@mako-sea - Tumblr Blog

7. 7 Minutes in Heaven art by mblydez

Maki does not let you breathe.

Not properly, at least.

She gives you the illusion of mercy for the first ten minutes of your coffee, letting you sit at the little bakery on the corner of your street with your fingers wrapped around a warm cup and your body still carrying the pleasant heaviness of a morning that did not begin in your own bed. She lets you order first. She lets you choose a table near the window because the sun is soft there, bright enough to turn the glass display warm but not sharp enough to make you squint.

Then, after the first sip of her coffee and the first bite of the pastry she made you pay for, she sets her elbow on the table, props her chin on her knuckles, and looks at you as though she has waited with heroic patience for long enough.

“So,” she says, very calmly. “Are we doing this like civilized adults, or am I dragging it out of you?”

You look into your cup.

The foam has begun to collapse along the edge.

“Good morning to you too.”

“It was a good morning before you showed up wearing that face.”

“What face?”

“The face of someone who didn't spend the night sleeping.”

The bakery on the corner of your street is fuller than usual for a lazy Sunday afternoon, though not crowded enough to drown her out if she decides to become shameless. It smells of butter, warm bread, sugar, espresso and the faintly floral product the owner uses to wipe down the tables. Sunlight falls across the small window seats in blocks of gold. Someone near the counter is arguing gently over whether the last almond croissant should be split or surrendered. A child in a yellow hoodie keeps pressing both palms to the glass display, fogging it with his breath while his mother apologizes to the cashier.

You take another sip.

Maki narrows her eyes.

She knows you too well.

That is the problem with friends who become part of the structure of your daily life. They learn all your evasions by repetition. Maki works with you. She sees you after difficult classes, after long meetings, after the kind of parent-teacher conversations that leave you needing ten minutes alone in the supply room before you can be patient again. She knows when you are tired from work and when you are tired from something else. She knows the difference between ordinary embarrassment and the kind that comes from something good happening so suddenly that your body has not caught up with your mind.

Today, you are betraying yourself without even trying.

You have showered. You have changed. You have put yourself together enough that nobody walking past the bakery would look at you and think anything happened last night.

Maki looks at you once and knows something happened.

Her eyes flick briefly to the side of your neck and you resist the urge to touch the place.

Too late.

Her mouth shifts.

She watches you over the rim of her cup, one eyebrow lifted, while you put sugar into your coffee even though you usually do not take sugar.

“Interesting,” she says.

You stir too slowly.

“What?”

“You’re sweetening coffee now?”

“That can happen.”

“Not to you.”

“I’m… trying new things?”

“You vanished last night with Ryomen Sukuna and came into work-adjacent brunch looking like you negotiated with a hungry wolf, and now you’re trying sugar.”

“It was not that dramatic—”

“Then tell me why your neck looks like Sukuna tried to eat you but got interrupted midway.”

You press the back of your hand over your mouth because the laugh rises before you can stop it. It is not even the joke. It is the memory of Sukuna’s mouth at your neck, his body hot from the bath, his voice thick with amusement when you told him to stop leaving marks. But the self awareness hits you, finally, making you glance around.

“Can you lower your voice?”

“No. You bought my coffee today as punishment for disappearing without warning. That gives me temporary rights.”

“I texted you.”

“You texted one word.”

“It was a very expressive word.”

Maki pulls her phone out and turns the screen toward you without unlocking it, as if the memory alone is enough evidence.

“Alive.”

You hide your smile behind the cup.

“In my defense, it answered the most important question.”

“It did not answer why the man you’ve been studying like a dissertation suddenly had you on the back of his motorcycle.”

“He asked.” You shrug.

“That’s not enough.”

“It was when he asked.”

Maki narrows her eyes.

You take another sip, hoping caffeine will help you withstand interrogation. It does not. The coffee is good, bitter beneath the sugar, and the warmth gives you something to hold while your mind betrays you with fragments from the night before.

His hand around your waist. His breath against your neck. The way his body had locked up when pain hit, and how angry he looked at himself for needing even a second of help. The weight of his forehead against your stomach in the bathroom. The quiet, almost reluctant way he had asked you to stay close. The sight of him in morning light, half defensive and half softened by sleep, tucking your hair behind your ear before telling you he was making breakfast.

You had expected the night to become embarrassing in daylight, but it did not.

And somehow it makes everything worse.

Maki leans forward, elbows on the small table.

“All right, I’ll be generous and skip the obvious questions for now.”

“You don’t know generosity, Maki.”

“I’m learning from your mysterious new champion boyfriend.”

“He is not my boyfriend.”

“Fine. The champion man who took you home after eye-fucking you across half the racing season.”

Your face heats immediately.

“Maki!”

“What? It happened. I saw it happen. He was not subtle.”

“He is subtle in the way a brick through a window is subtle.”

“That’s my point.” She settles back in her chair and takes a bite of her pastry. “So. Was the night at least worth giving me a cardiac event when you stopped answering?”

You look down at the table and your smile forms before you can restrain it, making your friend groan.

The memory lands low in your stomach.

Maki sees that too.

Her expression turns both victorious and mildly horrified.

“Oh, that good?”

You stare out the window at the quiet Sunday street.

It is still before five, and the neighborhood has the softened rhythm of a lazy weekend. Someone walks a small dog past the bakery, the leash wrapped twice around their hand. A cyclist slows near the crosswalk. The bakery owner behind the counter arranges another tray of bread with tongs, humming under her breath.

The world has no right to be so normal.

You were in Sukuna’s bed hours ago.

You were in his kitchen wearing nothing but a sheet while he cooked breakfast with one shoulder half useless and a scowl like concern personally offended him.

You were in an app car beside him, watching a driver recognize him and become gentle with his questions because his son liked racing.

You were at your building door, feeling his hand at the back of your neck and his mouth leaving a kiss firm enough to turn your knees unreliable.

Now you are here with Maki, coffee cooling between your palms, expected to explain it without handing over the parts that feel private.

Some things are easy to tell.

The bar. The motorcycle. The invitation. The fact that he is unpleasant and too handsome and worse when he knows he is.

Other things remain behind your teeth.

The bruises across his ribs. The way his shoulder shifted wrong beneath your hands. The terrible heaviness in his body once the adrenaline left. How careful he was even when he was impatient. How angry he became each time care softened him. The almost unwilling way he leaned into touch after pretending he didn’t need it.

You do not tell her about his shoulder slipping. You do not tell her about the careful way you helped him brace his body until the joint settled enough for him to breathe properly. You do not describe the bruises across his ribs, the swelling around his knee, the red pressure marks from gear that made his body look less like something built for victory and more like something repeatedly used as a shield against gravity.

You do not tell her that he shivered after the bath even though the water was hot enough to turn the mirror white. You do not tell her that he woke before you and moved like someone expecting pain before it arrived.

People know Sukuna’s body as a public object. Screens enlarge it, cameras frame it, commentators analyze what it does in the air. Fans make edits of his hands on the bars, his thighs gripping the bike, his posture when he lands. Sponsors sell the image. His team repairs the damage.

But the way he looked at you when you held ice against his shoulder belongs to no one else.

Those things are not gossip.

They belong to him.

Or maybe to the brief, dangerous space that opened between you and him in the middle of the night.

Maki is watching you closely, but she does not push when your silence changes. That is another reason she is your friend. She can be merciless, but not careless.

You clear your throat and drag your thumb along the handle of your cup.

“It was a very, very good night. And I’m not complaining if he ever wants to repeat it.”

Maki stares at you. Then her mouth curves.

“That is all you’re getting.” You add before she can extend the questions.

“Coward.”

“Respectful friend, actually.”

“Respectful friends give details.”

“No, they preserve dignity.”

“You don’t have any left. You climbed that man like a tree in your soul the first time he jumped a bike.”

You nearly choke on your coffee.

Maki looks satisfied.

You throw a napkin at her. She catches it without effort, because of course she does.

You wrap both hands around your cup again.

The bakery is warm. The coffee is good. Maki’s presence pulls you back toward yourself in a way you need more than you expected. Last night had been overwhelming, and not only because of desire. Sukuna’s life is loud even when he is silent. His apartment, his body, his attention, the magnitude of what follows him even into private spaces. It all has weight. Sitting here with someone who knows you outside of him steadies the ground beneath your feet.

Maki studies you over the rim of her cup.

“You’re really not going to tell me everything.”

“No.”

“Did he treat you well?”

Sukuna did not treat you gently in the usual sense. He is too intense for that, too direct, too sharp around the edges even when he is being careful. He kissed like restraint was something he despised needing. He touched like he wanted to prove the wanting had teeth. He also stopped when pain caught his shoulder. He let you care for him though it clearly made him furious. He made breakfast. He took the app car because you told him not to ride. He asked for your number with all the romantic delicacy of a command, then saved himself in your phone as Champion because apparently arrogance is his preferred form of comedy.

You think of his hand tucking your hair behind your ear when you startled awake.

You nod.

“He did.”

Maki’s face softens in a way she would deny if you pointed it out.

“Good. Won’t need to be arrested for assaulting a star.”

“He’s still a menace.”

“Also good, as long as it remains mostly recreational.”

You laugh again and reach for the pastry you have barely touched.

Maki’s gaze sharpens slightly, as if she senses the line you are not crossing.

She does not push, she’s a good friend, so instead, she shifts the conversation toward the safer thing both of you understand better — the technical parts.

Maki’s interest is not really in the good life he lives, the fame, the money, the stadium lights or the possibility of being photographed leaving somewhere with him. She wants to know how close you got to the machine, whether his bike looks different up close, whether the team was around, whether he really feels as controlled in person as he looks from the stands. She asks about the technical things because she knows those are what swallowed your attention first.

“So,” she says, breaking off a corner of pastry and pointing it toward you, “now that you’ve apparently gained direct access to the source, explain the front-end thing you were losing your mind about last night.”

Your posture changes immediately.

Maki notices and grins.

“I knew that would get you.”

“It was actually fascinating,” you say, already leaning forward. “The jump looked that dramatic because of the whip, but the problem wasn’t the whip itself. It was the landing. The front dipped too far into the stroke when he came down, and the bars snapped left for a second. He corrected before most people even noticed, but you could see his wrist take it.”

Maki chews slowly.

“You sound really insane.”

“I know.”

“I respect it.”

You continue anyway, because she asked and because talking about the mechanics gives you somewhere to put the intensity of what you feel without naming it.

You explain what little you understand about suspension, compression, rebound, front-end tuck, the way Choso’s work on the motorcycle alters the way Sukuna can attack a rhythm section or recover from a bad angle.

You tell her the bike’s heat still coming through after the event. The way his body changes once he is off it, not weaker exactly, but less masked by motion. The way he talks about control as if it is not an aesthetic but a physical language. The bar. Yuki. The bourbon. The ride home with his helmet heavy on your head.

Maki listens, occasionally interrupting with questions that are sharp enough to make you reorder your thoughts.

That is one reason she is safe.

She asks about technique before asking about money. She cares whether he is actually good before caring that everyone knows he is.

After a while, her attention drifts to your neck.

You pull your collar higher.

“Shush.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was about to say your concealer is fighting for its life.”

“I didn’t have enough time.”

“Mhm.”

You look away, betrayed by your own skin.

Maki lets you live for another thirty seconds before asking,

“Is he as much of an asshole in private?”

You think of his morning scowl, his irritated refusal to admit pain, the way he called you a snitch when you told him not to take the motorcycle.

“Yes,” you say. “But with context.”

“That sounds a bit dangerous.”

“It probably is.”

“Do you like him?”

The question lands too plainly.

You stir what remains of your coffee though there is nothing left to dissolve.

“I don’t know him enough.”

“And?”

You look out the window again, as if it would save you from answering.

“I like what I know,” you say quietly.

Maki does not make fun of you, that’s how you know she understands the answer matters.

Her expression softens in the subtle way hers does, which means almost not at all unless someone knows where to look.

“Be careful,” she says.

“I am.”

“No, you’re not. You’re analytical, which is different. You’re very good at understanding things after you’re already inside them.”

“That sounds too much like an insult.”

“It’s a loving observation.”

“I hate it.”

“You should.”

Your phone vibrates against the table. You glance at the screen without thinking.

Champion lights up.

A single message waits beneath the name.

you free already?

The breath leaves you. It is ridiculous. It is one short message, barely polite, entirely in character, and your body reacts like he has set a hand on your thigh again.

Maki’s eyes drop to the phone. Then to your face. Then back to the phone. Her expression becomes unbearable.

“The fun is calling.”

“He just asked if I’m free already.”

“Yes, that’s usually how the fun checks whether it can come collect you. Tell him you're done with the boring paperwork and it took less time than you expected, go have your fun.”

You try to look annoyed and fail.

“Also... he saved himself as Champion in your phone, didn’t he?”

You look up.

Maki’s smile widens.

“He did. Of course he did! That arrogant bastard.”

“He thinks he’s funny.”

“He is funny. Unfortunately.”

Maki takes another bite of pastry.

“Go.”

“I didn’t say I was free yet, I’m here with you.”

“You’re staring at the screen like it’s going to suddenly explode.”

“It might.”

“I am spending the rest of the day horizontal because I would like one decent week where I don’t fantasize about quitting in the middle of third period. You, on the other hand, are clearly about to be picked up by a very expensive problem. Go have fun.”

Your thumb hovers over the screen.

There is a part of you that wants to wait, just to prove to yourself that you can. That you are not sitting around waiting for him. That the entire shape of your day does not bend around a message from a man who kissed you yesterday and made breakfast this morning and somehow already occupies more space in your head than he has any right to.

Then you remember the way he looked in the car when you told him not to let them clear him to ride if he was hurt.

You remember him saying, Please.

You type back.

yes.

The reply comes almost immediately.

Picking you up in twenty.

Your stomach flips.

You type before you can overthink.

You better not come riding or I’m telling on you to someone in your team.

There is a delay.

Then:

snitch.

Another message follows a second later.

Car.

You hold the phone against your chest for a moment.

Maki’s brows rise.

“Twenty minutes?”

“How did you know?”

“You got that face you get when you start calculating whether you can shower quickly enough.”

You stand too fast, nearly knocking your knee against the table.

Maki laughs, low and knowing, and waves you away as if dismissing you from class.

“Go. And pay. You owe me for emotional labor.”

“I already paid.” You frown at her.

“Then consider it interest.”

You leave the bakery with your coffee half finished and Maki’s laughter behind you.

The street air feels cooler after the warmth inside. Your building is close enough that you walk quickly rather than calling for anything, your thoughts moving faster than your feet. Twenty minutes is impossible and still somehow enough if you do not waste time. Shower. Clothes. Hair. Something presentable but not too much, because he did not tell you where you are going and apparently he enjoys turning logistics into ambushes.

You aren’t nervous, — that’s a lie — you’re very nervous.

Not in the same way you were friday night, standing beside his motorcycle and deciding whether following him was reckless or exactly what you wanted. This is different.

Last night had urgency to hide inside. Desire moved things forward before fear could organize itself properly.

Today is daylight. Sunday. Coffee with Maki. A message asking whether you are free.

He does not need to see you.

He already got what he wanted, if what he wanted was the thing famous people usually want when they drag someone pretty from a crowd into their orbit for a night. He could disappear back into his own life, into team facilities and sponsor obligations and private apartments with better views than yours. You would have understood, or at least you would have pretended to.

Instead, he is coming to pick you up.

By car.

The small concession makes your chest warm.

You shower quickly, wash the bakery smell from your skin, and stand in front of your closet with a towel wrapped around you, trying not to make this into a bigger occasion than it is.

You choose tight jeans because they fit well and because some part of you remembers the way his eyes followed your body even when he tried to look bored. The lilac silk blouse comes next, soft and pretty without being scandalous, the fabric falling cleanly but close enough to remind you that he likes noticing. You let your hair fall over your shoulders after drying it, not wanting to pin it away. Makeup feels like too much, so you keep it simple. A light lipstick, peach gloss over it, a little warmth on your cheeks that probably becomes unnecessary once he arrives.

You check the mirror.

You look like yourself.

A slightly more nervous version of yourself, perhaps, but not someone trying to become suitable for his world.

Your phone vibrates again.

Downstairs.

Your heart gives a stupid, eager thump.

You take your bag, check your keys twice, then head down before you can begin rethinking your outfit, your hair, your decision, or the possibility that this is still only a game to him.

The car waiting outside your building is black.

That is the full extent of what you can identify.

You know motorcycles now, at least more than you did before. You know enough to understand why Sukuna’s machine responds the way it does under him, enough to recognize the language of suspension and line choice, enough to speak to Choso without sounding like you only learned one term to impress someone. Cars, however, remain mostly outside your interest. This one is low, sleek and polished enough to reflect the pale fronts of the buildings along your street. The windows are tinted just enough to look private without seeming ridiculous. You do not know whether the engine is impressive. You do not know if car people would lose their minds over it.

The window lowers.

Sukuna looks out at you over the rim of dark sunglasses.

He sits behind the wheel with the window lowered, one hand resting at the top of it. His hair is pushed back, pink and unruly despite the effort, a few strands already loose around his forehead. He looks painfully good in daylight. Almost worse than he does under stadium lights, because here there is no helmet, no roar of engines, no protective distance between spectacle and man. There is only him in the driver’s seat, broad shoulders relaxed, mouth curved in a lazy smirk that says he knows exactly what your pause means.

“Getting in, or are you admiring the paint?”

He reaches toward the passenger door before you touch the handle.

The inside smells faintly of leather, mint and his cologne.

Light brown leather covers the seats, the console, the stitched details along the doors. Everything looks clean enough that you immediately become aware of the soles of your shoes, the possibility of makeup transferring, the simple fact of your body entering something designed and maintained with money you do not even know how to imagine comfortably.

You slide into the passenger seat with ridiculous care.

The leather is soft beneath you.

You buckle the belt and place your bag on your lap instead of on the floor. Sukuna notices.

“You’re sitting like the car may bite you”

“It looks really expensive.”

“It is.”

“That wasn’t really reassuring.”

“Do you plan on stabbing the seat?”

“No.”

“Then relax.”

He pulls away from the curb before telling you where you are going.

You wait for an explanation.

None comes.

Of course.

He drives smoothly, one hand low on the wheel, the other shifting briefly before settling across the console. The city moves around you in its Sunday rhythm, busy without being frantic. Sunlight catches on glass buildings and parked cars. People move in pairs along sidewalks, carrying tote bags, flowers, groceries, late breakfasts.

You glance at him.

He looks better than he did this morning and worse than he wants anyone to realize.

The sunglasses hide his eyes, but not the tension in his jaw when he turns the wheel too sharply. Not the controlled way he keeps his shoulder from moving more than necessary. Not the slight stiffness in his right leg when he adjusts at a red light.

He is dressed in a way that looks casual until you notice the deliberate choices. He looks put together because everything on him seems selected by someone who understands his body too well to waste fabric. A dark denim jacket with his team logo and plate number patched into it, along with other patches you recognize only partially — some bands, some brands, a few you suspect hold private meaning rather than sponsorship. Black denim pants. A dark crimson cotton shirt with a wide collar that exposes the strong line of his throat, clean lines of his collarbone, and the first dark curves of tattoos disappearing beneath the fabric.

The sight pulls your attention far longer than it should.

Sukuna’s mouth twitches.

“Seatbelt malfunctioning?”

You look away.

“No.”

“Then stop looking like you’re deciding whether to climb over here.”

Heat rushes to your face.

“You’re very full of yourself for someone medically forbidden from almost every bad idea.”

He laughs lowly under his breath, pleased. Then his right hand moves from the console to your thigh.

He does it with such unthinking possession that your body needs one second to catch up. His palm settles at the apex of your thigh, large, warm, squeezing once through the denim before remaining there as if he has always kept his hand on you while driving.

Your surprise turns quickly into something brighter.

Delight, maybe.

You glance down at his hand, then up at his profile.

He keeps his eyes on the road.

There is something almost too casual in the way he touches you, but you can feel the control beneath it. He does not slide higher. He does not make it crude. He only keeps contact, thumb resting over the seam of your jeans, fingers heavy against the inside of your leg.

It feels like an answer.

You came because he called.

He touches you like he is pleased that you did.

“Music,” he says.

“What?”

He nods toward the console screen.

“Pick something.”

“You’re letting me choose?” You smirk slightly, already thinking of what to pick.

“I can turn it off if your taste is shit.”

“Generous.”

You connect your phone with a suspicion that he will regret this immediately.

He does — at least verbally.

The first song begins, and within twenty seconds, he makes a sound of disapproval.

“No.”

“You said I could pick.”

“I didn’t say I’d respect it. That’s shit.”

“You don’t respect anything, do you?”

“I respect good lines, good food and people who know when to shut up.”

“So, not music?”

“Not this.”

You leave the song playing despite his grousing.

He complains again at the chorus, but his thumb begins tapping lightly against your thigh to the rhythm. A few minutes later, his head shifts almost imperceptibly with the beat. It is barely movement, the smallest nod, the kind he would deny if you pointed it out. But you don’t.

You work with teenagers and children. Stubbornness has categories. Some students argue because they want attention. Some because they want control. Some because they do not know how to accept care without turning it into conflict. Sukuna is not a teenager, not even close, but certain patterns wear different clothes across ages.

He criticizes because admitting enjoyment would give something away.

You let him.

The next song earns a sharper insult, but his fingers keep tapping.

The third makes him say your name in a warning tone, as if you have personally offended the car, him, and music as a whole.

You look out the window and smile.

He sees that too.

“Enjoying yourself?”

“I don’t know if I enjoy being bullied in a luxury car.”

“You do.”

“You don’t know that.”

His hand squeezes once.

“I know enough.”

The words slide into the warm space between you and remain there.

You think of last night. His mouth. His body. The strain in his shoulder. The way he went still under your hands when tenderness reached him before he could defend against it.

Yes, he knows enough.

Maybe too much.

Half an hour passes before he slows near a quieter street lined with trees and older buildings that look intentionally preserved. The restaurant he stops in front of is not a chain. It has the kind of discreet sign that assumes people who belong there already know its name. The entrance is dark wood and glass. Inside, through the windows, you catch glimpses of warm lighting, white tablecloths, wine glasses arranged with terrifying precision, and people dressed far better than you expected to need for a Sunday afternoon.

Your stomach drops.

Sukuna parks smoothly and cuts the engine.

You stare at the restaurant.

The silk blouse suddenly feels too simple. Your jeans feel too casual. Your boots, which seemed fine five minutes ago, now seem like they have no business touching the floor inside.

He unbuckles his seatbelt.

You catch his wrist lightly before he can open the door.

The contact makes him pause.

He turns his head toward you, sunglasses still hiding his eyes.

“What?”

“I appreciate this,” you say, careful because you do. “A lot, really. But… there is no way I can afford this place.”

For a second, he only looks at you. Or you assume he does.

Then he pushes his sunglasses up, resting them on his head, and you can see the full force of his expression.

He looks at you like you have started speaking another language.

You continue because the anxiety is already moving and stopping halfway would make it worse.

“I probably can’t even get inside dressed like this.”

His face changes, but it doesn’t soften, exactly. It’s something between disbelief and irritation, but not directed at your clothing. More at the fact that the thought occurred to you at all.

He leans across the console. You think he is going to scold you. Instead, he kisses you.

It is sudden, a firm press of his lips to yours, warm and mint-sharp from the gum in his mouth. Your fingers loosen around his wrist without meaning to. He kisses you as if your concern is something he can silence physically, and annoyingly, for a second, he succeeds.

By the time your breath catches, he is already pulling back with a grin that looks wicked enough to make your pulse stumble.

“I’m inviting,” he says. “I’m paying. You’re keeping me company.”

You blink.

“It’s a wine tasting,” he adds, as if that explains everything. “Sponsor invitation. Team got invited individually.”

That makes it both better and worse. Sponsor invitation means official. Official means people. People mean cameras. Possibly.

Your hand remains around his wrist, lighter now.

“Are you sure you want to show up with me?”

His expression turns flat. The glare answers before he does.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because people might assume things.”

“They will.”

His tone suggests that this is obvious and uninteresting.

He removes your hand from his wrist only to hold it briefly, his fingers closing around yours with enough pressure to still the nervous fidget beginning there.

Then he gets out of the car.

You sit frozen for half a second until he walks around the front and opens your door.

The gesture catches you off guard. You would have laughed if your heart were not beating so hard.

He extends his hand. You take it.

He helps you out carefully, the stiffness in his own body impossible to miss now that you are close. The shoulder remains guarded. The knee takes his weight but not happily. There is a faint pull around his mouth when he straightens.

You want to say something about being careful. About not overdoing it. About the absurdity of taking you to a sponsor event the same day his doctor told him to rest.

But the words catch.

A couple near the entrance has already noticed him. Someone else farther down the sidewalk turns their head. Your stomach folds in on itself at the possibility of cameras, of whispers, of being seen beside him by people who make assumptions faster than they breathe.

You like his attention.

You do not like attention.

The difference becomes violently clear in the space between the car and the restaurant door. The idea of other attention feels entirely different. Cameras, sponsor eyes, team members, strangers who might recognize him and wonder who you are. Your private life is small on purpose. Your social media is barely used, mostly for watching terrible edits of shows and races with audio choices that should be illegal. You work with children and teenagers. You do not want a student finding a picture of you pressed against a famous athlete on some gossip account.

Your thoughts begin arranging themselves into exits.

Your pulse accelerates.

You look toward the entrance, then toward the street, already scanning for phones, lenses, faces you do not know and cannot control.

The spiral begins building with practical thoughts first. What if someone takes a picture? What if it circulates? What if a student sees it? What if a parent sees it? What if someone from work asks? What if Maki’s teasing becomes the least invasive version of curiosity you have to deal with?

Sukuna’s arm wraps around your waist, and the movement interrupts everything.

He pulls you toward him with enough strength that your body meets his before your mind can finish forming the fear. His chest is warm and solid against you. One hand settles low at your back, the other briefly touches your jaw, tilting your face upward with infuriating confidence.

Then he kisses you properly. Not quickly like in the car.

This is slower, deeper, claiming enough to steal the breath you were using for panic. He tastes like mint, like the gum tucked somewhere in his mouth, and the kiss turns the sidewalk into background noise. The kiss is public enough to make heat climb your neck, but his body blocks part of the sidewalk from view, turning the moment into something almost shielded.

Your hands rise to his chest. You feel the firm line of him beneath the crimson shirt, the heat of his skin through the fabric, the careful tension in his body where he refuses to lean too heavily on the injured leg.

When he pulls away, he does not move far. His face lowers to the crook of your neck and for one impossible second, he simply breathes you in — a deep inhale, unashamed and almost rough in its pleasure.

His chest expands against yours.

Then he groans softly on the exhale, quiet enough that only you hear it.

The sound travels down your spine and opens into heat.

His mouth brushes near your ear.

“You smell too damn good.”

Your cheeks burn.

“Sukuna.”

He lifts his head with the lazy satisfaction of a man who knows exactly what he has done.

The anxiety is not gone, but it has been forced to share space with something warmer, heavier, more immediate.

He shifts his hand from your waist and places it into the back pocket of your jeans.

You freeze again, this time for an entirely different reason.

The heat of his palm rests over the curve of your ass through denim, but his thumb moves in lazy circles along the edge of the pocket, softer than the placement suggests. The touch is possessive enough to make your pulse jump and absent-minded enough to confuse you. As if his body has decided to keep you close while his face remains bored.

He leads you inside like that. No hesitation. No apology.

Inside, the restaurant is quieter than you expect. Conversation hums over the soft clink of glassware, low music, the movement of staff across polished floors. The air smells of wine, olive oil, bread, herbs and something rich simmering somewhere beyond sight.

The restaurant receives him the way expensive places receive people they already know how to please. The host recognizes him at once, smile polished, eyes flickering to you with professional discretion. Sukuna nods rather than offering warmth. His hand remains tucked into your back pocket, holding you close enough that your side brushes his whenever he adjusts his stride.

People greet him as you move deeper into the restaurant.

Some are sponsors, you assume. Some are team members. A few look like riders or executives or people who make money from being difficult to identify. Sukuna meets them all with minimal effort.

A man in a navy suit lifts his glass. Sukuna nods.

A woman with sponsor credentials smiles and says something about last night’s performance. He gives a short reply without slowing.

His boundaries are physical and obvious, enforced without explanation.

You notice who tries to cross them. You notice how quickly they stop.

Someone reaches as if for a friendly clap on the arm, sees his expression, and converts the movement into a polite gesture toward the table.

He does not like contact.

You knew that from the night before, from the way he reacted when touch came unexpectedly and from how still he went beneath gentleness before allowing it. Here, the dislike becomes public fact. He tolerates proximity only when required. Sponsors get nods. Select people get handshakes. No hugs, no cheek kisses, no warm leaning into anyone else’s space.

The exception is you.

His arm holds you as if you are part of his balance.

Only when a camera near the entry turns toward him does his expression shift slightly, smoothing into something easier to print. It is not friendliness. More like controlled tolerance. The camera snaps, and his hand presses a little more firmly into your pocket.

You wonder if he is grounding himself.

Or marking territory.

Possibly both.

Only one woman near the far side of the room, sleek and pale-haired in a tailored outfit, seems like the kind of person who might have made him behave better for cameras if she were present. She is not there, though. Mei Mei, you assume, because her absence is mentioned by someone near the entrance with the faint relief of children whose strictest teacher has stepped out.

Sukuna guides you toward a long table where several people are already seated.

Choso is the first one you recognize.

Not because you truly know him, but because you remember him from that first event, standing near Sukuna’s motorcycle while adjusting or checking something with focused hands. He has the serious, slightly tired look of someone who thinks before speaking and notices more than he admits.

Beside him are two men you do not know.

One blond, sharp-featured and bright with a kind of charm that immediately feels too polished. The other calm, neat, composed in a suit that makes him look less like someone attached to a motocross team and more like he should be reviewing legal documents or telling everyone why their plan is inefficient.

A tired woman sits farther down, dark hair falling around her face, eyes already fixed on Sukuna’s posture with the resigned irritation of someone watching a patient misbehave in real time.

Shoko.

You know before anyone says it.

Sukuna does not introduce you.

He pulls out a chair for you.

The gesture is smooth enough to seem practiced and careless enough to seem unplanned. You sit, aware of too many eyes, and he takes the place beside you. His knee shifts beneath the table. A moment later, his hand settles heavy over your thigh again.

Grounding.

Possessive.

Your nervousness eases by a fraction.

The composed man introduces himself first.

“Nanami Kento,” he says, tone even. “It’s good to meet you.”

You give your name, grateful for the normalcy.

He introduces the rest of the table in the order Sukuna apparently refuses to. Choso, lead mechanic. Naoya, mechanic as well, though Naoya interrupts with a flourish that makes the role sound more glamorous. Shoko, doctor, who raises her glass slightly without changing her tired expression. A few others from the team whose names you try to hold onto despite your anxiety.

Naoya begins talking to you almost immediately. At first, it seems harmless.

He is charming in the way some people are charming because they consider conversation a sport. He asks how you met Sukuna, whether you attend races often, whether last night was your first time near the team area. His tone stays light. His smile stays easy.

Still, something beneath it makes your skin prickle.

Not fear exactly, it’s more like discomfort — as if every question has a second shape under the first.

Sukuna’s hand remains on your thigh. His thumb moves occasionally. Not in an obvious way. Just a slow press. A shift. The lightest stroke over your inner thigh when someone addresses him and he answers without looking at them.

You begin to recognize the difference between his public stillness and his private attention.

To everyone else, he seems bored.

To you, he is listening to the room through his skin.

He notices when your posture tightens. When Naoya speaks. When a camera moves nearby. When Shoko’s gaze drops to his shoulder. Each time, some small pressure changes beneath the table.

His face is bored, but his body is paying attention.

Naoya asks the first personal question while the second wine is being poured.

“So, have you already seen Sukuna’s apartment?”

The table changes in a way too small for anyone outside it to notice. Choso’s eyes move briefly to Sukuna. Nanami’s glass stops halfway to his mouth. Shoko looks at Naoya with such exhaustion that you suspect this is not the first time he has said something like that.

You choose your answers carefully.

“Yes.”

“Pretty view, isn’t it? Did you take pictures?”

“No.”

“None?”

“I didn’t think to.”

That is not entirely true.

You thought about the view when morning came through the windows. You thought about how beautiful the city looked from up there. You did not think of taking a picture because your attention was on Sukuna standing in his kitchen, injured and shirtless and irritated by his own tenderness.

Naoya leans back.

“Not even for your socials?”

“No, I don’t post that much.”

Sukuna turns his head slowly toward him.

Naoya smiles wider, as if he enjoys standing close to danger.

You cannot tell whether he is trying to flirt, provoke, expose something, or all three at once. His tone remains light enough to pass as friendly, but every question seems shaped with a hook.

“What’s your social media?” he asks. “I’ll follow you.”

“I don’t really use it,” you say. “Mostly just to watch clips.”

“You can still add me. I send good ones.”

You hesitate, but not because the information is sacred, it’s just that your account is mostly unused, a place to watch edits, a few event clips with terrible music, some teaching resources you save and never organize properly. But the way he asks makes it feel like handing him a key to a hallway you do not want him walking through.

“You can have it if you want,” you say anyway, because you do not want to assume cruelty where there may only be personality.

Sukuna turns his head toward Naoya again.

“No.”

Your brows lift. You look at him.

That is not his place to decide.

He meets your eyes without shame, as if the objection was not only justified but obvious.

“Naoya is fucking annoying,” he says. “He’ll send you shit until you block him.”

Naoya places one hand over his chest as though wounded.

“I am social!”

“You’re a disease.”

“He says that because he lacks the charm to maintain his friendships.”

“I say that because you sent Choso thirty-seven videos of a fucking monkey stealing food from tourists in one fucking afternoon.”

Choso looks down at his glass.

“It was forty-two.”

Naoya points at him.

“And he watched them.”

“I muted the chat after nine.”

Despite yourself, you laugh.

Sukuna’s hand squeezes your thigh.

Pleased.

Naoya pouts with theatrical offense, but his attention remains sharp.

“At least follow the official account,” he says. “That one won’t harass you unless Mei Mei finds a way to monetize it.”

You take your phone out and show him that you already follow the team account. You actually like the photos and videos when you scroll through them. Professional shots from races, close details of the bikes, behind-the-scenes clips of mechanics working, slow-motion jumps that catch Sukuna at impossible angles. You see one recent clip from the exhibition last night and pause before liking it.

Sukuna notices. Of course.

“You’ve watched that one.”

“Several times,” you admit.

Naoya looks interested again. Choso does too, but differently. Not predatory. Curious.

“You like the exhibition cuts?” Choso asks.

“I like seeing the landing in slow motion,” you say before realizing you are stepping too close to what fully absorbed you. “The motion is easier to understand. It’s hard to catch everything live.”

Choso’s attention sharpens.

“Most spectators watch the whip.”

“I do too,” you say, because you are not going to pretend the spectacle is not part of it. “It’s beautiful. But I started getting curious about how he brings it back. Especially when it looks like he shouldn’t be able to.”

Sukuna’s mouth curves. You feel a small shift beside you, the lazy arrogance warming into something more focused.

“She clocked your work, Kamo.” he tells Choso.

You turn toward him quickly. The words are not loud, but they carry enough that the nearer conversation quiets.

Sukuna does not look at you. He looks at Choso, chin slightly raised, as if presenting evidence.

“By the way the bike took the landing,” he continues. “First night she talked to me, she asked if the front was dropping too far into the stroke under braking.”

Your face heats.

“I didn’t say it that well.”

“You did.”

Choso sits forward a little. Nanami’s attention shifts toward you too. Naoya becomes, for the first time, slightly quieter.

You laugh, smaller than usual.

“I just noticed the motorcycle didn’t look separate from him. I mean, it obviously is, but when he rides it well, it looks like both of them are correcting at the same time. When something is off, you can see where he has to compensate.”

Choso’s gaze moves briefly to Sukuna, then back to you.

“That’s not a beginner observation.”

“I became a little obsessed after the first event.”

Sukuna’s fingers tighten on your thigh.

There.

You said a little.

He knows it was not little.

You avoid looking at him because you are not about to announce in front of his team that what truly caught you was not motocross in general, but Sukuna specifically. The way he rides like control and violence are not opposites. The way he looks most himself when the motorcycle is half sideways in the air and everyone else is holding their breath.

Maybe that is too much.

Maybe saying it here would make you sound insane.

Sukuna, terrible man that he is, seems to sense exactly what you are swallowing.

His hand slides a fraction higher on your thigh beneath the table.

Not enough to be indecent.

Enough to make your spine straighten.

Choso asks what you noticed about the outdoor track two events ago, and you answer cautiously at first. Then less cautiously when he listens with genuine interest. He explains how the rear setting had been adjusted for traction, how Sukuna had complained about the bike standing up in ruts, how temperature and track prep changed what they expected from the suspension.

You try not to geek out.

You fail.

A little.

Nobody seems to mind.

Nanami adds occasional comments with a precision you immediately appreciate. He does not speak often, but when he does, it is relevant. He asks what you do for a living after you make an offhand comment comparing track patterns to the way students reveal habits when they solve problems.

“I’m a teacher,” you say. “Elementary and high school.”

Nanami’s expression changes just enough to suggest approval.

“Your job is probably more dangerous than Sukuna’s.”

You laugh before you expect to.

Under the table, Sukuna squeezes your thigh.

The timing is perfect enough to make you laugh harder.

Shoko leans back in her chair, eyes moving between you and Sukuna with exhausted interest.

“Depends. Do your students ignore medical advice with championship-level dedication?”

“Some of them try.”

“Then yes, more dangerous.”

Sukuna tsks.

“You’re very popular today,” you say to him.

“I’m always popular.”

“Do you teach all subjects?” Choso asks.

“Depends on the class and schedule, but mostly history and language.” You explain, briefly, because you are used to people either romanticizing teaching or dismissing it. You try to keep it simple.

Nanami asks a pointed, sensible question about workload.

Shoko, from down the table, mutters that at least your patients are expected to complain when they ignore instructions.

You glance at Sukuna when he sucks on his teeth.

“You do ignore instructions.”

“I listened today.”

“Under threat.”

“Yeah, you’re a damn snitch.”

“And it worked.”

Shoko raises her glass slightly toward you.

“Thank you for not letting him ride.”

You smile, surprised by the directness.

“I also don’t want him to break his body.”

Sukuna makes another annoyed sound, but his thumb resumes those slow, absent circles against your thigh.

You think he likes hearing it.

You think he hates liking it.

The wine resumes soon after.

Each pour comes with explanation from a staff member who speaks about region, body, acidity, pairing and finish in a way that makes you suddenly aware of how little you know. Small plates arrive with specific wines. You try to listen. You try to understand why one flavor opens after another, why something tastes deeper with cheese or brighter with fish or warmer with the pasta that arrives later.

At first, you are tense with the cost of everything.

The glassware looks delicate enough to punish you for touching it wrong. The wine tastes expensive in a way that makes cheap bottles from convenience stores feel like something from another species. The food is so carefully portioned and arranged that you worry about eating incorrectly.

Then, gradually, the room stops feeling like a place you do not belong. The people at your table become real enough to pull your attention from the setting.

Choso explains something about torque with surprising gentleness. Nanami corrects Naoya with such dry precision that you nearly choke on your wine. Shoko asks if you have a headache after the third tasting because she has the exhausted kindness of a doctor who cannot stop observing symptoms even off duty. Sukuna sits beside you like a heated wall, outwardly bored, inwardly tuned to every movement you make.

His arm shifts around the back of your chair at some point.

You do not notice the transition until his hand rests near your shoulder, fingers occasionally brushing the silk of your blouse. Sometimes he taps once as he responds to someone else. Sometimes he lets his knuckles graze lightly along the seam near your upper arm. Sometimes his touch becomes still, only warmth at your back, a point of contact that keeps reminding you he is there.

He does not perform affection for the room.

That may be what affects you most.

The gestures feel possessive, as many of his gestures are. He is not subtle at all. The hand in your pocket, the hand on your thigh, the arm behind your chair — there is no world where anyone at this table misunderstands that you arrived with him.

But there is also an absentmindedness to it. As though he touches because his body wants to know where you are.

You watch him through the afternoon.

He does not soften for most people. Even when the conversation is good, he remains edged. He offers nods where others would laugh. He makes comments that cut cleanly enough to leave silence before amusement. He refuses certain social courtesies so completely that nobody seems surprised anymore.

Still, you see things now that you would have missed before.

The way he shifts his glass to his left hand when his shoulder begins bothering him. The way his mouth tightens when he has to turn too far toward someone speaking on his injured side. The way he grows quieter after standing once to greet a sponsor, the knee punishing him for the brief movement.

You want to ask if he is in pain.

You do not.

Not here.

Instead, when he sits again, you place your hand over his knee beneath the table. Lightly. Not pressing. Just there.

His gaze cuts to you.

You look at the wine being poured as if nothing happened.

Under your palm, his muscles remain tense for several seconds. Then they ease by the smallest degree. His fingers brush your shoulder.

The afternoon becomes evening slowly.

The warm light in the restaurant deepens. The earlier tastings stop midway through the evening, replaced by dinner, water, and enough food that the alcohol leaves your body gently rather than with dizziness. You are grateful for that, because the last thing you want is to stumble through the rest of the night in front of his team.

At some point, you forget to worry about the bill. You forget the cameras that never seem to appear. You forget you are in a place you would never choose for yourself because you would never assume you could afford the air inside it.

You have a good time. That feels dangerous in its own way.

Naoya keeps trying.

He does it lightly enough that you cannot justify open irritation, but the repetition is strange. Twice, he asks if you are sure you do not want a picture of the restaurant. Once, he suggests tagging the official account if you want a photo with “the team.” Another time, after dessert arrives, he mentions the lighting is flattering and that most people would kill for a picture in this room.

You refuse each time with a polite smile.

Choso grimaces into his water. Nanami closes his eyes for half a second, as if asking some private reserve of patience to refill. Sukuna grows increasingly still beside you.

You feel it in the air around him.

You wonder if Naoya is always like this.

You wonder why nobody stops him outright.

Then you remember that Sukuna could, and has not, which means there is either a history beneath the comments or a reason he is letting them continue long enough to see what you do.

That thought makes your stomach tighten.

Not at Sukuna exactly.

At the sense of being tested without consent.

Naoya smiles at you after the fourth attempt.

“You really don’t take pictures?”

“Not like that.”

“What kind do you take?”

“Private ones.”

“Oh?” His brows lift.

You give him a calm look despite the discomfort.

“I mean I don’t like letting people know too much about my life.”

“Secretive.”

“Practical. I have students. Some of them find everything eventually, and I don’t need them prying into my personal life.”

Nanami nods as if this is entirely sensible. Choso looks like he respects the answer more than expected. Naoya’s gaze slides toward Sukuna.

“Maybe she’s ashamed of being seen with you, Sukuna.”

It is said jokingly. Tauntingly. The kind of joke that can retreat behind humor if challenged.

Your body stiffens. Sukuna moves before you can answer.

He takes his phone from his jacket pocket, turns toward you, and pulls you closer with the arm already behind your chair. The movement is so sudden you barely register what is happening before your body is against his.

Your hands land on his chest. His face remains bored, almost aggressively uninterested, while he angles the phone.

You are caught mid-surprise, eyes wider than usual, face half tucked beneath his chin because of the height difference even sitting down. His collar brushes your cheek. Your hands are still spread over the crimson cotton of his shirt. The camera clicks.

You blink.

Sukuna lowers the phone and looks at the picture. Then at Naoya.

“Get fucked and stop bothering me.”

Naoya bursts out laughing.

The table exhales around you.

Apparently, that is how they speak.

You are still pressed against Sukuna’s side, hands on his chest, heart moving too quickly.

He does not show you the picture.

His thumb moves over the screen once, locking it, and the phone disappears back into his jacket as if nothing unusual happened.

Your face is warm for the next ten minutes.

You do not know what to do with the fact that he took a picture of you both not because you asked, not because he cared about posting, but because Naoya suggested shame and Sukuna responded with proof.

Crude proof.

Public proof.

His kind.

Eventually, the bill is dealt with in a way that you do not see and probably could not emotionally survive watching. People begin leaving in clusters. Choso says goodbye with a small nod and tells you he would like to hear what you think after seeing the bike once the new settings are tested. Nanami tells you it was good to meet you and gives Sukuna a look that somehow contains both warning and advice. Shoko tells him not to be stupid, then looks at you and says you can tell her if he is.

“I will,” you promise.

Sukuna glares at both of you. No one is impressed.

Naoya gives you a bright farewell that feels like a performance covering something sharper. You answer politely, but you do not step closer.

Sukuna’s hand returns to your lower back as he guides you out.

The night air is cooler than you expect after the restaurant. You take a deeper breath once outside, grateful for the open space. The streetlights have come on. The car waits where he left it, glossy and dark beneath the trees.

He opens your door again. This time, you let yourself enjoy it. You slide into the passenger seat, less afraid of touching the leather now.

He gets in with a controlled motion that makes you look at his knee despite trying not to. He catches you but says nothing. The engine starts with a low, smooth sound. He pulls away from the curb and drives in silence for a few minutes.

Not uncomfortable silence. Thinking silence.

You look out the window and watch the city pass in warm streaks.

His voice comes after the next turn.

“Why don’t you like taking pictures?”

You look at his profile.

The sunglasses are gone. Streetlights pass over his face in intervals, cutting his features into shadow and gold. His jaw is set, but not with anger. He looks curious in the reluctant way he gets when curiosity feels too much like vulnerability.

“I was telling the truth,” you say. “When I told Naoya.”

His eyes remain on the road.

“You told Naoya enough to make him stop asking for three minutes.”

That is true. You shift in the seat.

“I don’t like disclosing my private life. Not to people in general.” You rest your fingers over the strap of your bag. “And there’s always the chance of students finding my account. Or parents. Or coworkers who don’t understand boundaries. I don’t want my life becoming something people feel allowed to inspect.”

Sukuna hums. Not dismissive — understanding, maybe. The sound is low, thoughtful.

“Kids are nosy.” He comments.

“Teenagers are investigators with no boundaries.”

His mouth shifts faintly.

“You don’t want me posting it.”

You look at him quickly.

He says it without accusation. Still, nerves move through you.

“I’d appreciate if you didn’t.” You admit, sheepish.

His expression does not change.

You add, softer, “But I’d like to have it.”

That surprises him. It is brief, almost hidden by the dark and the passing streetlights, but you see it. The slight lift of his brows. The pause before his next breath. As though he had been prepared for refusal, not request.

“You want the picture?”

“Yes.”

“You can take one with your phone,” he says, and there is something almost amused beneath the words. “You know you don’t have to post it, right?”

The simplicity of it lands so hard you feel stupid.

Oh.

True.

You have spent so much time treating pictures as public evidence that you forgot they can just be yours. Kept in a gallery. Looked at alone. Not uploaded, not tagged, not made available for other people’s opinions.

A soft laugh leaves you, almost embarrassed.

“Actually, I don’t know why I didn’t think of that…” You trail off, then feel ridiculous.

You do not need to be afraid of taking pictures if you do not intend to offer them to anyone else. You can keep something without making it public. You can have proof and physical memory that does not become a whole performance.

Maybe that should have been obvious.

Maybe the world has become so eager to share everything that privacy sometimes makes you forget possession can be quiet.

Sukuna laughs. It’s not very loud, just enough that his mouth opens around it, teeth flashing briefly, the sound rich with genuine entertainment.

“Idiot.”

The warmth in his voice changes the insult into something strangely fond, you don’t feel offended at all.

You look at him, caught by the sight of him laughing in the dim car. Without the pressure of the table and Naoya’s attention, without the restaurant lights, he seems younger for a second. Still sharp, still dangerous, but less armored.

Then the expression fades into something easier for him to wear.

“You spending the night?”

Your pulse reacts immediately.

You want to.

You want his apartment again. His bed. His kitchen in the morning. The strange, unnerving intimacy of being allowed inside a life he seems to keep locked against almost everyone.

But Monday waits.

Tests. Papers. A classroom full of students who will sense weakness if you arrive half asleep. You have things to prepare, things to print, a morning that will punish you if you pretend desire can replace rest.

“I want to,” you say.

His hand tightens briefly on the wheel. You notice because you are watching.

“But I can’t. I have to wake up early to apply tests and take care of a few things at school. I should sleep at home.”

He nods. No visible disappointment.

Relief and disappointment move through you at once.

You wanted him not to be upset. You also wanted to see that he wanted you to stay.

Maybe you do. Only not in an easy way.

His jaw shifts once, then settles. His hand leaves the gear shift and finds your thigh again, palm warm and heavy, fingers pressing once before resting.

“You’ll sleep, then.”

“Yeah.”

“Actually sleep. Not stay up checking work shit.”

“I have to check some of it.”

“Do it now.”

“In the car?”

“You have a phone.”

“You’re so bossy.”

“You’re disorganized.”

“I am literally a teacher.”

“That explains a caffeine addiction, the eventual cigarette, not the disorganization.”

You laugh and open your phone despite yourself. You check two messages, answer one from a coworker, confirm a file is ready for printing, and feel Sukuna glance over when you sigh at a parent email that can wait until morning.

“Don’t answer that.”

“Yeah, it can wait until morning.”

You lock the phone. He looks satisfied.

The drive to your building feels shorter than it should.

When he stops in front of your condo, the engine remains running. The street is quiet enough that the low sound of it fills the silence between you. You unbuckle your seatbelt, already preparing yourself to leave like a normal person, with a kiss perhaps, maybe his hand at your neck, maybe a filthy comment thrown after you as you walk away.

Sukuna has other plans.

His hand closes around your waist.

You make a startled sound as he pulls you across the console and into his lap.

Not roughly enough to hurt, but quickly enough that your body loses all dignity. You yelp and grab for balance, then remember his shoulder at the last second and avoid it so abruptly that you slip against him and bury your face in the crook of his neck.

He laughs. The sound vibrates against your cheek.

“You’re a mess.”

“You dragged me with no warning!”

“You fit.”

“How is this reasonable?”

He kisses the side of your head, still laughing quietly, and the affection in the gesture disorients you more than the pull did.

You are straddling his thighs, knees pressed into the leather seat on either side of him as carefully as the space allows. The steering wheel is behind you. His body is warm beneath yours, the crimson shirt soft under your hands when you finally settle them against his chest.

His shoulder is on your mind. His knee too. Every place he hurts becomes a map you try not to press wrong. He seems to feel that care in your hesitation, because his hands shift to your waist, then lower, anchoring you with a confidence that says he has you and does not appreciate you hovering like he might shatter.

“You’re thinking too much.”

“You’re still injured, Champion.”

“I’m not made of glass.”

“No, you’re made of bad decisions and some medical debt.”

His grin appears against your temple.

“Brat.”

One hand rises to your chin.

He tilts your face up gently, and that gentleness is what stills you.

The first kiss is soft. Almost surprisingly so.

His lips press to yours without demand, testing the shape of your mouth in the quiet car. You exhale through your nose and let your hands slide higher, careful around the collar of his jacket, fingers brushing the warm skin near his throat.

The second kiss deepens.

He opens your mouth with his, tasting of wine that has faded into warmth and mint from the gum he must have discarded earlier. His tongue traces your teeth, then finds yours, unhurried and thorough in a way that makes your body sink closer before you can remember the gear shift, the steering wheel, the possibility of someone walking past.

The world narrows to the inside of the car.

His hands.

His mouth.

The controlled breath he takes when your nails slide into his hair.

You love his hair like this, pushed back but rebellious, soft between your fingers. You card through it slowly at first, then scratch lightly at his nape.

His reaction is immediate.

A groan breaks into your mouth mid-kiss, low and rough enough to make your thighs tighten around his as he bucks once, involuntarily, against you.

So.

He likes that.

You do it again.

His grip on your waist hardens. The kiss becomes less soft.

He bites gently at your lower lip, then trails his mouth along your jaw, down the side of your neck, careful at first and then less careful as his attention catches on the places he already marked. Heat spreads under your skin. Your head tips despite every practical thought you are trying to hold onto.

He kisses your neck, your shoulder, the open edge of your blouse where silk has shifted under his hands.

“Sukuna,” you breathe, warning and want tangled together.

He hums against your skin. The sound is too pleased. You feel his teeth graze near your collarbone.

“Don’t mark me so much,” you say, forcing the sentence out before it becomes a sigh. “I don’t want to wear turtlenecks all week.”

He raises his face from your cleavage slowly.

His eyes are half-lidded, darkened by want, framed by pink lashes that make the wickedness in his expression even worse. He looks like he is about to do exactly the opposite just to see how you react.

Absolutely not.

You slide one hand into the strands at his nape, gather them, and hold tight.

Not painfully. Firmly.

Like holding a badly behaved dog by the scruff before it knocks something over.

His eyes sharpen. You tug once.

“I mean it.”

For a moment, neither of you moves.

Then his teeth catch his own lower lip.

The reaction is small, uncontrolled and devastating.

Your heart kicks hard and your core reacts with shameful speed, clenching around nothing.

Oh.

You cannot stop the smile that blooms across your face.

He sees it immediately.

His gaze narrows, but there is no real threat in it. There is heat, though. So much of it that the air in the car feels thinner.

“You’re learning dangerous things,” he says, voice rougher now.

“I’m a teacher. Pattern recognition is part of the job.”

“You planning to discipline me?”

“You’d be a nightmare student.”

“I’d be your favorite,” he drawls, baring teeth in an arrogant grin.

You laugh softly and pull his hair again, less a warning this time, more an experiment.

His hands flex at your hips. The groan he suppresses still reaches you.

Your smile softens into something more dangerous.

He behaves after that. Mostly.

He kisses you again, slower this time, as if accepting the boundary without surrendering the want. You reward him with gentleness you are not sure he knows what to do with. A slow kiss. Your thumb brushing the side of his face. Your nails easing over his scalp until the tension along his jaw loosens by a fraction.

When you pull away, your breathing is uneven.

His is too, though he hides it better.

“I really have to sleep at home.”

His eyes move over your face.

You expect mockery. A filthy line. A command.

Instead, his hand rises to adjust a piece of hair near your cheek, knuckles grazing your skin.

“I know.”

The simplicity hurts. Softly.

You don’t want to leave him.

That’s becoming a problem.

Before you can climb off, you remember the picture.

Your phone is in your bag, which has fallen awkwardly near the passenger footwell during your undignified relocation. You reach for it carefully, trying not to elbow him or put pressure on his shoulder. He watches with open amusement as you stretch, fail, curse under your breath, and finally retrieve it.

“What are you doing?”

“Taking a picture.”

His mouth curves.

“You remembered.”

“You told me I could keep one.”

He leans back slightly, letting you find the angle.

It is awkward in the small space, but somehow better for it. You are still straddling his lap. The streetlight catches along the side of his face and the pink of his hair. His face is tucked closer beneath your chin because of the angle, his arms around you, eyes half narrowed.

Before you take the photo, he bares his teeth near your shoulder, looking less like he is smiling and more like he is considering biting.

Your smile is bright, almost startled by itself. Not the surprised expression from the restaurant, not the polite one you use for work, not the controlled version you wear when you are trying to look fine.

Real.

The picture captures it.

Your face warm, eyes bright, his mouth at your shoulder, one hand visible at your waist, the dark interior of the car wrapped around you both. Sukuna looks dangerous and amused, mouth at your skin, one hand visible against your back. No one else gets to see it. That knowledge makes the picture feel even more valuable.

You stare at it after taking it.

Your chest tightens.

You have a picture with him.

Not for anyone else.

For you.

Sukuna looks at your face instead of the phone.

“Good?”

You nod.

“Yeah.”

He turns his head and bites your shoulder lightly before you can escape.

Not enough to mark.

Enough to make you jolt and laugh.

“Go rest,” he says near your skin. “I’ll want to tire you out soon. Need you energized.”

Your entire body heats.

“Stop being so filthy.”

He grins up at you, unrepentant.

“Sleep well, teacher.”

The title in his mouth should not affect you like that. It does.

You climb off his lap with less grace than you would prefer, smoothing your blouse and checking your hair in the small mirror while he watches like your composure is entertainment. When you open the car door, cool night air spills in and saves you from doing something reckless, like kissing him long enough to change your mind about going upstairs.

You step out. Before closing the door, you look back at him.

He has one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely near the gear shift. He looks tired beneath the arrogance. The day has worn at the edges of him. Shoulder, knee, ribs, social obligations, the effort of not riding, not drinking, not snapping at every person who moved wrong around him.

Still, he looks at you with attention so direct it feels physical.

“Thank you,” you say.

“For what?”

You could answer several things. The restaurant. The picture. Not posting it. Taking the car instead of the motorcycle. Listening.

You settle on,

“Today.”

His expression does not soften exactly.

But something eases.

“Go rest.”

You close the door and walk toward your building.

You feel his eyes on you the entire way.

The lobby lights are familiar and ordinary. The elevator mirror shows you a woman with slightly swollen lips, a flush that has not faded, hair less perfect than when you left, and a face that does not quite know what to do with itself.

You text him once you are inside your apartment.

Inside. Text me when you get home.

His reply comes before you can set the phone down.

good girl.

Then:

Sleep.

You stare at the screen.

A second later:

Don’t answer work emails.

You laugh alone in your apartment, the sound startling in the quiet.

Outside, faintly, you hear his car pull away.

You stand there for a while with your phone in your hand, your bag still over your shoulder, your keys not yet placed in the bowl by the door.

Your apartment is exactly as you left it. The same shoes near the entrance. The same papers waiting on the table. The same laundry you meant to fold. The same Sunday evening becoming Sunday night, leading into Monday morning and tests and students and noise and the ordinary shape of your life.

But something has shifted. You set your bag down and open the photo again.

There you are, in his lap, smiling like you forgot to be afraid of wanting something.

There he is beneath you, teeth at your shoulder, eyes half-hidden but unmistakably fixed on you.

You zoom in before you can stop yourself.

His expression is nothing close to soft. Sukuna does not seem built for softness in obvious ways. But there is something there. Possession, heat, amusement, arrogance, hunger.

And under all that, held so tightly it almost hides itself, is attention.

The kind he gives the motorcycle before a jump.

The kind he gives pain before denying it exists.

The kind he gave you when you talked about suspension and line choice and the invisible work behind impossible control.

Focused.

Unblinking.

As if you have become something he is trying to understand not by reducing it, not by conquering it, but by staying close enough to learn its response.

Your stomach turns gently.

You lock the phone and press it against your chest.

The thought comes quietly. Too quietly to fight at first.

You may have started falling for him for real.

Not the champion. Not only the rider. Not the man under stadium lights who can bend a motorcycle sideways in the air and make thousands of people forget to breathe.

Him.

The injured, arrogant, impossible man who lets you pick music so he can insult it and tap the rhythm against your thigh. Who takes you to a restaurant you would never enter alone and keeps his hand on you when the room feels too large. Who sees your discomfort and responds with a kiss before the anxiety can swallow you. Who refuses people access to your private life with the bluntness of someone barring a door. Who listens to Shoko because you asked, even if he would rather pretend he did not do it for anyone. Who lets you hold his hair tight enough to make him behave and looks like he likes discovering that you can.

That is worse.

Falling for a spectacle would be easier. Spectacles stay distant. Men like Sukuna do not.

They enter. They take up space. They leave marks even when they behave.

You put your phone down, then pick it up again almost immediately to look at the photo one more time.

You should sleep.

You really should.

Instead, you stand in the middle of your apartment, smiling at your screen like an idiot, while the taste of mint and wine still lingers faintly on your lips.

Somewhere across the city, Sukuna is driving home with his injured shoulder, his forbidden motorcycle, and whatever dangerous thoughts he refuses to name.

You hope he is smiling too.

Even if he hates it.

Especially then.

I'm sleeping my way out of this one With anyone who will lie down I'll be stuck fixated on one star When the world is crashing down

I keep telling myself I keep telling myself I'm not the desperate type But you've got me looking through blinds

I keep telling myself I keep telling myself I'm not the desperate type

I'm sitting out dances on the wall Trying to forget everything that isn't you I'm not going home alone 'Cause I don't do too well sitting out dances on the wall Trying to forget everything that isn't you I'm not going home alone 'Cause I don't do too well on my own

The only thing worse than not knowing Is you thinking that I don't know I'm having another episode I just need a stronger dose

I keep telling myself I keep telling myself I'm not the desperate type But you've got me looking through blinds

I keep telling myself I keep telling myself I'm not the desperate type

I'm sitting out dances on the wall Trying to forget everything that isn't you I'm not going home alone 'Cause I don't do too well sitting out dances on the wall Trying to forget everything that isn't you I'm not going home alone 'Cause I don't do too well on my own

I keep telling myself I keep telling myself I'm not the desperate type But you've got me looking through blinds

I keep telling myself I keep telling myself I'm not the desperate type

I'm sitting out dances on the wall Trying to forget everything that isn't you I'm not going home alone 'Cause I don't do too well on my own