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In the mornings, the light slid in through the curtains in narrow bands, dust floating through it like slow snow. You woke to the smell of coffee and the low thud of Sukuna’s boots as he moved around the kitchen. Sometimes he left you a plate—toast with jam, or eggs if he’d been up long enough—but more often than not, he’d simply nod at you from the doorway before heading out, a thermos in one hand, his lunchbox in the other.

“You shouldn’t be up,” he would grumble if he caught you shuffling around too early.

“I can walk,” you’d answer softly, and he’d huff like that annoyed him and secretly relieved him at the same time.

During the day, the house belonged to you and the forest.

You learned its sounds—how the woodstove ticked as it cooled, how the trees outside sighed when the wind changed direction. When the pain in your limbs felt distant enough, you wandered out to the small patch of earth beside the house where wild grasses had shouldered their way up against the wall.

Sukuna’s wife had once planted things there, you could tell. You found the memory of her in faint lines of old beds, in the stubborn herbs that still tried to come back every year—sprigs of thyme, the ghost of mint, a lonely stalk of something you thought might be sage.

You knelt in the dirt with careful knees and coaxed it all back to life.

Your fingers dug into the soil, nails caked with dark earth as you pulled weeds, loosened roots, patted new seeds into place. Your body still protested when you bent too long, pain shivering through your ribs, but working slowly kept your mind from circling the same dark thoughts. Out here, there were no slamming doors. Just the sound of your own breath and the occasional crow calling from a branch.

Inside, you kept busy in other ways.

You cleaned, partly because the house needed it and partly because moving made you feel less like a ghost in borrowed clothes. You learned which cupboard held the plates, which drawer the utensils. You washed dishes, swept floors, shook out blankets. You found Sukuna’s wife everywhere you looked—in the floral plates, in the faded dish towels, in the books stacked neatly by the bed.

Her clothes became your clothes.

He’d kept all of them, folded and stored in the dresser and closet like she might walk through the door at any moment. At first, it felt wrong to touch them. But he had opened the drawers himself one morning, muttered, “These’ll fit you,” and left you there with his wife’s things and the sound of the front door closing behind him.

You chose the softest pieces—the long-sleeved dresses, the nightgowns, the thick sweaters that smelled faintly of old detergent and pine. The fabric hugged your curves, clinging a little at your hips and the round of your butt, hanging looser over your waist. Sometimes you caught yourself in the small bathroom mirror and barely recognized the woman staring back: pale skin, freckles, long ringlet curls that fell to your mid-back, eyes still bruised around the edges but clearer now.

At night, Sukuna came home smelling like the forest.

Sap, sawdust, sweat, cold air. He’d trudge in with dirt on his boots and shoulders slumped from the weight of the day. The first thing he always did was look at you—just one quick, assessing sweep from head to toe, checking for anything new in the way you held yourself, in the set of your shoulders.

“How are you?” he’d ask, as though it were a weather report he needed before he could rest.

“Better,” you’d say, and mean it.

He would disappear into the bathroom, and you’d hear water running, the pipes groaning. After his bath, he would come back out with his hair damp, a clean shirt clinging to his broad chest, his bare forearms lined with pale scars. Sometimes he cooked. Sometimes you did, leaning on the counter when your legs got tired. On nights when you managed, you made simple things—soup, rice, vegetables, the kind of food your mother had once taught you to make before she’d decided what a good marriage looked like.

You ate together on the couch, the little boxed TV flickering with old shows and news broadcasts from the year 2000. The world on the screen felt far away—bright stores, crowded streets, all of it down in the valley while you lived up here, above it all, in a house suspended in trees and silence.

The second week started like all the others.

The air had turned sharper, the kind that bit your cheeks and made your breath smoke even at noon. You spent the afternoon in the garden, tucking a few last seeds into the soil and covering them with careful hands. Your wrist still twinged when you pressed down too hard, and your ribs ached if you twisted too quickly, but the pain no longer swallowed you whole.

By the time the sky began to turn gold behind the mountains, you were back inside, wiping dirt from your fingers, the house warm from the woodstove.

You had just finished setting the table—two mismatched plates, two glasses of water, the pan of potatoes steaming gently on the stove—when the front door opened with a heavier push than usual.

Sukuna stepped inside, shoulders bunched tight, jaw set.

You straightened from where you stood by the counter, fingers still wrapped around a dishcloth. “You’re home early,” you said.

He grunted, kicking his boots off with a little more force than necessary. They landed against the wall with a dull thud. He shrugged out of his work jacket, flinging it over the back of the chair, then scrubbed his hands over his face.

“Everything okay?” you asked, heart tightening. You had learned, in the last week, that his moods were usually steady—quiet, dry, occasionally grouchy, but never… rattled. Not like this.

He hesitated, gaze flicking to the window and then back to you.

“Your husband’s looking for you,” he said. The words came out blunt, like he didn’t believe in softening blows. “He’s been going around town all day, asking questions. Showing your picture. Making noise.”

The room seemed to tilt.

Your fingers clenched around the dishcloth, wringing it so tight your knuckles blanched. “Oh,” you whispered.

Small details came flooding back—your husband’s voice when he drank, the way he’d say your full name like it was a slur, the weight of his badge when it glinted on his chest. You pictured him walking into the diner on Main, into the hardware store, into the grocery, that picture in his hand, asking: Have you seen my wife?

“He came by the mill this afternoon,” Sukuna went on. “Showed the foreman your wedding photo. Asked if any of us had seen you on the road, in town, anywhere out this way.”

You swallowed, throat dry. “And you…?”

“I said no.” His mouth flattened. “So did the others.” He glanced toward the window again, something calculating in his expression. “But he’s not stupid. He knows she didn’t just evaporate. And he knows there’s only so many roads leading out of town.”

A cold shiver ran down your spine. “Do you think he’ll…?”

A knock interrupted you.

It was loud, sharp, demanding—fist on wood, once, twice, three times.

You jumped, the dishcloth slipping from your hands and falling to the floor.

Sukuna’s head snapped toward the door. His eyes narrowed, crimson darkening like storm clouds rolling over.

“Back room,” he said, voice low and immediate. “Now.”

Your heart raced so hard it hurt. “What if—”

“Y/n.” There was no room for argument in his tone. “Go.”

Your legs moved before your brain did.

You limped down the short hallway, the floorboards creaking under your bare feet. Your ribs twinged with each breath, your wrist throbbing in time with your pulse. Panic made everything tighter, more fragile. You reached the bedroom door and slipped inside, shutting it softly behind you.

The room was dim, lit only by the last of the evening light sneaking through the curtains. You stood there in one of his wife’s nightgowns—pale blue, with a little lace at the neckline—your hands shaking as you pressed your back against the wall.

Out in the living room, you heard the front door open.

“Evening,” came your husband’s voice. Smooth. Controlled. The tone he used when talking to neighbors, to your parents, to anyone who thought well of him. Underneath, though, you could hear the familiar strain—the tightness that meant the mask was only skin-deep.

“Can I help you?” Sukuna’s voice was lower, dryer. You pictured him standing there, broad and solid in the doorway.

“I sure hope so,” your husband drawled. “I’m going around to everyone in town, asking if anyone’s seen this person.”

There was a rustle of paper. You didn’t have to see it to know which picture he’d brought.

Your wedding photo.

You remembered the day it had been taken—your hair in loose curls, your dress too tight around the ribs, your smile a bit too bright. His hand had been on your waist, fingers pressing in just a fraction too hard, leaving faint half-moon indentations on your skin. You’d told yourself it was affection.

From the other room, Sukuna grunted.

He must have taken the picture between two fingers, lifted it, glanced at it. You could almost see the barest flicker of something move across his face when he saw you standing next to the man now at his door.

“No,” Sukuna said. “Haven’t seen her.”

A beat.

Your husband exhaled through his nose. “She’s my wife,” he said, voice still smooth but edged now with something sharp. “Ran off a couple weeks ago. No note. No call.” A pause. “You sure? She’s hard to miss. Green eyes. Brown curls. Soft little thing. Looks like she’d blow over in a good wind.”

Your muscles locked, the words digging under your skin like splinters.

“I said no,” Sukuna replied, tone flat.

There was the sound of your husband shifting his weight, boots scraping lightly on the porch. You heard him make a little thoughtful sound, and then—

“What about that?” he asked.

You froze.

“That what?” Sukuna said.

“That sweater.” You could hear the amusement now, the satisfaction of a man who thinks he’s caught someone in a lie. “On the arm of your couch. I recognize it.”

Your breath seized.

The sweater. The one with the little embroidered flowers along the hem—the one he had bought you right after you married. You’d found it at the bottom of your bag when you’d fled, thrown it over the arm of the couch earlier and forgotten to tuck it away.

“It was our anniversary gift,” your husband went on, tone turning smug. “Funny thing, seeing it up here in the middle of nowhere.”

Silence.

Then a soft, dangerous little sound that might have been Sukuna’s jaw tightening.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said evenly.

“Sure,” your husband said. The smoothness in his voice cracked. “You mind if I take a look around? Just to be sure?”

“No.”

“See, that right there sounds like a man with something to hide.”

You heard the creak of the floorboard near the doorway—your husband pushing past.

“Said no,” Sukuna repeated, louder this time.

A scuffle. The thud of bodies bumping. A muttered curse you recognized as your husband’s.

And then—you heard him.

“Hiding her back here, lumberjack?” he sneered, voice muffled as he moved down the hallway. “Got yourself a little housewife in the woods? That it?”

Your lungs refused to work.

The doorknob twisted.

The door flew open, slamming against the wall with a bang that made you flinch.

He filled the doorway, uniform neat, badge gleaming, hair slicked back. His eyes swept the room once, slow and hungry, then landed on you.

You stood there trembling in the nightgown, fabric clinging to the curve of your hips. Your hair fell around your shoulders in tangled ringlets, your bare feet pale against the wooden floor.

For a heartbeat, neither of you spoke.

Then he scoffed, a bitter laugh tearing out of him. “You have got to be kidding me,” he said. “You’re here. In some other man’s house. Wearing another woman’s nightgown.” His lip curled. “You whore.”

The word hit harder than any fist.

You flinched, tears springing into your eyes, your hands flying to cover your chest even though the nightgown was modest. “I—”

He closed the distance in three strides.

His hand clamped around your wrist, fingers digging into tender flesh already weakened by previous bruises. Pain shot up your arm, white-hot and immediate. You yelped, a small, broken cry.

“Do you have any idea,” he hissed, yanking you toward the hall, “what kind of trouble you’ve caused me? Running off like that? Making me look like a fool in front of the whole damn town?”

Tears blurred your vision as he jerked you out of the room, your bare feet skidding on the floorboards. You stumbled, ribs flaring in pain as you crashed against the doorframe.

“I’m sorry,” you sobbed, because the words came automatically. “Please, just—”

He dragged you into the hallway, his grip bruising, his body a solid wall of fury at your back.

You barely had time to register the figure at the other end of the hall before your husband halted.

Sukuna stood there.

He filled the space from wall to wall, shoulders squared, every line of his body carved in stone. His buzzed pale-pink hair was still damp from his earlier wash, darkened at the temples. His crimson eyes burned in the dim light, narrowed to slits.

In his hands, he held an axe.

It was the same one you’d seen him use to split logs—a heavy, well-worn thing with a stained wooden handle and a blade that caught the light like a promise. He held it low, one hand on the middle of the handle, the other near the base.

“Let her go,” Sukuna said.

The words were quiet. That made them worse.

Your husband snorted, the sound ugly. “This your new man, sweetheart?” he asked, giving your arm a little shake that sent pain racing up your shoulder. “You run off with the nearest piece of muscle you could find?” He raised his voice. “You know harboring a missing person is a crime, right, lumberjack?”

“Let. Her. Go,” Sukuna repeated, each word its own stone.

Your husband’s hand shifted.

You felt it before you saw it—the way his body turned, forcing your arm up sharply, twisting you off balance so you stumbled into his chest. His other hand moved to his belt, fingers curling around the shape you knew too well.

“Sukuna,” you choked, panic flooding you. “It’s okay, I’ll go with him, don’t—”

The metallic click of a gun being unholstered sliced through your words.

Your husband pulled the pistol free, the barrel glinting darkly even in the dim hallway.

He swung it up, arm locking, the muzzle pointing straight at Sukuna’s chest.

You froze.

“Sukuna, please!” you cried, tugging uselessly at your husband’s grip. “Just let him—”

“Shut up,” your husband snarled, jerking your wrist so hard you cried out. He dug his fingers deeper into your scalp with his other hand, grabbing a fistful of your hair and yanking your head back until your neck screamed. “You’re in enough trouble as it is.”

Tears spilled hot and fast, your scalp burning, vision tilted.

“You come near my wife,” he said, voice low and deadly as he glared down the barrel at Sukuna, “and I’ll drop you. Right here in your own damn hallway.”

For a heartbeat, no one moved.

Sukuna took a step forward.

The air changed. You felt it physically, like pressure dropping before a storm. Something in his posture shifted—no longer a man just home from work, but something older, colder, honed by years of carrying things heavier than this moment.

“Last warning,” he said.

Your husband’s fingers tightened around the gun.

The hallway felt too small. Your ears rang. Your heart hammered so loud you could barely hear your own ragged sobs. Every inch of your skin was awake with fear.

Your husband’s arm jerked.

The gunshot exploded, deafening in the narrow space—one sharp, cracking sound that tore through your ears and sank into your bones. You flinched violently, a scream ripping from your throat as your knees gave way.

You saw the bullet hit the wall just to Sukuna’s left, splintering wood, sending a puff of dust into the air.

“You missed,” Sukuna said.

There was no tremor in his voice. No flinch in his body.

He closed the distance between them in two long strides.

Everything happened at once, and nothing arranged itself clearly in your memory.

You felt your husband yank you to the side, trying to drag you into the bedroom as a shield. You heard your own voice—high, raw—begging, “Please, please, don’t hurt him, he didn’t do anything—”

The axe moved.

It came up and down in one fast, efficient arc, like when he split logs in the clearing. A heavy thunk, then a strangled scream, cut off so abruptly it left a space in the air where sound should have been.

Your husband’s grip vanished.

You dropped to the floor, your knees slamming into the wood, palms skidding. For a moment you thought you’d slipped, that his hand had simply lost its hold in his surprise. Then the screaming started—high, terrible, torn from a throat you knew too well.

You scrambled, blind with panic, crawling away without knowing where you were going. The hallway blurred. You saw a flash of red on the floor and looked away, gagging.

There were more sounds—scuffling, grunts, something heavy thudding against the wall. The gun clattered across the floorboards and hit your foot, spinning to a stop by the door.

Then… gurgling.

Wet and awful,. Like someone trying to breathe through water.

You clamped your hands over your ears.

“No, no, no,” you sobbed, rocking slightly where you’d ended up at the top of the short steps leading to the back door. Your husband’s voice choked, then broke apart, pieces of it dissolving into inhuman sounds and then into nothing at all.

And then there was silence.

Deep and complete.

You stayed there, on your knees, shaking so hard your teeth clicked. Somewhere in the distance, a bird called once, then went quiet. The house held its breath.

Behind you, there was a wet, final thud on tile.

You didn’t know how long you knelt there, hands over your ears, eyes squeezed shut. Seconds dragged into minutes that felt like hours. The smell of iron crept slowly into the air, turning the back of your throat metallic.

A shadow shifted in the periphery of your vision.

You peeled your hands away, fingers trembling, and turned your head.

Sukuna stood at the other end of the hall.

He was breathing hard, chest rising and falling, but not like a man overcome—more like someone bringing himself back down from something sharp and focused. Blood spattered his shirt, his arms, a streak across his jaw. None of it was his.

He looked at you first.

Not at what lay behind him on the tile, not at the gun on the floor. At you—curled at the threshold, pajama hem bunched around your knees, hair wild and tangled, eyes wide and wet.

He walked toward you slowly, boots sticking slightly with each step.

“Y/n,” he said, voice rough but gentle. “Look at me.”

You did.

Up close, you saw the anger still burning in his gaze, but it wasn’t uncontrolled. It wasn’t the kind that smashed things just to hear them break. It was banked now, turned outward, away from you.

“He’s gone,” Sukuna said.

The words hit you like a physical blow.

You sucked in a breath that turned into a sob. “I—” you tried, but your throat closed.

He crouched in front of you, the axe nowhere in sight now, his bloodied hands hovering an inch away from your shoulders, as if he wanted to touch you but didn’t want to smear the red on your skin.

“Can you stand?” he asked quietly.

You swallowed, looking down at your shaking legs. “I—maybe,” you whispered.

He nodded, lips pressing into a thin line. “I need to take care of this,” he said. “But I don’t want you out here while I do.” His eyes flicked briefly toward the hallway behind him, then back. “Think you can go to the bedroom? Close the door. Stay there.”

You stared past him for a fraction of a second, catching a glimpse of something pale and still on the floor, and immediately looked away, nausea surging.

“Y-yes,” you choked.

His gaze dropped to your wrist, where your husband’s fingers had dug in moments before. It was already swelling, angry red marks standing out against your pale skin. His jaw clenched. Then his gaze moved to your hair, where sections had been yanked free from their curl, the roots aching, your scalp burning.

“He hurt you,” Sukuna said, voice low.

You laughed weakly through your tears. “He always hur—”

“Not anymore,” he said, cutting you off.

He slipped one arm around your back, careful not to touch your sore ribs, and the other around your legs. Even covered in blood, his hands were gentle. He lifted you from the floor like he had done that first night, carrying you back down the hallway.

When he set you on the bed, he didn’t tuck the blankets around you this time. He just stepped back, giving you space, his broad chest rising and falling slowly.

“Stay in here,” he said. “No matter what you hear. Can you do that?”

You nodded, tears sliding sideways into your hair. “What are you going to do?” you whispered.

He glanced toward the door, expression hardening. “Make sure there’s nothing left to find.”

A shiver ran through you, but you understood.

The town loved a show. Loved gossip. Loved a man in a uniform and a woman they could point at. If your husband vanished into the woods and never came out—no body, no gun, no blood in a hallway—that was a different story than finding him in pieces in Sukuna’s home.

You swallowed. “Okay.”

He looked at you one more time, as if committing the sight of you breathing to memory, then stepped out and closed the door with a soft click.

You lay there listening.

At first there was nothing. Then the sounds began—dragging, heavy, like something being pulled across the floor. The scrape of tile. A muttered curse. The back door opening with a creak. The dull thump of weight hitting the ground outside.

You curled onto your side, clutching the pillow, pressing it over your ears whenever the noises got too vivid. Tears soaked the fabric, your breath catching on quiet sobs. Your body vibrated with a mess of emotions—horror, guilt, sickening relief, grief for something you’d never really had, gratitude so intense it felt like pain.

Time stretched and blurred.

Eventually, another sound joined the rest—the crackle of fire.

You smelled it before you fully registered it: smoke, thick and dark, threading its way through the crack under the door. Not the clean scent of burning logs from the woodpile, but something harsher underneath. You squeezed your eyes shut, knowing without wanting to that somewhere in that fire, your husband’s uniform, his badge, his body were disappearing into ash.

Two hours passed, maybe more.

When the noises finally stopped, the house settled into a tense, sticky quiet. Your throat felt raw from crying. Your head throbbed in dull pulses. The nightgown clung to your knees, damp not just from tears but from the bit of blood you’d knelt in without realizing.

You heard the back door open again. Boots on the threshold. The sound of something being dropped in a metal bin. Then the bathroom door shut, and the pipes rattled as water ran hard. You could picture him standing under it, scrubbing his skin until it no longer felt like someone else’s blood sat on top of it.

You couldn’t stay in the room any longer.

The walls felt too close. The air too thick.

You slid your legs over the side of the bed and pushed yourself up, wincing as your wrist twinged. Your scalp still hummed with pain where hair had been yanked, but the worst of the dizziness had passed. Step by careful step, you made your way to the door, fingers brushing the wood.

When you opened it, the house greeted you with silence and the faint smell of smoke.

You walked slowly down the hall, each creak of the boards loud in your ears. The living room looked almost normal—the couch slightly askew, the blanket you’d used earlier half on the floor. The sweater that had started all of this still lay where your husband had spotted it.

But the kitchen…

Your breath hitched.

There were streaks of brown-red on the tile floor, smears along the spot where the hallway met the room. Not as much as you’d expected—he had done most of whatever he’d done outside, you realized—but enough. Enough to mark what this house had just seen.

Your eyes filled.

He had killed for you.

Not in some abstract way. Not in a promise. In the most real, irreversible way there was. Your husband’s voice would never fill the kitchen again with shouted insults. His boots would never stomp down this hallway. His hand would never close around your wrist.

It was over.

Your chest constricted. You didn’t know how to hold that truth. It was too big, too heavy, too soaked in blood and mercy all at once.

You stepped forward.

The nightgown brushed the floor as you knelt, fabric dragging through a slick red smear. You didn’t care. You reached for the rag that had fallen earlier and picked it up with shaking fingers, dipping it into a bucket of water that sat by the sink.

You began to scrub.

Slow, small circles. The tile was cold under your palms. The smell of metal and smoke wrapped around you. Your fingers turned red, water pinking in the bucket as you rinsed and wrung out the rag again and again. Your knees ached, your wrist screamed, but you kept going.

You weren’t sure why. Maybe it was the need to do something, anything, that wasn’t just lying in the dark listening to the echoes of your husband’s last sounds. Maybe it was the instinct to clean up the messes men left behind, something you had always done without thinking.

Tears dripped off your chin, mixing with the diluted blood on the floor.

You were bent over the worst stain, scrubbing so hard your knuckles hurt, when you felt a shadow fall over you.

You looked up.

Sukuna stood in the doorway to the hall, hair damp and curling slightly against his scalp, skin scrubbed clean but still pink in places from the heat of the water. He’d changed into a fresh shirt and sweatpants, bare feet silent on the tile.

His eyes moved from your raw, red hands to the wet knees of the nightgown, stained with streaks of rusty color, then to the half-cleaned patch of floor.

His mouth thinned.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

You swallowed, scrubbing one last time before your wrist gave a sharp, protesting twinge. “Cleaning,” you whispered. “You… you saved me. You did that for me. I can at least…”

The words fell apart.

He crossed the space between you in a few strides and knelt, one large hand closing over yours—not hard, not tight, but firm enough to still your movements. The rag was warm and slick between your fingers.

“That’s enough,” he said quietly.

You looked at him, vision blurring. “I just… I didn’t know what else to do,” you admitted. “I couldn’t just lie there while you… while you—”

“I told you to stay in the room,” he said, but there was no anger in it. Only weariness. “You’ve done more than enough.”

He gently pried the rag from your hand, dropping it into the bucket with a soft splash. Your fingers were wrinkled and raw, little red lines where the tile had grabbed at them. He turned your hand over, thumb brushing lightly over the swelling on your wrist where your husband’s grip had been.

“Look at your hands,” he murmured. “They’re a mess.”

You laughed weakly through the tears, a broken little sound. “So’s everything else,” you said.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Which is why you need to go get cleaned up.” He glanced at the floor. “I’ll take care of this.”

Guilt flared, hot and irrational. “I should help—”

“You shouldn’t,” he cut in. “You shouldn’t have to see any more of this than you already have.” His eyes met yours, steady and unflinching. “You’ve had enough blood in your life.”

Your chin wobbled.

He stood and held out his hand.

“Come on,” he said. “Bath’s still warm enough. Wash off what you can. Put on something clean. Let me handle the rest.”

You stared at his hand for a long second—the same hand that had held an axe hours ago, that had swung it with enough force to end a man. It was calloused and strong and far from gentle-looking.

And yet, every time it had touched you, it had only ever been careful.

You placed your raw, shaking fingers in his.

He pulled you up with ease, steadying you when your knees protested, keeping a hand at the small of your back as he guided you toward the hallway.

As you walked, you glanced once toward the dark rectangle of the backdoor window, where a faint orange glow still pulsed in the distance, the fire in the grass slowly eating what remained.

A shudder ran through you.

“You’re safe here,” Sukuna said quietly, as if he’d read the thought. “He’s not coming back. No one is taking you out of this house unless you want to go.”

Your throat closed around a sob.

“I know,” you whispered. “I just… don’t know how to feel.”

“You don’t have to know tonight,” he replied.

He led you to the bathroom, opening the door with his free hand. Steam ghosted out, carrying the gentle scent of soap.

“Go on,” he said. “I’ll finish cleaning up.”

You hesitated in the doorway, looking back at him. His face was tired, shadows under his eyes, but there was no regret there. Only a grim acceptance and something like fierce protectiveness.

“Thank you,” you said, the words too small for what he had done but all you had.

He shrugged, but his gaze softened for a fraction of a second.

“Get cleaned up, Y/n,” he said. “We’ll figure out the rest in the morning.”

You stepped into the bathroom, closing the door gently behind you.

Outside, the fire crackled. In the kitchen, a man wiped blood from tile. In the small, warm room, you stripped off the stained nightgown and lowered yourself into the water, letting it hold your bruised, shaken body as the first thin threads of a future without your husband began to stitch themselves together in the quiet.

The house felt different after the fire. It was quieter, somehow. As if something loud and ugly had been dragged out into the night and burned, leaving the walls to sag with the relief of it. The smell of soap clung to the air now more than smoke, the faint scent of pine and clean cotton. You sat on the edge of Sukuna’s bed with your damp hair pulled over one shoulder, wearing a fresh nightgown the color of cream, hands folded in your lap. They trembled anyway. You watched your fingers shake like they belonged to someone else. Your knuckles were sore and red, the skin across your palms raw. Your wrist pulsed, bruises blooming there where Hiroki’s grip had been. Your scalp still throbbed in aching lines where hair had been torn at the roots.

The door clicked softly.

You looked up.

Sukuna stood in the doorway, clean and changed again, like he’d scrubbed not just his skin but the whole night off of him. His pale pink hair was damp. He wore a dark T–shirt and sweats, his bare feet soundless on the floor. He took one look at you—your stiff shoulders, your wide eyes, your trembling hands—and stopped a few feet away.

Then he crouched.

He dropped down to your level slow and deliberate, folding his tall body until his eyes were level with your knees. He rested his forearms on his thighs, hands relaxed, palms open. It made him smaller, less looming. You noticed that he’d done it on purpose. “I told you not to clean,” he said quietly, you swallowed. “I… couldn’t just sit there,” you whispered. He sighed through his nose, but let it go. For a moment he just studied you. The nervous flutter of your fingers. The way your toes curled against the floor. The tight pinch at the corners of your mouth like you were still bracing for the next blow. “What I’m about to say,” he began, “you’re not gonna like.” Your heart dropped. “You’re… sending me away?” you asked, voice a thin thread. “You said—”

“I’m not sending you back to him, he’s gone.” he cut in, firm enough that the floor seemed to hold steady again. “That hasn’t changed. I meant what I said.” He paused, eyes flicking briefly to the window, as if measuring the tree line and all the things beyond it. “But we can’t pretend tonight didn’t happen. And we can’t pretend we don’t live in a town that likes to stick its nose where it doesn’t belong.” A chill crept up your spine. “I don’t understand,” you said. He waited a beat, as if choosing his words carefully. “If people start connecting me, you, and Hiroki all up here in the woods,” he said, “they’re gonna ask questions. The wrong kind. Questions that end with you in handcuffs, or both of us, while a bunch of men decide if it was ‘self-defense’ or not.” You flinched at the word handcuffs, imagining them closing around your wrists. “But I didn’t do anything,” you whispered.

“I know that,” he said, eyes holding yours steady. “You know that. The floor knows that.” His jaw tightened. “Cops don’t always care. Especially not about some drunk colleague who vanished after his wife ran out.” He let that sink in. Your stomach turned. “So… what do we do?” He shifted his weight, knees creaking softly. “I’m going to take you back to your house,” he said. Your entire body recoiled before your mind caught up. “No,” you said, the word breaking out of you, raw and immediate. “No, I can’t—he—he’s there, he’s everywhere—”

“He’s not there,” Sukuna said, not unkindly, but not gently either. Just steady. “He’s not anywhere anymore. I made sure of that.” A muscle ticked in his cheek. “You’re not going back to him. You’re going back to four walls and a roof with your name on the lease and a town that needs to see you walk out the front door again.” Tears blurred your vision. “I don’t want it,” you whispered. “I don’t want that life. I don’t want that house. I don’t want to be his wife anymore.”

“You’re not,” he said. “By the time this is done, you won’t be.” He leaned in a little, but not enough to crowd you. “But right now, on paper, you still are. And if you just disappear into these trees forever, guess who the town looks at.”

You.

You saw it then, the way stories formed in people’s mouths. Wife runs off. Husband disappears. Strange man in the woods. It would be so easy for them to twist it, to turn you from victim into monster. To pretend they hadn’t seen the bruises spreading across your cheek.

Your nails dug into your palms. “What… what do I say?” He held your gaze, his crimson eyes calm, even as something darker simmered beneath. “You go home,” he said. “You unlock the door. You go back in like a woman who got scared and ran away for a while, and then remembered she has bills and a life in town.” His mouth curved, not in a smile, but in something like grim amusement. “You act like everything is… not alright, exactly, but normal enough.” You swallowed. “And when they ask?”

“You tell them the truth,” he said. “Just not all of it.” He counted on his fingers, slow. “You tell them Hiroki’s a drunk. You tell them he disappears, that he blacks out, that he doesn’t know where you are half the time. You tell them that you thought maybe it was your fault, that you were confused, so you went to stay with some relatives for a bit. You don’t give details. Let them fill in the blanks with whatever makes them feel smartest.” Your throat tightened. “Won’t that make me look… bad?”

“It’ll make you look like a scared wife who left a dangerous man for a while and then came back because she didn’t know where else to go.” He shrugged slightly. “Which you are. Or were. That’s a story they understand. It’s neat. They can fit it into their heads and go back to their own dinners.” You stared at the wall past his shoulder, vision hazy. “And him?” you asked. “What about… his body?” His jaw clenched.

“I burned most of him,” he said, voice going low and flat. “But I kept something.” You swallowed hard. “What?” He exhaled through his nose, eyes momentarily flicking away. “His hand.” You flinched, stomach lurching. “I’m going to take it down past the ridge,” he went on, as if discussing firewood. “There’s a drainage ditch out that way that the road crews never bothered to fix. Animals go through there. Water, too, when it rains. If I toss it there tonight, something will find it. Drag it. Spread the scent.” You pressed a hand to your mouth. “Eventually,” Sukuna said, “someone’s gonna notice. Some hunter. Some kids messing around where they shouldn’t. They’ll call it in. Cops will come dig around.” His eyes were cold now, but his voice stayed calm. “They’ll find a rotting hand with a familiar wedding band and a very familiar fingerprint.” Your mind conjured the image in spite of itself: the metal of the ring, the chewed flesh, the way the town would react. “You think they’ll know it’s him?” you murmured. “They’ll know,” he said. “A missing officer? A hand in the ditch? They’ll test it, write up a report, and what they’ll see is simple.” He spread his fingers, laying out the scene. “A drunk with a badge. A man with too many enemies. A man who started too many fights he couldn’t finish. They’ll say he could have been rolled by anyone—some angry ex-con, someone he arrested, someone he cheated, someone he hit.” His lip curled. “They won’t be wrong.” You shivered. The idea of Hiroki’s enemies—names you’d never heard, faces you’d never see—carried their own kind of ghost.

“But you,” he said, voice softening as he looked back at you, “are not going to be one of those enemies. Not on paper. Not in their eyes. You’re going to be the poor wife everyone feels sorry for.” The words landed like something heavy in your lap. “You’ll be a widow,” he said, matter-of-fact. “They’ll bring you the news. They’ll say ‘We found something, ma’am,’ and they’ll stumble through their condolences, and they’ll look at your fading bruises and your popped eye vein and the way your hands shake, and they’ll start rewriting their own memories. They’ll decide he drank more than they realized. That maybe they heard rumors about his temper. That maybe they should have said something sooner.” He released a slow breath. “They’ll do all that work by themselves. You just have to stand there and let them.” You stared at him, tears pricking your eyes again. “You sound so sure,” you whispered. “I know this town,” he said simply. “It likes easy stories.” He nodded toward you. “And you—you’re an easy person to pity. Soft voice, bruises, quiet little face.” He shrugged one shoulder. “They’ll want to believe you. They’ll feel better about themselves if they do.”

You looked down at your hands, still trembling in your lap. “I don’t know if I can do it,” you admitted. “Go back there. Sleep in that house. Wait while they… look.” He didn’t try to tell you it would be easy. He didn’t lie. “It’s going to be hell,” he said. “But it’ll be temporary hell. And once it’s done—once they call it, once they write the file and close the case—we move you out of there.”

“We?” you echoed. He held your gaze. “We.” A pause. “I told you, you could stay here as long as you want. That hasn’t changed.” Something in your chest cracked open. You blinked hard, vision swimming. “I’m… scared,” you whispered, because that was the truest thing in you just then. “I’m so scared. What if they know? What if someone saw? What if I say the wrong thing, or… or look the wrong way?”

He leaned in a little, but still kept that small pocket of space between you, like a respectful border. “They won’t know,” he said. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t go anywhere near that ditch. You never touched that axe. The worst you ever did was run into the trees while he went to the bar.” His voice softened at the edges. “And if you’re scared, that’s fine. You should be. Just let it show. Let them see you tremble. Let them see your hands shake when you sign the papers. It’ll only make their story stronger.” You let out a ragged, wet breath that might have been a laugh in some other life. “You make it sound like a script,” you said. “It is,” he replied. “All of this is theater to them. Let them have their show.” You were quiet for a moment, listening to the house creak around you, to the faint rush of the trees outside.

“What do I do tonight?” you asked, voice small. “Right now?”

“Tonight,” he said, “you sleep.” His mouth quirked. “Or you try to. Tomorrow, I take you down to your house at first light. We make sure you get in without anyone noticing me. You get your bearings. You breathe.” He paused. “I’ll go deal with the… rest.” You swallowed. “His… hand.”

“Yeah.” His jaw hardened. “The sooner it’s gone, the better.” He pushed himself up from his crouch, joints cracking softly. For a moment he just stood there, looking down at you, at the way the nightgown pooled around your thighs, at your bare feet tucked under the blanket.

“You’re shaking again,” he said, noticing the tremor you couldn’t quite hide. “I’m fine,” you lied automatically. He raised an eyebrow. “You’re not,” he said. “But you will be. One day.” You had no idea how you were supposed to get from here to that mythical “one day.” But you held onto the promise of it anyway, because he offered it like a rope in a river.

He turned toward the door, then paused. “Y/n,” he said, you looked up. “When this is over,” he said slowly, “and they stop asking questions… you’re not going back to being his wife. Not in anyone’s story. You understand?” Your throat felt tight. You nodded. “You’re going to be a woman who survived,” he added, almost grudgingly, like he didn’t like big words but forced himself to say it anyway. “Even if that doesn’t feel like it right now.” You blinked, tears finally spilling over. “Thank you,” you whispered, for the plan, for the brutality of his kindness, for the fact that you were alive to be terrified at all. He grunted, as if accepting thanks made him vaguely uncomfortable. “Get some rest,” he said. “I’ll wake you early.”

Then he left, the door closing softly behind him, leaving you alone with your pounding heart and the echo of what he’d just promised:

You’ll be a widow. You’ll be safe. You’ll have somewhere to go.

The morning came gray and thin. Mist clung to the trees, ghosting around their trunks as if the forest was still deciding whether to reveal the day. You rode beside Sukuna in his old pickup, your hands clenched in your lap, your body swaddled in one of his wife’s thick cardigans over your plain dress. The closer you got to town, the more your chest tightened. You saw familiar landmarks—Old Man Harada’s broken fence, the faded billboard for a soda company no one stocked anymore, the dip in the road where rainwater always collected. Your house appeared slowly, pulled into view by the curve of the street—a squat little thing with chipped paint and a crooked porch light. Your stomach flipped. Sukuna pulled the truck over half a block away, behind a row of scrubby trees that half-hid the view.

“You remember what you’re going to say if anyone asks?” he asked, you nodded, swallowing hard. “He’s a drunk,” you recited quietly. “He disappears. I thought it was my fault, so I went to stay with relatives for a while, but I came back because I didn’t know what else to do. I haven’t seen him since.” He nodded. “Good.”

“And if they ask about… him?” you added, flicking your eyes to his. “Nobody’s gonna ask you about me,” he said. “They don’t know I exist, remember? I’m just some guy up in the trees who built their station and delivers lumber once in a while.” His mouth twisted. “They barely look at me now.” Your fingers tightened in the cardigan. “Will I… see you?” you asked, hating the way the question came out small and childish. He considered you for a moment. “For a while, no,” he said. “Not in town. Not where anyone can link us together. But you’ll know where I am.” He jerked his chin toward the mountains. “And when the case is closed, I’ll come get you. You won’t have to ask.” You took a shaky breath. “Okay.” He killed the engine. The silence that followed hummed loud in your ears.

“Go,” he said quietly. “Before someone sees this truck.” You nodded again, hand on the door handle, frozen for one heartbeat more. Then you opened it and stepped out, the cold air biting your cheeks. The cardigan swished around your thighs as you walked, each step up the cracked sidewalk feeling heavier than the last.

You didn’t look back.

The house key was still in your pocket, exactly where you’d left it that night you ran. Your fingers fumbled with it, slipping once before sliding it into the lock. The door opened with a familiar creak. The smell hit you first. Stale beer. Unwashed clothes. The faint tang of something that had spoiled in the trash. You swallowed bile, stepping inside. The couch still had the dent where he used to sit. An empty bottle lay on its side on the coffee table, a little ring of dried amber around the mouth. You shut the door behind you and leaned against it, closing your eyes.

I’ll go back with him. Don’t hurt Sukuna.

Your own words echoed in your head, overlapping with the memory of boots, the gunshot, the gurgling. You pressed your hand to your chest, feeling your heart beating hard and fast, and forced yourself to move. You opened windows. You took out the trash with shaking hands. You found the sheets on the bed twisted and stained and stripped them without letting your eyes linger. You cleaned like a woman in a trance, and when the knock finally came that afternoon—lighter, more tentative—you were almost grateful for the interruption. It was the neighbor—Mrs. Ito, with her cardigan buttoned wrong and her mouth already forming questions. Behind her, you saw others watching. Curious. Concerned. Hungry for a story.

“Y/n,” she breathed, clutching at her chest. “You’re back. Where have you been? Hiroki’s been tearing the town apart—” Your hands shook on the edge of the door. “I… I went to stay with my aunt,” you lied softly, sticking to the script. “Just for a while.”

“Your aunt?” she repeated. “In the next town over,” you nodded. “Hiroki’s been… he drinks a lot.” The words tasted strange and dangerous, but once you said them, others tumbled after. “Sometimes he doesn’t even remember where I am. He wakes up and doesn’t know what day it is.” You swallowed, eyes burning. “I thought it was my fault. That I wasn’t… that I didn’t… I just needed to breathe.” Her face changed.

It was subtle at first—the tilt of her brows, the way her mouth softened. But behind her, you saw a few of the others exchange looks. You watched the quiet click of thoughts rearranging themselves. “Oh,” Mrs. Ito said. “Oh, honey.” Their eyes flicked to your face then, tracking the fading bruise on your cheek, the yellowed shadow along your jaw, the popped vein that still left a red web around your right eye. You saw the exact moment some of them realized those weren’t from walking into doors.

They didn’t say that, of course.

They brought food. They asked careful, circling questions. They clucked their tongues about how Hiroki “always did drink a little too much,” how they’d “noticed him getting rough around the edges lately.” No one had noticed enough to help you before. But now, with your trembling hands and your quiet voice, they couldn’t seem to stop noticing. You stuck to your story. You didn’t mention the woodsmoke that didn’t come from your stove. You didn’t mention crimson eyes or a house in the trees. You woke up sweating most nights, still hearing the echo of a gunshot that had missed by half a wall.

Days turned into weeks.

You went to the grocery store, pushing the cart slowly, flinching when the wheels squeaked too loud. People began to speak to you in that voice reserved for the bereaved and the fragile. They offered to carry your bags. They asked if you needed anything. They whispered to each other when they thought you couldn’t hear. 

“He’s gonna get himself killed, drinking like that.” “I heard he pulled his gun on someone in the bar last month.” “You see the way she flinches? Poor thing. Must have been hell.”

You kept your head down, heart pounding. You bought potatoes and rice and sometimes a small piece of meat. You cooked for one. Then, one wet morning a month later, there was another knock at your door. This one you recognized before you even opened it—the slow, steady rhythm of knuckles that knew their own authority. When you pulled the door back, two officers stood there. One was Hiroki’s partner—a man you’d seen at barbecues, who had clapped Hiroki on the shoulder and laughed at his jokes. The other was a sergeant you knew only by sight. They both looked… uncomfortable.

“Mrs. Tanaka,” the sergeant said, clearing his throat. “May we come in?” Your fingers tightened on the edge of the door, but you stepped aside. They sat at your kitchen table, hats in their hands, eyes flicking around the small, tidy space that had once smelled like spilled beer and anger and now smelled faintly of cleaning products and the soup you’d made for yourself the night before. “Is this about Hiroki?” you asked quietly, standing because you couldn’t bear to sit. They exchanged a glance. “We… found something,” the partner said. The sergeant set a small folder on the table, but didn’t open it. “We’re still waiting on final confirmation,” he said, “but… a hand was found out past the ridge. The ring matches his wedding band. The fingerprints…” He trailed off. “We’re ninety-nine percent sure it’s his.” Your knees went weak.

You grabbed the back of the chair, sitting without remembering the transition. Your hands trembled so visibly that the partner looked away for a moment, as if ashamed.

“We’re so sorry, ma’am,” he said, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it. “We know this must be a shock.” You let your eyes fill, not having to reach far for tears. They were always there these days, just beneath the surface. “How?” you whispered. The sergeant cleared his throat. “We don’t know yet,” he said. “He’s…” He struggled for a neutral word and failed. “…He’s had some altercations. Made enemies. Could be anyone. Could be something as simple as him stumbling out drunk on the wrong side of town one night.” He shook his head. “We’ll investigate, of course, but… right now we’re treating it as a probable homicide.” Your vision blurred. Images of blood on tile and fire in the grass flashed behind your eyes. “A hand,” you repeated numbly. “Yes, ma’am,” he said gently. “It’s… not ideal. But it’s enough for us to declare him deceased. You’ll get the official paperwork in a few days. There’ll be some insurance things to sort out, pension—which we’ll help you with. You don’t have to worry about that right now.”

They watched you tremble. Watched your eyes drift to the floor. Watched your fingers twist in the hem of your cardigan. “You’re safe now,” the partner said, and you heard something there—a regret, a late realization. “He can’t… come home and hurt you anymore.” It was true. And yet the words made your stomach turn. You nodded slowly, letting the tears spill, not bothering to wipe them away. “I didn’t want this,” you said, and it was true in its own way. “I didn’t…”

“We know,” the sergeant said. “No one is saying you did.” He stood, placing a card on the table. “If you think of anything that might help the investigation, you call. If you remember someone he fought with, someone who threatened him…” He held your gaze. “But you focus on taking care of yourself now. Alright?” You nodded again. They left you there in the kitchen, the card staring up at you from the table like a small, white accusation. Through the window, you saw them stop at Mrs. Ito’s house next door. Saw the way she put her hand over her mouth. Saw the way her eyes flicked toward your home, full of pity now instead of curiosity.

The story had settled.

Hiroki Tanaka, drunk and mean, dead in a ditch. Y/n Tanaka—widowed, bruised, too soft for the man she’d been given to. Case closed.

You were free. You sat there for a long time, listening to the clock tick, your hands trembling around a cup of tea that had gone cold.

When the knock came two weeks later, it was different again. Firm, but not official. Familiar in a way that made your heart leap into your throat.

You opened the door.

Sukuna stood on your porch, one hand shoved into the pocket of his jacket, the other resting on the edge of a cardboard box. His truck idled at the curb, bed already loaded with a few taped-up boxes you recognized as your own. “Got your letter,” he said simply. You had written it in a moment of shaky resolve, three days after the officers left. Just a few lines, left under a rock at the edge of the tree line like he’d told you to.

They closed the case. They said he’s dead. If your offer still stands… I want to come home.

Home.

The word had shocked you even as you wrote it. Now, looking at him on your porch with his quiet eyes and his truck and his broad shoulders taking up too much space in the doorway, it didn’t feel as wrong. “You sure about this?” he asked. “Leaving this place?” You glanced over your shoulder at the interior of the house—the couch that still smelled like stale beer no matter how much you scrubbed, the walls that still remembered every shout. The emptiness of it now that it held just you and the echoes. “Yes,” you said, more firmly than you’d said anything in weeks, he nodded once. “Then grab what you want,” he said. “Rest can rot.” You packed slowly, methodically. Clothes first—your own, still in the drawers, folded around the edges of uniforms you left where they were. Books that had been yours before the marriage. The chipped mug your mother had given you when you were eighteen. A photo of you as a teenager, hair short and wild, eyes still bright.

You didn’t pack your wedding album.

Sukuna moved through the house with an efficiency that almost hurt to watch. He carried boxes out like they weighed nothing, loaded them in the truck bed, tied them down with thick ropes. He barely glanced at the framed pictures on the walls, at the indentation on the couch, at the dent in the drywall where a glass had once shattered. When you emerged from the bedroom with a final box in your arms, he met you halfway down the hall and took it from you without comment, his fingers brushing yours for just a second—calloused and solid, grounding you in the moment. “Anything else?” he asked, you looked around. There would always be something else. Some piece of yourself you’d left behind. Some memory lodged in the floorboards. But nothing you wanted enough to stay. “No,” you said. “That’s it.” He nodded. You stood in the doorway for a moment, hand on the frame, looking at the small, shabby living room where you had cried and cooked and flinched for two years. Where you had once believed this was where your life would be lived, for better or for worse.

“Goodbye,” you whispered, to the walls, to the girl who had stood here in a white dress and told herself it would be okay, you closed the door. Sukuna drove you out of town in silence, the truck rattling over familiar potholes. The houses thinned, the trees grew thicker. The mountains rose up to meet you, older than any badge or rumor. You watched the town shrink in the side mirror, until it was just a smudge of roofs and smoke. When the road turned to dirt and the forest opened up to reveal his clearing, something inside your chest loosened. His house looked the same—dark wood, sloping roof, smoke curling from the chimney. Your garden patch waited by the side, new green shoots poking through the soil you’d turned with your own hands weeks ago.

He parked, killed the engine, and hopped out, coming around to open your door. The air smelled like pine and cold and the promise of spring. “Welcome back,” he said, like he was saying, Welcome home. You stepped down from the truck, the ground solid beneath your feet. For the first time in a long time, the sight of a front door didn’t make your stomach twist. “You can stay here as long as you want,” Sukuna repeated, the same words he’d offered you when you were shaking on his bed, when the world had still been full of boots and shouting. “No one’s gonna come looking for you up here. Not now.” You looked at the house, at the garden, at the mountains that ringed this place like a quiet, watchful wall. You looked at him—at the man who had washed your hair, who had killed for you, who had planned the story that let you walk out of your old life alive.

“I don’t know how long that is,” you said honestly. “What I want.”

“That’s fine,” he said. “We’ve got time.” He grabbed the nearest box from the truck bed and jerked his head toward the house. “Come on. Let’s get your stuff inside before the neighbors you don’t have complain.” You laughed, a small, surprised sound that felt unfamiliar in your mouth and yet… right. You followed him up the path, your heart pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with fear this time, and stepped over the threshold into a life that—however borrowed it felt in someone else’s nightgown and someone else’s house—was finally, undeniably, yours. The door closed behind you with a soft click. Outside, the trees whispered in the mountain wind, keeping their own counsel as they always had. Inside, a new story began to take shape, quiet and slow, one day at a time.

You were on your feet before you even knew you’d pushed up on shaking hands. Your legs protested, muscles trembling, but you shoved yourself toward the back door. Every inch of your skin ached as if it had been stretched too far and stitched back together wrong—your shoulder blazed, your stomach burned where a boot had connected, and you could feel your eye swelling, the skin tight and hot, vision blurred on that side. Your fingers fumbled with the lock. He’ll come back. He always comes back. His voice lived in your head; he didn’t even have to be in the room for you to hear him. You saw his glare in the dark reflection of the window, saw his mouth curl, heard the familiar sneer. Don’t forget who owns you. Don’t forget where you belong.

For a second, you hesitated. Then your hand twisted the lock, and the door clicked open. Cold mountain air slammed into you, sharp and clean, smelling of pine sap and damp soil and the faint ghost of woodsmoke from a house further down the road. You clutched the frame with one bruised hand, gulping it down like you’d been drowning for years and only just found the surface.

Then you stepped out.

You didn’t grab shoes. You had on the worn house slippers you always wore; thin soles that might as well have been paper. You didn’t grab a coat either, just your oversized sweater that fell to mid-thigh, leggings stretched over your sore legs. You didn’t bring money, keys, or your phone. There was no plan folded neatly in your mind—just the raw, animal instinct that said away. So you went. The gravel of the back path bit through your slippers, sharp stones grinding into your heels, but you kept going. Down past the splintered fence. Past the rusted pickup he’d promised to fix “one of these days”. Past the overgrown yard where last year’s frost-killed grass rattled in the wind.

Just go.

Your breath puffed white in front of you, each exhale a ghost. You headed toward the tree line behind the house, where the forest waited in a thick, dark wall of trunks and needles. The mountains rose beyond, blue-black shadows against a fading sky, ribs of earth jutting up like a giant had lain down and refused to move. You had always loved those mountains, from a distance. They had felt like something ancient and steady watching over the town. Tonight, they looked like a refuge. Or a grave. Your heart pounded so loud it made your swollen head throb. Every sound made you flinch—the crack of a branch, the far-off rumble of a truck on the distant road, the sudden flap of wings as a bird burst from a tree. You kept expecting to hear his truck tires on the gravel, his voice bellowing your name, promising what he’d do when he caught you.

The thought made your legs move faster. You plunged into the tree line. The forest swallowed you whole. The world changed the instant you stepped beneath the pines. Sound dulled, as if the trees themselves were cupping the night in their hands, muffling it. The air cooled further, carrying the resinous tang of sap, the loamy scent of damp earth and fallen needles. The ground softened, your feet sinking into a thick carpet that whispered with every step. You grabbed for the nearest trunk when the world lurched. Your vision doubled, the trees swimming. You pressed your forehead against the rough bark and tried to chase your breath back into your lungs. Each inhale rattled, scraping against your ribs. Your busted eye pulsed in time with your heartbeat, making the edges of everything glow gold and then fade. You couldn’t stop. If you stopped, you might lie down, and if you lay down, you weren’t sure you’d get back up. You pushed off the tree and kept walking.

You didn’t know how long you walked. Minutes, hours—it all smeared together into the rhythm of your feet dragging forward, the crunch-soft sound of needles, the catch of low branches in your hair. Once, your toe caught on a root, and you pitched forward. Pain exploded up your arm as you crashed to your knees, palms grinding into the forest floor. The impact stole your breath so completely that the world went white at the edges. For a moment, you remained there, on your knees, hunched over like some creature that had been dropped from too high. You fought the urge to just fold sideways and let the forest have you. Instead, you dug your fingers into the cold dirt, feeling the small, wet crumble of it under your nails, and pushed yourself back up. You wiped at your cheek automatically, only to realize it was wet not from tears but from blood—thin and warm, trickling from a split on your lip.

You’d forgotten that, too.

He’d hit you so many times tonight you’d lost track of the individual hurts, the places where his ring caught your face, the spots on your arms where his fingers left oval shadows of pressure. A mosaic of pain painted your body, and yet somehow, you were still moving. Somewhere, beneath all of that hurt, there was still a pulse that whispered: I want to live. You clung to it. The trees thinned a little as you went deeper, opening in places where rock outcroppings broke through the soil. The light dimmed in stages, from the bruised blue of evening to the deeper navy of true dusk. A wind picked up, threading through the branches with a low murmur that sounded like words in a language you’d never learned. Eventually, you realized there was another sound, too. A distant, steady rhythm. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. You paused, head lifting.

You weren’t sure if you were really hearing it or if your brain, starved of anything but the pounding in your skull, was inventing it. But there it was again—regular, sure. Wood on wood. Or metal into wood. An axe, some far-off part of you supplied. Someone chopping. Out here? Hope was such a fragile thing that you almost didn’t trust it when it stirred in your chest. You looked in the direction of the sound, squinting with your one good eye. Between the trees, far ahead, there was the faintest suggestion of a clearing. A patch where the gathering dark was cut by a softer, warmer shade—a glow that might have been firelight or the last breath of the sun catching on something. You stumbled toward it. Every step hurt. Your lungs burned. The bruises on your ribs protested with knives of pain when you tried to draw in deeper breaths. Your left leg trembled so badly you had to drag it slightly. But the thought of light—of a house—pulled you like a tide.

The sound grew clearer. Thunk. The dull crack of wood split cleanly. You broke through the last line of trees all at once, like surfacing from deep water. A clearing spread out before you—small, ringed by pines, their tall, dark silhouettes framing the open space. In the center stood a house. Not large, not grand. Just a sturdy structure of dark, weathered wood and a sloping metal roof that gleamed faintly in the fading light. Smoke curled from a chimney, carrying the faint smell of burned pine and something that might have been dinner. A stack of chopped logs sat near one corner of the house, neatly piled. Another stack, half-finished, lay at the edge of the clearing, where a massive tree trunk had been cut into even rounds and there—beside that trunk—stood him. You froze, breath caught halfway out of your chest.

The man had his back to you at first, broad shoulders shifting beneath a faded flannel shirt rolled to the elbows. His arms were corded with muscle, forearms dusted with sawdust and a few pale scars. His jeans were streaked with dirt and sap, boots planted wide in the churned earth. He lifted the axe with practiced ease, swinging it up over his head before bringing it down in a clean arc. The blade bit into the log with a satisfying crack. Even from here, the motion looked effortless, controlled. He straightened, and you saw the buzz of his hair—a soft, pale pink against the sinking sky—and the way his profile cut sharp against the dim light. A strong jaw, a line of cheekbone, the curve of a mouth set in a slight frown of focus. And then he turned fully.

Crimson eyes met yours across the clearing. For a heartbeat, everything stopped. The wind fell away. The ache of your bruises, the sting in your eye, the wet on your lip—all of it seemed to recede to some far-off place. There was only the shock of being seen. Really seen, for the first time in what felt like years. You must have looked like something dragged from the river. Your sweater was twisted, dirt smeared on the hem. Your leggings were scuffed, one knee torn from where you’d fallen. Bruises were already blooming on your cheekbone and jaw, purple and green and ugly against your pale skin. Your busted eye throbbed, red-shot and swelling. Stray curls of your hair clung to your face, damp with sweat and tears. A flicker moved through his eyes—something quick and sharp, like a blade catching light.

He let the axe fall.

It hit the ground with a dull thud as he stepped forward once, twice. His boots sank slightly into the soft earth, leaving clear impressions. Up close, he was enormous, every inch of his 6’5” frame coiled strength, the kind that came from years of work rather than any gym. His flannel strained slightly across his chest. His throat, dusted with a hint of stubble, worked when he swallowed. “Hey,” he said, voice low and rough, edged with surprise and something like suspicion. “What the—” The world swayed. You tried to answer—tried to say anything at all—but your tongue felt thick in your mouth. Your hearing narrowed to a tunnel, his voice echoing oddly in your ears. The edges of your vision went fuzzy, shadows creeping inward. You blinked, wobbling on your feet. His eyes swept over you. Fast. Clinical. You saw the shift in real time—suspicion hardening, then cracking when he took in the state of your face, your arms, your posture. His gaze snagged on the purple-black fingerprints faintly visible on your wrist where your sleeve had ridden up.

His jaw clenched. “You’re bleeding,” he muttered, and this time there was no suspicion in it—just an assessment. A fact. He took a few strides toward you, each step eating up more of the space between. Instinct screamed at you to flinch away from anything that moved that fast. You stumbled back, your heel catching on a rock you hadn’t seen. Pain shot up your leg, your body jolting. You clutched at the air, fingers closing on nothing. The sky tilted. “I—” Your voice rasped out, barely audible. You swallowed, tasting copper. “Please, I—” He was in front of you then. He didn’t reach for you immediately. For one suspended second, he just stood there—close enough that you could see the fine scar along his left eyebrow, the tiny nick in his bottom lip, the way his pupils flared faintly as if adjusting to the sight of you. He smelled like sap and sweat and smoke, a clean, earthy scent, undercut by the faint tang of metal from the axe.

“Easy,” he said, quieter now. “You’re gonna go down if you keep trying to stand like that.” Your knees chose that moment to prove him right. They buckled without asking your permission, and the ground rushed up to meet you. You didn’t even have time to throw your hands out; your body just… folded. But before you could hit the earth, strong arms wrapped around you. One slid under your knees. The other braced your back, careful but firm, fingers spreading across the bruises there without pressing too hard. It was shocking, being touched without pain. Your breath hitched, chest seizing. You found yourself lifted effortlessly off the ground, your weight cradled against a chest that was solid and warm even through layers of fabric. Your head lolled against his shoulder, curls brushing his jaw. He adjusted you, careful to keep your face turned away from his shirt, as if he’d seen the blood and didn’t want to smear it.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, the word not directed at you but at the situation itself. His voice vibrated through his chest and into your ribs. “You’re a mess.” You wanted to apologize for that. For being a mess. For bleeding on his evening. For appearing at the edge of his clearing like some half-ruined ghost. The apology got lost somewhere between your tongue and your teeth. Your fingers, of their own accord, curled into the fabric of his flannel. “Don’t—” The word rasped out broken and small. It felt like dragging glass over your vocal cords. You tried again, forcing your lips to cooperate, pushing through the buzzing in your ears. “Please… don’t send me back…” His steps faltered for a fraction of a second.

He looked down at you, and this close, you could see the exact shade of his eyes—crimson, yes, but warmer than you’d expected, like light seen through red glass. Long lashes cast shadows over his cheekbones. His brow knit, anger flashing there, not aimed at you but at whoever had put those bruises on your skin. “Back?” he echoed, voice low. “To what?” You tried to answer, to say the word husband, to explain, but your throat closed. Your body was giving up. Consciousness frayed at the edges like an old ribbon, threads pulling loose. The last thing you felt was the faint tremor of his chest as he exhaled, a long, controlled breath. “Hey,” he said, and the roughness had gone softer, almost reluctant. “Stay with me. Just a little longer.”

You couldn’t.

The darkness rose suddenly, like a wave that had been waiting all night to crash. It closed over your head, over the clearing, over the man holding you beneath the watching pines. Your grip on his shirt loosened as everything went black.

He carried you into the house. The door creaked as he kicked it open with a practiced movement, the sound familiar to him but lost to your unconscious ears. Warmth met you both—a heat from the woodstove in the corner, the faint glow from a lamp on the small table by the couch. The interior was simple but lived-in: sturdy furniture, shelves lined with tools and a few worn books, the faint smell of coffee lingering in the air. He shifted you carefully, lowering you onto the worn but clean couch, your curls spilling over the armrest, your hand flopping weakly to the side. For a moment, he just stood there, looking down at you. The lamplight caught the swelling on your face, the split at your lip, the shadow of bruises on your neck.

Something icy settled in his gut. He swore under his breath again, low and vicious, then knelt beside you. He checked your breathing first—steady, if shallow. His calloused fingers hovered near your throat, feeling for your pulse. It beat against his touch, fragile but stubborn. “Who did this to you?” he muttered, even though you were in no state to answer. Outside, the trees whispered in the growing dark. Inside, the small house felt suddenly not big enough for the anger twisting through his chest.

He pushed to his feet, jaw set.

He’d clean you up. Make sure you weren’t going to die on his couch. Then, maybe, he’d decide what to do with the plea still echoing in his head.

Please… don’t send me back.

For the first time in a long while, Sukuna realized: someone had stumbled into his quiet, carefully kept life and asked—without even knowing his name—for his help, and whether he liked it or not, he had already started to give it. The woodstove crackled softly, casting shifting amber light over your bruised face as he went to get the first aid kit. The mountains outside held their breath.

You woke to the sound of water. At first it was just a distant rush, part of a dream you couldn’t quite climb out of—waves maybe, or rain against a window. Then it sharpened into something closer, steadier. The unmistakable hiss of a faucet running. Water hitting porcelain in a constant, echoing stream. Your eyes snapped open. The ceiling above you wasn’t familiar. Rough wooden planks instead of yellowed paint. A faint knot in the grain above your head that looked like an eye. The air smelled different, too—pine and smoke and clean cotton instead of stale beer and anger. For a moment, your body forgot where you were supposed to be and just remembered what it had learned: panic. Your breath hitched. You jerked upright too quickly. Pain tore through your ribs like a blade, white-hot and sudden. You cried out, a small strangled sound, clutching at your side as the room tilted. The walls seemed to close in, shadows swelling and shrinking at the edges of your vision. Tears blurred your one good eye.

“Easy.” The voice came from the doorway, low and rough around the edges, you flinched so hard it hurt. Your hands flew up on instinct, wrapping around your torso as if your arms could shield your bruises, your bones, your skin from what came next. You curled in on yourself, shoulders hunching, knees drawing up as far as your battered muscles allowed. A choked sound crawled up your throat. “Please,” you gasped, words tumbling out before you could stop them, before you could even see clearly who stood there. “Please, don’t—don’t hurt me, I’ll be good, I’ll—” Your voice broke into a sob. You couldn’t see him through the tears at first, just a broad shape in the doorway, a darker silhouette against the warmer light behind him. Your heart hammered so loudly it drowned out the water, your veins roaring with the memory of his boots on the floor, his hand coming down, that look in his eyes when he—

“I’m not gonna hurt you.”

The man in the doorway spoke again, and this time the words were clearer. Slower. Measured, like he was picking each one from a shelf and making sure it was the right one before he handed it to you. His hands were up, palms facing you, fingers spread—an odd, almost clumsy gesture of surrender. You blinked hard, your vision scraping back into focus. It was him. The man from the clearing. Pale pink buzzed hair, crimson eyes, shoulders too broad for the doorway. He filled the frame and somehow still looked like he was trying to make himself smaller, like he knew how much space he took up. He stayed where he was. Didn’t cross the threshold. “You’re in bad shape,” he said quietly. “I’m not here to make it worse.” You sucked in a trembling breath, still crying. You couldn’t seem to stop; the tears came in hiccuping bursts, climbing up your chest and out of your throat even as you tried to swallow them back down. The more you tried to still them, the harder they shook you. You glanced around wildly, your brain scrambling to catch up.

You were in a small bedroom. The bed under you was firm but comfortable, covered in a charcoal gray blanket that smelled faintly of detergent and smoke. A dresser stood against one wall, topped with a couple of folded shirts and a small metal tin. A single window looked out into darkness, the glass reflecting a faint lamplight glow from the hallway beyond. The water sound kept going. Constant. Underneath everything. He jerked his chin toward the sound. “I, uh… drew you a bath,” he said, a little gruff. “Put some salts and oils in there. Stuff that’s supposed to help with bruises and cuts.” His gaze traveled over you for a second—fast but taking in too much. Your swollen eye, your split lip, the shadows on your throat. He swallowed, his jaw tightening. “You need it.” Your fingers dug into the fabric of your sweater, knuckles whitening.

He took a slow breath, like he was trying very hard to keep his tone level. “If you let it sit, those bruises are gonna stiffen up worse. Cuts might get infected.” His hands stayed raised, steady. “I can help you get there. If you want. Or I can… I don’t know. Leave towels by the door. But you shouldn’t be moving around on your own for long.” Everything inside you trembled. Your mind snagged on one word and wouldn’t let go.

Help.

You swallowed, the motion painful. “Are you…” Your voice was so thin it felt like it might tear. You cleared your throat, wincing. “Are you… going to send me back?” The room seemed to hold its breath with you and he froze. For a long, long moment, he just looked at you. His eyes were sharp and very, very awake. You saw something ugly flicker through them—anger, but not pointed at you. The kind of anger that made his teeth clench, a muscle ticking in his cheek. “Back?” he asked slowly. “To whoever did that?” His gaze flicked deliberately over your injuries again, as if to emphasize the word. You nodded, your whole frame shaking. Your voice came out in a whisper, frayed at the edges. “My… my husband. We…” You swallowed hard, your throat protesting. “We… I’m supposed to be at home. He’ll be… he’ll be angry if…” The idea of that front door slamming open made your chest seize. You could see it so clearly—the way he leaned in the frame, the way his eyes scanned a room for something to break.

You shuddered, clutching your arms tighter around yourself. “Look at me.” The command was soft but firm. You dragged your gaze up, blinking through fresh tears. His crimson eyes held yours, steady as a hand on your shoulder. “I’m not sending you back to that,” he said. No hesitation this time. No edges. Just a flat, solid truth laid between you like a plank across a river. “You got that?” You stared at him. The words didn’t quite fit anywhere in your mind. They rattled around, looking for a place to land. No one had said something like that to you in so long that you’d almost forgotten it was a sentence that could exist, you swallowed. “I… I can s-stay… here?” The question trembled out of you like something newborn, he nodded once. “Yeah. For now, at least.” His mouth twisted, not quite a smile, not quite a frown. “You’re in no condition to go anywhere else.”

Something inside you gave out at that—not your body this time but some invisible knot you’d been holding tight for years. The sob that tore out of you was wet and messy and loud, and you tried to clap a hand over your mouth to silence it, but your fingers shook too much. He didn’t flinch at the sound. “Okay,” he said quietly. “That’s done, then. You’re staying.” He glanced toward the bathroom, where the sound of running water had shifted into a gentler spill. “But I still need to get you in that bath before you stiffen up so bad you can’t move at all.” You sniffled, tears sliding hot and constant down your cheeks. You tried to straighten your back. The effort sent a lance of pain from your ribs to your spine, and you winced, hissing between your teeth.

“I can… I can walk,” you started, because it felt like you should. Because it felt wrong to expect anything else from him after you’d already taken so much just by collapsing into his yard. You swung your legs over the side of the bed. The second your bare feet touched the floor, your knees buckled. The room spun. Your hands shot out for balance, clutching at air. A small broken sound left your throat, half protest, half fear. He was there before you could fall. His hand came out, not grabbing, just bracing—fingers hovering near your elbow, ready to catch but not closing until you tipped too far. When you swayed dangerously, he finally let them tighten, steadying you with a firm but careful grip. “You can’t even stand,” he said, exasperation scraping faintly into his tone. “You’ll faceplant before you get three steps.” Your cheeks burned. Shame and helplessness tangled, thick and heavy.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, because that was the reflex that had been carved into your bones. Sorry for existing like this. Sorry for bleeding into his evening. Sorry for taking up space on his bed. He sighed, shaking his head. “You don’t need to be sorry.” He paused. “Look, I’m gonna pick you up now, alright? That’s all. I’ll set you on the edge of the tub so you’re not… walking into any walls.” Your heart stumbled. The idea of being lifted again made something inside you curl up—years of learning that being picked up meant being thrown, slammed, pinned. Your arms tightened around yourself instinctively.

He saw it.

He shifted his stance, kneeling slightly so he wasn’t looming over you. His voice dropped even lower. “I’m telling you what I’m doing,” he said. “No surprises. I’m not going to hurt you.” You stared at him, searching his face for a lie. It wasn’t a kind face, not exactly. His features were sharp, his mouth often set in a firm line, his eyes narrowed like he was always half-annoyed with the world. But right now, there was no cruelty in his gaze. Just a grim resolve and something like… concern, though it looked like he didn’t want to admit to it even to himself. “Okay,” you whispered, the word tasting strange. He slid one arm under your knees again, the other behind your back, hands careful to avoid the worst of the bruises he’d seen. His forearms brushed the curve of your thighs, your waist, your ribs, but there was no grabbing, no pinching. Just a steady, deliberate lift.

Your body tensed anyway, a tremor running all the way from your jaw to your toes. He scooped you up as if you weighed nothing at all. The world rose and fell in his arms as he stood. You clung to his flannel without meaning to, fingers burying themselves in the soft, worn fabric. The smell of him surrounded you—pine, smoke, sweat, and something like cedar soap. The beat of his heart thudded steadily under your cheek. He carried you down a short hallway, boots thudding softly against the wooden floor. The bathroom door was already open. Warm, damp air greeted you, foggy with steam. The tub—claw-footed and deep, the porcelain slightly chipped at the edges—was about three-quarters full of water. The surface shimmered with a faint sheen of oil, and you could smell eucalyptus and lavender rising in little waves. He set you down on the edge of the tub with careful hands, supporting your back until he was sure you were balanced.

Your feet dangled inches above the tiled floor. It was cold against your calves, sending a little shiver up your spine. You looked down at yourself and grimaced. Your sweater clung to you, stretched and twisted, stained with dirt and a smear of dried blood at the hem. Your leggings were torn at one knee. Underneath, you knew your skin was a map of purple and blue and yellow, each mark a small, ugly memory. You swallowed. Your fingers fumbled at the hem of your sweater, trying to tug it upward, your arms shook too much. Every movement sent a fresh ripple of pain through your ribs, your shoulders, your back. Your busted eye throbbed, making your vision blur.

“I got it,” he said quietly, you froze, hands immediately letting go, sweater falling back over your thighs. He seemed to realize how that sounded, because he looked away immediately, turning his face toward the wall as if it were suddenly very interesting. A faint flush crept up the back of his neck, disappearing into the collar of his flannel. “I’m not—” He cleared his throat. “I’ll… help with the clothes, that’s it. I’m not looking.” You studied him, your heart pounding. He stayed angled away from you, eyes fixed resolutely on a spot above the towel rack. His shoulders were tense, but not in the dangerous way you were used to. More like he was bracing himself to do something uncomfortable but necessary. Your fingers trembled in your lap, you nodded, even if he couldn’t see it. “O-okay.” He let out a slow breath, like that one syllable had been some kind of permission he’d been waiting for. “Lift your arms,” he said, still not looking.

You obeyed, teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you raised your arms carefully, slow so you didn’t tug too hard on your bruised shoulders. The movement made your sweater ride up a little, exposing a strip of pale skin marked by a shadowed bruise along your side. He stepped closer, eyes still averted, and took hold of the hem of your sweater with gentle hands. His knuckles brushed your ribs, but there was no force in the touch, just a steady upward motion as he eased the fabric over your torso. Every inch higher exposed more of you to the cool air and his proximity—your stomach, mottled with the faint brown shadows of older hits and the fresh purple blooms of this night, the curve of your waist, the underside of your bra, you squeezed your eyes shut, cheeks burning.

He worked quickly, almost too quickly, as if he didn’t want you sitting there in that vulnerable halfway state any longer than necessary. The sweater slid over your shoulders, careful over your bruises, then over your head. He lifted it up and away, immediately taking a few steps back as if the fabric were something dangerous. You crossed your arms over your chest on instinct, hugging yourself, trying to hide the swell of your breasts beneath your plain bra and the scattered marks that dotted your upper arms. “Leggings next,” he said, voice a touch rougher. “Then I’ll get out.” You nodded again, throat too tight for words. He crouched in front of you, hands gentle on your ankles as he eased your slippers off first, setting them neatly to one side. His fingers were calloused, but they barely applied any pressure, like he was handling something fragile that might shatter at the slightest wrong move.

He hooked his fingers under the hem of your leggings, and you had to brace your palms on the edge of the tub as he carefully tugged them downward. The fabric dragged over your knees, catching slightly where a bruise swelled. You hissed, wincing. “Sorry,” he muttered. “It’s okay,” you whispered automatically, even though it wasn’t okay at all. He got the leggings down past your calves, then gently lifted each of your feet, one at a time, to pull the fabric free, never letting your bare soles touch the cold floor. He folded the leggings and sweater together in a quick, efficient motion and dropped them into a small hamper by the door.

Then he straightened and stepped back. You were left in your bra and underwear, arms clutched tight over your chest, skin prickling under his brief, unavoidable glance. You might have been soft and curvy and whole once—hair falling in natural ringlets down your back, freckles scattered over pale skin, a body marked only by its own shape. Now you felt like a bruise given human form. He swallowed, his gaze flicking away immediately. “I’m gonna lift you again,” he said quietly. “Set you in the water. You keep yourself covered however you need.” You nodded, shivering—partly from the cold, partly from everything else. He moved slowly, giving you time. When he slid his arms under you, he kept them as far from obviously private places as he could—one forearm bracing your back just below your shoulder blades, the other hooking behind your knees. You automatically crossed one arm over your chest, the other clamping over your stomach, protecting what you could. He lifted you with the same careful strength as before, lowering you slowly into the tub.

The water embraced your skin in a warm, liquid hush. You gasped softly as the heat touched your bruises, a weird mix of sting and relief. The lavender and eucalyptus rose around you, the scents curling through the steam, wrapping your senses in something softer than fear. He held you suspended for a second longer, making sure you were balanced, then let your weight transfer fully to the tub. The water sloshed gently, sliding up to your waist, then higher as you sank down, your knees poking above the surface. You hunched forward, arms wrapping around your chest, trying to hide the curve of your breasts under your forearms. Your long curls—tangled and frizzy from sweat and strain—hung over your shoulders, some strands dipping into the water. He straightened, backing toward the door.

“I’ll be right outside,” he said. “If you need help. Towels are on the shelf.” His eyes flicked to your face, lingering there, never once dropping lower. “Just… take your time.” You nodded, throat thick. “Thank you,” you whispered. He didn’t respond, just dipped his chin in a short nod and stepped out, pulling the door nearly closed behind him. It stayed open a crack, just wide enough that you could see a sliver of the hallway light and the shadow of his boots planted there. You were alone with the sound of your own breathing and the quiet lap of water against porcelain.

For a moment, you just sat there.

The heat seeped slowly into your skin, coaxing tight muscles to unknot by millimeters. The ache didn’t disappear; it simply shifted, moving from sharp, stabbing pain to a deep, heavy throb. You dipped a hand into the water, watching it ripple out in small circles, distorted by the faint sheen of oil. When you tried to move, the pain flared again. You reached for the washcloth near the faucet, your arm trembling as you stretched. Your fingers grazed it, missed, and the motion jarred a bruise along your ribs. You hissed, teeth clenching, tears springing back to your eyes. “Dammit,” you whispered, surprising yourself with the word, you tried again, this time pushing a little too hard. Pain flared in your shoulder. The washcloth slipped from the edge and plopped into the water, drifting just out of reach near your hip. That was somehow worse than everything else.

You stared at it as your vision blurred, your chest heaving with shaky breaths. You were so tired. So tired of hurting. So tired of failing at even the smallest things. A sob ripped up your throat before you could stop it. You pressed the heels of your hands to your eyes, trembling, but the motion sent a new wave of soreness through your arms. You winced, the sound breaking into a whimper. You tried to be quiet. Tried to suck it in. But the soft, pained sounds kept escaping—small, ragged cries each time the water brushed over a particularly tender bruise, each time you tried to twist enough to clean your back and your muscles protested.

Outside the door, boots creaked. A quiet knock followed, knuckles rapping gently against wood. “You okay in there?” His voice came through muffled but clear. “You’re… making sounds that don’t exactly scream ‘having a good time.’” You choked on a wet little laugh that turned into another sob. “I’m f-fine,” you said, though you clearly weren’t. The word wobbled, watery. There was a pause. Then: “Can I come in? Just to help.” His tone was cautious, like he was approaching a skittish animal that might bolt. You stared at the washcloth drifting in the water, then at your trembling hands, streaked with faint soap suds. Moving hurt. Breathing hurt. Existing hurt, and for some reason, the thought of him standing out there listening to you fall apart alone hurt too.

You sniffled. “Y-yeah,” you managed. “Okay.” The door opened slowly. He stepped in, closing it behind him this time to keep the warmth from escaping. He kept his gaze firmly locked on your face again, eyes flickering over the tear tracks on your cheeks, the way your shoulders hunched around yourself. “What’s going on?” he asked, quieter. You let out a shaky breath. “It just… it hurts,” you admitted, voice cracking. “I’m trying to… but…” You gestured weakly at the scattered bruises mapping your skin. “Everything’s sore. And I keep… dropping things.” His gaze slid briefly to the washcloth floating by your hip, then back to your face. Something like sympathy flickered there, surprising on such severe features. “Yeah,” he said. “That tracks.” He crouched down beside the tub, knees creaking slightly. “Water helping at all?” You nodded, hugging yourself tighter. “A little.”

He glanced at your hair—tangled curls hanging limp and heavy, some strands clinging to your damp shoulders. “How about this,” he said. “You stay put. Let the water do the heavy lifting. I can… wash your hair, get the worst of the dirt off. The rest can wait till you’re not feeling like you’ve been thrown down a flight of stairs.” You huffed out a humorless little breath that might have been a laugh if it didn’t wobble so much. “It was more like a wall,” you said without thinking. “And the floor. And the… table.” He went very still.

A pulse of rage—cold and precise—flickered through his eyes. It wasn’t loud; it was something quieter and much more dangerous, the kind of anger that remembered every detail. “Right,” he said, after a heartbeat. His voice had gone almost too even. “Well. Either way. You’re not doing any of that tonight.” He reached for the shelf above the tub, grabbing a clean cup and a small bottle of shampoo. “You’re sure?” he asked, pausing. “About me helping?” You looked at him—this stranger in a flannel shirt and worn jeans, kneeling beside your tub as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world. You had met him less than a 2 hours ago, and you were naked in his bathroom, your entire life blown open and scattered at your feet. It was absurd. It was terrifying.

But the way he waited… that was new, no one had waited for your yes in a long time. You swallowed. “I’m sure,” you whispered. He nodded, as if you had just confirmed some internal calculation, and rolled up his sleeves a little higher, exposing more of those scarred, muscled forearms. “Lean back for me,” he said. “Slow. I’ll support your neck.” You slid down until the back of your head touched the curved edge of the tub. Water lapped gently at your collarbones. You kept your arms crossed over your chest, guarding yourself. He cupped one big hand under your neck, calluses oddly comforting against your skin, and tipped the cup with the other, pouring warm water over your hair. The sensation was almost unbearably tender.

Water soaked your curls, trickling down your scalp, following the curves of your ears, sliding back into the bath. The warmth loosened some of the tension in your shoulders, your muscles reluctantly uncoiling a fraction. He worked quietly, methodically. When your hair was fully wet, he poured a little shampoo into his palm, rubbing his hands together before bringing them to your scalp. His fingers moved in gentle, careful circles, mindful of the tender spots near your hairline where you’d hit something. He didn’t scratch too hard, just enough to loosen the dirt and dried sweat, to massage the skin beneath.

You closed your eyes. For a moment, the bruises and cuts and fear receded, replaced by the simple, almost childlike comfort of someone washing your hair. No yank of impatience, no rough shove. Just slow, steady pressure and the faint scent of something herbal—rosemary and mint—rising in the steam. “You’ve got a lot of hair,” he muttered quietly, not unkindly. “It’s like… a whole forest.” You almost smiled. “Sorry.”

“There it is again,” he said, a touch of dry amusement threading through his voice. “That word. You gonna apologize every time you breathe?” You opened your eyes, tilting them up toward him. He met your gaze, one brow lifted slightly. “I’m just… used to it,” you admitted. He huffed. “You don’t have to be used to it here.” Here. The word settled somewhere deep and aching inside you. He rinsed your hair carefully, cupping water over your curls until the suds ran clear into the bath. He guided your head up again, letting you sit forward. Your neck muscles protested, but not as much as before. The soapy water had done most of the work on the rest of your body. Dirt and dried blood swirled faintly near the surface, carried away as he reached for the plug and let a bit of the murky water drain before refilling the tub with fresh warmth. He kept his eyes on your face, your shoulders, never once letting them drop further.

“Think that’s enough for today,” he said softly, as the water rose again. “Don’t want you turning into a prune on top of everything else.” You sniffled, giving a little nod. He stood, wiping his wet hands on his jeans absentmindedly, then grabbed a large, soft towel from the shelf. He spread it across his forearms, like he was preparing to catch something delicate. “You ready to come out?” he asked. A part of you wanted to stay in the water forever, suspended in that warm, humming quiet. But your skin was starting to wrinkle at the fingertips, and you could feel the exhaustion settling heavier in your bones. “I think so,” you whispered.

He moved closer again, positioning himself at your side. “Same deal,” he said. “I’ll turn around once you’re out. Just gonna wrap you like a burrito first so you don’t freeze.” The word burrito tugged a small, surprised sound out of you—a tiny laugh that cracked down the middle.

“Okay,” you breathed. He leaned down, sliding his arms under you with the same careful avoidance of your more private places. You clutched at the towel, helping pull it around yourself as he lifted you from the water. Heat left your skin in a rush, replaced by cooler air and the soft, enveloping weight of terrycloth as he wrapped you up.

The towel hugged your curves, your big, round butt and hips and all the parts of you that had once felt like yours instead of something to be weaponized against you. You shivered anyway, teeth chattering faintly as the bath’s warmth seeped away. He set you down gently on a small, padded stool near the sink, one hand always hovering close but never gripping without warning. You sat there in the towel, damp curls clinging to your cheeks and neck, while he reached into the cabinet under the sink. When he straightened, he was holding something folded—a soft, deep green bundle of fabric. “Got you something to wear,” he said. You blinked, still clutching the towel around yourself. “Where… where did you get clothes?” you asked, voice small, genuine curiosity slipping through the fog of pain.

He paused for a fraction of a second. His gaze dropped to the bundle in his hands, his fingers smoothing over it once. The fabric draped over his calloused skin—a long-sleeved nightgown, you realized as it unfurled. The material looked soft, worn in the way that came from many washes, the color faded slightly at the seams. “They were my wife’s,” he said. The word landed quietly in the small space between you. Your breath caught. You looked up at him fully then, past your own trembling, past your fear, and saw the way his eyes had gone distant, looking at something that wasn’t this bathroom at all. “She, uh…” He cleared his throat, the corner of his mouth tightening. “She died. Few years back.” He shrugged one shoulder, the motion a little stiff. “I didn’t get rid of everything.” Your heart twisted.

“I’m… I’m so sorry,” you whispered, the words coming out almost reverent. Suddenly your bruises felt like too much and not enough at the same time, your pain bumping up against the shadow of his. He shook his head once, as if physically shrugging off the weight of the memory. “It was a while ago.” But “a while ago” didn’t erase the faint crack in his voice. He stepped closer, holding the nightgown out to you and keeping his eyes carefully on the tile behind your head. “It should fit. More or less. She was…” His gaze flicked toward you for half a second, taking in your soft curves wrapped in the towel, then darted away again. “Not too different from you.” You swallowed, throat thick. You loosened your grip on the towel just enough to reach for the dress. “It’s beautiful,” you murmured.

It was simple, really. Long-sleeved, the fabric flowing and soft, with a higher neckline and a skirt that would probably fall to your mid-calf. But there was a faint lace detail at the cuffs, a small embroidered pattern along the hem that spoke of someone who had liked quiet, pretty things. You hesitated, the weight of it suddenly heavy in your hands. “Are you sure?” you asked. “I don’t want to… disrespect her or…” His jaw flexed. When he looked at you this time, his gaze lingered a fraction longer. “She’s not here to use them,” he said, and for the first time, there was a gentleness there that wasn’t wrapped in frustration or obligation. “You need them. That’s enough.” Your eyes stung for an entirely new reason. “Thank you,” you said softly, he nodded, stepping back toward the door. “I’ll wait outside,” he said. “You get dressed at your own pace. If you feel like you’re gonna fall over or pass out, yell. I hear pretty good.” A watery huff escaped you. “Okay.” He slipped out, the door closing most of the way behind him again. You were left staring at the green nightgown in your hands, fingers tracing the worn fabric. You imagined the woman who had worn it before you—standing in this same bathroom, maybe, brushing her teeth, laughing at something he’d said from the doorway. You wondered what kind of person she’d been to leave such a quiet imprint on the house.

You wondered if she’d been loved, you forced your shaking limbs to move. It was slow going. You tucked the towel more securely around yourself before wriggling into the nightgown, doing your best not to twist too sharply. The fabric slid over your skin like a sigh, soft and a little cool, settling around your body. It hugged your curves, clinging a bit at your hips and the swell of your butt before loosening as it fell. The sleeves were slightly too long, covering your wrists, the cuffs brushing the backs of your hands. For the first time in a long time, you were wearing something that wasn’t picked for someone else’s pleasure or convenience. Just a simple, soft thing meant to be lived in, slept in, existed in.

You took a shaky breath. “Okay,” you called quietly. “I’m… I’m dressed.” The door opened a moment later. He stepped back inside, eyes sweeping over you in a single, quick pass that didn’t linger anywhere inappropriate. Still, he seemed to register the way the fabric clung at your hips, an unreadable flicker passing through his gaze before he schooled his expression. “It fits,” he said gruffly. You nodded, arms wrapping around yourself again, more out of habit than necessity. “It’s… comfortable.”

“Good.” He grabbed another towel and carefully draped it over your head before gently rubbing at your curls, mindful of your tender scalp. He didn’t scrub, just pressed and squeezed, absorbing the worst of the water. When he pulled the towel away, your curls sprang up in damp, disordered spirals around your pale face, a few ringlets clinging to your neck. He set the towel aside and stepped back. You sat there on the stool in his dead wife’s nightgown, bruised and exhausted, your long brown curls haloed in frizzy damp, freckles stark against your pale, tear-blotched skin. You felt wrong and out of place and somehow… a little cleaner. A little more like a person than a bruise.

Your hands twisted together in your lap. “Thank you,” you said again, quieter now, the words laced with more than just gratitude for the bath. For the not sending you back. For the green fabric against your skin. For the way he’d knelt beside the tub and washed your hair like it was the most normal thing in the world. He shrugged, eyes dropping briefly to your intertwined fingers. “Don’t mention it.” But the way he said it told you he already had.

The house smelled like food. Real food, not boxed noodles or burned leftovers scraped from someone else’s plate. The scent came slow, threading out from the small kitchen and into the living room where you sat propped up on his couch, legs tucked under a throw blanket. Your hands rested on your lap, trembling faintly even when you tried to hold them still. The couch was old but solid, the cushions sunken just enough to cradle you. A little boxed TV sat on a low table in front of you, its screen soft with static until Sukuna gave it a half-hearted smack on the side and the picture steadied—some sitcom rerun flickering in washed-out colors. A lamp on the end table cast a warm circle of yellow light over the room, pushing the forest-dark back from the windows.

You could hear him moving in the kitchen: cabinet doors opening, a pan hissing when something hit it, the clink of utensils. Every sound made you flinch before your brain reminded you where you were, who was here, who wasn’t. You were safe. At least for tonight. Your fingers curled into the blanket, clutching it a little tighter. When he finally appeared, he came with a plate in one hand and a small glass of water in the other. The plate was a simple brown ceramic thing, chipped a little at the edges. On it sat a seared steak, green beans glossy with butter, and a mound of mashed potato still steaming faintly. Your stomach cramped at the sight, half hunger, half fear. He set the plate carefully on the coffee table in front of you, then placed the glass of water beside it. Up close, the smell of the food hit you fully—pepper and salt, browned meat, the warm starch of potato. Your mouth flooded with saliva so fast it almost hurt.

You swallowed, hard and he straightened, wiping his hands on a dish towel tucked into his waistband. “It’s not fancy,” he said. “But it’s hot and it’s not out of a can.” Your hands shook harder. You stared at the plate like it might disappear if you reached for it too fast. Your ribs throbbed in time with your heartbeat. Part of you was already bracing for the voice you knew so well: Eat that and see what happens. Think you need all that? You’re already— You flinched, the phantom word still echoing in your head. “Hey.” His voice cut through, steady and low. “It’s yours. All of it.” He slid the plate a little closer to you. “You eat what you want. You don’t want something, you leave it.”

You wet your cracked lips. “He… he doesn’t like when I eat too much,” you blurted softly, the confession slipping out before you could stop it. “He says it’s… wasteful. Calls me…” Your voice thinned. “Names.” Sukuna’s jaw tightened. “Well,” he said, after a beat, “he’s not here.” The simplicity of it startled you. Like the fact that your husband’s body wasn’t in the room meant his rules didn’t have to be either—an idea so obvious you’d somehow forgotten it. When you still didn’t reach for the plate, Sukuna sighed and crouched in front of the table. “Can you hold a fork?” he asked, you looked at your hands, trembling in your lap. “I… I can try.” He picked up the fork and knife, cutting the steak into smaller, manageable pieces with quick, efficient motions. Then he speared a bite and held the fork out, hovering halfway between the plate and you.

You stared at it, cheeks burning. Being fed felt strange—childish, embarrassing. But your fingers shook so badly you weren’t sure you could get the food to your mouth without dropping it. He seemed to read that in your face. “Just for now,” he said. “Till the shaking dies down.” His tone was matter-of-fact, not babying, not pitying. “You’re gonna need both hands to hold the blanket up anyway.” A tiny, startled almost-laugh caught in your chest. You hesitated, then leaned forward and closed your lips around the fork. The moment the food hit your tongue, the world narrowed. The steak was simple—salt, pepper, a hint of garlic—but it was real. Tender, warm, flecked with fat that melted against the roof of your mouth. You chewed slowly, the flavor unfurling inside you like something you’d almost forgotten existed. You realized, distantly, that you were crying again.

It wasn’t the loud, shaking sobs from before—just silent tears spilling over, tracing hot paths down your cheeks. You hadn’t eaten a full meal in… you didn’t even know. There had always been rules. Small portions. His leftovers. Comments said with a laugh that weren’t really jokes. “Too much?” Sukuna asked, misreading your tears, drawing the fork back slightly. You shook your head quickly, swallowing. “No. It’s… it’s really good.” He watched you for a moment, then nodded and held out another bite. He fed you like that, quietly, while the TV murmured nonsense in the background and the woodstove ticked and popped. Every few bites, he’d nudge some mashed potato or a couple of green beans along with the steak. When your hands steadied a little, he set the fork in your fingers and watched to make sure you could manage on your own. You could. Barely. Your grip was clumsy, but you got the food from the plate to your mouth, and he let you do it without comment. When you’d eaten as much as you could, you set the fork down with a small, shaky sigh. Your stomach felt pleasantly heavy, unfamiliar in its fullness. “Thank you,” you murmured. “I… I haven’t had a meal like that in a while.”

“In a while?” he echoed, leaning back on his heels, arms draping over his knees. “He doesn’t feed you?” “He does,” you said quickly, the defense so ingrained it came out on reflex. Then you grimaced, correcting yourself. “He… lets me eat. Just not… or he says not too much. He doesn’t like when I…” You trailed off, ashamed of the heat in your cheeks. “When you what?” Sukuna asked, not unkindly. You swallowed. “When I… when I’m not small enough,” you whispered. Your fingers dug into the blanket. “He says I used to be thinner when we got engaged. That I’m… letting myself go. That if I loved him, I wouldn’t be…” You gestured vaguely at your own soft curves. “Like this.” Silence settled between you.

You stared at the crumpled napkin in your lap, waiting for the familiar echo: Well, maybe he has a point. Or a joke at your expense. Something sharp. Instead, Sukuna grunted. “That’s bullshit,” he said flatly. You blinked, looking up. He met your gaze, eyes steady. “You’re not the problem,” he said. “He is.” Your throat tightened. You didn’t know what to do with that sentence, so you just tucked it away somewhere deep and aching. He sat back on the couch opposite you, one arm thrown along the backrest, watching you with that steady, assessing gaze. The lamp light caught in the red of his eyes, making them glow a little.

After a moment, he cleared his throat. “So,” he said. “Who is he?” You tensed. “My husband?” “Yeah.” He nodded once. “Name.” You chewed on the inside of your cheek. The name tasted bad in your mouth, but you said it anyway. “Officer Hiroki Tanaka.” He snorted softly through his nose. “Figures.” Surprise flickered through you. “You… know him?” “Small town,” he said. “You pick up things.” He scratched idly at his jaw. “I helped build the police station, back when they decided they needed something bigger than that old shack on Main. Saw him around. He’s known as a drunk more than an officer. Shows up late. Sleeps off hangovers at his desk. Lets the old ladies in town talk him into ignoring their sons’ speeding tickets.” The corner of his mouth curled, but there was no humor in it.

Your chest squeezed. You shouldn’t have been surprised. Part of you wasn’t. You’d seen the way he poured his drinks, the way his hand shook when he reached for his gun, how he laughed off mistakes. “He doesn’t… look like that when he’s in uniform,” you said softly. “He looks… official. Important. My parents thought he was… respectable.” Sukuna’s gaze sharpened slightly. “Your parents arranged it?” he asked. You nodded, fingers tightening in the blanket. “They said it was a good match. He has a stable job, they said. Good benefits. Someone who could… take care of me.” You laughed weakly. “He was nice at first. Charming, even. Brought flowers, helped with chores, acted like I was made of glass.”

“And now he uses you as a punching bag,” Sukuna said, voice gone flat again, you flinched at the bluntness, then nodded, eyes stinging. “He started drinking more,” you whispered. “At first it was just… yelling. Slamming doors. Then he threw a glass once. It hit the wall next to my head. He said I made him do it. That I shouldn’t talk back.” You stared at your hands, seeing other nights layered over this one. “It got worse from there.”

“Why?” Sukuna asked, you blinked. “Why what?” “Why does he hit you?” He frowned slightly, like he knew it was the wrong question but needed to ask it anyway. “What does he say when he does it?” You hesitated, heart pounding. The words felt like knives in your mouth. “He says I make him angry,” you whispered. “He says I’m ungrateful. That I don’t follow rules. That I don’t listen. That I’m too quiet, too moody, too emotional. That I embarrass him when I… when I get overwhelmed in public.” Your teeth sank into your lip. “He says if I were a better wife, he wouldn’t have to teach me lessons.” Sukuna’s expression darkened, the muscles in his forearms flexing as his hands curled into fists against his knees. “That’s not why he hits you,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “He hits you because he’s a coward and because he knows he can get away with it. That’s it.” A tremor ran through you.

You wanted to believe him. Some tiny, starving part of you lapped up the words like water. But years of being told that everything was your fault didn’t loosen their grip easily. Your voice came out small. “I… I should’ve left earlier,” you said. “I should’ve seen it coming.” He blew out a slow breath through his nose, as if physically pushing back his anger so it didn’t burn you by accident. “Maybe,” he said. “But you didn’t. And you’re here now. That’s what matters.” Here. Again, that simple word. You swallowed hard, then glanced up at him. “How did your wife die?” you asked quietly. The question felt almost intrusive, but it had been sitting there on your tongue since he’d mentioned her in the bathroom. “If… if you don’t mind telling me.” Something shifted in his face. The anger drained away, replaced by a different kind of heaviness. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, rubbing a thumb over a scar on his knuckle.

“Car accident,” he said after a moment. “Winter. Black ice on the road.” His jaw tightened. “She was coming back from town. Low visibility. Some idiot took the turn too fast, slid into her lane.” Your breath caught. “Oh.” “They called me down to identify her,” he went on, the words slow, like each one cost something. “I still had sawdust in my hair. We’d been working out near the ridge that day.” He dragged a hand over his face. “Everything after that is just… quiet. Too quiet. House felt wrong without her in it.” You watched him, heart aching in a way that had nothing to do with your bruises. “Is that why you live all the way out here?” you asked softly. “Because of her?” He shrugged one shoulder. “Partly. We picked this place together. She liked the trees. Said they sounded like waves when the wind hit right.” His gaze went distant, as if he could see her sitting where you sat now. “After she died, the town felt… small. Everyone staring like they knew the right words to say. Like they wanted to fix something they couldn’t. Out here, it’s just the trees. They don’t ask questions.” He looked back at you then, something raw and tired in his eyes. “And the work?” you asked. “The… lumber?”

He huffed faintly. “Been doing it my whole life,” he said. “Foreman calls, we go out, we cut what needs cutting. Simple. Predictable. Trees don’t get drunk and throw punches either.” A humorless little breath escaped you. “No,” you agreed. “They just… fall on you if you’re not careful.” He smirked, a tiny, reluctant curve of his mouth. “Yeah. But at least you see it coming.” The clock on the wall—an old, round thing with faded numbers—ticked steadily above the TV. He glanced up at it, eyes narrowing. “Shit,” he muttered. “It’s late.” You followed his gaze. The hands pointed just past eleven. Outside the windows, the forest was a single dark mass, the sky beyond thick with clouds. The sitcom had long since ended, replaced by some grainy late-night program.

He pushed himself to his feet, joints popping slightly. “You need sleep,” he said. “Your body’s gonna heal better if you’re not forcing it to stay upright.” You nodded, suddenly exhausted down to your bones. He moved to the couch, sliding one arm behind your back and one under your knees again. By now, your body recognized the motion enough to tense less, though the tremble stayed. He lifted you easily, the blanket sliding with you, wrapping around your legs. He carried you down the short hallway, his boots soft against the wooden floor. In the bedroom, the lamp on the nightstand cast a gentler light over the bed. He lowered you onto the mattress with the same careful precision, adjusting the pillows so they supported your head and shoulders without pressing too hard on your bruised ribs. The blanket whooshed over you in a soft rush as he pulled it up, tucking it lightly around your sides.

“You need anything before I leave you to it?” he asked. “Water? Extra blanket?” You shook your head slowly. “I’m okay. Thank you.” He nodded once. “I’ll be on the couch,” he said. “If you need something, just shout. These walls are thin.” You bit your lip. “I’m… I’m sorry,” you said softly. “For what this time?”

“For… taking your bed. Making you sleep on the couch. Showing up like this.” You gestured weakly at yourself, at the bruises, at the whole ridiculous situation. He exhaled, a sound that was half-sigh, half-grunt. “Stop apologizing for being alive,” he said. “You didn’t ask for any of this. And I’ve slept on worse.” Still, the guilt clung to you like smoke. He reached over and switched off the lamp, plunging the room into softer darkness. Moonlight filtered through the gap in the curtains, painting pale rectangles on the floor and the edge of the bed. The house settled around you with small nighttime noises—the creak of aging wood, the faint whisper of wind at the windows. You listened as he left the room, the hallway light flicking off with a tiny click. You heard the bathroom faucet turn on, the muted splash of him washing up, the soft rustle of clothing. Then the couch springs creaked under his weight in the next room, followed by a low grunt as he stretched out.

Silence fell—thick, layered with the hum of the refrigerator, the tick of the clock in the living room, the distant call of some night bird in the trees. You lay there, staring at the ceiling, your heart pounding like it hadn’t gotten the memo that you were safe. Your hands trembled under the blanket. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw your husband’s face—red with rage, spittle flying as he shouted, the glint of his badge catching the kitchen light, his boots planted on either side of your body. He’ll come back. He always comes back. Your throat tightened. You swallowed hard, but the fear didn’t budge. It swelled, crowding your lungs, making the room feel smaller, the shadows heavier. You clung to the blanket, fingers knotting in the fabric, and before you could talk yourself out of it, you heard yourself whisper into the dark.

“Sukuna?” The silence after your voice faded was long enough to make you regret it instantly. Then you heard the couch springs shift, a soft thump as feet hit the floor. His footsteps came down the hallway—slow, not rushing, giving you time to brace. The doorway darkened as he appeared, a taller shadow against the thinner gray of the hall. “Yeah?” he asked. In the spill of moonlight from the window, you could see him more clearly—hair damp and flattened from a recent wash, flannel shirt swapped out for a plain white T-shirt that stretched across his chest and shoulders. He leaned one hand on the doorframe, posture relaxed but eyes alert. You swallowed, nails biting into your palms under the covers.

“When I… when I get better,” you said slowly, each word feeling like it had to be pried out from under something heavy, “are you going to… want me to go? Away, I mean.” He frowned, as if the idea offended him somehow. “Go where?” he asked. “Back,” you whispered. The word slipped out on a tremor. “To him. Or… anywhere. I just… I don’t want to be a burden. I know I already am but—” “You’re not a burden,” he cut in, his tone firm enough to make you stop. He stepped fully into the room, crossing his arms over his chest. “And no. I’m not sending you back there.” You looked at him, searching his face in the dim light. “Even when I’m not… hurt anymore?” you asked. “Even when I can walk on my own?” He nodded. “You can stay here as long as you want,” he said. “You want it to be a week? Fine. A month? Fine.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Forever? We’ll figure that out when we get there.” Something inside you shuddered.

You hadn’t realized how sure you’d been that this was temporary—some kind of brief reprieve before the inevitable return. Hearing him say that you could stay, that he wouldn’t shove you back into the life you’d run from, made your eyes sting. “But if someone finds out,” you whispered, voice shaking. “If they know I’m here—” He stepped closer to the bed, stopping a respectful distance away, the moonlight catching along the line of his jaw. “Who?” he asked. “The town? Your husband?”

“All of them,” you said. “He’s an officer. He knows everyone. He’ll tell them I’m… crazy, or that I ran off with someone. They’ll believe him. They always believe men in uniforms.” Your breath hitched. “I don’t want him to find me. I don’t ever want to see him again.” The last sentence came out on a sob you couldn’t hold in anymore. He looked down at you for a long moment, your tear-bright green eyes, your trembling hands clutching his blanket, your face half-lit by the moon and half-shaded by fear. “I get that,” he said quietly, you swallowed. “What… what will we do if he comes?” you asked. “If he finds this place? If he brings other officers? They’ll say I’m his wife and that I have to go back. They’ll drag me out. They’ll call me… they’ll say I’m ungrateful, that I’m abandoning him. That—”

“Hey.” His voice cut through your spiraling thoughts. “Enough.” You bit your lip, tears spilling hot and fast. He took a slow breath, as if weighing how much to say. “This place?” he said. “Most people in town don’t know it exists. Road up here’s barely a road. I helped build the station, remember? I know their routines. Their blind spots.” His mouth curved into something dangerous and almost smug. “And I sure as hell know how to deal with a drunk with a badge.” You stared at him. “He has a gun,” you whispered. “I work with chainsaws,” Sukuna replied dryly. “And axes. And trees that weigh more than his car.” He tilted his head. “He’s not the scariest thing in these woods.” A shaky, disbelieving sound slipped out of you—a mix of fear and something almost like relief. “But if the town finds out—” you started.

“Then we cross that bridge when we come to it,” he said. “You’re scared. That makes sense. You’ve been living under his rules so long you think the whole world runs on them. It doesn’t.” He pinned you with that steady crimson gaze. “He doesn’t get to write the story out here.” You swallowed, the words scraping down your throat like something too big to swallow all at once. “You’re really not going to send me back?” you asked again, because some part of you needed to hear it twice, maybe three times, before it believed. “For the last time,” he said, a note of impatience that somehow didn’t sting, “no. I’m not sending you back. Not tomorrow. Not when your bruises fade. Not ever, unless you walk out that door on your own two feet and tell me you want to go. And even then…” His mouth tightened. “I’d probably argue with you about it.” Your lip trembled.

The room was so still you could hear both your heartbeats—the rapid flutter of yours, the slower, steadier thump of his as he stood there guarding your doorway. “Okay,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Okay.” “Try to sleep,” he said, softer now. “Your body’s got work to do. You can freak out again in the morning if you want. I’ll still be here.” The promise curled around you like a second blanket. He turned to go, but you heard yourself speak again before he reached the door. “Sukuna?” He paused, glancing back. “Thank you,” you said. Your voice was small and raw, but there was more in it now—gratitude, grief, the faintest thread of something like trust. “For… all of this. For not… for not sending me back.” He studied you for a moment, then dipped his head in a short nod. “Get some rest Y/n,” he said. Your name in his mouth felt strange and solid and real. He slipped out into the hallway, and the darkness folded around you again, softer this time. You listened to his footsteps retreat, to the couch creak under his weight, to the long exhale he let out as he settled.

The moon climbed a little higher, pale light sliding slowly across the floorboards. Wrapped in a dead woman’s nightgown, in a stranger’s bed in a house in the trees, you lay there with your bruises and your fear and the faint, fragile beginnings of something else—something that felt dangerously like hope—taking root in the space his words had cleared.

You closed your eyes.

For the first time in a very long time, even with your hands still trembling under the blankets and a world of problems waiting just beyond the tree line, sleep eventually found you.

“speaking of which, you weren’t exactly gentle either.”

“she liked it though.” fingers pat idly against the plush of your inner thigh, heat blooming where he could so easily push higher, where you’d so gladly yield. “didn’t you, baby?”

you hum noncommittally, hoping it passes as fatigue and not the arousal emanating from you. because fuck, you’re dripping; every nerve singeing with need. eyes flick up, and you swear you catch satoru batting those long, feathery lashes at you. (you wonder if he’s doing this on purpose, weaponising those angelic features of his.)

“you know i treat you right, baby.” he whines, hand slipping past the waistband of your shorts. fingers find damp cotton and push, smearing the wetness with lazy expertise. “don’t punish me for his crimes.”

“my crimes?” suguru chuckles, sliding a casual hand beneath your shirt to claim your breast, rolling your nipple until it stiffens against his thumb. his other hand finds satoru’s jaw, tilting it upward with the effortless suaveness of a kdrama male lead.

you’ve seen them exchange kisses before (plenty of times, in fact) but the sight never fails to stop your heart for a fraction of a second. experience has taught you that suguru is the deceptive romantic, his tongue slides in only when your guard drops, coaxing rather than demanding. satoru, by contrast, is pure appetite, generous with the sounds he wrings from himself.

male moaning is truly music to the ears.

part of your mind, ever irreverent, can’t help but think about a yaoi panel come to life: the juxtaposition of suguru’s controlled seduction and satoru’s ravenous indulgence, a living, breathing tableau of desire that’s as titillating as it is absurd. and you stifle a laugh, because yes, you are that invested in witnessing it.

when they finally part, a single, glistening thread of spit stretches between their parted lips, catching the light and shimmering like liquid silk. a minor miracle of erotic geometry—nothing casual about watching two men, both exquisite in their beauty, unravel themselves before your very eyes. beneath you, suguru stirs. heat of his thickening cock press into the soft cleft of your ass, making you hyper-aware.

“she’s watching,”

“of course she is.” satoru licks his lips, grinning impishly, “she loves watching us.”

your cheeks burn, and you attempt to look away—futile, when suguru’s hand slides from your breast to your jaw, gently forcing you back into the sight.

“don’t hide, princess, you can admit it.”

“yeah,” satoru adds, nipping playfully at your shoulder, “admit how much it turns you on seeing your boys kiss.”

heat prickles up your neck. “i hate you both.”

“funny way of saying you love—mhm!” satoru’s words dissolve into a moan when you seize him by the face and smash your mouth against his. your teeth catch his lower lip, tugging it just slightly before releasing, savouring the little moan it draws.

“don’t think i’ve forgotten how you tried to edge me last night, satoru gojo.”

“you loved it. and dare i add… my impeccable fingerblasting skills.” to drive the point home, he slips a finger inside you, curling it with expert precision. your eyes bulge, a demure little “oh!” escaping. hips rutting shamelessly. utterly helpless, betraying just how desperate you are for him.

“please, my skills are better.” suguru interjects smoothly. “i’ve seen the way she melts under me. tell him, sweet girl.”

“well… maybe we should have a rematch before declaring a winner. fair’s fair, right?”

silence falls except for the wet squelches of fingers working in and out of you, and your uneven gasps. satoru drops his forehead to yours, groaning.

“she’s playing us, suguru.”

“let her,” another hand is shoved into your shorts to circle your clit in tandem with satoru’s thrusts.