due. Or study sessions.Or laundry you absolutely cannot postpone doing.

Sometimes you suggest meeting somewhere else instead. Or if he declines, you send apologetic messages and promise you’ll come next time.

Next time never really happens.

Part of you knows it’s ridiculous. But every time you think about seeing Sukuna again, something tightens in your chest that makes you reach for another excuse.

Still, you can’t avoid him forever.

You see him once—briefly—when you, Yuji, Megumi, and Nobara go out together. Sukuna ends up driving you home that night, like always, but the interaction is short. Controlled. Easy to pretend it means nothing.

After that, you go right back to staying away.

You don’t know how you feel about any of it.

About Sukuna.

About those strange moments that seemed to exist only when the two of you are alone.

You try not to think about it. You don’t dare entertain the possibility that you might actually care—that some part of you might even want to run into him; God forbid you stop inventing reasons why you can’t come over when Yuji asks.

You also try not to think about the fact that you may have liked his attention—and now that it’s gone, you miss it.

You miss the way Sukuna’s gaze always lingered a little too long. The way he leaned closer than necessary when he spoke to you. The way he teased you just to see your reaction.

You pretend none of it bothered you.

But it’s only toward the end of the semester that your mind finally gets a break from it.

You’re drowning in assignments and research papers and exam prep. Your planner is packed with deadlines and study sessions, every hour already claimed by something else.

The constant pressure keeps your brain too busy to wander anywhere it shouldn’t.

You’re almost relieved when one of your professors assigns a simple group project. It’s just another thing to focus on.

Your partner is Maki.

You meet once after class to discuss the outline. She mentions she’d probably want to start next week once things settle down. You give her your number and tell her to text when she’s free.

Which is why the message you receive late Thursday night surprises you.

Unknown number: are you free on friday? around lunch

You stare at the notification for a few seconds. The number isn’t saved, and for a moment, your mind draws a complete blank. Then it clicks.

Right, Maki.

yeah. cursed bean @ 11am?

Three little dots appear. Disappear. Then appear again.

Finally the reply comes through.

Unknown number: 👍

Friday morning starts wrong.

You wake with sunlight already spilling across your ceiling and the horrible realisation that your alarm has been ringing for too long. Your phone is halfway under your pillow, vibrating weakly like it’s given up on trying to get your attention.

“Shit—”

You bolt upright.

The clock reads 10:27—you're going to be late.

You scramble out of bed, nearly tripping over the pile of clothes on the floor you meant to wash three days ago and absolutely did not.

Your closet door flies open.

Empty hangers sway back and forth.

Your gaze drops to the laundry basket: wrinkled shirts, a sweater you definitely already wore this week, something that might be a sock.

You look back into your closet and something dark catches your eye.

Sukuna’s shirt.

It’s been sitting at the bottom of your closet for weeks—you never returned it, but you never wore it again either.

The shirt is soft, when you hold it up, it looks even bigger than you remember; it still smells like him.

You stare at it longer than necessary. Then you sigh.

“Whatever.”

It’s the only clean option.

You tug it on and pair it with your favourite jeans. The shirt hangs loose on your frame, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs when you move, so you tuck it in. The collar dips just enough that you have to tug it back into place.

The walk to Cursed Bean is short, and the weather is warm enough that you skip a jacket. You shove on sneakers, run a quick hand through your hair, and grab your phone on the way out the door.

As you hurry down the sidewalk, you send off a message.

running a little late 😭 be there soon

Maki doesn’t reply.

You assume she’s already there.

By the time you push open the café door, it’s 11:12.

The place is packed.

Every table seems occupied, voices overlapping with the low hum of the espresso machine. The smell of coffee and caramel hangs thick in the air.

You step into line and automatically scan the room, looking for dark green hair.

Nothing.

Your gaze drifts over the café again while the person in front of you debates milk options with the barista.

Still nothing.

Maybe she grabbed a table in the back.

You pull out your phone.

i’m here. did you leave?

No response.

Your turn comes up.

“I’ll take an iced caramel macchiato,” you tell the barista.

You pay, step aside, and reach for your phone just as it vibrates in your pocket.

Bzzz—bzz.

Maki: no, still here

Your eyebrows pinch together.

You lift your head, scanning the café again—slower this time. More carefully. Still no green hair.

Your attention drops back to your phone just as another message pops up.

Bzzz-bzz.

Maki: cute shirt

Your name is called. You collect your drink, barely registering the barista sliding it across the counter.

You weave between tables toward the back of the café, eyes flicking from one seat to the next as you check the booths near the windows.

You don’t find Maki, but you do find Sukuna.

He’s leaning back in the booth like he owns the place, long legs stretched under the table, one arm draped lazily along the backrest. His phone rests in his hand, but his attention isn’t on it.

It’s on you.

When your eyes lock, his gaze pins you to the floor. You can’t take another step, and somewhere deep down, you’re silently praying he won’t get up.

His eyes travel over you from head to toe.

Something flickers in his expression.

You watch as he tilts his head, picks up his phone from the table, and starts typing.

Bzzz-bzz.

Your own phone vibrates almost immediately.

Maki: are you going to keep standing there?

You stare at the message. Then at him. Then back at the message, as the dots begin to connect.

You don’t want to believe that Maki is Sukuna.

First—how would he even get your number? You definitely didn’t give it to him.

Second—if he’s not Maki, that means you… what?

Agreed to meet him for coffee?

Gone on a date with him?

You fumble with your phone, your iced drink sloshing dangerously in your other hand as you type random letters just to test the theory.

sbyhdhfjk

Send.

Across the room, Sukuna’s phone vibrates against the table.

You hear it—you see it happen.

He doesn’t even bother picking it up. He just unlocks the screen, glances down at the message, and then looks back up at you.

The heat crawls up your neck. You should walk over there and demand an explanation, but you can't move because your brain betrays you: a memory surfaces, uninvited.

Yuji's party.

The bathroom.

The way Sukuna kissed you. The way his voice dropped when he leaned toward your ear. The way your body reacted in a way you’ve been aggressively not thinking about for weeks. The way you had come apart on his fingers,

You’ve done a remarkably decent job of burying that memory.

Until now.

Your hands suddenly feel too warm. Your heart climbs up your throat. Your thighs press together.

And Sukuna is still staring at you, like he knows exactly what you’re remembering—and exactly what it does to you.

So, of course, you do the only logical thing. You turn on your heel and walk the hell out of the café.

You don’t run, but you walk fast. Fast enough that the bell above the door rings sharply as you push outside, sunlight hitting your face as you escape into the warm afternoon air.

The further you get from the café, the better.

You make it maybe fifteen steps before he catches up to you; you hear him before you see him—the slow, steady rhythm of footsteps that are far too relaxed for someone supposedly chasing you.

“Running away already?”

You refuse to look.

You keep walking, sneakers slapping against the pavement faster than necessary, iced coffee clutched in your hand like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

Sukuna easily falls into step next to you, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket.

It’s irritating how effortless he looks.

You’re practically speed-walking, on the verge of breaking into a full run, while his stupidly long legs let him match your pace like he’s taking a leisurely stroll through the park.

“I'm not running,” you say, breathing just a little uneven despite your attempt to sound calm.

You slow down just a fraction—partly because your lungs are protesting, partly because pretending you’re not running works better if you’re not actually sprinting down the sidewalk.

Still, you don’t look at him. Instead, you lift your drink and take a long, unnecessary sip. Anything to avoid speaking.

“Mhm.” Sukuna glances down at you from the corner of his eye.

His gaze lingers on your face just a beat too long, clearly enjoying the way your cheeks are flushed bright red.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

You say nothing.

Just keep walking.

Keep sipping your drink.

Keep pretending the man beside you isn’t very much there.

The silence stretches for a few steps. Then Sukuna’s eyes drift lowe and his smirk deepens.

“Interesting choice of outfit.”

Your lips part automatically, ready to fire back some sarcastic comment—something sharp about him minding his own business—but your brain catches up too late.

His shirt.

Your stomach drops like stepping into ice water.

You clamp your mouth shut. Absolutely no way you’re explaining why you’re wearing it. So you pivot.

“How did you even get my number?” you ask abruptly, turning to glare at him.

Up close, it’s impossible to ignore how tall he is. Sunlight catches in his hair, dark strands shifting slightly in the breeze. His expression is lazy and amused.

“Does it really matter?” he says. “I already have it.”

Of course he can’t just answer normally.

You roll your eyes. “I want to know who to punch for giving it to you.”

You try to sound annoyed because it’s easier. Easier to act irritated than admit that standing this close to him makes your stomach flip.

“Ahh.” Sukuna hums thoughtfully, as if he’s seriously considering it. “Well,” he says after a beat, “in that case, I guess Yuji’s nose is getting broken.”

You stop walking. “What?”

“Brat left his phone charging on the kitchen counter,” he explains lazily. “Unlocked.”

His grin widens, just enough to show teeth.

“So I figured I’d see what you’ve been up to.”

“You went through Yuji’s phone?!”

“Relax,” he says with a shrug. “I didn’t read your love letters or anything. But just so you know, if it makes you feel better, he does text you the most—well, probably because Megumi leaves him on read.”

You resume walking, and are not surprised when he follows.

“Didn’t expect you to agree to go out with me, though,” he adds lightly. “I know how much you love avoiding me.”

“I didn’t agree to go out with you,” you groan immediately, shooting him a sharp glare. “I thought you were Maki.”

Sukuna doesn’t ask who Maki is. Doesn’t question why you assumed the messages came from her. He just smirks, clearly amused that you walked into this situation completely unaware.

“Still showed up,” he points out.

“That does not count.”

“Sure it does.”

You let out a long, frustrated sigh and look away again; another sip of your drink gives you something to do with your hands.

He studies you quietly. His eyes narrow slightly, like he’s thinking something over.

“Since you’re already here,” he says casually, “we might as well make it a date.”

You nearly choke on your coffee. “This is not a date.”

“Could be,” he replies easily. “If not now, then tomorrow evening.”

The answer comes out immediately. “No.”

“Why not?”

You blink at him, incredulous. “Why would you even want that?” you shoot back. “You don’t even like me.”

That earns a low, warm chuckle.

“Who said I didn’t?”

The sound of it makes something strange flutter in your chest.

“It would be weird,” you blurt, grabbing the first excuse your brain offers.

“Weird how?” he asks, voice light, but his gaze sharp.

You gesture vaguely between the two of you.

“You’re Yuji’s brother. I’m his best friend.”

“If you’re worried about the brat,” Sukuna says, “he doesn’t have to know.”

“You’re suggesting I hide it?”

“I’m suggesting,” he replies, completely unfazed, “that if you agree to go out with me, Yuji’s opinion doesn’t exactly matter.”

He glances down at you again.

“Nor does he need to know.”

You don’t answer because Sukuna just asked you out. And the worst part—the absolutely worst part—is that some small, traitorous corner of your mind kind of wants to say yes, which is exactly why you shouldn’t.

“You’re overthinking it,” he says.

“I’m not overthinking it,” you argue. “It would make things weird between me and Yuji.”

“Would it?” Sukuna asks. “Or are you just looking for excuses?”

You glare at him. “I’m not—”

“Tomorrow evening then,” he cuts in smoothly. “Around six.”

You shake your head quickly. “You’re being incredibly pushy.”

“And you’re incredibly bad at saying no.”

“I just said no.”

“Didn’t sound convincing,” he replies lazily. “Mostly sounded like a bunch of lame excuses.”

Your grip tightens around your cup. “I’m serious.”

Sukuna leans slightly closer. Not enough to touch, just enough that his voice drops lower, quieter.

“Then prove it,” he murmurs. “Say you don’t want to.”

The words sit on your tongue. You can’t say them.

His smirk softens into something more knowing.

“If you really don’t want to, fine,” he says after a moment, straightening. “But tomorrow… six o’clock, I’ll be waiting in your dorm parking lot.” He gestures lazily toward the direction of campus. “If you change your mind,” he continues, his gaze briefly drifts down your outfit again. “Wear a dress, the black one with sleeves.”

Your brain short-circuits. You know exactly which dress he means. The one you wore the first time you went out with Yuji and the others, the first night, Sukuna ended up driving you home.

You didn’t think he paid that much attention to you. But apparently, he did.

Before you can come up with any kind of response, Sukuna suddenly leans down.

You halt.

He grabs your drink, or rather, he casually bends his spine and wraps his lips around the straw, taking a big sip, like it’s completely normal, like it's not the first time he does this.

“Too sweet,” he says, scrunching his nose.

You stare at him, stunned.

Then his hand shoots up, ruffling your hair—hard enough to mess it up—just to watch the glare explode across your face.

He grins and turns around, walking away, leaving you standing alone on the sidewalk.

Right before he disappears around the corner, he glances back over his shoulder. Catches your eye and winks.

From the windows of your chamber in the eastern wing of the Kamo estate, you would watch the ocean for hours, sometimes an entire afternoon passing unnoticed.

Curled into the cushioned alcove built into the stone wall, a porcelain teacup warming your hands while the bitter tea inside cooled untouched, your gaze remained fixed on that thin, silver line where sky kissed water.

From such a distance, the sea looked gentle.

Especially on bright days, when sunlight shattered across its surface like scattered glass, when the wind softened, and the water shimmered like a mirror.

Many days passed this way.

Many nights as well.

Long after the estate had fallen silent, when lanterns dimmed, and servants retired to their quarters, you often lingered at the window alone. The moon climbed high above the waves, and still you watched.

Sometimes until dawn.

Sometimes, until the servant knocked at your door to prepare you for another day confined behind the estate’s walls.

You were not permitted beyond the estate without an escort.

And even then, there was never a reason sufficient enough to justify leaving—certainly not for something as childish as curiosity, as foolish as the yearning to see the sea up close.

The shoreline—so near you could smell it when the winds shifted—remained forbidden.

You had never set foot upon its sand. Never felt it shift beneath your feet. Never dipped your fingers into the water that haunted your dreams.

That was why you devoured books in secret. Tales of adventures across the seas were your refuge: oceans that breathed like living creatures, tides that pulled and pushed with hypnotic rhythm, ships that vanished beyond the horizon for months, sometimes years.

Some stories were darker: sirens luring sailors to doom with songs too beautiful to resist, pirates stalking trade routes beneath black flags, merciless and lawless, disappearing into mist before any navy ships could reach them.

You read those passages again and again, until the paper softened beneath your fingertips.

Sometimes you closed your eyes and tried to imagine it all—the salt spray on your skin, the roar of waves crashing against the hull, the endless horizon stretching without boundary.

You imagined freedom.

It was a peculiar torment: to live within sight of your deepest desire, yet remain barred from it entirely.

The Kamo estate lacked nothing. You reminded yourself of that often.

A wiser woman—one less restless, one less foolish—would be grateful for a life like yours.

The estate was beautiful.

Sprawling gardens flourished through every season. Koi ponds mirrored the sky in perfect stillness. Stone paths wound through orchards heavy with fruit. Pavilions stood poised among meticulously trimmed hedges.

Beauty surrounded you everywhere, but you felt suffocated.

Encircling it all rose towering stone walls, ancient and unyielding; ironwork crowned their tops like thorns.

The walls were said to exist for protection. For dignity. For privacy.

To you, they were a prison.

And lately, the feeling had become unbearable.

A strange tightness had settled into your chest. A restless flutter that refused to quiet no matter how many books you read or how carefully you practiced your needlework.

The gardens felt smaller every day. The air, heavier. Even the scent of flowers—once comforting—had begun to feel cloying.

You longed to walk on sand instead of manicured grass. To hear crashing waves instead of servants’ whispers.

You reminded yourself of propriety, of consequence, of the invisible rules that governed your existence. You scolded your own foolishness, tried to quiet the yearning.

Still, one night, something inside you finally snaps.

You rise from the window without thought, heart hammering like a drum.

Your hands tremble as you dress in your simplest gown—plain linen rather than silk, light enough to move in unassisted. Over it, you drape a dark cloak, pulling the hood low to shadow your face.

Slipping out of your chambers unnoticed is almost laughably easy.

You have long ago become a ghost within the Kamo estate—present, yet overlooked; obedient enough that no one bothers to watch too closely.

Lantern flames flicker lazily in their sconces as you pass.

Down a spiral staircase.

Across the courtyard.

The gates rise before you. They are not locked. No one expects intrusion here. Few fools dare trespass upon the Kamo estate, and those who do rarely live long enough to provide a reason for it.

Cool night air greets you the moment you step outside; the wind is not softened by high garden walls or perfumed by rows of carefully tended flowers

Above you, a pale moon hangs high. Not a single cloud mars the vast darkness; the inky expanse is speckled with stars that glitter like crushed diamonds.

Since you are seldom permitted beyond the estate, the roads leading to the shore are unfamiliar. You know none of the hidden paths the islanders surely use, nor the quieter routes by which one might reach the beach unseen.

And so you take the only way known to you: the main road descending from the Kamo estate toward the lower harbor.

Within the estate, it is spoken of only in hushed, disapproving tones—a place where deals are struck beneath shadowed eaves, and where respectable women do not wander alone.

You keep your head bowed, one hand clutching your cloak to shield your face, as you walk down the cobbled street.

The further you descend, the louder the world becomes.

Tavern doors slam open and shut, spilling raucous laughter into the night. Drunken sailors sing off-key ballads, voices thick with rum. Somewhere, glass shatters, and cheers rise instead of alarm.

The air here smells nothing like the manicured gardens of the Kamo estate. Instead, the harbour reeks of salt and smoke, tar and sweat, rum and roasted fish.

A group of sailors stumble into your path.

They lean on each other for balance, boots scraping the stones as they laugh. One notices you and straightens, eyes narrowing.

A sharp whistle cuts through the air.

“Well now,” he drawls, nudging his companion. “why’s a little dove like you wanderin’ alone?”

Another sailor staggers into the crooked bow, sweeping one arm wide in exaggerated politeness.

“Need an escort, miss?” he grins, teeth flashing. “Wouldn’t want you gettin’ lost down here.

Laughter erupts from the group.

Heat rushes to your face beneath the hood. You lower your gaze and say nothing. Fingers tightening around your cloak, you keep walking, footsteps steady despite your hammering heart.

You feel their eyes on you as you pass. But they do not follow, and slowly, their voices fade behind you.

You release a quiet breath you hadn’t realised you were holding.

You should turn back now. Any sensible woman would.

Your pulse still races, cheeks burn, and every step deeper into the harbour takes you further from the estate’s safety.

But the air shifts.

It grows even more cooler. Sharper. The heavy scents of rum and smoke thin, replaced by something crisp and clean that makes your lungs ache when you breathe it in.

And then you hear it—faint at first. A distant, rhythmic hush, like the slow breathing of something enormous and alive: waves meeting the shore.

You are so close. Closer than you have ever been. Nothing in the world could convince you to turn back now.

Your steps quicken before you even realise it.

The pier unfolds before you all at once. Wide, dark, stretching into the sea like a path leading beyond the horizon. Moonlight spills across the water, scattering silver light so brilliantly it seems the surface has been strewn with jewels, every star reflected upon the glassy surface. Ships rock gently in the water—vessels great and small alike—their masts creaking softly, ropes swaying.

Your breath catches.

Your hand slips from your hood, falling forgotten at your side. Your lips part in silent wonder.

It is beautiful.

Not the restrained beauty of manicured gardens or the commissioned paintings that adorn the halls of the Kamo estate—perfected works where nothing strays from order.

This beauty is wild.

Alive and untamed.

Your eyes sting as you refuse to blink, afraid the smallest motion might shatter the moment. You have watched the sea countless times from your window, where it seemed so near and yet eternally unreachable.

Never like this.

Never close enough to hear it breathe.

You walk farther along the pier, shoes tapping softly against damp planks slick with salt. You move without thinking, drawn toward the horizon as though you could simply keep walking and vanish into it.

“Lost?”

You startle.

Your body twists before your mind catches up, cloak tangling around your legs as you pivot too quickly. For a fleeting, mortifying second, your shoes slip on the slick boards, but you steady yourself.

A man lounges several paces behind you.

He leans half-sprawled against a stack of weathered cargo crates, as though he belongs here—no, as though the entire harbour belongs to him.

One leg stretches lazily in front of him, boot planted firmly on the pier. His elbow rests on his bent knee, chin balanced loosely in his hand.

Moonlight glides across the sharp angles of his face and sun-kissed skin, marked with inked patterns. Pink hair stirs in the wind. Several buttons of his cream-colored shirt hang undone, revealing the broad plane of his chest and even more ink etched onto his skin.

His gaze rests on you.

Not leering. Not polite. Curious—deliberate, as though he knows you shouldn’t be here, alone, at this hour.

Dark maroon eyes sweep slowly over your frame.

From the edge of your cloak. To the careful way you stand. To the hood shadowing your face.

Your cheeks burn beneath the fabric.

Your heart skips—half fear, half the embarrassment of being caught in a place you have no right to be.

You turn your head away quickly, gaze returning to the sea.

“I’m not lost,” you say quietly, though you cannot explain why you answer at all.

You feel his gaze like a weight, pressing lightly against you but deliberate, watchful. And suddenly, you are acutely aware of yourself—the fall of your cloak, the sound of your own breathing, the subtle shift of weight from one foot to the other, because you cannot stand idle.

After a moment’s hesitation, you lift your hands and push the cloak back.

Behind you, the man goes still.

Your hair spills over your shoulders, the sea breeze cool against flsuhed skin. You stare openly at the water, wonder softening every line of your face, your eyes widening just enough to catch the light of the moon.

You do not notice when he leans forward, elbows pressing onto his thighs, fingers loosely interlaced as he watches you. His gaze lingers on the curve of your cheek, the softness of your mouth, the way your eyes seem to lighten the longer you stare at the water.

“Are you a sailor?” you ask softly, not looking back.

A grin tugs at his mouth. “Somethin’ like that.”

The answer is vague, but you do not press.

“It must be incredible,” you murmur instead, your voice softening with something dangerously close to longing. Your fingers twitch beneath your cloak, lifting slightly as though you might reach out. You stop yourself, curling them quietly into the fabric instead. “Going wherever you wish.”

Silence stretches between you.

“It is,” the man admits at last, the teasing gone from his voice.

You glance over your shoulder at him.

He feels dangerous—but not like the drunken sailors you passed earlier. There is a stillness about him, the composure of a man who never hurries, because nothing in the world truly threatens him.

You know you should leave.

Respectable young women do not converse with strange men on moonlit piers. Yet the sea stretches endlessly before you, and beside you stands someone who looks like he belongs to it.

You cannot make your feet move.

“What’s it like?” you ask.

He tilts his head, a few pink locks falling across his forehead before he brushes them back with long fingers. “The sea?”

You nod, perhaps too eagerly.

He studies you, considering something, then rises from the crate in one fluid motion, stepping closer. Your shoulders nearly brush. You feel it—the warmth of his body, the faint scent of salt and smoke clinging to his skin.

You do not step away.

His gaze drifts to your profile, following the wind lifting strands of hair across your cheek. His fingers twitch, almost brushing them aside… and then he stops. Instead, he looks out at the sea.

“It’s loud,” he says after a moment. “Most folk fear it. Wind’ll tear sails clean off the mast if ye ain’t careful. Waves’ll swallow ships whole if a captain’s a fool.”

His mouth curves faintly. You listen as though he is reciting poetry.

“But…” he continues, “after a storm… the sea goes quiet. Smooth as glass, some nights.”

When you glance at him, he is already watching you.

Your breath falters. Unable to hold his gaze, you turn away again.

Silence settles between you, filled only by the hush of waves and the steady breath of the wind.

Far behind, tavern laughter rises and fades, yet here, at the edge of the pier, the world has narrowed to two people, and the endless sea stretching before them.

“What’s your name?” you ask, though a part of you knows it hardly matters. You will likely never see this man again.

His eyes gleam faintly, amusement flickering there, as though he expects recognition.

“Sukuna.”

You offer only your first name in return.

He repeats it slowly.

Your name rolls off his tongue differently than it does from anyone else—lower, rougher, almost reverent in a way that makes warmth curl through your chest.

Sukuna watches your reaction carefully, memorizing it.

The way your lashes lower slightly. The way your breath catches. The way you bite the inside of your cheek.

For a moment he considers leaning in closer. Close enough to murmur your name beside your ear. He wonders how easily your composure would crumble if he did.

The thought lingers longer than it should.

So he steps back instead.

Just enough distance to breathe again because, despite standing in front of the open sea, all he can smell is you—the faint sweetness of perfume or maybe scented bathwater lingering on your skin. It makes his mouth water; makes something darker stir low in his chest.

He imagines pulling you into his arms. Pressing his face against the curve of your neck. Breathing that scent until it fills his lungs so much it aches.

You do not know how long you remain standing upon that pier.

Time behaves strangely beside the sea. The world narrows. There is only the quiet wash of waves against the dock. The slow rocking of ships tugging against their ropes. The wind combing gently through your hair.

At some point, Sukuna leaves.

You remember the faint sound of boots against wood, the subtle shifting of shadows. One moment he is there, solid and real. The next, only you remain.

Eventually, reason returns. It creeps back into your thoughts like the first pale thread of dawn along the horizon.

The servants will wake soon. Your absence will be noticed.

Reluctantly, you turn from the water.

Each step back toward the Kamo estate feels heavier than the last, as though invisible threads bind your heart to the waves, urging you to turn back and stay.

A month had passed since the night you first slipped beyond the estate walls.

You had sworn to yourself it would remain a singular act of rebellion—one stolen breath of freedom, one reckless indulgence before returning to the quiet obedience expected of you. And for many nights afterwards, you kept that promise.

You remained within the estate. You resumed your life exactly as it had always been.

Yet the sea had ruined you.

Once you had seen it—truly seen it—distance became unbearable. The memory clung to you like brine to skin, impossible to wash away. Sometimes, in the quietest hours of the night, you swore you could hear the distant crash of waves.

Again and again, you found yourself drawn to the eastern windows.

Your fingers would rest against the cool glass, as though you might somehow feel the tide through stone. Some evenings, you closed your eyes and imagined the pier beneath your feet, the slow sway of ships, the vast dark horizon stretching endlessly forward.

And sometimes—without meaning to—you remembered him.

The way moonlight had caught in pink hair. The lazy confidence of his posture. The dangerous calm hidden behind amused eyes.

Sukuna.

The memory of him struck sharper than the sea breeze ever could.

His presence lingered in strange ways—at the curve of your shoulder where he had stood too close, in the faint warmth that memory alone could summon. It left you restless, hollow in a way you could not quite name.

You told yourself it would fade: the longing for the sea, for that night, for the dangerous stranger.

Surely it would settle into memory, softened by time, until propriety reclaimed its hold.

It did not.

The estate halls grew oppressive in their quiet. The gardens seemed smaller with every passing day. Even the sky above the estate felt diminished—a narrow square framed by rooftops and walls, nothing like the boundless horizon you had glimpsed beyond them.

For a month you endured.

For a month you obeyed.

But longing is a cunning thing. It waits patiently. It coils quietly beneath restraint, pulling at nerves and heartstrings until resistance finally snaps.

One evening, you convince yourself to return—not out of disobedience, but necessity. To prove the night had been real.

This time, the road feels familiar. Less threatening.

You walk with purpose, your cloak draped loosely about your shoulders rather than clutched in nervous hands. The lantern-lit cobblestones of the lower harbor no longer seem forbidding. Drunken laughter and the sway of sailors blur into background noise as you pass.

Your eyes search the dark for familiar shapes.

But he is nowhere to be found—no trace of the man who had haunted your thoughts for thirty days.

You cannot help thinking of Sukuna.

His name refuses to fade from your mind.

For an entire month, you listened carefully to every scrap of gossip that drifted up to the estate, hoping someone—anyone—might speak of him.

You listened when servants returned from town. When sailors’ rumours slipped through open windows. When merchants visiting your father spoke of ships arriving from distant ports. If Sukuna truly was a sailor, surely someone must know him. Perhaps he visited the island often. Perhaps someone had seen him in some far harbour tavern.

Yet one name always eclipsed the rest, and it wasn't his: Ryomen, the one they called the King of the Sea.

Over the past month, the stories had grown darker. They travelled inland with every frightened merchant and every exhausted crew whose hands still trembled while recounting horrors: ships vanished without a trace, trade routes fell silent, entire ports were stripped bare overnight, trembling beneath the aftermath of unseen violence.

No one dared accuse the King of the Sea outright, yet every story curved inexorably toward him.

They said his ship—the Crimson Tide—crossed the oceans like a living storm. It appeared without warning and vanished before cannons could even be loaded. Sailors swore its sails turned red after battle, blood soaking deep into the fabric until even the rain could not wash it clean.

If red sails ever appeared upon the horizon, a sailor’s only choice was to pray and make peace with death.

You had heard the warnings about Ryomen whispered a hundred times.

That he smiled during battles. That he laughed while cutting down the foolish men who challenged him. That kings ruled the land... but he ruled the water.

Some sailors swore the sea itself favored him—storms bending away from his path, winds answering his command, waves carrying him wherever he wished to go.

The sea was his domain and he alone decided its laws.

Yet those tales do not frighten you.

Other young women clutch charms, whisper prayers, tremble at the mention of his name. Servants cross themselves when sailors speak too loudly of Ryomen. You do not. You listen with fascination.

Because if a man could belong so completely to the sea… then perhaps the sea truly chose its own. Perhaps it called certain souls louder than others. And somewhere deep within your chest stirred a fragile, dangerous hope—

That if fate had been kinder…

If you had been born differently…

The sea might have chosen you, too.

You blink as the pier comes into view, the tang of salt sharp on your tongue. Cold air rushes into your lungs, pulling you fully back into the present.

Sea wind tugs at loose strands of your hair, tossing them across your face. You brush them back, though the gesture feels futile against the persistent gusts.

The worn planks groan beneath your shoes, the sound swallowed almost instantly by the ceaseless pounding of waves against the shore.

And there—just like the last time—is Sukuna.

He sits atop a crate, legs spread, head tilted back toward the sky.

Your steps falter. Your breath hitches.

For one heartbeat, you considered turning around and leaving.

For another, retreating to the shadows and hiding in the dark.

For a third… calling his name.

A faint smirk lifts the corner of his mouth before you make a sound.

“Back again,” he says.

The certainty in his voice unsettles you more than surprise would have.

“I… I didn’t think you’d be here.”

“I told ye.” He lowers his gaze at last, though not fully toward you. “I come here once a month. Restock supplies. Spend coin. Remind myself what land feels like…” His mouth twitches faintly. “…so I remember why I don’t like it.”

A brief pause follows before he adds, almost as an afterthought, “Last day o’ every monthh.”

Your brows knit together. He had not told you that. You are certain of it; that night replays often in your mind—the sea, the moonlight, the hesitant conversation. There had barely been words exchanged at all.

Sukuna watches you with an unreadable expression while your thoughts tangle helplessly. Without realising it, you take a step closer.

He rises slowly. Each movement fluid and unhurried. He unfolds to his full height with lazy confidence, and the distance between you narrows

“Knew ye’d come back,” he says, voice low, carried just enough by the wind to reach your ears.

“You did?”

He tilts his gaze toward the horizon, and instinctively, yours follows.

“Folk who look at the sea the way you do,” he murmurs, voice rough, “don’t stay away long.”

The words settle heavily in your chest.

You swallow, eyes lingering on the dark water because looking at him suddenly feels too intimate.

He is right.

But you do not tell him that.

Just as you do not tell him that, since that first night, the longing has only grown stronger. Every day inside the estate feels tighter, like trying to breathe through silk wound too tightly around your throat.

You feel him move nearer. Not enough to touch. Just close enough that you become acutely aware of every inch—every millimetre—separating you.

A stray lock of hair drifts across your cheek. You lift your hand.

His hand rises first. Fingers hover near your skin.

He hesitates.

The pause is subtle. Barely perceptible, yet unmistakable. The man who seems to have carved himself from wind and rough seas stills, as though touching you might be a permission he does not trust himself to take.

Your breathing slows.

Then he brushes the strand back. His knuckles graze your cheek as he tucks the hair behind your ear, fingertips gliding along the curve of your jaw.

The contact is barely there, but you still feel the softness of his touch and warmth blooms beneath your skin, spreading through you like liquid fire.

His hand lingers a moment too long.

His gaze drops—deliberately, not accidentally—to your lips.

The sea hushes around you. Waves seem to fade into mere whispers. The world narrows to his presence.

He leans closer, drawn forward like the tide pulled by the moon. His steady breath ghosts across your face.

Your lips part before you realise.

You do not step away.

For a heartbeat, maybe two, it felt inevitable. But then Sukuna inhales sharply and steps back.

Distance returns too suddenly, leaving the night colder.

A hand rakes through his hair, frustration flashing across his face—not directed at you, but inward, as though he is angry with himself.

“…Dangerous habit,” he mutters.

You blink, still breathless. “What is?”

His eyes meet yours again, darker now, guarded in a way they had not been before.

“Comin’ back here.”

The words sound less like a warning meant for you and more like one meant for himself.

For the rest of the night, he keeps his distance.

Eventually the hour grows late—or perhaps early. You part with quiet, reluctant politeness, neither of you acknowledging the unfinished moment hanging in the air between you.

Only when you are safely within your chamber—curtains drawn, door closed—does the weight of what almost occurred settle fully.

You had almost kissed Sukuna. A man you know nothing about beyond his name.

You lie beneath the covers, clutching them to your chin. Sleep refuses to come. Each time your eyes close, you feel the ghost of his touch along your cheek before he forced himself away.

Your fingers rise unconsciously to your lips.

Your heart beat faster at the memory.

Outside, far beyond the estate walls, the sea continued its endless breathing.

And somewhere upon those dark waters, unseen and unknown to you, a ship prepares to leave harbour.

Its sails waited to be raised.

Its captain had not slept either.

The bathroom light is unforgiving, highlighting every flushed inch of your face. With a frustrated huff, you try once again to pin the flimsy nurse’s cap back into place.

“You look cute,” Sukuna says, the smugness in his voice practically dripping.

You catch his reflection in the mirror just as he reaches out, grabbing the hem of your skirt and giving it a lazy twirl. The fabric fans out before he tugs it back down again, smoothing the pleats as if he has all the time in the world.

Your glare sharpens when he smacks your ass, his fingers digging into the soft flesh before letting go.

“Relax,” he says, brushing imaginary lint from the skirt. The smirk on his lips widens when he catches your gaze in the mirror. “I’m fixing the mess I made.”

You don't bother replying. Instead, you try to take a slow, steady breath because your heart refuses to calm down. Your fingers drift down your chest, nervously fiddling with the buttons, and you can feel the thumping against your ribs.

You try to shove away the memory of his hand on your thigh, the heat of his body pressed against yours, his breath warm against your cheek, his voice low and smooth in your ear. But the harder you push it away, the more stubbornly it replays itself, looping over and over.

You don’t want to think about it—you can’t think about it; because none of this makes any sense to you.

Part of you thinks that, just like the last time Sukuna kissed you, tomorrow will come and he’ll pretend it never happened. Like it meant nothing. Like he hadn’t just had you sitting on the bathroom sink with your legs wrapped around his hips.

Like you hadn’t come apart on his fingers.

Another part of you is terrified he won’t forget. That he’ll remember every second, and that you will too.

You clear your throat and reach for the door handle before your thoughts can spiral any further.

“Stay here,” you say, wrapping your fingers around the cool metal.

Sukuna rolls his eyes. "Seriously?"

"Seriously."

His brows lift, unimpressed.

“You think anyone’s gonna care?”

“Yes.” You don’t add that you’re mostly worried about Yuji noticing—or, worse, Nobara, who couldn’t keep a secret if her life depended on it.

“They won’t.”

“They will.”

You finally turn to face him properly, folding your arms across your chest.

“We’ve been in here for—” you gesture vaguely toward the door “—way too long.”

“So?” He shrugs.

“So people will notice.”

“They already saw me punch a guy tonight,” he says lazily. “Pretty sure sneaking off with you wouldn’t be the biggest headline of the night.”

Your stomach drops. Before you can smooth your expression, the corners of your mouth tighten, and Sukuna notices, even as you turn away.

“Just—give me a minute,” you mutter. “Then you can come out.”

You push the handle down, but the door doesn’t move. A solid weight presses against it. You glance over your shoulder, confused.

Sukuna is suddenly right behind you, one arm braced against the door above your head, his palm flat against the wood.

“What are you—”

He doesn’t answer; he just leans down. The movement is slow enough that you see it coming, but fast enough that you don’t react until his lips brush yours.

You melt into him, yet when his tongue grazes lightly across your bottom lip, your brain finally catches up, and you pull back.

Sukuna lets you.

He straightens up again, towering over you, waiting, like he expects you to say something.

But you don’t know what you want to say or what you should say. And even if you did, you wouldn’t know how to put it into words. So instead, you slip out into the hallway before he can corner you again.

The party has started to fizzle out.

The music that had been pounding through the walls earlier is now turned down low, the bass reduced to a dull throb. The living room that had been packed shoulder-to-shoulder only an hour ago is thinning out—clusters of people lingering near the door as they finish their drinks, hunt for jackets, and argue about whose going with whom.

You scan the room as you walk through it, your gaze flicking over unfamiliar faces and half-empty glasses abandoned on every surface.

You’re looking for Naoya.

Or maybe you’re just making sure he’s gone.

Either way, you don’t see him anywhere.

When you round the corner into the kitchen, the noise drops another notch. Nobara, Megumi, and Yuji are already there.

Nobara sits perched on the kitchen island, one leg swinging idly while she nurses a drink.

Megumi leans against the counter beside the sink, arms crossed loosely over his chest. He nods when Nobara says something.

Yuji is eating a slice of cake, fork in hand, crumbs scattered across the counter. He notices you first.

“There you are,” he says around a mouthful of cake. “Where were you?”

With your brother would be the worst answer imaginable. You force your shoulders to relax as you walk closer.

“I needed a moment,” you say instead. “That was… a lot.”

Nobara raises an eyebrow over the rim of her glass as she takes a slow sip, studying you carefully.

You busy yourself with the counter, grabbing an abandoned bottle and pouring something into an empty plastic cup just so your hands have something to do.

“Is Naoya gone?” you ask.

Yuji nods. “Yeah. Megumi threw him out.”

You glance sideways at Megumi. He barely reacts—just shrugs slightly.

The three of them look at you.

They all know you went out with Naoya. You told them about the first date because you’d been genuinely excited at the time, which also meant they were the first people you complained to when you realised he was, in fact, a complete douchebag.

The guilt bubbles up before you can stop it.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out.

Yuji blinks, confused, scooping a chunk of frosting off the cake with his fork.

“You’re sorry because… Sukuna punched him?”

You wince slightly. “I mean—yeah. Kinda.”

“That’s not your fault.” Yuji stabs another piece of cake and shrugs. “And if Sukuna felt like breaking his jaw, it probably wasn’t totally unwarranted,” he adds after a second. “Even if he maybe shouldn’t have done it at my party.”

There’s a brief beat of silence.

You realise, with a sinking feeling, that you’ve now created the expectation of an explanation. Yuji doesn’t seem to need one, but both Megumi and Nobara are clearly waiting for you to elaborate.

You take a sip of your very questionable cocktail and grimace at the taste.

“Naoya said some things,” you begin carefully, trying to string the words together while your finger taps lightly against the plastic cup. “He called me names,” you admit after a moment. “Sukuna overheard it in the kitchen and… well.” You pause. “Things escalated.”

Yuji’s shoulders drop in relief.

“Oh.”

That’s it, just oh, like the entire situation suddenly makes perfect sense.

“Yeah, that tracks,” he says.

Megumi still hasn’t moved from his place against the counter, but you can feel his gaze linger on you a second longer than the others.

Nobara snorts.

“Sukuna should've broken his nose, not just split his lip.”

You glance at her. “That’s such a you thing to say.”

She shrugs.

Megumi lets out a quiet chuckle under his breath.

Yuji, meanwhile, bursts out laughing.

“Well,” he says, gesturing around the kitchen with his fork, “at least now people will talk about my party.” He grins. “Because what kind of lame party doesn’t have at least one fight?”

You can’t help it—you laugh too. The tight knot that had been sitting in your chest loosens a little.

The party finally dies down a few hours after midnight. Eventually, it’s just you and Yuji left.

The two of you sit side by side on the couch, passing a bowl of chips back and forth between you.

Megumi and Nobara had left about twenty minutes earlier.

You stayed behind, insisting you’d help clean up and call a cab afterwards. It felt like the least you could do, considering you still felt responsible—even if the guilt wasn’t sitting quite as heavily on your chest anymore.

Yuji had tried to help.

You hadn’t let him.

“Sit,” you told him earlier, shoving him toward the couch. “It’s your birthday. You’re not cleaning anything.”

“But it’s my apartment—”

“And I’m your best friend.”

“That’s not how that works.”

“It does tonight.”

So Yuji had eventually surrendered with a laugh, settling on the couch while you moved around the apartment collecting empty bottles and crumpled napkins. Every so often, you tossed something into a trash bag while he opened a few of the presents people had brought him.

Now the place looks slightly less disastrous; it still needs to be cleaned properly, but it’s significantly better than before.

“Can I borrow your charger?” you ask, reaching for your phone and realizing the screen is completely black. “My phone died. I need to call a cab.”

“Yeah, hold on.”

Yuji pushes himself off the couch and disappears down the hallway toward his bedroom.

You sink deeper into the cushions with a tired sigh, letting your head fall back against the armrest. Your eyes drift up to the ceiling.

You’re still staring at the faint crack in the plaster above you when you hear footsteps coming from the hallway. When you look up, though, it’s not Yuji. Sukuna walks into the living room instead.

“You’re still here,” he says, sounding mildly surprised.

He doesn’t wait for an invitation. He simply strolls over and drops onto the couch beside you. The cushions dip under his weight.

You nod slightly but don’t look at him. Instead, you fix your gaze on something very interesting on the opposite wall.

Anywhere but him.

You can feel his eyes on you anyway.

The silence stretches between you.

It’s the kind of quiet that presses against your ribs, making you suddenly hyper-aware of every tiny detail—how close he’s sitting, the warmth radiating from his body, the faint scent of soap and alcohol clinging to his skin.

You shift slightly. Then again. And silently begin cursing Yuji.

How long does it take to find a charger?

“You should stay.”

The words cut through the silence so suddenly that your head snaps toward him. You swear something cracks in your neck.

“What?”

“It’s late,” Sukuna says with a casual shrug. “Just stay. Go home tomorrow.”

You stare at him. Your brain struggles to process the suggestion.

You don’t know how you feel about staying here overnight again—you definitely don’t know how you feel about staying here with him.

Your entire plan had been simple: avoid Sukuna for the rest of the year, maybe longer, starting tonight.

You refuse to acknowledge what happened; he probably isn’t going to either. It would be easier to pretend none of it occurred and just… not see him anymore.

But this time, instead of doing a half-assed job of avoiding him, you’d planned to do it properly—avoid this apartment entirely, preferably by a few miles.

Yuji walks back into the living room, swinging the charger in one hand.

“Here—”

“She’s staying,” Sukuna says, just like that, like the decision has already been made, like you don’t even have the option to decline.

Yuji pauses mid-step and looks between the two of you.

“Yeah?” he asks, eyebrows lifting slightly.

You feel like you’ve suddenly been put on the spot, so you meekly nod. “Yeah.”

A little later, you follow Yuji down to his bedroom. He flicks on the light and gestures toward the bed.

“You can take this,” he says. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“Nope.”

He blinks. “You’re the guest.”

“And you live here.”

“Yeah, but—”

“I’m not stealing your bed on your birthday,” you interrupt.

Yuji studies you for a moment before sighing in defeat. “Fine. Couch, it is for you then.”

He rummages through his dresser and tosses you a shirt, a pair of loose shorts, and clean socks.

“Bathroom’s yours if you want to shower.”

You take the clothes and head for the bathroom. You try to be quick because all you want is to go to bed, fall asleep as fast as possible, wake up early, and leave before things get awkward.

By the time you come back out, Yuji has already turned the living room couch into what looks like the cosiest disaster imaginable: at least three blankets, two pillows, and one extra hoodie thrown over the armrest for good measure, like he genuinely believes you might freeze overnight.

You both end up hanging out in the living room for a while, talking about nothing in particular—old memories, high school stories, the kind of easy conversation that only happens late at night when everyone else is gone.

Eventually, though, the night catches up with both of you.

Yuji yawns, stretching his arms above his head.

“Alright,” he mutters. “I’m crashing.”

A few minutes later, he disappears into his bedroom, the door closing softly behind him, and suddenly the apartment feels much quieter.

You lie back on the couch in the dark living room, tucked under the blanket.

Sleep should come easily, but your mind refuses to shut up. It doesn’t help that Sukuna is literally one wall away.

Every time you close your eyes, your brain replays the memory—his hands, the heat of his skin, the way he looked at you in that bathroom.

It felt good. Too good—and that’s the problem. Because letting yourself believe it meant something would be unbelievably stupid.

You’d never risk your friendship with Yuji like that.

When you hear a door open, your eyes snap shut.

You recognise the footsteps immediately. Your muscles tense, but you force your breathing to remain slow and even, pretending you’re already asleep.

Sukuna walks into the kitchen.

You hear the fridge open with a soft creak. A bottle clinks faintly against the shelf before he pulls it out. A few seconds later, you hear him take a long drink. Then the fridge shuts.

Footsteps again.

Closer this time.

You resist the urge to open your eyes.

He stops beside the couch, stnading idly and then—flick!—his fingers snap against your forehead.

Your hand immediately shoots up to rub the spot as your eyes fly open.

“The hell are you doing?” you whisper.

From this angle, he looks enormous—tall, broad shoulders blocking the faint wash of moonlight spilling through the window behind him. Your gaze drifts upward along the lines of his bare torso before finally reaching his face.

He shrugs. “Checking.”

“Checking what?” you mutter, still rubbing your forehead. “If my skull caves in when you flick it hard enough?”

The corner of his mouth twitches.

“Checking if you were asleep.”

“Well, I’m not now, obviously.”

“You weren’t before either,” he says, rolling his eyes.

Then, without asking, he grabs your legs.

“What—”

He lifts them before sitting down onto the other end of the couch—your feet land squarely in his lap.

The blanket settles over both of you.

He doesn’t even look at you as one of his hands wraps around your ankle, his thumb absentmindedly brushing against the skin above your sock. His other arm stretches lazily along the back of the couch after he grabs the remote and turns on the TV.

You shift onto your side, the movement clumsy beneath the blankets. One knee bends, but your other leg stays where it is—mostly because he refuses to let go.

The blanket slips from your shoulder.

Without even glancing your way, Sukuna catches the edge and pulls it back up over you.

He flips through a few channels, settling on some random late-night show. You don’t recognise it. But you watch anyway, pretending to be far more interested than you actually are.

At first, your body stays tense. Too aware of him, of his touch; too aware of the slow, absent circles his thumb keeps tracing against your ankle beneath the blanket.

You don’t know how much time passes. Yet your breathing grows slower. The voices from the TV start to blur together, turning distant and muffled.

You try to stay awake.

But when Sukuna lowers the volume with the remote, Sleep finally drags you under.

@iheartlinds

Winter thins slowly, the grey skies softening into pale blue. The air warms just enough for people to linger outside a little longer. Life settles back into its usual rhythm after winter break, but you never quite return to the same place you were before.

Because of him.

You think about Sukuna more often than you want to admit.

It’s ridiculous, honestly. When you replay that night in your head, it barely counts as a kiss. His lips only brushed yours, the kind of contact that could have been accidental if you hadn’t seen the look in his eyes just before it happened.

Every time you remember it, something strange flickers under your skin. Static, like electricity humming just beneath the surface.

The worst part? Sukuna acts like nothing happened.

When you see him—usually when you and Yuji drop by because he needs to pick something from home—Sukuna lounges on the couch the same way he always does: lazy, sharp-eyed, that faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He talks to you the same. Looks at you the same.

Well. Mostly.

Sometimes his gaze lingers half a second too long.

Sometimes, when you’re standing close, his eyes flick down to your mouth before sliding back up again.

Sometimes, you swear you feel his presence behind you before he even speaks, like the air shifts when he enters the room.

And every time, that quiet buzzing starts again. You try to ignore it. Really, you do. Pretend you’re imagining things. But the tension never quite goes away.

Luckily, spring arrives with a distraction: Yuji’s birthday.

One afternoon, he stomps dramatically into the library, tossing his backpack to the floor as you, Megumi, and Nobara pretend to study.

“I dunno,” he says, staring at the ceiling after sitting down. “Maybe I’ll just do something chill this year. Bowling or something.”

You snort. “Bowling?”

“What? Bowling’s fun.”

Megumi doesn’t even look up from his book. “You’re terrible at bowling.”

“Hey—”

Nobara leans back in her seat, pointing her pen at him, grinning. “He is. Last time, he threw the ball backwards.”

“It slipped!”

You laugh. Megumi chuckles.

“Fine,” Yuji mutters, crossing his arms. “Then maybe we’ll just see that movie sequel. The one I told you about.”

“That terrible one about the ugly earthworm?” Nobara asks.

“It’s not terrible!”

“You cried during the first one.”

“That was ONE SCENE—”

The plan to do something chill for his birthday seems simple enough. Low effort and easy. but then, three days later, Yuji bursts into your dorm like he’s just had the greatest idea in human history.

“I’M THROWING A PARTY.”

You blink.

Megumi, who sits at your desk, looks up from his phone.

Nobara narrows her eyes, as you two sit on your bed. “What kind of party?”

“A big one,” Yuji says proudly.

“A big one?” you repeat, needing more details.

“Yeah! Like—music, decorations, snacks—”

“Terrible idea,” Megumi says flatly.

But Yuji barrels on as if he didn’t hear him. “And costumes!”

“…costumes,” Nobara repeats this time, though she seems to be considering it.

“Costume party!” Yuji beams.

You press your lips together because there’s one obvious problem: Sukuna. He owns the place. And while he tolerates a lot more these days, a loud party full of strangers seems unlikely to pass.

Still, you shrug. “Well,” you say, sure Sukuna will turn him down and not wanting to be the one to say no, “it might not be the worst idea.”

Yuji’s face lights up. “Right?!”

You click your tongue. “Assuming Sukuna says yes.”

The room goes quiet. Yuji hesitates. Megumi gives him a look that clearly says: good luck with that.

That evening, Yuji sends a message in the group chat: Sukuna has agreed. He doesn’t share how he managed to convince his brother, but you assume it involved omitting the scale of the party he’s planning.

You, Megumi, and Nobara share a cab.

Nobara catches you staring and grins. “What?”

“You look like you’re about to rob someone.”

“That’s the goal.”

Her pirate costume looks like something straight out of a movie—tight black pants tucked into boots, a cropped white blouse that shows a strip of her stomach, a red sash tied at her waist. A toy sword hangs from her hip, and dark, dramatic eyeliner sharpens her eyes.

Across from you, Megumi sighs.

His costume is technically a costume. Technically.

Black slacks, white button-up shirt and a tie—Jim from The Office.

You lean forward slightly, across Nobara, who sits in the middle, squinting at him. “Did you just wear your normal clothes?”

Megumi doesn’t look up from his phone as he texts Yuji that you’re on the way. “It’s accurate.”

Nobara scoffs. “Lazy.”

“To be fair,” you add, tilting your head, “you did do the hair.”

Megumi finally glances up, mildly defensive.

He did change it—his hair is pushed forward now, messy in a different way, falling across his forehead.

Your costume, compared to Nobara’s dramatic pirate, is simple.

The pleated white skirt brushes the middle of your thighs every time you move. Your cropped white sweater is soft against your skin, the hem sitting just above your waist. White stockings hug your legs, smooth and slightly sheer.

The finishing touches came from the costume shop earlier that week: a little nurse cap pinned into your hair and a ridiculous toy stethoscope hanging around your neck—complete with a plastic syringe tucked into the small pocket of your skirt.

The moment the apartment door opens, sound hits you.

Yuji’s playlist blasts through the speakers. People are everywhere—shoulder to shoulder in the living room, leaning against walls, sitting on the floor, perched on the arms of couch and armchairs.

A group crowds around the coffee table, playing some kind of drinking game. Cups are scattered everywhere, someone is mid-story and already slurring their words.

The kitchen counters are completely covered.

Bottles. Cans. Bowls of chips that are already half empty. Someone has torn open a bag of candy and spilled it across the counter.

You recognize a few faces, but most are strangers.

Yuji barrels toward you three through the crowd like an excited puppy.

He’s dressed as a zombie—fake blood smeared dramatically across his face, his shirt torn, dark circles painted under his eyes; he looks incredibly proud of it.

“You guys made it!” he beams.

Before you can react, he pulls you into a hug that nearly lifts you off your feet.

“You look awesome!”

“Yuji—”

He squeezes tighter.

Nobara snorts. “Well, some of us understood the assignment,” she says loudly, shooting Megumi a pointed look.

Megumi rolls his eyes.

Yuji laughs, rubbing the back of his neck, as he looks at him. “Megumi, you look like someone’s dad at an office party.”

You glance around the apartment again, then back at Yuji.

“…You said it would be a few people.”

Yuji hesitates. Then he grins. “Okay, so it was.”

Your eyes narrow.

“But then word got around,” he continues quickly. “And people kept texting me and showing up and—”

“You didn’t stop them.”

“Well, it would be rude!” Yuji laughs. “I mean, if people want to celebrate me and bring presents, who am I to say no?”

The night settles into something easy and fun.

You end up at the coffee table playing card drinking games with people you barely know. Someone keeps messing up the rules. Someone else laughs so hard they spill their drink every round.

At one point, Yuji challenges three different people to a Just Dance battle in the living room; he loses all three. Nobara nearly cries laughing.

Despite the noise and the crowd, the atmosphere stays surprisingly relaxed. People are loud—voices overlapping, music pulsing—but no one is causing problems.

You lean toward Nobara, raising your voice over the music. “I’m gonna grab a drink.”

She nods without looking away from the game, then shoves her empty glass into your hand.

“Get me one too.”

The kitchen is strangely quiet compared to the rest of the apartment.

Your fingers move absentmindedly while you decide what cocktail to make. You toss an empty candy wrapper into the trash. Push a sticky cup toward the sink. Grab a napkin and wipe up the glossy patch of something sugary someone spilled earlier. Another abandoned glass goes into the sink.

You’re halfway through reorganizing a crooked line of bottles when something in the air shifts.

You turn and nearly jump out of your skin.

Sukuna is leaning against the island behind you.

“Jesus—fuck,” you snap, glaring. “Don’t do that.”

His lips curl into that lazy, satisfied smirk that always makes you feel like you’ve walked straight into a trap.

“You spook too easily.”

You scowl and turn back to the bottles.

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“I don’t.”

“You jumped at least three inches off the ground.”

You roll your eyes, grab a random bottle, and start pouring into the glasses. “Shut up.”

Behind you, you can feel him watching. Then you feel him move. A cupboard opens. Closes.

When you glance over your shoulder, Sukuna is holding a bottle you hadn’t seen before on the counter—dark glass, expensive-looking label. Definitely not something Yuji would leave out with the rest of the alcohol.

It must’ve been hidden behind the cereal boxes.

He sets it on the counter and slides it toward you.

“Pour me a shot.”

You raise a brow. But you don’t argue. Instead you grab the bottle and start looking around for a shot glass.

Except there aren’t any. You check the counter. The sink. Nothing.

“Oh,” you say suddenly. “I have something.”

Sukuna watches with mild curiosity as you reach into the little pocket and pull out the plastic syringe.

You tilt the bottle, slip the tip into the whiskey, and pull the plunger back. Amber liquid fills the clear tube. When you pull it out, you hold it up triumphantly like you just invented something revolutionary.

“Ta-da.” You extend it toward him, looking entirely too pleased with yourself.

For a moment, Sukuna just looks at it. Then his gaze flicks up to your face and he smirks. “Cute.”

But he doesn’t take it. Instead, his hand moves suddenly. Warm fingers close around your wrist. The contact makes your breath hitch before you can stop it. He gives it a small tug.

You step forward automatically.

Now you’re standing right in front of him, his broad frame blocking most of the view from the living room.

Sukuna tilts his head back slightly and opens his mouth.

Your brain takes half a second to catch up.

You raise the syringe slowly. The plastic tip presses lightly against his tongue.

Your eyes lock.

Then you push the plunger. The whiskey slides into his mouth. His tongue moves once—slowly curling around the plastic tip before the liquid disappears, as he swallows.

When the syringe empties, you pull it back.

Neither of you looks away.

His fingers are still around your wrist. Loose.

The tension between you pulls tight like a wire.

Finally, you clear your throat. “You… uh. You can keep it.”

You push the syringe into his free hand and take a small step back.

Sukuna twirls the plastic between his fingers lazily. His eyes flick past you suddenly—toward someone approaching the counter.

You don’t turn around; you’re already grabbing the drinks you made when a voice mutters behind you, thick with disgust.

“Slut.”

You know that voice—Naoya, the guy you went out with three times before deciding you’d rather chew glass than see him a fourth.

Your body locks. Your shoulders go rigid. You don’t turn around.

You can't turn around. Instead, you say to Sukuna. “I need to bring Nobara her drink.”

You start to turn and see Sukuna already moving.

Everything happens too fast.

Sukuna whistles sharply—and that’s all the warning Naoya gets, as he stops to turn around. Sukuna grabs him by the collar, fist twisting into the fabric as he yanks him forward hard enough to strain the buttons.

CRACK.

The punch lands square in Naoya’s jaw.

Naoya slams backwards into the counter, cups clattering everywhere as whiskey splashes across the marble.

Someone gasps.

The music keeps blasting in the living room, bass thumping like nothing happened, but the people fall silent.

Sukuna stands over Naoya, hands still curled into fists, shoulders squared.

“Watch your tongue.”

Naoya blinks, stunned, one hand pressed to his jaw.

People have started whispering. You hear Yuji's confused voice.

Your chest feels tight.

By the time Sukuna glances toward you again, you’re already moving.

You slip past the crowd quickly, head down, weaving through the hallway.

Your heart pounds in your ears.

The bathroom door shuts behind you with a soft click.

You grip the edge of the sink and stare at your reflection.

Your cheeks are flushed, and your bottom lip quivers like you're about to cry.

Guilt twists in your stomach even though you know—logically—you didn’t actually do anything. Still. It feels like you somehow just blew up Yuji’s birthday party.

Cold water rushes from the faucet in a steady stream. You shove your hands under it. The chill bites into your skin, sharp enough to make you inhale through your teeth. For a moment, you just stand there, letting the cold seep into your fingers.

You scoop some water into your palms and splash it across your face.

The bathroom door opens.

Sukuna steps inside without knocking. The door clicks shut behind him.

His eyes move over you slowly.Checking. His voice, when he finally speaks, is softer than usual. It lacks its usual bite.

“You okay?”

"Mhm, yeah," you nod.

His maroon eyes narrow slightly, clearly not buying it.

Outside the bathroom, the noise of the party shifts. Voices rise—someone arguing, someone else trying to calm them down. The music lowers a little.

You really don’t want to go back out there yet.

And then you notice it—his hand.

His knuckles are slightly split, a thin smear of blood cutting across the skin, dark red against the pale ridge of bone.

You latch onto the distraction.

“You didn’t need to punch him,” you say, reaching for his hand.

You tug him toward the sink. He lets you.

Sukuna steps forward, leaning his hip against the counter, but facing you, while you guide his hand under the running water.

The blood washes away in thin red ribbons that swirl down the drain.

It’s not terrible, just a split knuckle. Still, you hold his hand steady as the water runs over it, your fingers careful as you turn it slightly to rinse the cut.

Up close, you can feel the heat of him. The steady weight of his hand in yours. The way his gaze pins you to the floor.

“You know him?” Sukuna asks. His voice is casual again, like he didn’t just knock someone across the kitchen.

You shrug lightly, still focused on the wound. “We went on couple of dates. So… we were kinda dating, I guess? I don’t know.”

He lets out a quiet breath through his nose.

“Still picking assholes, huh.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh, please.”

You shut off the faucet and reach for paper towels, dabbing the skin dry.

“What?”

“You don’t get to judge me like that,” you say, focusing on drying his hand. “You literally just punched someone at a party.”

“He called you a slut.”

“So?” The word snaps out sharper than you meant.

Sukuna’s eyes narrow. “So.”

You toss the bloody paper towel into the trash a little harder than necessary. “Yes, so. He’s an asshole. I already knew that. That’s why I stopped seeing him.” You gesture vaguely toward the door. “And now everyone out there thinks I’m the reason you started a fight.”

“You’re not.”

“But it looks like I am.”

Sukuna shrugs like the entire situation couldn’t matter less. “Let ’em think what they want.”

You stare at him.

“Easy for you to say.”

He tilts his head slightly, eyebrows pinching together. “Why?”

“Because people already expect that from you.”

The words hang in the air. His expression hardens a fraction.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

You immediately realise you hit a nerve—but the frustration buzzing in your chest doesn’t let you backtrack.

“I’ve heard stories,” you say. “From Yuji.”

“Right.” His voice goes flat. “Guess he forgot to mention I don’t start fights for fun.”

Your arms cross, your lower back presses into the counter.

“That wasn’t defending me, if that's what you're implying,” you snap. “That was escalating something that would’ve been over in ten seconds if you ignored it.”

His jaw flexes, and he leans closer. “You were fine with him talking to you like that?”

“I wasn’t fine with it,” you say, exasperated. “But I can handle it myself.”

Sukuna scoffs softly.

“Yeah? You handled it by pretending he wasn’t there.”

“That’s called not giving idiots attention.”

“Or it’s letting them think they can say whatever they want.”

You push off the sink, crossing your arms tighter. “And punching him fixed that?”

His gaze drifts downward briefly—

To your crossed arms. To the hem of your skirt. Then back up your chest, your throat, your mouth. Finally, to your eyes.

“Yeah.”

Your laugh is bitter. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you,” he says slowly, pushing away from the sink, “keep choosing guys like that.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“Oh my god,” you scoff. “You do not get to judge my dating history.”

“I’m not judging.” Sukuna rolls his eyes.

“You literally just did.”

“You went out with him three times, though, didn't you?” he asks, folding arms over his chest.

“And?”

“He’s a prick.”

“Well I didn’t know that on date one, did I?”

At some point while you’re arguing, Sukuna steps closer. You don’t even notice until suddenly he’s right in front of you. Close enough that you have to tilt your head up slightly to look at him.

“You’ve got terrible taste,” he says.

“Wow,” you reply dryly. “Thanks.”

“Just saying.”

“No, you’re being an ass.”

“You’re being naive.”

“I am not—”

The words die in your throat because now he’s really close.

The bathroom suddenly feels much smaller. Warmer.

Your heart skips.

“You’re mad,” Sukuna observes quietly.

You shake your head. “No I’m not.”

His gaze drifts over your face, studying. “You are.”

“I’m annoyed.”

“Same thing.”

Your breath stutters when he shifts another half step closer; you can smell the faint bite of whiskey on his breath.

“You don’t get to punch people just because they run their mouths,” you say, trying to hold your ground.

“I can punch whoever I want.”

His gaze dips briefly to your mouth. Your lungs pull in a sharp breath. You straighten up immediately, pushing off the sink.

“Move—I’m done with this conversation,” you say. “I’m going back to the party.”

Your palm presses against solid muscle through the thin fabric of his shirt as you push his shoulder lightly and step around him quickly.

You barely make it two steps before his hand catches your wrist. Not rough, but firm enough to stop you.

Your breath leaves you in a frustrated exhale. “Sukuna—”

“You’re running away now?” he asks behind you.

You turn halfway toward him, annoyed. “I’m not running away.”

“Looks like it.”

“I just don’t feel like arguing with you anymore.”

He steps closer while still holding your wrist. Your back ends up pressed against the bathroom door.

“You started it.”

“Oh please,” you scoff. “You punched someone and somehow I’m the problem?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“But that’s exactly what you’re implying.”

You try to pull your wrist free. He doesn’t tighten his grip—he doesn’t let go either.

“Why do you care so much what people think out there?” he asks.

The question catches you off guard.

“Because I’m the reason you ruined Yuji’s party,” you snap. “And you’ll forget about this in five minutes.”

Something shifts in his expression. His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek before he speaks. “You think I forget things that easy?”

You roll your eyes automatically, then the words slip out before you can stop them.

“You forgot that kiss pretty easily.”

And now that you’ve started speaking, the words keep coming.

“What even was that?” you say, frustration bubbling over. “You just kissed me and then never mentioned it again.”

Sukuna actually looks… surprised for a second. His lips part slightly. But he doesn’t say anything. He just watches you.

You’re not trying to pull away or leave anymore. Because now you do want to hear what he has to say. The alcohol buzzing in your system dulls the little voice that usually tells you to keep your distance from him.

“So,” he finally drawls,

His mouth curls, a sharp, crooked smirk spreading across his face.

“That’s why you’ve been acting weird.”

You bite your tongue at being called out. His fingers loosen around your wrist, his knuckles brush lightly against the side of your jaw—the touch is almost absentminded. But it makes your pulse jump.

You don’t speak. Yet your eyes betray you when you glance down at his mouth for half a second. When they come back up, that smirk on his face has sharpened.

“Let me go,” you say.

But you don’t move.

You don’t push him away.

His head tilts slightly, tongue running over his bottom lip. “Do you want me to?”

Your back presses fully against the door as he steps even closer—close enough that there’s barely any space left between you. The heat of him seeps through the thin fabric of your sweater.

His hands move slowly up your arms, fingers grazing your sleeves, until they cup your cheeks.

He studies your face for another second. Waiting. Giving you time to say yes. Giving you time to tell him to stop.

But you don’t.

So he leans down.

The first kiss is soft. Just like last time. His lips press lightly against yours—barely more than a brush. Then again. Another slow peck. And another.

He takes his time, like he’s mapping the shape of your mouth, testing how you react. His tongue runs lightly across your bottom lip before he catches it gently between his teeth.

You inhale sharply, lips parting—and that’s all the invitation he needs.

The kisses suddenly become less careful, less tentative. More heated. Rougher and impatient.

The alcohol humming through your veins dulls every instinct to step back, and instead, you lean into him.

Sukuna’s hand slides from your jaw to your neck. His fingers curl there—not tight enough to hurt, just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. Then his touch drifts lower, settling at your hip. His grip tightens as he pulls you closer, fingers pressing through the thin fabric of your skirt into your skin.

His other hand still cups your face, thumb brushing slowly along your cheekbone as he tilts your head.

He doesn’t leave you room to step away, and you barely notice when your hands slide down his sides, gripping the fabric of his shirt at his waist to ground yourself because your head is spinning.

Your hips shift against his. His hold tightens in response.

One of his hands slips beneath your thigh, and before you fully process what he’s doing, he lifts you. Your breath catches against his mouth and the kiss breaks for only a second.

He sets you on the edge of the sink.

The porcelain is cool against the backs of your legs, a sharp contrast to the heat still lingering where his hands hold you in place.

Your head tips back and taps the mirror lightly with a soft thud as his mouth trails away from yours, down the line of your jaw, lingering near the sensitive spot beneath your ear.

A shaky breath escapes you.

Your legs hook around his hips to steady yourself, pulling him closer. Your arms loosely settle around his shoulders before your fingers get tangled in his pink locks.

You roll your hips. This time, you feel it—the hard stretch of denim, the zipper rubbing against the fabric of your panties; your skirt has ridden up.

A soft whimper slips past your lips at the slightest bit of friction. Sukuna's head snaps up, and he looks at you. His lips glossy, his pupils blown wide, his hair messy.

He doesn't say anything, but one hand splays over your thigh, fingers fumbling with the edge of your stocking. The other slides under your skirt, and he presses his thumb against your clit through the fabric.

"Fuck—don't do that," you breathe out, your chest rising and falling fast, your cheeks bright red.

"No?" he asks, circling his thumb slowly a couple of times as you try to close your legs, but his hips stop you.

"There's people out there," you say, but you start chasing the friction when he repeats the same motion. Your panties are soaked, making it easier for him to work you through it.

"And?" he questions, his eyes not leaving your face. He speeds up for a moment, just to hear you gasp, but then slows back to the same rhythm as before—steady. "You can be quiet for me, though, hm?"

"M-mhm," you nod, biting the inside of your cheek, trying to breathe trough your nose.

Your eyes flutter shut.

"Tch, I want to see your pretty little face when you cum," he says, and gives your thigh a hard slap that makes your muscles tighten.

You look back at him.

The coil in your belly starts to tighten. Your breathing becomes erratic. You keep wanting to close your thighs, to snap your legs shut because it feels like not enough and too much at the same time, but Sukuna keeps you spread open.

"Fuck—ngh—I'm c-close," you whimper.

Sukuna briefly looks down, but then his gaze immediately goes back up and pins you down again.

Just as you're about to be pushed over the edge, just as your lips part, Sukuna increases his pace, his other hand clamping over your mouth because you're starting to get louder and louder.

He leans down, his warm breath brushing over your cheek, his lips tickling the shell of your ear as he murmurs, "Come on, pretty girl. Give it to me."

You nod, your hips starting to move without you realising it.

"I'm going to count to three, and you are going to let go. Got it?" he asks. When you don't reply, his teeth tug lightly on your earlobe.

"Y-yes, fuck, okay."

"One." He presses a soft kiss to your temple. "Two." His lips move to press against his knuckles, where his hand covers your mouth. Then he tilts his head slightly back. "Three."

Your vision goes white; your back arches. You can't stop the noises slipping past your lips, but Sukuna's palm muffles them. Your thighs tremble, and there's static in your mind that starts buzzing through your body as you melt on the counter.

When you finally calm down and start coming down from your high, Sukuna grins.

Your head drops forward, forehead landing against his shoulder as you try to steady your breathing. Heat still rushes through you, your fingers gripping the front of his shirt like you might fall if you let go.

He leans back just enough to look at your face properly. His thumb brushes under your eye, slow and almost thoughtful.

"Look at you," he murmurs. "Completely wrecked—beautiful."

You groan softly and press your face back into his shoulder, too embarrassed to meet his eyes.

"Don't start," you say, your voice still breathless.

You turn your head, cheek squishing against his muscles, as your gaze lazily drifts past him to the door.

Your stomach drops.

"Shit," you mutter under your breath.

Sukuna barely reacts, his hand lazily dragging up and down your spine. "Hm?"

You stare at the handle, eyes widening. "The door."

"What about it?"

"You didn't lock it."

He glances at the door, then down at you. A teasing smirk tugs at his lips. "You think anyone peeked in while we were… busy?"

Panic rises in your chest. You start wiggling, trying to free yourself from his arms.

Sukuna chuckles softly, catching your wrists and holding you still. "Relax," he murmurs. "Nobody even turned the handle. I would’ve heard."