engrave my name on the trunk of a pomegranate tree

The too-familiar name is enough to make your throat tighten so suddenly it almost hurts. You can still remember the way his name used to light up your phone screen, and how it made you so happy. Now it’s engraved neatly on a polished metal plate that feels unfamiliar to you, like it belongs to someone else entirely.

You received the order a week ago. The form is still folded neatly inside your apron pocket. You’ve read it too many times already—Mrs. Gojo. Anniversary. Birthday. Fill the entire apartment. Make it feel alive.

You remember reading it the first time and laughing under your breath, though nothing about it was funny. Make it feel alive. You used to say that about flowers to him all the time—you explained that flowers, though seemingly insignificant, could soften a room, warm it, and make it feel like someone actually lived there. He used to roll his eyes.

Your employee shifts behind you, carefully balancing the armful of flowers. “Ma’am, should we ring the bell?”

Your finger hovers over the doorbell longer than it should. You’re hesitant.

Two summers ago, you stood in a cramped kitchen far smaller than this hallway and asked him if he’d ever considered moving in together someday. You didn’t need something luxurious like this—just a small apartment would do. Maybe near your shop—somewhere warm and yours. But you also knew he would prefer something luxurious like this, and you didn’t mind, actually, as long as you were together with him.

You remember the evening light falling across his face as he leaned against the counter, looking at you with that half-amused expression.

“Why are you thinking that far ahead?” he asked with a strange smile on his lips. “We’re fine like this.”

“Well, I just want to know we’re going somewhere,” you replied.

He let out a dramatic sigh, and even now you wonder if it was because you were asking for too much—or because you were asking for something he never planned to give.

You press the bell before you can change your mind.

The chime echoes faintly inside the apartment, and the seconds stretch unbearably long. You hear footsteps approaching, but your heartbeat is louder in your ears.

The door opens.

And Satoru stands there. Your Satoru.

For a moment, everything inside you goes still. Your mind refuses to reconcile the man in front of you with the memory you carry. He looks the same—framed by warm light and polished floors, looking almost exactly like he did in your memories—and yet completely different. His white hair is styled more neatly now. His posture is straighter—you remember scolding him for always slouching. He looks sharper somehow, more put together. He looks so much more mature. You wonder if he still carries the same thoughts as before, or if he has grown into the man you once imagined he could become.

A gold wedding band glints subtly on his ring finger, encircling his vena amoris, and you feel its presence before you fully register it. It’s impossible to ignore.

His eyes meet yours. His blue eyes are just as beautiful as you remember them to be. You can’t quite tell what’s in them—surprise, definitely. Maybe something heavier, or something deeper. And suddenly you feel like everything you worked so hard to bury rises to the surface all at once. He probably never expected to see you standing here, in front of him, holding flowers meant for his wife. Or maybe meant for him, too. The order form mentioned a birthday and you noticed it immediately when you first read it. Of course you did. How could you ever forget that today is his birthday?

For a second, neither of you speak.

You wonder what he sees when he looks at you. The florist he once criticized for choosing something “impractical”—something that wouldn’t make enough to sustain a real future? The florist who insisted that flowers mattered precisely because they didn’t last forever? The girlfriend who dreamed about a small apartment and a kitchen table with chipped corners? The girlfriend who tried to talk about children and a home, only to be met with a farewell? The girlfriend who cried quietly after he told her it was wiser to break up before you hurt each other even more?

Your employees shift awkwardly behind you, confused by the silence stretching between their boss and the man at the door.

His lips part slightly, as though he wants to say something—but before either of you can break the stillness, a soft voice calls from inside.

“Satoru? Is it the florist?”

Her voice is gentle.

She steps into view, and suddenly everything makes sense. She’s beautiful—effortlessly so. You don’t need anyone to tell you that she’s exactly Satoru’s type. Exactly the kind of woman he once described in the past. He used to say you were his type, too. You remember how convincing he sounded. But standing here now, looking at her, you can’t help but wonder if that was ever really true—or if you had just wanted to believe it was.

One of her hands rests against his arm before she steps forward, the other placed protectively over the curve of her stomach. You glance briefly at the similar gold wedding band on her ring finger. Everything about them looks weirdly intimate in a way that makes your chest tighten because it’s definitely not for show—it’s very much real and it’s something you don’t have.

“Ah, thank you so much for coming up!” she says warmly. “Please, come in.”

Satoru steps aside without breaking eye contact.

You walk into the apartment you once imagined sharing. It’s beautiful—breathtaking, even. It looks painfully similar to the ones you used to point at in interior design magazines years ago, when you and Satoru would flip through them lazily on Sunday afternoons. Wide windows, pale marble countertops, sunlight flooding every corner. Something that used to exist only in your imagination now stands solid and real around you. It just doesn’t belong to you.

The longer you stand there, the heavier your chest becomes. You thought you had moved on. You thought you had buried those dreams beneath the steadier, more composed life you’ve built for yourself. But apparently, there is still a tiny, fragile part of you that never fully let them go.

You can still feel Satoru’s gaze lingering on you from the corner of your eye. You fight every instinct to look back. Instead, you focus on directing your employees because that’s easier than looking at him.

“Let’s put the lilies near the windows,” you say, your voice sounding distant even to yourself. “They prefer softer light. Hydrangeas can go by the dining table. And please—be careful with the orchids.”

As your employees move carefully around the living room, placing each arrangement exactly where you instruct, the apartment slowly transforms. The sharp, pristine atmosphere softens under the presence of petals and greenery. The faint scent of lilies fills the air, the colors soften the sharp edges of the room, the space that already felt like home now feels warmer, fuller—alive.

You stand in the middle of it, breathing in the scent that has always grounded you, trying to remind yourself that this is simply work—just another delivery, another client, another home that has nothing to do with you. But everything about it feels painfully personal. You weren’t supposed to feel anything. You’re here as a florist, as a business owner. That’s all. Still, your chest tightens.

His wife watches eagerly, clasping her hands together. “You know, my husband here chose all the flowers himself—he really does love flowers,” she says, glancing at Satoru with affection. “He says they make a place feel alive and warmer. He told me once that even if they don’t last, they change the whole mood of a room while they’re here,” she says again, almost laughing to herself as she looks around. “So I decided to fill the whole apartment with them today since it’s his birthday—and our anniversary tomorrow! Isn’t that cute?”

You almost laugh.

You remember bringing him a small bundle of tulips you couldn’t sell from the shop once—back when you were still dating, your hands still smelling like soil, with dirt under your nails and your apron still stained. He had taken one look at them and shrugged.

“They’re going to wilt in a few days,” he said. “What’s the point?”

You laughed it off then. You tried to explain to him that not everything needs to last forever to be meaningful—that just because something is temporary, like flowers, doesn’t make them worthless. You just have to try to give them meaning. But for some reason, Satoru never quite understood. He never saw the meaning behind it. Even toward the end of your relationship, he still insisted that he hated flowers. Said they were pointless—a waste. You never really understood why, and he never cared enough to explain. Sometimes you wondered if it was truly the flowers he disliked.

You remember giving him a small bouquet of daisies and forget-me-nots as a parting gift. For once, you didn’t care if he hated them. You just wanted him to remember you, even if only for a while. You still wonder if he threw them away immediately—or if he decided to keep them and watch them wilt. You hope it was the latter.

Now, the entire apartment smells like lilies and orchids because he loves them. His home is being filled with what he once rejected. How funny.

Your eyes drift to the photographs lining the wall. There’s one of them on their wedding day—him in a perfectly tailored suit, her in a big white gown, smiling at him widely like he’s the most handsome man in the world. You smile at the picture. You once dreamed of that, too, specifically with him. You shift your gaze and see another photo of them at the beach. Another at some corporate gala. And one more recent photo—his hand resting over her stomach, his expression softer than you’ve ever seen.

Seeing that photo makes you instinctively rub your own stomach. The ache that follows isn’t sharp. It’s slow and spreading, as if something is blooming painfully under your ribs.

“I think I’d like to be a mom,” You had been careful with your tone as you said it, afraid he’d laugh.

Fortunately, he didn’t laugh. Unfortunately, the look on his face made you feel smaller than laughter ever could—like he was seeing something in you he didn’t like. You would’ve preferred if he laughed that day. He looked conflicted, and at some point, almost angry. You’d had this conversation before—if you could even call it that. You’d hinted at it, danced around it. But it was the first time you’d actually said it out loud, plainly and clearly without hiding behind jokes or anything. And judging by the way he was looking at you, there was no taking it back.

“We’ve had this talk before, and you know I don’t see myself as a father,” he admitted. “You know the reason why. That’s not really the life I want.”

You nodded, even though your heart sank.

His wife interrupts your thoughts. She takes his hand and guides it to her stomach, smiling when he instinctively covers it protectively. “Our baby’s been kicking all morning,” she says with a small laugh, leaning into him. “I think she knows it’s her daddy’s birthday.”

The irony is almost cruel enough to be funny. Standing here now, watching him instinctively cover his wife’s stomach when she guides his hand there, you realize what you feel right now isn’t jealousy. If anything, it’s the opposite. It’s understanding. Somewhere deep in your mind, you feel happy that he has grown into someone capable of the things he once said he didn’t want. Now, he’s capable of loving the idea of flowers, of fatherhood, of building the exact life you once tried to picture together. It’s just painful to realize the future you fantasized about with him wasn’t impossible—he just didn’t want it with you.

In between the agonizing pain you feel in your heart and the sting in your eyes, you finish adjusting the final ribbon on the centerpiece. Your fingers tremble slightly at first, which surprises you because you thought you were past that kind of reaction. You’re proud that at least you can do all this without shedding a single tear—almost.

Satoru hasn’t said much. By the time everything is almost done, he thanks your employees politely as they finish arranging the final bouquet near the window. You realize that this is probably the first time you’ve heard his voice in two years. His voice has matured since the last time you remember it. And if you hadn’t felt like crying before, you feel like it now. You don’t realize just how much you missed hearing his soft voice.

When you glance up for a second, you catch him already looking at you. You still can’t quite figure out what that look means. It’s not cold, but it’s not warm either. He looks at you like he doesn’t fully recognize you anymore, like he’s trying to understand who you’ve become. And yet, there’s still a faint hint of familiarity in his eyes, like some part of him remembers exactly who you used to be. It’s confusing. It feels like you’re both strangers now—and not at the same time.

There’s something heavy in his gaze, and it stomps on you like an elephant stomping on an insect.

You choose to ignore it and hand his wife the receipt to sign. She beams at you again, unaware of the long and complicated history between her husband and the florist in front of her. “These are perfect,” she says sincerely. “You made everything look so beautiful. He deserves something this beautiful.”

You swallow at that. Once upon a time, you thought you would be the one saying those words.

When you finally turn toward the door, the apartment feels warmer than when you entered. The scent of lilies lingers gently in your lungs. The sunlight feels softer now, filtered through petals and leaves. It looks actually like a home.

Your employees step out first, their chatter light and unaware as they head toward the elevator. You linger for a fraction of a second too long, and suddenly it’s just you and him standing in the entryway.

There are a thousand things sitting between you. The life you once talked about is standing right there behind him—the life you used to imagine together, the apartment you won’t share, the children he once said he didn’t want. You don’t know when he changed. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he just changed for someone else. Or maybe love looks different when it’s with the right person. Maybe his beautiful wife helped him grow into the version of himself you never got to meet.

Neither of you moves. He opens his mouth slightly, like he’s carefully weighing every possible sentence in his head, testing which one would do the least damage. Maybe he wants to apologize. Maybe he wants to offer an explanation. Or maybe he just wants to admit that standing here in front of you isn’t easy for him either.

But some things don’t need to be said to be understood.

“Happy birthday,” you say gently, keeping your voice steady. And then, because you mean it despite everything, you add, “I hope you both have a lovely life. You deserve it.”

Because loving someone once doesn’t mean you wish them unhappiness now. He has chosen his wisdom. You have chosen your peace.

For a split second, his composure cracks. His jaw tightens, and there is a subtle crease forming between his brows. It’s as though he’s realizing something too late, like he’s standing in the middle of the life he chose and seeing the one he didn’t. If you were selfish, you would wish he’d say something—anything—that might ease the dull ache spreading through your chest. But you know that would be wrong. He’s not yours anymore. He hasn’t been for a long time.

He nods slowly. “Thank you.”

And that should’ve been enough.

But for Satoru, it isn’t.

“Do you think there’s a chance we could talk again? As a friend, of course.”

You see the faint glimmer of hope in his eyes, almost making him look fragile. If he had asked you that two years ago—when your heart was still raw and healing—you probably would’ve said yes without thinking twice. You would’ve taken whatever he offered, no matter how small, just to keep a fragment of him within reach. Even if it meant hurting yourself all over again.

But you’re not her anymore.

Now, you’ve learned the hard way that loving someone doesn’t mean losing yourself in the process. You respect yourself too much to step back into something that already broke you once.

“I’m sorry, Gojo. I don’t think that’s possible.” You take a steadying breath and step back again, putting just a little more distance between you. “Goodbye. Take care of your wife.”

You offer him a smile, hoping it’s enough to say everything else you won’t let yourself say.

The door closes gently behind you, sealing him inside the warmth of lilies and sunlight and a future that belongs to him.

The hallway feels colder. The warmth from inside the apartment didn’t seep through. Your employees chatter quietly in the elevator, unaware they just helped deliver flowers into the apartment you once dreamed of. They talk excitedly about how stunning the apartment was, how kind the wife seemed, how lucky they must be.

When the elevator doors open to the street level, the city air rushes in. You inhale deeply, only then realizing you’ve been holding your breath for far too long.

The flowers you delivered will begin to wilt in a few days. The lilies will droop first, then the hydrangeas will dry at the edges, and the orchids will eventually shed their petals one by one. But while they bloom, they will fill that apartment with warmth.

And maybe that’s what the years you spent with Satoru were—not permanent, but still alive and warm regardless. Maybe his decision to end things with you wasn’t something you wanted, but it was definitely something you both needed.

“That bad?” he asks quietly.

You nod against his chest, breath shaky. “It genuinely feels like my body is tearing itself apart.”

His hand presses a little more firmly against your abdomen, thumb brushing slow, deliberate strokes over your hip.

“Breathe,” he murmurs. “Slow. With me.”

He inhales deeply, exaggerating it just enough for you to follow. His chest rises beneath your forehead. You match him without thinking.

“There you go,” he says, softer now.

You sniffle, pressing your forehead against his chest. “What time will your class be done?”

“At four, baby.” His thumb rubs slow circles against your hip. “I promise I’ll go straight home the second it’s done, and then I’ll take care of you properly, yeah?”

His fingers slide up to tilt your chin gently so you have to look at him.

“And until then, you sit still. Don’t forget to use the heating pad. Text me if it gets worse. I don’t care if I’m in the middle of something.”

Your lashes flutter. “Okay.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead before he leaves.

What Sukuna doesn’t expect when he gets home is complete silence. No TV. No footsteps. No sleepy voice calling his name. No you. So he walks toward the bedroom—and pauses at what he sees.

You’re kneeling beside the bed. There’s a damp towel clutched tightly in your hand. The bedsheet is stripped halfway off the mattress. Your shoulders are shaking. You only notice him when his bag hits the floor. You flinch and look up.

“Kuna, please don’t be mad,” you blurt out before he can even say anything.

His brows knit together.

“Mad?” His voice is low.

“I—I bled through your bedsheet…” Your fingers tighten around the towel. “I’m sorry, Kuna…”

You look devastated—mortified, even—as if you’ve just committed some unforgivable crime. For half a second, Sukuna just stands there, taking in the scene. He notices the stain on the mattress, already starting to fade from your attempts to clean it. But he can’t really focus on anything except the fact that you look so small, and he doesn’t have the heart to leave you like that any longer.

You keep rambling, words tumbling over each other.

“I’ve been trying to get rid of the stain, but it’s still there—it’s faint now, but it’s still there. It just won’t disappear completely. I don’t know what to do. I didn’t mean to, I thought I put enough layers down, I—”

Sukuna walks forward carefully. In two strides, he’s in front of you. He gently takes the towel from your trembling hand and sets it aside. Then he crouches down so he’s eye level with you.

“Look at me.”

You hesitate.

His hand comes up, firm but gentle under your chin.

“I said look at me.”

Your eyes meet his.

“Baby, you seriously think I care about a damn sheet?” he asks quietly.

You blink at him, tears clinging to your lashes.

“But I ruined it?” you whisper.

He exhales softly—almost a huff, but there’s no annoyance in it.

“You didn’t ruin anything.” His hands come up to cradle your face, his warm palms steadying you. “It’s fabric. It can be washed. It can be replaced.”

His thumbs brush under your eyes, wiping the tears away.

“You,” he says firmly, “are not something that can be replaced.”

Your lip trembles.

“I just didn’t want you to be mad…”

His expression shifts—softens in a way he rarely lets anyone see.

“Mad?” he repeats. “At you? For bleeding?”

He presses his forehead lightly against yours. “Baby. You’re in pain and you’re apologizing to me over laundry?”

Your breath stutters.

Without another word, he scoops you up effortlessly and sits down on the edge of the bed, settling you in his lap like you weigh nothing. Your face buries into his chest automatically. He holds you tight. One hand rubs slow circles into your back. The other threads through your hair.

“Listen to me,” he says gently. “You don’t ever apologize for this. It’s natural. It happens. And if it happens on my bed, then it happens on my bed.”

A small, shaky laugh leaves you. He presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“I’ll buy new sheets,” he continues. “Better ones. Softer ones. Darker ones if it makes you feel better. Whatever stops you from looking at me like I’m about to scold you.”

You sniff. “You’re really not mad?”

He pulls back just enough to look at you.

“I care about you, doll,” he says plainly. “Not the damn mattress.”

Suddenly, all the worry you’d been feeling is gone, and you feel safe in his embrace.

“You think I’d ever make you feel ashamed for something your body does?”

Your eyes well up again, but this time it’s not from embarrassment. Being on your period makes you feel a thousand times more sensitive and sentimental, and seeing how caring and patient your boyfriend is makes your heart swell with nothing but pure joy and love. Sukuna kisses your forehead. Then your temple. Then the corner of your eye.

“Now,” he says gently, standing up with you still in his arms, “you’re going to sit down. I’ll handle this.”

Sukuna carries you to the living room and sets you carefully on the couch. He tucks a blanket around your legs, presses the heating pad back into your hands, and adjusts it himself so it sits perfectly against your stomach.

“Don’t move, okay?” he orders quietly.

You watch him from the couch as he goes back to the bedroom. From the wide-open bedroom door, you watch as he strips the rest of the sheets—completely unbothered. He sprays stain remover, tosses everything into the hamper, and replaces the bedding with clean sheets.

When he’s done, he comes back to you immediately.

“Come here.”

You lift your arms without hesitation. He gathers you into his chest again and settles onto the couch this time. Your back against him, his legs caging you in protectively. His hand slides over your lower stomach once more, warm and steady.

“Next time,” he murmurs into your hair, “you call me.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Even if you’re in class?”

“I don’t care where I am.”

His grip tightens just a fraction.

“If you’re hurting, I’m coming.”

You smile faintly. “You’d leave?”

“For you?” His nose brushes your temple. “Without thinking.”

You giggle softly and press a small kiss to his lips. “But I don’t want you skipping class just for me. You need to focus and learn.”

He huffs softly against your hair.

“We’ll argue about that later.”

His thumb keeps tracing slow circles over your stomach. You sink back into him instinctively, and he tightens his arms just enough to keep you there.

“Wanna watch something and drink hot chocolate?” he says after a moment, brushing his nose lightly against your temple.

“Yes, please.”

You stay quiet a little longer before speaking again.

“Ji?”

“Hm?” His fingers gently rub slow circles into your shoulder. It’s very soothing you nearly drift off.

“Want you to do me a favor.”

“Just say it, baby.”

Before you, Toji never liked doing favors for anyone. He was often too tired to even do things for himself—so why would he want to do them for someone else? And yet, for you, he always complies. There’s something deep in him that makes him want to do anything you ask.

“Want you to run me a bath,” you say slowly. “…and help me bathe, maybe? ‘S that okay?”

His fingers pause for just a moment before resuming their movement. “Yeah.” He gently nudges you upright, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I got you, baby.”

Toji loves taking care of you, and he knows that he’s good at it.

You blink. “But you’re tired, too.”

“I know.”

“So you don’t have to—”

“Shhh.” His voice is soft. “I want to.”

With that, Toji lifts you into his arms and carries you toward the bathroom. He moves carefully, as if you’re something fragile. Slowly and gently, careful not to jostle you out of your sleepy state, he peels away each layer of your clothes. His touch is light, unhurried. You stay relaxed beneath his hands.

There was a time when undressing someone like this would’ve meant something else to him—something heavier, dirtier, driven by instinct. But this isn’t that. This feels innocent. And that’s something Toji learned after being with you. Before, moments like this almost always led somewhere physical. Being with you taught him that intimacy doesn’t have to end in sex. Sometimes, simply taking care of your lover, like helping them undress because they’re too tired to do it themselves, is intimacy on its own. And somehow, it feels just as good.

The bathroom fills slowly with steam. Toji tested the water with his hand again and again, adjusting it until it felt right. Not too hot, not too cold. He sets your towel nearby and folds it neatly, then lights the lavender-scented candle you bought last week.

All set.

When you step into the tub and lower yourself into the water, a long, shaky sigh escapes you.

Toji sits on the edge of the tub, hands resting on his knees. “Does it feel good?”

“Oh,” you sigh. “That’s peeerfect.”

He brushes your hair out of your face, watching you for a moment. He smiles, he loves seeing you relaxed. “Yeah?”

You nod, eyes already closing. “Yeah. Thank you so much, Ji.”

He smiles wider at the sound of you humming softly to your favorite song—something called Anyone Else But You, if he remembers correctly. He lets you soak for a while, watching as the tension slowly melts from your shoulders. After a moment, he reaches for the washcloth, soaks it, wrings it out, and holds it in his hand.

You noticed and smiled faintly. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

When you don’t move, he adds quietly, “Let me.”

You turn around.

Toji begins scrubbing your back the same way he does everything for you—thorough, unhurried, like there’s nowhere else he needs to be. His hands are rough, scarred, calloused from years of work, but whenever they touch you, they soften—careful not to remind you of their roughness. You love everything about Toji, including his hands, rough and gentle all at once.

He takes his time scrubbing you. If you asked him to do this all day, he’d probably be content.

You relax almost instantly.

“You know,” you say after a while, your voice lazy and loose, “there’s that saying.”

He hums. “What saying?”

You tilt your head back slightly, catching the familiar lines of your boyfriend’s face. In this very moment, he looks impossibly handsome. Warmth blooms in your chest. “That love means never having to scrub your own back.”

Toji pauses for half a second before continuing.

“Sounds stupid,” he mutters.

You laugh softly. “I thought so, too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. But right now, I think I kinda get it.”

Toji doesn’t say anything, but his grip gentles even more.

“It means choosing to take care of someone,” you continue, leaning into his touch, “even when you don’t have to. Like what you’re doing right now.”

“Yeah,” Toji murmurs, unsure how else to answer, but knowing it makes him happy all the same. “Yeah—like me.”

His rough, calloused hands shift into a gentle massage, working the remaining tension from your back. The room falls quiet again, filled only with the sound of water and your breathing evening out.

“You good, baby?” he asks after a while, hands still moving.

You lean back into him. “Yeah. I am now.”

After nearly half an hour, the bath finally comes to an end. Toji wraps you in a big towel, drying you carefully, like you might shatter if he rushes. He pulls one of his shirts over your head—so big on you it nearly swallows you whole. He smiles at you, amused by how much smaller you look compared to him. The sight fills his chest with a sense of protectiveness. He then dries your hair until it’s warm and soft beneath his hands. By the time he’s done, your eyelids are heavy, your words slow and slurred when you speak.

Toji doesn’t waste any time guiding you to bed, pulling you close and letting you curl against him like it’s second nature. He rests his forehead against your hair and closes his eyes, breathing you in.

The room falls into complete silence. Toji assumes you’ve fallen asleep, so he lets you—holding you while quietly studying your beautiful face, as if trying to memorize it. One arm rests heavy around your waist, the other at your back, where his palm fits like it was always meant to be there. Your breathing evens out against his chest, soft and warm through the thin fabric of his shirt.

Every now and then, you shift—small, sleepy movements—and each time, he tightens his hold just a fraction, instinctively protective.

You shift again, your nose brushing against his collarbone. He feels you murmur something into it.

“Did you say something, baby?” he whispers. “Sorry—I didn’t catch you.”

“I love you, Ji,” you murmur, eyes still closed.

This year marks your second year together. You’ve said I love you countless times before, but for some reason, this one hits him the same way it did the very first time. Toji doesn’t understand what he’s feeling, or why it feels so overwhelming. He doesn’t have the words for what blooms in his chest.

He only knows it’s there because of you.

Toji smiles softly, lifting a hand to cradle your cheek. His eyes soften when he realizes you’ve already drifted off.

“I love you too, baby.”

His door is wide open, like usual. The room is dim and smells like the expensive cologne Sukuna always sprays on himself. The light from his wide computer screen glows brightly in the dark, casting faint shadows along the walls. Sukuna is leaning back in his chair, headphones on, one leg hooked around the chair. His posture looks relaxed—even though you know he’s probably still tense underneath.

“Bro, not gonna lie, you’re genuinely so bad at this. How did you die again?” Satoru’s voice blasts through his headphones.

“I’m not bad,” Sukuna replies flatly. “Suguru fucking pushed me.”

“I did not,” Suguru says. “You just walked straight into lava.”

You linger by the doorway, watching quietly as Sukuna talks to his friends through his headphones. You walk a little closer, careful with your steps, but stop beside him without saying anything. You don’t dare interrupt. Instead, you just stand there, rocking slightly on your heels, hands awkward at your sides.

Sukuna can feel your presence looming near him. He glances to his left and notices you standing there with a stupid little grin on your face, arms swaying loosely. He sighs—probably for the billionth time that day.

“The hell you want?” he asks, eyebrows furrowing.

“Nothing,” you say quickly. “Just wanted to ask if you wanted to order takeout together, but you’re busy, so—”

“I’m not,” Sukuna cuts in almost immediately. He turns back to the screen. “I’ll be done in an hour. You think you can wait?”

You nod, still standing awkwardly by his side. “Yeah. Not a problem.”

Satoru laughs. “Who’s that? Is that your roommate? Since when do you have a roommate?”

“You’re so nosy,” Sukuna clicks his tongue. “Yeah. Since recently.”

“You never told us.”

“Didn’t feel like it.”

Suguru hums. “You usually complain about people.”

“Shut up,” Sukuna grits out.

You blink, having no idea what Sukuna and his friends are talking about.

Satoru grins. “You should make her play.”

“No,” Sukuna says immediately.

You can’t hear what his friends say. You can only see Sukuna’s jaw tighten slightly as he keeps talking to whoever it is, his fingers tapping impatiently against his keyboard. After a moment, he exhales through his nose, clearly reconsidering, and reaches for his spare headphones.

“…You wanna play?” he asks, not looking at you.

Your eyes light up. “Really? But I’ve never really played Minecraft before, so I don’t really know how—oh! Except when my friend from middle school let me play her game for a while and—”

“Doesn’t matter,” he mutters, already anticipating the ramble. “If you die, you die. It’s not that hard, anyway.”

“Right,” Satoru says, his voice muffled with laughter. “‘Cause you did it all the time.”

Sukuna sighs. “Whatever. Sit.”

He pulls another chair from beside the table and nudges his own a little to make space. Then he hands you his spare headphones. You sit beside him, knees slightly touching. You smooth your shorts nervously as you stare at the screen. For some reason, you can feel your cheeks heating up. You’ve only been roommates with Sukuna for about five months, and never once in that time have you been this close—and the proximity makes you flustered.

You mentally curse yourself. It’s not even that deep, but you get flustered anyway. It’s embarrassing, actually. Probably because you don’t really get many chances to be physically close to men, so something this simple gets to you way too easily.

“You play this. I’ll watch.” He lets go of the mouse and nudges the keyboard toward you.

You nod as you put the headphones on and adjust the mic, ready to take over his game. “Hello?”

“Okay,” Satoru says through the headphones. “Roomie, I don’t know what you look like, but judging by how cute you sound, I bet you look just as cute.”

Sukuna’s jaw tightens. You freeze in your seat, suddenly very aware of yourself.

“Don’t,” he says flatly.

“Don’t what?”

“Be weird.”

Satoru laughs. “You sound so jealous. Thought she was just a roommate?”

“Tsk. Shut up.”

The exchange makes you feel suddenly self-conscious. Why are they talking like you’re not even here? Your cheeks heat up again, shoulders tensing. You press a button, and the avatar on-screen spins in place.

“…Why am I spinning?”

Satoru laughs. “Oh my god, she’s adorable.”

“Stop saying that,” Sukuna snaps.

You glance at him. He looks somehow more annoyed now. “Am I doing it wrong?”

He sighs and leans closer, his shoulder brushing yours. The brief contact makes your breath hitch for half a second. “Press this to move. Don’t press everything.”

His hand hovers over yours before gently nudging your thumb into place. It hovers near yours longer than necessary; he’s mentally debating whether to pull away. He doesn’t—he just lets his knuckles brush yours, jaw tightening.

“Like this.”

“Oh,” you say softly. “Okay.”

You’re pretty sure your hands are shaking from slight nervousness—you’re not sure why—but he doesn’t comment on it. He just watches. You follow his guidance, fingers moving awkwardly. You move forward, still clumsy, and the world on the screen shifts forward instead of spinning uselessly in place.

“Good,” he mutters.

The little praise makes your chest warm. Sukuna doesn’t pull away after that—if anything, he stays close, his eyes flicking between the screen and your hands. He’s just making sure nothing goes wrong, okay?

Suguru lets out an amused hum. “Cute. You’re teaching her.”

“I’m not,” Sukuna replies. “I just want her to enjoy the game.”

You glance at him at that, slightly flustered—you keep mentally cursing yourself for this. He doesn’t look back at you, but his grip on the keyboard tightens slightly.

“So, roomie,” Satoru says, cheerful and nosy. “What’s your name?”

There’s a beat of silence. Sukuna’s jaw tightens in annoyance—you catch it just before he smooths his expression back into a relaxed one. “Don’t,” he says flatly. “Don’t tell him. Seriously.”

You blink, fingers pausing mid-movement, not knowing what to do. “…Okay.”

“…Wow,” Satoru says, clearly delighted. “You’re possessive.”

“I’m not,” Sukuna says. “I just don’t want you getting annoying.”

You can almost hear Satoru’s grin through the headphones.

“Too late,” Satoru replies. “So, roomie—are you single?”

Sukuna exhales slowly through his nose, eyes never leaving the screen. His fingers slam a key a little harder than necessary, the sharp click breaking your focus.

“Focus on the game,” he snaps.

Your shoulders tense. You swallow and force your eyes back to the screen, heart beating just a little faster than before. “I think I’m about to fall.”

“Jump,” Sukuna says instantly, voice sharper now. “Now.”

You barely have time to think before reacting. Your finger presses the key. You jump—barely making it.

“There,” he mutters, his tone softens just a bit. “It’s safe here. Don’t go anywhere else.”

Satoru laughs. “Wow. You sound like a boyfriend.”

“Shut up.”

“And she is cute,” Satoru continues. “You hiding her from us on purpose?”

Sukuna doesn’t answer, but his leg starts bouncing under the desk. On the other hand, you are—for the hundredth time—flustered. The silence stretches, and you’re pretty sure you can hear your own heartbeat beating very loudly in that moment. You don’t dare look at him. You become painfully aware of how close you’re sitting—how easily his arm could brush yours again.

And then, you accidentally wander toward the lava. Before you can react, Sukuna reaches over and pulls the avatar back. His movement is quick, as if he’s being protective.

“I said stay here and don’t go anywhere.”

“…Okay.”

Your voice comes out small, but you do exactly as he says.

Suguru hums. “You’re sulking.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” Satoru says. “Anyway, she should join our server sometimes.”

“No,” Sukuna says instantly. The answer is immediate—too immediate.

“Why not?”

He doesn’t even think this time.

“Because she’s with me.”

Silence.

“…Casually,” Sukuna adds quickly, fake coughing. “As in—roommate. Yeah, yeah. And she’s not sticking around if you two keep being idiots, so just shut it.”

You don’t know how to react, so you nod awkwardly. Heat rushes to your face before you can stop it. You glance at him and swear you can see a faint blush on his cheeks. What’s that? Should you be worried? It must be the wind, right… or is it just me reading way too much into this?

Satoru bursts out laughing. “That was not casual at all.”

Suguru smiles. “Noted.”

Sukuna clears his throat, clearly trying to regain control. “Jump again. You’re late.”

You jump. Perfect timing. He pauses, eyes lingering on the screen for a second longer than necessary.

“…Good.”

You don’t really register how much time has passed until the call finally ends. Sukuna takes his headphones off and lets them fall onto the desk. The screen dims, but he doesn’t tell you to move. Instead, he leans back in his chair and lets out a tired sigh, eyes flicking toward you for half a second before looking away again.

“You still waiting on that takeout?” he asks, like the answer isn’t obvious.

Your heart does a stupid little flip. You nod.

“Thought so,” he mutters, pushing his chair back just enough for both of you to stand. “I said we’d get takeout. I’m not backing out now.”

Sukuna grabs his phone and keys and heads for the door. You scramble to follow, suddenly very aware of how clumsy you feel, taking a stupidly long time to even push your chair back. When you finally step out beside him, he slows his pace just enough to match yours, your shoulders brushing as the apartment lights click off behind you.

Neither of you knows it yet, but both of your hearts are beating a little harder at the same moment.

You flinch, body jumping in surprise.

“I’m hungry,” you mumble.

“The fuck?” Sukuna cocks an eyebrow. “And what the hell does that have to do with me?”

You sniffle, eyes glossy as you look down at the blanket still twisted in your fingers.

“There’s nothing to eat… and I haven’t eaten anything all day,” You frown, eyes still watery. “I tried to cook, but I failed! You know I can’t cook,” You sniffle again. “I think I’m going to die.”

Silence.

Sukuna stares at you for a long moment, clearly fighting some internal battle. He’s seen you cook before—once—and it was a total disaster. The kitchen had been a mess, and he’d had to clean up after. Thinking about you trying again this late at night makes his jaw tighten.

Then he lets out a slow breath and pushes himself up, rubbing a hand over his face.

“You woke me up,” he mutters.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper immediately.

Another pause.

“You really haven’t eaten all day?”

You nod weakly, “Yeah,”

“…Get your ass up.”

Your head snaps up. “Huh?”

“I’m not lettin’ you starve in my apartment,” he grumbles as he swings his legs off the bed. “Go sit at the counter. Don’t touch anything.”

You nod instantly, padding after him like a duckling.

Fifteen minutes later, you’re perched on a stool, legs swinging as Sukuna moves around the kitchen—shirtless, hair messy, eyes half-lidded but hands steady as he cooks something warm and simple. He doesn’t say much, but he slides a bowl toward you once it’s done.

You don’t know what it is, but one thing’s for sure—it looks and smells divine. Your mouth waters at the sight.

“Eat.”

Your face lights up as you look up at him with the most obnoxious puppy-dog eyes you can muster. “Thank you.”

He clicks his tongue and turns away, pretending to busy himself at the sink.

“Yeah, yeah.”

You eat happily, warmth settling in your chest—but from the fact that Sukuna willingly cooked it for you at all. When you’re done, he wordlessly pushes a glass of water toward you.

As you drink, you glance at him.

“You’re really nice, you know.”

He scoffs. “Don’t spread that bullshit.”

But he waits until you’re finished before walking you back to your room, and when you curl up under your blanket, full and sleepy, you swear you hear him pause at the door.

“Next time you’re hungry,” he mutters, “don’t shake me like a damn earthquake.”

“…Okay.”

“And don’t ever skip meals like this again. You’re annoying when you’re hungry.”

The door closes softly behind him.

Oh, how very grateful you are for your (annoyingly handsome) roommate.

anya ❤︎ she/her. twenty-three. southeast asian. currently a full-time law student, part-time writer.

i mainly write for jujutsu kaisen! all my works are self-indulgent and i write fem!readers only. english is not my first language, so please forgive any mistakes. this is a low-activity, low-maintenance blog that i run just for fun! i write my silly little thoughts slowly, so updates will be sporadic.

my blog is sfw — no explicit smut, suggestive at most. i love writing fluff, non-sexual intimacy, and domestic themes, but i also have a soft spot for angst and hurt/comfort — so if that’s your thing, you’re in the right place!

i don’t take requests, sorry! ^^; i usually take a long time to finish even one fic and oftentimes lose motivation halfway through (not proud of that), so i don’t want to promise anything i can’t deliver.

my inbox is always open! i’m a little shy and not the best with social interactions, but you’re always welcome to chat about anything — just please be kind and respectful.

you can also find me on ao3 or on my main blog ^__^

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