🔪♥️ I KNOW WHAT YOU DID LAST FRAT PARTY 🔪♥️
CHAPTER 6: AFTER THE SIRENS 🚨
PAIRING: quarterback!toji x Cheerleader!Reader x Frat!Sukuna, Reader x plug!Choso, Reader x mult.
Streetlights drag gold across the windshield in slow smears as Choso drives with quiet precision. One hand loose on the wheel the other near the open window, letting cold air pour in —enough to remind you that you’re still in your body.
You’re folded into the backseat between Satoru and Suguru, knees pulled close, shoulders caved inward like you’re trying to protect something fragile inside your chest.
Suguru’s jacket is wrapped around you and His hand hasn’t left you since Toji was taken away.
Your chest feels too full.
Like something is swelling under your ribs, pressing outward, searching for air.
You can feel Satoru observing you.
He exhales, long and soft, already halfway to a mistake.
“…You knoow,” Satoru says, tone almost casual, “if anyone actually saw you and Toji together like that—”
Your stomach drops before he finishes. Your fingers curl tighter into Suguru’s sleeve, fabric wrinkling beneath your grip.
In the rearview mirror, Choso’s eyes lift.
But Satoru keeps going anyway. Of course he does.
“—you’d probably go viral,” he adds. “Like, Kardashian-famous. I’m just saying, capitalism-wise—”
The brake pedal jerks under Choso’s foot. Not enough to stop the car.
Enough to send all of you lurching forward just a fraction.
From the passenger seat, Sukuna turns his head like an angry dad.
Suguru gasps — actually gasps — scandalized, leaning forward like someone just cursed in church.
“What is wrong with you?” he hisses, offended on a spiritual level.
Satoru’s grin flickers, collapses into something sheepish. “…Okay,” he says quieter.
“When I say it out loud, it sounds worse.”
“You think?” Sukuna voice is low and sharp. He reaches back suddenly, arm snapping out toward Satoru’s leg, making him jolt away dramatically.
“Say one more word and I’ll make you medically famous.”
“Wow,” Satoru mutters, “Hostile work environment.”
Silence slams down hard after that.
Your reflection trembles in the window — red eyes, smeared mascara, glitter still stubbornly sparkling around your cheekbones like proof you were happy earlier.
And then — for reasons you don’t understand — you laugh.
The sound startles you, echoes wrong in your ears.
Then it caves in on itself. The laugh collapses into sobbing before you can catch it.
Your shoulders shake. Your chest tightens like it’s finally given up pretending everything is fine.
Satoru flinches hard.
“…Oh,” he whispers, “I fucked up.”
Suguru tightens his grip on your hand instantly, thumb pressing firm.
His voice goes soft but lethal. “Apologize. Now.”
“I am deeply sorry,” Satoru says immediately.
“I will get you flowers. Expensive ones. And—uh—silence forever.”
“Perfect,” Sukuna snaps. “Start now with the silence forever part.”
Choso glances back fully, eyes softening the second they land on you — like the rest of the car fades out, like there’s only this moment.
“You okay?” he asks quietly. You nod, even though it is clearly a lie.
The city center starts to fade.
Neon bleeds out into sodium lights, rain-slick asphalt turning darker, heavier, like the road itself is sobering up.
The air feels colder here.
Your bare thighs stick faintly to the leather seat — cheer skirt riding up no matter how many times you tug it down.
You feel exposed. Out of place.
Suguru notices immediately.
He shifts even closer, knee angled toward yours like a barrier, jacket still tight around your shoulders.
His hand stays on your knee, thumb drawing slow, grounding circles.
“You’re okay,” he says softly. “I’ve got you.”
Up front, Choso turns off the main road.
The scenery changes fast — warehouses hunched under rain, brick walls tagged and bleeding color, windows dark or flickering like they’re barely alive. Satoru presses his face to the glass, squinting.
“…Choso,” he says slowly, suspiciously, “be honest with me.”
Choso doesn’t look away from the road. “About what.”
“This,” Satoru gestures vaguely at the world outside. “This whole… horror movie-core situation.”
Sukuna exhales sharply through his nose.
Suguru makes a noise of deep, personal offense. “Don’t say that.”
“I’m just asking questions,” Satoru continues.
“Because this is very plug-coded behaviour. Like—don’t get me wrong, I respect it. Entrepreneurial. But are we about to pull up somewhere with a guy named Mahito who only answers texts after midnight?”
You hear the blinker clicks on.
Choso finally speaks. “You’re dramatic.”
“That’s not a denial, its -” Satoru says, delighted.
Sukuna turns his head just enough for Satoru to feel it.
“If you finish that sentence, I swear we leave you here.”
Satoru blinks, “…You wouldn’t.”
The car slows near a chain-link fence, rusted and sagging, a security light swinging overhead like it’s losing faith.
The building beyond looks abandoned. Your stomach dips and you swallow.
Suguru leans in close, forehead almost brushing your temple, voice low and private.
“It’s just Choso” he says. “We’re safe.”
You nod, even if your pulse disagrees.
Choso parks smoothly and kills the engine.
“Everyone stays where I can see them,” Sukuna says, turning fully around now.
Angry dad energy dialled all the way up.
Satoru squints at him. “…Dad?”
“I abandon you first,” Sukuna replies.
Choso gets out first, rain dotting his jacket, movements unhurried.
You step out after Satoru, cheer shoes too loud on concrete, cold biting at your bare legs.
Your skirt flutters in the wind, glitter catching the industrial light in a way that feels almost cruel.
“Cold?” he asks as one hand finds your elbow, the other tugging his jacket tighter around your shoulder.
Suguru positions himself just slightly in front of you, body angled, instinctively shielding.
You can feel the way he keeps glancing down at you like he’s checking you’re still solid.
“…I’m just saying,” Satoru continues loudly, already craning his neck to peer at the warehouse, “this is textbook. Abandoned lot. The Flickering lights. Exposed brick. I’ve watched enough documentaries to know when a drug lab is about to appear.”
Sukuna slams his door shut harder than necessary.
“If you say ‘documentary’ one more time—”
“It’s always the calm guy,” Satoru adds, nodding toward Choso.
“That’s how they get you. Soft-spoken but has a secret basement.”
Suguru clicks his tongue sharply, offended again. “Stop it. You’re not helping here.”
“I’m coping,” Satoru insists. “And profiling.”
Sukuna steps closer, towering.
“You’re about to cope yourself into sleeping outside.”
Choso hasn’t said anything.
He stands a few steps away, posture loose —like the night isn’t something to fight but something to move through.
The argument rolls past him.
Because his attention is on you.
The cheer outfit catches his eye immediately — not as spectacle, but as contrast.
The way the fabric still holds energy, like motion hasn’t fully left your body.
How bright you look against concrete and rust, glitter stubbornly alive on your cheekbones like proof of joy that hasn’t quite faded yet.
For a second, the world softens.
He imagines something quieter.
Something that maybe could have been real in another life.
Picking you up late — after training runs long.
You tired but still glowing, hair damp, bag slung over one shoulder, that same effortless lightness trailing behind you.
Just you next to him in the passenger seat, music low, city humming past.
It hits him harder than he expects.
Warmth creeps up his neck. A faint flush he doesn’t comment on.
He looks away and breathes out slowly.
By the time he looks back, the calm is locked in place.
“So if this is a drug lab,” he says, hands in his pockets, “do we knock or—”
“Relax,” he says, glancing at him. “Wouldn’t invite you in my lab.”
Satoru blinks. “…That felt personal.”
Sukuna snorts despite himself. Suguru squeezes your hand once, grounding, then looks at Choso.
“She’s cold,” he says simply.
Choso nods, already moving, keys sliding into his hand.
“Aight,” he says. “Let’s go inside.”
The heavy steel door groans as he pulls it open.
Soft amber lamps glow against exposed brick. Polished concrete reflects light instead of swallowing it. Plants climb toward the ceiling beams like they’ve claimed the place as home.
You step forward without realizing you’ve stopped breathing.
The warmth hits your skin first, before arriving in your chest.
Behind you, Satoru stops dead.
“…Oh,” he says quietly. “Okay. Yeah. I take it back.”
Sukuna lifts a brow, grudgingly impressed.
Suguru exhales, shoulders finally dropping.
Choso watches you — the way your posture eases, the way your eyes soften as you take it in.
“Nothin special,” he says simply, but the heat is rising again in his cheeks.
Nothing special, you mockingly think to yourself as you fully step inside.
“This is unfair,” Satoru continues, slowly turning in a full circle, hands spread like he’s presenting evidence to a jury.
“You can’t just casually live like this”
You squint at the brick wall, the plants and posters, the soft lamps.
“This is nicer than our house,” you add softly, more too yourself than anyone else.
But Suguru hums in agreement.
“So this,” he gestures wildly, “is where our student money is allegedly going?’”
Choso doesn’t turn around as he keeps on moving toward the open kitchen.
“You know y’all never had to pay me full prices,” he just says evenly.
Sukuna lets out a short breath through his nose.
“I don’t even wanna know what full price is,” he mutters raspy.
Satoru stares at the ceiling like he’s recalculating his entire life.
“So this,” he says slowly, looking around again, “is what drug inflation looks like.”
You sign at Satorus comment but can’t hide your smile.
Choso finally glances over, expression amused. “Ounces add up.”
“That’s actually worse,” Satoru replies instantly, throwing his jacket around a chair.
You feel his shoulders finally drop, like the tension’s been sitting there for hours waiting for permission.
He keeps his hand on your back as he guides you further inside, gentle pressure between your shoulder blades like he’s making sure you don’t vanish now that the adrenaline’s gone.
“Wanna sit?” he asks softly. You just nod, still amazed by the home of Choso unveiling itself around you.
The sofa swallows you in warmth.
The city glows through the tall windows — distant like it belongs to another version of your life entirely.
One that existed before tonight cracked something open.
Your cheer skirt still rides too high. Glitter still clings to your skin, catching the light every time you shift.
You tug at the hem absently, suddenly hyper-aware of how out of place you feel now that the noise has stopped, how the performance hasn’t fully left your body yet.
Suguru notices immediately.
He crouches in front of you, blocking out the room, voice low and steady like he’s talking to something fragile but strong.
“Hey,” he says gently. “We’ll get you changed, okay?”
You nod again, throat tight, eyes burning for reasons you don’t try to name.
Across the loft, Choso doesn’t ask if anyone’s hungry. He just moves.
Sleeves pushed up, Cabinets open like muscle memory — oil poured, garlic crushed, bread pulled from the bag.
The kitchen fills slowly with warmth: the soft hiss of a pan, garlic blooming in oil, the comforting scrape of a knife against wood. Something toasts.
The quiet hum of the loft settles in around it — the low sizzle, cabinet doors opening and closing, the scrape of a knife against the board.
Warmth pushing back the cold edge of the stadium, of the night, of everything that came before.
You observe how Suguru watches Choso from the island, fingers tapping restlessly against the cold marble.
His leg bounces beneath the stool, a mechanical, jagged tension barely contained beneath the calm face he always wears.
“…You got anything,” he asks low, voice casual but tight, “like… something to take the edge off?”
Choso doesn’t look up at first.
But you catch his spine just slightly stretching, and shoulders tense. “Food’s coming.”
Suguru waits a small moment, the heat of his gaze lingering on Choso back before he adds, “…Not like that.”
Slowly, he lifts his eyes.
The softness that’s been sitting in his expression drains away into something firmer.
Still calm—but no longer gentle.
“…Hell no,” he says flatly. “Not for you at least.”
The air in the room shifts around you. Satoru looks up from his phone, blue eyes flashing, and Sukuna slows in his stare out the window.
Suguru frowns, genuine confusion flickering through him. “What?”
You quietly watch Choso turn the stove down, wipes his hands on a towel and finally facing Suguru fully.
“Not selling you anymore, Suguru,” he says calmly but voice low,
“Not after last time. Made me feel uneasy ’bout it.”
Gojo’s brows pull together, the quiet seriousness taking hold as it always does when someone rises their voice even slightly against Suguru.
“…What are we talkin' about?” Satoru asks.
Sukuna stares at Choso sharply, then says: “You’re serious?”
Choso exhales slowly. Disappointment weighs more than anger.
“I told you to stay off that shit,” he says, his eyes boring into Suguru’s.
“I meant it. You not the type of person to handle it well.”
Suguru leans back slightly, but you instantly see the tension in his shoulders.
“You never said anything,” Satoru says silently.
Suguru rubs his jaw, slow, deliberate.
The crack finally shows—eyes darkened, mouth drawn tight. “Didn’t think it mattered.”
From the sofa, your chest feels weighted, full of something unshed.
Sukuna shifts, interest sharpening, ready to pull at the thread.
You cut in before he can.
“…I knew,” you say quietly avoiding Sukunas surprised eyes.
“It wasn’t serious. Just supplements. Like… Ashwagandha or something like that.”
Suguru turns toward you, caught off-guard. Not by the words—but by the loyalty.
Like you’ve stepped into the space he’s been guarding alone.
And then you notice Choso.
His eyes flick to Suguru, then to you.
Something settles in his expression.
He knows that you only try to protect your friend from further judgement.
He turns back to the stove without another word.
The kitchen exhales again.
Warmth seeps back into the space—the low hum of the vent, the faint crackle of oil—but something between all of you has shifted.
Not broken. Just… rearranged.
Like a truth finally found a place to rest.
Sukuna leans against the counter next to Suguru now, arms crossed, coiled tight with leftover adrenaline.
But the moment Choso slides plates across the island, he moves.
He’s starving.
Rage, sweat, victory still buzzing under his skin.
Before anyone gets a plate, he’s already eating - fast, mechanical.
Jaw flexing, eyes distant, like his body is here but his mind is still chasing something feral.
Across from him, Suguru and Satoru sit heavy in their chairs.
They eat slower—not desire, just survival.
“Carbs,” Gojo mutters, tapping a finger at his temple. “Hangover prevention.”
Geto hums in agreement, but his attention drifts. Keeps drifting. Because you’re not there.
You’re still curled into the corner of the sofa by the tall windows, knees tucked tight, sleeves swallowing your hands.
Your lips tremble when your thoughts slip back to Toji.
You don’t notice Choso watching. Not the way his movements slow or his brows pull together like he’s already deciding something.
He moves carefully towards you—kneeling beside the sofa like he’s approaching something fragile.
You look at the small bowl in his hands.
Your eyes widen and cheeks warm up.
Choso offers it to you with a smile.
“Gotta put something in your system”, he says softly.
Your throat tightens again—but this time it’s different.
You nod, wiping at your cheek as you take the bowl.
Your fingers brush his—cold against warm.
Your lips curve into the smallest smile.
From the kitchen, Sukuna watches the scenery around you carefully.
His gaze lingers on Choso beside you—the quiet way he exists in your space, the way your shoulders ease under his presence.
Not all at once —like he doesn’t want to rush the space he’s been holding.
He straightens slowly, the quiet gravity of him pulling the room back into shape.
Before he turns away, his eyes find yours.
Something passes between you in that half-second before he looks away.
His voice is steady again when he speaks, back in the room.
“You can all shower,” he says simply. “Especially you, Sukuna. Kinda stink.”
Sukuna doesn’t bother responding—too busy eating.
“I got clothes. Should fit.”
A nod from Sukuna.
A quiet thanks from Suguru.
Satoru exhales like his soul is leaving his body.
“If these are all oversized hoodies,” he says, rubbing his face,
“I’m gonna look like a SoundCloud rapper who drops one sad EP and disappears.”
Sukuna snorts, sharp and unfiltered.
Choso lifts a brow, finally looking at him.
“You don’t even know my size.”
Gojo blinks. “I mean… baggy’s your whole thing.”
Choso sighs before he hooks his fingers under the hem of his sweater and pulls it off in one smooth, unhurried motion.
Underneath the softness of Chosos sweater is pure structure.
You watch the Broad shoulders pulling the airtight.
Muscle carved, Ink stretching across arms that flex without asking, tattoos moving like they were meant to be seen in motion, not stillness.
“Yeah,” Choso mutters, casual as ever. “Hoodie’s XXL. Should be bigger on you too,”
Then a smirk curves his mouth.
“, But I can find you something tighter,” he adds, glancing at Gojo, “if you really wanna serve drama, Satoru.”
Satoru doesn’t even pretend. He just stares.
“…Yeah,” he says almost dreamy.
Sukuna watches too, eyes narrowing — not impressed, not threatened.
Just recalibrating. Like a file in his head quietly updating itself.
Your spoon pauses halfway to your mouth, strawberry ice cream melting unnoticed.
The oversized sleeves slide down your hands as you lean forward without realizing it, body drawn in by something instinctive.
The line of Choso’s neck and shoulders.
The way dark strands of hair brush his skin.
The subtle shift of muscle beneath ink as he reaches for clean clothes.
You hadn’t noticed before.
Not loud like Toji — all heat and force.
Not sharp like Sukuna — all edges and warning.
Just… solid. Steady.
The kind of strength that stays.
Something warm coils low in your chest – curiosity. A pull you don’t want to name.
Not the obvious part — not the way your gaze drifts or how you go still — but the quieter shift underneath. The way something in you leans forward before you do.
His mouth curves just slightly into a smile.
Choso turns back with folded clothes in his hands, steps stopping directly in front of you like the space rearranged itself to make room.
A red graphic tee. Loose pants. Soft cotton, worn thin in the best places.
Jennifer Lawrence printed across the front.
“…You’re a fan?” you ask quietly, smiling softly at the shirt and Jennifer.
He shakes his head, a faint smile pulling at his mouth.
Something about that settles low in your chest.
Not just the answer — but the way he says it.
The way his voice lowers, careful, like this detail carries weight.
Like letting you wear this is a small, deliberate offering.
Choso sees the change in you.
From where you’re sitting, you have to look up.
Your lashes lower instinctively, chin tipped back just enough that your throat opens to the light.
The cheer top still clings to you — thin straps tracing the slope of your shoulders. Glitter ghosts your collarbones, caught in the soft hollow where your pulse flutters.
For a second — just one — his imagination slips its leash.
He drags a breath in through his nose, grounding himself, forcing the thought back into its cage.
Then — he claps his hands together once.
The sound snaps through the loft.
Choso straightens instantly, composure sliding back into place like armor.
The softness gone. The yearning tucked away where no one can touch it.
“Aight,” he says, voice louder now. “Everybody shower.”
His eyes cut sideways to Sukuna like a dare.
Sukuna grunts, offended without looking up.
You sit frozen for a second, staring down at the red fabric now resting in your lap.
Jennifer Lawrence smiling up at you.
Soft cotton. Still warm.
Your pulse is loud.
Your chest feels full in a way that has nothing to do with grief.
After the showers, the loft fills again slowly — not with noise, but with steam and softened edges.
Warmth lingers in the air, clinging to skin and fabric, turning everything a shade gentler.
Everyone looks a little different now. Hair damp and darker. Skin still warm, faintly flushed at the cheeks.
Satoru is toweling his hair aggressively, water dripping down his temples and onto the collar of Choso’s most fitted T-shirt. It clings to him in a way that feels faintly unfair — fitted everywhere it should be, too short everywhere it shouldn’t.
When he stretches, it rides up, flashing a strip of pale stomach and the sharp dip of his hipbone, like the shirt was never designed with someone his height in mind.
He squints down at himself like it personally offended him.
“You’re telling me,” he says, scandalized, “this man has a full skincare routine?”
Suguru leans against the counter nearby, damp black hair pushed back from his face, collarbone still faintly pink from the heat of the shower.
He looks softer like this — eyes clearer, lashes darker when wet.
“There were, like, five different shampoos,” he says, amused. “Separate ones.”
Gojo lifts his arms again, deliberately, inspecting the way the shirt lifts with him, stomach flashing once more in the warm light.
“I look like I lost a fight with a dryer,” Gojo replies, lifting his arms again on purpose. “Wait… is this actually supposed to be cropped.”
Sukuna snorts from the doorway, towel slung over one shoulder, hair damp and darker than usual.
He looks solid in a way that makes the room feel smaller.
“Sit down,” he says flatly, looking at Satoru checking himself up. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”
The hallway light spills over you — warm, forgiving — and you feel it immediately.
The clothes Choso gave you hang loose, soft cotton slipping low on your hips, sleeves swallowing your arms.
They feel intimate in a way that surprises you — like wearing someone else’s positive energy.
Your hair is still damp, curls heavier, brushing the back of your neck. Your skin feels exposed without meaning to.
“…He had more than just men’s seven-in-one,” you murmur, half-amused, half-awed.
Satoru turns fully toward you.
“See?” he says triumphantly. “This is what I’ve been saying. Red flag behaviour.”
Suguru smiles faintly, his eyes lingering a second longer than necessary. “Or green flag.”
Choso looks up from the kitchen.
His hair is loose now, freed from the practical ties he usually keeps it in.
You hadn’t realized how long it was.
It falls past his jaw, dark brown strands brushing the sides of his face, curling slightly at the nape of his neck where it’s still damp from the shower.
The silver of his earrings catches the light when he moves — small hoops and studs glinting softly against his skin, almost hidden by his hair.
They make him look younger somehow.
His gaze flicks over you and your chest tightens at the awareness of it.
A corner of his mouth lifts.
“Told you many times - I don’t do garbage.”
The way he says it is calm, but you catch the way his eyes linger half a second longer this time, tracking the way the oversized shirt hangs on you.
Something warm stirs low in your stomach before you can stop it.
For a split second, you imagine what it would feel like to reach up and tuck one of those loose strands behind his ear.
Your Boyfriend is in jail, you remind yourself, now suddenly finding the wall extremely interesting.
Choso disappears briefly, then comes back with blankets and pillows tucked under one arm.
He moves through the loft like the space already knows this routine — laying things out without thinking about it, straightening a corner here, nudging a cushion there with his hand.
Watching him, you get the sense this isn’t the first time he’s done this — that people have slept here before, trusted him with their tired bodies and unfinished nights.
Your eyes drift back down to the red shirt pooled softly around you.
Maybe his younger brother, you think quietly, the idea settling warm in your chest.
“I got the chair,” Choso says, tossing the thinnest blanket there without ceremony, like it’s the most obvious solution in the world.
Sukuna scoffs, rolling an aching muscle in his neck as his arms cross. “I can take that”
“You’re guests,” Choso replies simply.
Satoru flops onto the couch like gravity finally won, bouncing slightly.
“This is nicer than half the dorms on campus,” he announces. “I’m not leaving this spot.”
Suguru lowers himself beside him carefully, shoulders slumping as exhaustion finally catches up.
He stares up at the ceiling, eyes unfocused, like something heavy is still looping in his head.
You notice and Satoru notices it.
“Hey,” he says, suddenly softer, tugging the blanket wider with a lazy hand. “Come to Papa.”
Suguru hesitates for half a second — just long enough to register the offer — then shifts closer. It’s automatic, like muscle memory.
Satorus’s arm drapes over his shoulders; Suguru leans in without thinking, forehead brushing Gojos shoulder briefly, like it’s something they’ve done a hundred times and never felt the need to name.
From where you stand, it’s unexpectedly tender.
Your chest tightens — not with sadness, but with the quiet relief of seeing care exist without complication.
Sukuna lingers by the windows, staring out at the sparkling city like it personally owes him an apology.
His reflection in the glass looks sharper, more guarded.
When he finally turns, his gaze cuts straight to Choso.
“You sure about the couch-chair thing?”
Choso nods once. “Not my first rodeo on there.”
Then his eyes shift to you. And the change is immediate.
Like his attention narrows, steadies, the rest of the room fading a notch softer.
“I set the bed for you,” he says quietly, nodding toward the closed room. “It’s warmer in there.”
You notice the fine line of his throat, the way his jaw flexes once — like he’s choosing restraint over something else.
You hesitate. And you feel all of them notice.
The way your fingers worry the hem of the shirt.
The way your shoulders tense, like comfort is something you’re not sure you’re allowed to accept.
Sukuna clocks it immediately. “Go.,” he says —Almost protective.
You still hesitate, guilt pricking — unsure if your conscience allows you to take a whole bed while the larger bodies around you fold themselves into corners and cushions.
“Otherwise,” Satoru adds lightly, grinning, patting the space between him and Suguru, “we got room for a sleepover.”
You lift a brow. Then you laugh — soft, surprised by yourself — and head down the hall instead. The clothes brush your legs as you walk, fabric unfamiliar but gentle.
The door clicks shut behind you.
The sound feels intentional. Like a boundary drawn with care.
From inside the room, you can still hear the loft — low voices, the rustle of blankets, the quiet choreography of people settling.
Suguru’s voice drifts faintly through the wall. “…You’re good with her, man.”
Choso doesn’t answer right away.
You imagine him standing there, gaze lingering on the door, jaw set, something thoughtful and unspoken crossing his face before he smooths it away.
Sukuna exhales somewhere beyond the walls.
“Thanks for inviting me for the sleepover,” he mutters. “Guess I’m on the floor.”
Choso’s voice comes calm and steady.
“Bedroom floor’s got space. Carpet’s softer there.”
“...She Shouldn’t be alone.”
The words carry through the walls — quiet, deliberate. You sit on the edge of the bed, heart still thudding, surrounded by warm light, borrowed fabric, and the distant hum of the city breathing outside the windows.
For the first time tonight, you don’t feel watched.
Choso’s bedroom is dim and warm, like it’s been waiting for night to arrive.
No overhead light — just soft amber lamps pooled low, catching on the edges of things instead of flattening them.
Dark sheets pulled tight across the bed. Plants crowd the window ledge, leaves brushing the glass as if they’re trying to listen to the city outside.
Books stacked beside the bed — not decorative, just read and reread, spines softened with use.
As you step inside slowly, arms wrapping around yourself: Everything hits at once.
Toji gone.
Police lights slicing the dark.
That last look — unfinished, unspoken.
Your throat tightens violently.
The sound that leaves you isn’t loud, but it’s deep — like something tearing loose. Your shoulders start to shake before you can stop them, body folding inward under the weight of it all.
You sit on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath you, and drop your face into your hands as silent sobs rip out of your chest.
A knock. Then the door opens.
Choso’s clothes sit differently on him — not loose.
The shirt pulls tight across his shoulders and chest, stretches along his back when he shuts the door.
His hair is still damp, darker, a few strands slipping loose around his face.
He pauses when he sees you crying.
For once, there’s no sarcasm or provocation.
Just his jaw tightening as he closes the door behind him.
He crosses the room and sits beside you, close enough that your shoulders touch.
Your breath stutters. Tears slip through your fingers.
He hesitates — just a second — then his hand settles at your back, warm and steady.
“We’ll fix it”, he says quietly. Your shoulders shake harder.
“I should’ve stopped him,” you whisper, broken. “Or asked him about it. Everything’s just been… so distant between us…. since all that happened.”
Sukuna shakes his head next too you.
For just a moment the message of the unknown number breaks through his mind.
“Hey,” he says, firmer this time. “This isn’t on you.”
His hand doesn’t leave your back.
Thumb brushing slow, deliberate, like he’s counting your breaths for you.
You lean into him without realizing it — just a little — grief heavy and uncontained.
Tears soak into the oversized shirt as Sukuna stays right there beside you, silent, protective and refusing to look away.
Your sobs soften eventually.
The sharp edges wear down, dissolving into tired, uneven breaths.
The room feels warmer now.
You shift under Choso’s thick blanket, pulling it up to your chin.
The fabric is soft, heavy in the best way, smelling faintly of clean cotton.
Sukuna bends down beside the bed, grabs one of the spare pillows, and drops it onto the floor with a muted thud.
You watch him, chest tightening again — not panic this time, but the sudden ache of loneliness creeping back in.
“Sukuna…” Your voice almost sounds small.
“…Can you just sleep here…next to me?”
The question hangs in the air.
For half a heartbeat, he just looks at you. Then he nods once, without hesitation.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “But don’t touch me, when I’m asleep.”
You feel a genuine laugh slip free, the first in a long while.
He slides onto the bed, pulling the blanket up around both of you before his arm wraps securely around you, drawing you in his strong chest.
Your breathing finally steadies. His warmth is grounding.
His hand lifts slowly, brushing through your damp hair, fingers unhurried as they smooth the strands back from your face.
The touch feels soft, softer than you would have thought Sukuna capable of.
And Your eyes flutter close from it.
For the first time since the sirens, the tunnel and that final look — your chest doesn’t feel like it’s collapsing in on itself.
Outside the room, Choso leans back against the hallway wall, quiet as a shadow.
He listens. Not intruding or assuming.
The low whisper of voices inside, the softened silence that follows — it tells him enough.
He turns away, giving you privacy.
But the ache blooms anyway — quiet, unwelcome — settling under his ribs as he stares at the door for a moment too long.
Inside the room, your voice is barely a whisper.
“…Thank you for staying.”
Sukuna’s chin rests lightly against your hair when he answers, softer than you’ve ever heard him.
Your breathing evens out after that.
Exhaustion pulls you under, finally, gently.
He keeps his arm around you long after your grip loosens, eyes open in the dim light, thumb still tracing slow, steady lines through your hair like he’s guarding your sleep.
