mr. loverman

He had a calm voice and a nice laugh. One month and a half of decent conversation, book recommendations, a very confident opinion about soup dumplings, and enough green flags that you had lowered your guard by four percent to show up here without thinking of ending up on Dateline.

You checked your phone again.

7:16 PM.

The meeting time had been 6:30.

You called once more, and it went straight to ringing, then voicemail.

You stared opened your chat with Uro.

You: i hope all his hair falls out.

Uro: Did he arrive?

You: if he did he is doing a stealth mission.

Uro: Men from dating apps need ankle monitors.

You: i wore the boots.

Uro: The black ones?

You: yes.

Uro: Jail.

you: he hasn’t picked up once.

Uro: Jail with soap drops.

You stood near a booth where a man in a foam hot-dog hat shouted about ring toss prizes. A toddler screamed at a plush duck. Couples passed with paper trays of fries and stupidly linked hands. Then you got startled by a generator coughing behind the cotton candy stand.

Your phone buzzed again.

Uro: I have to pick up my niece from my sister’s. She tried to feed a Lego to the dog.

you: that’s advanced.

Uro: I’d have brought her, but she's three, so fairs are still beyond her. Go enjoy the place. You already paid for parking and the outfit.

you: I got stood up.

Uro: But your boots are innocent, babes. Just eat overpriced food, and have fun. God knows you need it.

You looked down at your boots.

They really were.

you: fine. if i die on a carnival ride-

Uro: I’ll sue the park.

You put your phone away and bought cotton candy from a teenager. Pink sugar melted against your tongue. It was too sweet, coating your teeth, but the outrageousness helped.

The fair had a local committee feel—half the lights flickered, the prizes looked as if they had been won in divorce court, a banner near the main stage promised LIVE MUSIC AT 8 but the band currently tuning looked prepubescent.

You wandered because you were good at taking yourself out. That skill had come from practice. Movies, cafes, bookstores, and whole birthdays turned into errands because if you waited for people to show up on time, you spent half your life facing an empty chair.

So you did the stalls.

You threw darts at balloons and missed every single one, which the booth guy treated as a genuine tragedy.

You watched a little boy win a plastic sword bigger than his arm and immediately whack his father in the shin.

You texted Uro a photo of a plush frog with one eye sewn higher than the other.

you: this is suguru.

Uro: Too handsome.

you: true. suguru had better hair.

Uro: Frog has better commitment.

You laughed and got powdered sugar on your lips.

By the time you reached the rides, the sun had dropped behind the school building beside the fairground. The Tilt-A-Whirl sat near the back, painted red and yellow, its bulbs blinking in frantic loops. The cars spun in drunken circles while a group of teenagers shrieked.

Your stomach did a happy little flip with them.

You loved rides that ruined balance—Ferris wheels were pretty, carousels felt decorative, and the Tilt-A-Whirl was nonsense with bolts. It made your insides lift and swoop, and for three minutes your head cleared out.

You bought a ticket and climbed into an empty two-person car with your cotton candy tucked against your side. You hoped the operator would forget about you or place a woman beside you.

You continued to eat through your leftover cotton candy while looking at what other rides you could go on after this one.

The car dipped as someone sat right next to you.

You half turned.

Tattoos.

Black Line Tattoos.

Your hand clenched around the paper cone.

He was looking away, one elbow braced on the edge of the car, his phone in his hand. His hair was shorter than when you had last seen him. He wore a black jacket over a plain t-shirt, and the side of his neck still had that faint tan line from racing gear. He looked rich in the way drivers did after sponsors got involved—expensive, mildly sleep-deprived, capable of getting photographed beside a model and smirking through the headline.

You looked away so fast your neck nearly clicked.

Fine. Fine. He hadn’t seen you.

Maybe.

The fair was crowded. The ride was loud. The universe had placed him next to you as a practical joke, but you had survived worse jokes.

You reached for the lap bar to lift it.

It locked.

The operator gave the car a bored shove.

The ride started.

Your soul left your outfit.

Sukuna still hadn’t turned. He was watching someone by the fence. You followed his line of sight without moving your head much and caught sight of Yuji waving both arms while Choso held a paper plate piled with funnel cake. Some younger cousin or family friend bounced beside them with a flashing wand—so they were out on family night.

Aww cute.

No.

Horrible.

Your exit routes had been sealed by machinery and his entire goddamn bloodline.

The first spin was mild—your car rolled around the platform, gaining momentum. Wind pulled at your hair, and the cotton candy trembled in your grip.

Sukuna’s knee hit the side.

You tried to look at him from the corner of your eye without turning fully toward him.

His jaw had tightened.

Oh.

You remembered now.

He could take corners at speeds that made sports commentators develop religion. He could slide a car through rain, through smoke, through the hideous math of another driver trying to cut him off.

Yet put him on a county fair ride operated by a boy named Mason with an energy drink, and Ryomen Sukuna became a trapped alien.

The car swung harder.

His hand landed on the seat between you, palm pressed flat.

You turned your face away and bit the inside of your cheek.

Another spin, faster. The platform tilted. Your stomach tingled in the way you loved, a bright swoop that rushed up your ribs. You almost laughed.

Sukuna made a sound that could have been a cough—if coughs carried primal fear.

You stared at the painted horse on the booth across the ride and, without looking at him, placed your hand over his.

He seemed too busy fighting for his life to notice.

But the car spun again, and his hand gripped yours on instinct, hard enough to make your rings press into your skin. He still didn’t turn. Maybe he thought you were a stranger. Maybe he was far gone in battle with the Tilt-A-Whirl deity. Maybe he had recognized you from the first second and decided mutual delusion was better than conversation.

You kept your face angled away.

The ride grew faster and meaner, so your laughter broke out, helpless and breathy. Sukuna’s shoulder bumped yours, his body almost lurching forward.

When the ride slowed, you pulled your hand back before he could catch it properly. The lap bar lifted, and you stood while everyone around you stumbled out.

Sukuna finally turned.

His eyes caught on your waist, right where his hand used to land before dawn when his alarm went off and he reached across the bed half-asleep, finding you before he found his phone.

Recognition moved through his face with vulgar speed.

You were already moving through the crowd.

You didn’t run because that would imply guilt. You were simply a dignified woman fleeing a carnival ride because your ex had discovered your waist by sight.

He called out your name, but it was so loud he couldn't hear his own voice.

A child with a glow stick cut across your path. You dodged. Someone spilled lemonade near the duck pond game. You stepped around it. Your heart was making a ridiculous amount of effort for a body that had only eaten sugar.

You almost reached the row of food trucks when a hand closed around your arm.

You turned.

Sukuna let go at once.

For a second he looked exactly as stupid as you remembered him.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I thought that was you.”

You stared at him.

His mouth opened, then closed. His eyes flicked over your face, the boots, and the cone of cotton candy crushed in your hand.

“You changed your hair,” he said.

“You still scared of rides at a carnival.” Adreline made you blurt it out before you could stop yourself.

His face loosened, his crimson eyes relaxed into his features, and it reminded you too much of the day you’d last seen him.

You cleared your throat. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“How have you been?”

“Driving in circles for money.”

“Healthy career path.”

“You?”

You nodded toward the fair in general. “Being abandoned beside a corn dog booth. Thriving.”

His brow moved. “Abandoned?”

Your phone buzzed in your bag. Probably Uro asking if she could pay an Etsy witch to get Suguru stalked by goats.

“Long story.”

Sukuna studied you, then glanced toward the ride. “You stayed on.”

“I was trapped.”

“You held my hand.”

“You were dying.”

“I was assessing structural failure.”

“Mason looked very qualified.”

“The operator?”

“He had a whistle.”

Sukuna’s mouth twitched. “Powerful credential.”

You hated how fast your face warmed. You hated the stupid, familiar muscle memory. You hated that the air between you could still find the old groove with one push.

“I saw your last race,” you said, because your mouth had chosen arson.

Genuine surprise crossed his face. “You watch them?”

You scrunched your nose mildly, accidentally. The way you did when you’d been caught.

Sukuna stared at that tiny movement. He’d never told you about that one tell.

His expression did a weird thing—softened at the edges, then caught itself.

You swallowed. “Some highlights came on. At a gay bar with friends.”

His brows rose. “I have gay bar fans?”

“You have fans with questionable betting habits everywhere.”

“Which bar?”

You refused to explain that you had begged the bartender to put the race on while you sat alone PMSing, a gin and tonic beside your hand, pretending you wanted sports because sports had become a pathetic substitute for his absence. You had watched his car move through the screen while drunk men argued behind you about karaoke. You had missed him so badly you had ordered fries you didn’t want just to stay until the podium interview.

“Some place downtown,” you said. “The bartender said you were probably annoying.”

He leaned a little closer. “You care about other people’s opinions of me?”

“I was doing community outreach.”

“So you follow me.”

“You have gotten hard to miss.”

He smiled then, infuriatingly flustered beneath the smirk. “Are you seeing someone?”

Your grip tightened on the cotton candy cone again.

You could have said you had been stood up by a man whose most impressive quality was voice-note confidence. You could have said everyone after Sukuna had felt as if they never really saw you. You could have said you had wanted him to be there so many times that no one would ever compare.

Instead, you said, “How’s the model?”

“The model?”

“The one from the news at the rooftop dinner. Tall one.”

He huffed. “You follow me pretty closely for somebody asking casual questions.”

It should have made you laugh.

That was the script. He teased, you deflected, he leaned closer, you rolled your eyes and pretended your heartbeat didn’t sing for him.

Instead, something inside you slipped.

Satoru would have loved this. He would have demanded screenshots, then called Sukuna a pink-haired lizard, then told you to stop acting as if a breakup suddenly made you mature. 

Your smile thinned before you could poker-face it.

Sukuna saw.

He stopped teasing so fast it hurt more than anything.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

He looked at your face as if he could pull the answer out, then seemed to think better of it. His hand flexed at his side.

“I fly back the day after tomorrow,” he said, instead. “Before that, can we get coffee tomorrow night?”

You watched a father lift his daughter onto his shoulders near the balloon stall. The little girl had blue face paint smeared across one cheek.

You said zilch.

Sukuna’s mouth tightened. “I need an answer. I can’t call you.” He paused. “Same number?”

You had blocked him so thoroughly your phone treated his existence as malware.

“Same number,” you mumbled.

“I’ll pick you up.”

“I can drive.”

He ignored you. “You live at the same place?”

“Next to the old one.”

“Six then.”

“I didn’t agree.”

“I did for both of us.”

You should have hated that.

But your lips twitched before you could stop them.

He saw that and looked pathetically relieved for a man paid to risk death.

At home, you called Uro from the couch.

She answered with, “Tell me Suguru got shingles.”

“I saw Sukuna.”

There was some scrambling on the other side.

“Ryomen Sukuna?”

“How many Sukuna exes do you think I have?”

“With your taste? I fear categories.”

You told her everything—the Tilt-A-Whirl, the hand, the gay bar lie, the coffee.

Uro went silent.

Then she sighed. “You should go.”

You sat up. “Why?”

“Sukuna didn’t cause this.”

You looked toward the TV, where a cooking show contestant was crying over burned fish.

Uro lowered her voice. “You ended it because of Satoru.”

Your throat tightened.

“You told Sukuna he was boring,” she continued. “Which was insane, by the way. That man has a lethal jawline and a deadly career.”

“He did become boring.”

"No, honey, you panicked because your brother relapsed, and the illness came back worse, and Sukuna was training for the season that could make his career. You thought he’d throw everything away and come sit in oncology waiting rooms.”

You pressed your thumb under your ring, twisting it.

Uro added, “You also kept telling everyone you were fine, which was your least convincing era.”

“I couldn’t make him choose.”

“You chose for him.”

You closed your eyes.

“Go for coffee,” she said, smiling. “You can still leave if he’s gotten stupid. I’ll key his car.”

That made you laugh, but it hurt coming out.

After the call, you fell asleep with your boots still beside the couch.

Satoru woke you by poking your ankle under the blanket. “Breakfast.”

You opened your eyes in the old house, in his room, on the giant bed you had practically moved into during the bad months. The emergency bell sat on the nightstand beside many bottles of prescription eye drops, a strip of tablets, and the ugly plastic water bottle he hated because it made him “feel eighty in a hospital commercial.”

He stood at the doorway in sweatpants and a sweatshirt, hair white around his face and paler at the lashes. Before the cancer, he had black hair and caramel eyes. He used to say the universe stole his color and made him ethereal.

You sat up too fast. “Why are you moving around?”

He waved a hand. “I made pancakes, nurse warden.”

“You’re meant to rest.”

“I am resting.”

“Satoru.”

“I feel better, let me have this.” His smile spread, bright and crooked, a little thinner than it used to be. “Breakfast for my baby sister.”

You followed him to the kitchen because arguing with him had once been a full-time job and you missed him having the stamina for it.

The pancakes were your favorite—he'd made them with extra fruit and too much syrup. He had even warmed the plate.

You took a bite.

The taste was wrong.

It was floury, flat, and a little bitter.

Satoru’s smile faltered. “Meds messed with my taste buds again, huh?”

“It’s good.”

“Liar. Give me the bowl. I’ll remake it.”

You pulled the plate closer. “It’s perfect.”

“Add more syrup.”

He sank into the chair across from you, breathing a little heavier than he wanted you to hear.

“Will Kento or Shoko come by today?” you asked.

“Don’t feel like socializing.” He sighed, stretching his shoulders with a wince he couldn't hide well. “I was thinking we watch a movie.”

You fully looked up.

He shrugged. “Unless you have better plans. Like maybe calling your bubblegum-haired ego a problem."

“Sukuna has a name.”

“Sukuna has anger issues.”

You laughed.

Satoru leaned back, pleased. “Call him back.”

“I broke up with him.”

“Why?”

“He should focus on his career.”

“If he’s going to be worth anything, he should learn to multitask." He speared a piece of fruit from your plate. “If he has a girl, she’s high maintenance. He’ll have training.”

“You barely know him.”

“I know he looks at you as if you’re a pit stop he wants to marry.”

You choked on syrup.

Satoru waited until you stopped coughing. He passed you water, then kept his hand around the glass for a second, as if he knew you might use it to hide your face.

“I’m serious,” he said.

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand. “That’s new.”

“Don’t get cute. That’s my job.”

“You’re bad at it.”

“I’m excellent at everything. Keep up.” His smile faded before it could become a joke. “You shouldn’t have broken up with him because of me.”

You looked down at your plate. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to. You make every decision like every part of your life has to consider me first.”

“That’s not—"

“It’s true.”

You pressed your fork into the pancake. “You’re sick, Satoru. You need me.”

“I know that.” His voice stayed steady, but his fingers tightened around his mug. “I need my sister. I don’t need you to turn into a nurse with no life after me.”

Your throat burned. “That’s a horrible thing to say.”

“It’s a horrible thing to watch.”

You looked at him then.

He held your eyes, tired and pale and still your brother under all of it. The same brother who had signed your school forms when your parents forgot, who had shown up to parent-teacher meetings in his uniform because he had practice right after, who had made your lunch badly for a month before he learned how to pack fruit without smashing it. He had been loud about everything except the things that mattered most.

“You think I don’t see it?” he asked. “You don’t sleep unless I sleep. You don’t eat unless I complain first. You keep your phone face down because you’re scared he’ll call and you’ll want to answer. None of this is good for you.”

You swallowed.

“Sukuna makes you happy,” he said. “He also annoys you, which is good. You get unbearable when nobody argues with you.”

A weak laugh left you, then quickly turned into tears you blinked away.

“I’m scared too.” Satoru leaned back, breathing through the small cost of sitting upright for more than his body was able to bear right now. “I don’t want to say that because then you look at me like your whole chest got kicked in. But I’m scared. And I still don’t want your life to shrink down to this house.”

“Satoru—”

“No. Listen to me.” His voice cut through yours, low and clear. “Love me. Take care of me. Fight with doctors. Make ugly pancakes taste worse with extra syrup. Fine. But don’t throw away someone you love because you think suffering alone is what you deserve.”

You wiped away the tears that came treacherously anyway.

“I raised you better than that,” he said, softer now.

You tried to smile anyway. “You raised me to be dramatic and suspicious.”

“I raised you to have standards, and somehow you picked a race car demon, but I’m choosing peace.”

“He’s not a demon."

“He has face tattoos.”

You laughed again, a little bit bigger this time.

Satoru opened his arm to let you tuck in. “Promise me you’ll call him. If he’s useless, I’ll hate him with you. If he shows up, let him.”

“You make that sound easy.”

“It won’t be.” His hand rubbed against your temple, careful and warm. “Do it anyway.”

He grinned, and for a second he looked sixteen again—school jacket half-zipped, practice bag slung over one shoulder, his mock-test rank posted near the top of the board. Boys copied his notes despite hating him. Girls found reasons to borrow erasers. Teachers used his name in warnings and compliments in the same breath. He played whichever sport had a vacancy that week, won enough to make coaches greedy, then came home with convenience-store candy for you because you had texted him a sad face during math.

You spent the afternoon watching a dumb action movie. It had three explosions in the first twenty minutes and a villain with an accent from nowhere. He kept making comments under his breath, weaker than his usual running commentary but smug enough.

Halfway through, his head tipped against the back of the couch, heavy medication dragging him under.

“You’re missing the part where the car jumps through a hospital.”

“Mmph.” He made a lazy sound, eyes closed.

You let him sleep.

The medicine did that to him lately—took his words first, then made his limbs sluggish, then the rest of him slower to react. You checked the time on your phone, compared it with the notebook on the table, and saw his next dose still had some time. Fine. He could sleep. You could give him that.

The movie kept playing—someone on-screen was shouting about a bomb as Satoru breathed beside you, shallow but steady, so your body allowed itself to unwind.

You must have drifted off too, because when you opened your eyes again, the room had shifted into evening. The TV had gone to the streaming menu, and the house had that late-day smell, dust, syrup, old coffee in the mug by his elbow.

Your neck hurt from the couch angle.

You yawned and nudged his knee with your foot. “Toru. Go to bed.”

He stayed slumped against the cushion.

You rubbed your eyes and sat up properly. “Seriously. Your back’s going to hurt more if you sleep here.”

His hand rested palm-up on the couch between you—long fingers, pale knuckles, and a small bruise near the wrist from the last blood draw. You nudged his palm.

“Medication time soon,” you added. “Come on. I’ll help you walk.”

He stayed still.

A small irritation rose in your chest, familiar and domestic. The type of annoyed you got when he acted dramatic during eye drops or complained about water tasting “aggressively round.”

“Satoru.”

You leaned closer and shook his shoulder.

His body moved with the shake, then settled.

Your irritation thinned.

“Toru?”

You touched his cheek.

It was warm but too still under your palm. His lashes were pale against his skin, white from the treatment and the strange pigment loss.

“Hey.” Your voice came out softer. “Wake up. You have to take the evening meds.”

The notebook lay open on the coffee table—pills and drops listed by time. The little boxes you had drawn and checked and checked again because order made you feel useful.

You reached for his wrist.

His pulse was hard to find.

Your own pulse got in the way, slamming through your fingertips.

“Satoru, stop it.”

You pressed harder at his wrist, then shifted to his throat the way the nurse had taught you during one of the discharge briefings.

“Wake up,” you said, even louder. “Go to your bed. You’re too tall for the couch, and I’m sick of hearing you complain about your spine.”

His head stayed angled toward the TV.

You grabbed his shoulder with both hands.

“Satoru!”

The name came out in a cracked scream.

You shook him again, rougher than you had touched him in months.

“Stop. This isn’t funny. Toru, get up.”

You bent close to his mouth.

For one awful second you thought you felt breath, then realized it was yours hitting his skin and coming back.

“No,” you said, and the word came out small, stupid, and useless.

You pressed your ear to his chest.

You waited.

You moved your ear, searching.

You held your own breath so you could hear his.

Nothing came.

Your hands began to shake so hard his shirt wrinkled under your fists.

“Toru,” you whispered.

Then you screamed for him.

The dream broke there, same as it did every time.

You woke on the couch in your apartment, gasping, sweat cooling under the collar of your shirt. The TV had gone to sleep, your phone had slipped between cushions and outside, daylight had already moved across the room and started fading again.

You had slept through most of the day.

Coffee was in an hour.

You got ready in simpler clothes because the idea of another date outfit made you feel stupid. New jeans, clean socks and the oversized white cashmere sweater Satoru had bought you years ago, back when he had money, black hair, caramel eyes, and a talent for buying gifts that made you cry in private.

Downstairs, Sukuna waited beside a car you couldn’t place. New or rental.

He straightened when he saw you.

Then he opened the passenger door and held out flowers.

You stared at them.

They were real flowers—pink and white, wrapped in brown paper, tied with twine.

“For you,” he said when you kept staring at them.

“I gathered.”

“You going to take them?”

“I’m thinking.”

He waited.

You took them.

He looked away, and the edge of his mouth moved, almost smug.

You wanted to beat the smugness off with the said flowers, but instead you got in.

The car ride carried all the comfort of small talk. He asked about traffic near your building. You asked about his flight schedule. He mentioned a sponsor event. You said the fair food was probably giving him diarrhea. Sukuna laughed.

The cafe was small, upscale, and filled with people who seemed able to drink espresso after sunset without ruining their nervous systems.

Sukuna held the door. You hated that too.

At the counter he asked, “Usual?”

You nodded.

He ordered it correctly.

You took a table near the wall.

“So,” he said once he sat, “what are you doing these days?”

“Work sabbatical. Finishing my degree.”

His eyes stayed on you. “That good?”

"Please, I don’t need judgment from a man who believed cigarettes were breakfast.”

His mouth twitched. “I matured.”

“You bought a sports car.”

“It was assigned.”

“What? Corporate custody?”

“Something along those lines.”

The server arrived with drinks plus a small pizza cut into uneven squares. Your usual.

You stared at the tray for a second too long.

He sipped his coffee. “How’s Satoru?”

Your body became hyperaware of your reality.

The hiss of the steamer grew enormous. A chair scraped behind you. Someone laughed near the window, high and sudden. The chili oil on the pizza smelled acidic. The sweater collar touched your throat.

“He died.”

Sukuna froze. “What”

“It’ll be a year soon.”

His hand hovered near the table, then lowered. “How?”

You folded your napkin, then unfolded it. “Peaceful, according to the doctors.”

His jaw worked. “Are you living alone?”

“Yes.”

“Family?”

You almost smiled. “Satoru was the family.”

The words hurt to speak aloud.

Sukuna knew you had family, but having and being reciprocative with affection and meeting a child's needs were two different things. They didn’t like you or satoru much.

“Have you…” Sukuna looked at you for a long moment. "Cried since?”

Your hands felt cold.

“What?”

“Since he passed.”

You pushed back from the table—the legs screeched. The cafe turned its head toward you in a hundred tiny ways. Every cup, every voice, every light on the wall became a separate grating sound.

Sukuna rose with you, fast enough to catch your wrist before you could knock something over.

You flinched, and he released you.

Then he stepped close enough that his voice could reach your ear and no one else. “Breathe. You can skip the answer. I pushed.”

You shook your head.

“Breathe,” he said again. “Look at me or the door. Pick one.”

You looked at the door because you didn't have the capacity to look at him right now—his crimson eyes were too expressive at the worst of the times.

"Please…" You took a deep breath in. “I want to go home.”

“Okay.”

The drive back was short.

He made zero attempts at conversation, keeping both hands on the wheel, eyes on the road. At your building, he parked and walked around to open your door.

“I can get upstairs.”

“I know.”

He followed anyway, carrying the pizza and flowers, as if the evening had become a delivery service with unresolved romantic history.

Inside your apartment, Toru stood in the hallway—white fur and blue eyes. A body shaped by luxury and criminal entitlement.

The cat looked at Sukuna, then at you, then back at Sukuna.

Sukuna stared.

You mildly introduced them, “That’s Toru.”

Toru blinked slowly, withholding citizenship.

Sukuna took off his shoes. “Does he bite?”

“He does and also loudly meowdels every old man complains he has.”

“Fair.”

You went to the couch because your bones had become heavy. Sukuna went into the kitchen without asking, which should have annoyed you, except you were less overwhelmed now. He filled the kettle. Opened cabinets and found the pan.

Toru followed him and sat near the fridge, supervising with contempt.

“You eat?” Sukuna asked the cat.

Toru’s tail moved softly.

“Useful answer.” He paused, then asked. “She eat?”

You pulled a pillow over your face, quite far away to hear any of this.

Sukuna continued, fully serious. “Blink once for very little. Twice, if she survives on coffee.”

Toru blinked once.

“He seems credible," Sukuna calls out to you.

“He licks plastic bags.” You yell back.

Sukuna smirked towards Toru and tapped his nose, making the cat paw at its nose. “It’s okay. Witnesses are allowed to have flaws.”

The cat squared up and hissed, which meant he was flawless.

From the couch, you heard the scrape of a knife, the tap of the cutting board, and the click of the stove. He made coffee first. Then stir-fry, simple and fast, with vegetables cut the way you used to cut them and sauce mixed from memory.

Your recipe.

Stolen.

Also, the only thing he’d eat after a long day.

You hadn’t realized you had fallen asleep until Sukuna stood over you with a bowl in one hand and the remote in the other. You woke up with the smell of garlic and soy.

“Sit up.”

You sat up because your body, treacherous thing, wanted the food.

He sat beside you with his own bowl and put on a terrible movie. Some action sequel where cars exploded for reasons that offended even him. Toru jumped onto the armchair and watched Sukuna as if waiting for a confession.

The first bite loosened your chest. Warm rice, vegetables, and sauce with slightly too much garlic because he remembered you liked it.

“You still cook it wrong.”

He glanced over. “You’re eating fast for a critic.”

“You stole my recipe.”

“I improved it.”

“You put too much ginger.”

“You need flavor.”

“You need to be humbled.”

“Tried it. Bad fit.”

A huff of a laugh escaped before you could stop it.

Sukuna looked at your face, then back to the TV.

You ate half the bowl before speaking again. “Satoru wanted a cat.”

Sukuna kept his eyes on the screen. His body shifted into less performative ease and more attention.

“Our parents would never let us have one,” you continued. “Which made sense in the practical way. Then it made less sense because they weren’t indulgent with anything, so it became this larger question of why they had children at all.”

Toru groomed one paw, deeply unmoved by human origin stories.

“Satoru used to send me photos of cats. He said once he got better after treatment, he’d buy a bigger house and fill it with cats who were babied and spoiled.”

Sukuna set his bowl down.

“During the last months, his hair went whiter. Lashes too. The doctors explained it, saying it was pigment cells, immune response, and treatment side effects. His eyes were the first problem. He couldn’t see well, but you could work around that while the meds still worked. There were tools, routines, labels on bottles, brighter lamps, audiobooks when reading hurt too much. Then—”

You swallowed because if you’d stopped now, it’d stay stuck in there forever and eat you worse. “Then the liver got worse. He had these drops, and scans, and appointments where everyone used gentle voices at us.” You swallowed. “He made jokes about turning into a designer ghost.”

Sukuna made a small sound, almost a laugh, because Satoru had deserved that much.

The crying began softly—a few tears you could have blamed on the movie.

Then Sukuna moved closer and put his arm around you.

“I kept thinking if I managed the appointments and the meds and the food and the calls, it would make a difference. If I stayed in his room and stayed awake, I’d catch everything. If I heard every breath, if I woke up fast enough...” Your spoon rested against the bowl.

“It didn’t matter.”

Sukuna said your name.

Your face hit his chest, and the sound that came out of you was ugly and torn loose. Years of holding yourself upright broke down into his shirt. He moved the bowl away with one hand and pulled you in properly.

You cried until your nose ran, until Toru abandoned the armchair and jumped onto the couch, until Sukuna’s shirt was damp and his hand had settled at the back of your head, warm and familiar in a way your body accepted before you realized.

“I told you that you were boring,” you choked out because he deserved that.

“I remember.”

“I was lying.”

“I know.”

“I thought you’d ruin everything.”

“You should’ve let me choose.”

“I’m sorry.”

His mouth pressed to your hair. “I know.”

His eyes burned once before he blinked hard and looked away. The wins had come with the money, the cameras, and the noise.

None of it fixed the part of him that still looked for you after every flight, every podium, every room full of people talking too much.

Every success felt a little thinner because every hotel room still ended with him reaching for a phone he couldn’t use to call the only woman he’d ever cared about.

Back then he’d known you were lying, he just hadn’t known how to make you come home.

You cried harder because you probably hadn't since your brother left.

At some point the movie ended and the streaming app tried to play another. Toru fell asleep against your thigh. Sukuna kept holding you until your body gave out.

You woke once when he carried you, mumbled something unintelligible, and fell asleep again.

He carried you to your bedroom.

You hadn’t slept there in weeks. The bed looked almost staged.

Sukuna set you down and left only long enough to bring water, your phone, and Toru, who protested being handled until Sukuna told him, “Your landlord requires supervision.”

Toru bit his arm.

Sukuna winced and let the cat curl up to you.

Sukuna got into bed beside you fully clothed. He didn’t crowd you at first. He lay on his back, one arm open.

You moved into it.

The sweater smelled faintly of your perfume and old cashmere. Sukuna smelled of coffee and the same cologne he used to wear when he had early flights and kissed you in doorways while pretending he had plenty of time.

You slept deeply.

Morning arrived without the usual panic of dreams.

For a few seconds, you knew that before you knew anything else. Your body had rested properly because your jaw didn’t ache and your hands weren’t curled into fists under the blanket.

Then you reached beside you.

The pillow held a dent, but Toru had claimed Sukuna’s side of the bed and looked pleased.

Your chest tightened, then eased in a tired, resigned way.

Of course. He had a flight. He had said so.

Maybe last night had been a mercy visit from an ex with guilt and good arms.

That was fine.

It had helped.

You could survive that much.

You got up to feed Toru.

A note was stuck to his bowl in Sukuna’s handwriting.

I’ll be back next month. Unblock me.

You stared at it.

Toru headbutted your ankle because romance meant little compared to tuna.

You fed him first.

Then you unblocked Sukuna.

A text came through almost at once with a photo.

You were asleep on his chest the night before, your cheek squashed against his shirt, Toru sitting on your hip as if guarding property. Your hair was everywhere and your mouth was slightly open. Sukuna’s jaw was only partly visible, but his hand rested over your back, his thumb blurred mid-stroke.

Below it came a calendar invite, already adjusted to your time zone.

1:30 PM Video Call.

Don’t dodge me.

You clicked on the calendar and saw that he'd squeezed it in after his team debrief. It was surreal to see that your ex had a Ferrari schedule, a flight, and a body people paid millions to keep functional, and still he had blocked out time to annoy you himself.

You accepted it.

Then you went into the kitchen and saw the flowers resting in a mug of water on top of the fridge.

And inside, cold brew waited in a glass bottle, labeled with tape.

Eat something first.

Beside it sat the remaining pizza, wrapped properly, and a container of leftover stir-fry.

You took out the bottle of cold brew, took a photo of it, and sent it.

You: i’m sorry, and i’ll wait for you.

The typing bubbles appeared so fast you almost dropped the phone.

A picture arrived.

Toru sat on the kitchen counter near the same coffee bottle in the gray morning light, tail curled around his paws, blue eyes aimed at Sukuna behind the camera. Beneath it, Sukuna had written:

Your brother might approve.

A/N: I hope you loved this piece as much as I did writing it even if the keyboard was blurry through most of it. I wanted to write only crack and fluff in this; however, Satoru stole my keyboard midway. So hopefully the next story I post isn't going to be as hurt/comforting.

Want to read the same pairings but with Gojo as the endgame?

Masterlist | Rabies | Chuki

"This isn't my fault!" Jinshi insisted, though his blood had run cold at their words. "I haven't done anything, sacrificing me won't help you! Let me go!!"

His struggling only stopped when someone punched him in the chest, all the air forcibly pushed from his lungs quickly rendering him immobile. "You've done more to upset her than any of the rest of us have," a voice spat at him. "Now move, we're almost there."

Though he wanted to fight, continue to argue, Jinshi did as he was told, still catching his breath. He had no idea how many people were with him, but he knew he'd never be able to take all of them on with his hands bound. So he cooperated, walking blindly wherever his captors led him.

Before long, they stopped, and the bag was removed from his head. He winced at the harsh light that suddenly hit him, but once he was no longer blinded, he realized they were standing in front of a shrine. It looked a bit out of place in the landscape, clean and polished and shining in the sun, its paint standing out from brown and green of the surrounding landscape.

"Do not disrespect her," one of the men – clearly a farmer – warned, and Jinshi turned to look at him. "Just because she's going to kill you anyways doesn't mean you can treat her poorly. She deserves your respect and all of our worship."

All he managed was a nod before he was pushed forward once again, the whole group walking into the shrine in complete silence.

"Goddess," one of the farmers called out, voice far gentler and more reverent than it had been when it was directed at his kidnapping victim. "We've brought you an offering. Will you tell us if it's to your liking?" The group of men went silent again afterwards, looking around the shrine almost nervously, though whether their nerves were about being left without an answer or something else was unclear.

Jinshi had never been in the presence of a deity before, so he wasn't sure what to expect; given that he was being presented as a sacrifice, he could only assume this would be a deeply unpleasant experience.

What he definitely hadn't expected was the sudden warmth and scent of peach blossoms that filled the shrine, and the way that the farmers surrounding him instantly dropped to their knees. He looked around, searching for something to indicate the arrival of the goddess he was being sacrificed to, but there was nothing. After a moment, Jinshi realized he could see a soft breeze moving around the shrine, wind chimes and paper prayers fluttering softly in its wake. Though his heart was in his throat, he tracked the movement closely; clearly the goddess was here, but she was choosing not to reveal herself. When the breeze reached him, he startled, caught off guard by the way it brushed his hair from his eyes, as gentle and solid as a hand.

"Your sacrifice is accepted. Leave us."

The voice resonated through the whole shrine, but it was soft, the murmur of wind over rice fields. Wordlessly, the farmers left the temple, their eyes locked on the ground and hats pulled low as they hurried away.

Despite the shuffling around him, Jinshi's gaze never left the spot in front of him, where the breeze that had moved his hair seemed to linger. Once the sound of retreating footsteps completely disappeared, the air shimmered, a human form appeared before him.

She was shorter than he'd expected for a goddess, her body softer, but that did nothing to diminish the gravity of her presence. Her hair tumbled past her shoulders in gentle waves, brown like the rich soil the farmers depended on for their crops, and her eyes glittered like sunrise on the river. The way she stared at him, unblinking and analytical, was unsettling, but Jinshi did his best not to squirm.

"You've never worked in the fields," she said; it was a statement, not a question, but he felt compelled to answer anyways.

"I have not."

"You've never even been to a farm, have you?"

A sudden wave of shame washed over him. "No," he confirmed, face burning. "I haven't."

The only response he received with a hum. She circled him slowly, wordlessly, and he felt her gaze on the back of his neck. He dared not move as she looked him over, though every instinct screamed at him to bolt.

She stopped in front of him again a moment later, her head tilted slightly as she looked up at him. "What is your name?"

"…Huh?"

"Your name," she repeated. "I need to know what to call you."

Why would she need to know my name if she's just going to kill me? he thought, hesitating for a beat as he debated whether he should lie.

"Don't lie to me," the goddess said, a knowing smile tugging the corner of her lips. "I'll know if you're lying. You humans are awful at disguising it."

He dropped his gaze, embarrassed that he had underestimated her, even if it was only for a moment. "Jinshi," he said quietly. "They call me Jinshi."

"Is that what I should call you?" The teasing list to her voice was almost unnerving, though it was outweighed by how soft her tone was.

"You can call me whatever you'd like, Your Holiness."

The goddess laughed suddenly at that, bright and tinkling like the glass wind chimes around the shrine. "Your Holiness," she laughed – giggled, really – and grinned up at him. "That's certainly a new one."

A cold panic rushed down his spine. "I– wh… what do people usually call you?"

"'Goddess', mostly," she said. "Though I do enjoy the few of the farmers' daughters who call me 'Your Loveliness', if I'm being honest." She took a step closer to him then, closer than any woman besides his mother had ever stood. "But you, Jinshi, can call me Dai Lu. Or at least I hope you will one day."

The goddess dropped her gaze to the bindings on his wrists, and with a wave of her hand, the fibers disintegrated, leaving behind nothing more than the red marks from his struggles to escape them when he was being dragged to the shrine.

A moment later, her words finally clicked with him. "Someday…?" Jinshi asked, confused, rubbing lightly at the skin of his wrists. "You told the farmers you accepted their sacrifice, so I thought—" His jaw snapped shut when she looked up at him again, worried that if he argued or pushed for an answer things would not go well for him.

"I heard the way you begged them to let you live," she replied. "I've never heard anyone beg like that. You don't want to die, but you don't seem eager to return home."

Jinshi turned his head away sharply, swallowing thickly at her words. She was absolutely right, and he hated himself for it; he didn't want to die, but he had no desire to return to his life as the heir to an estate, every facet of his life laid out before he was even born. Even this tiny taste of freedom had made him realize how suffocated he felt with his family, though he wished he'd gained this freedom without being kidnapped and offered as a sacrifice to a fertility goddess.

"Jinshi."

Her voice was gentle, familiar in a way it shouldn't have been, and he couldn't resist the desire to look at her. When he met her gaze, her expression had softened, and it made his heart skip a beat.

"I'm not going to kill you."

"You're not?"

The goddess smiled, shaking her head. "No," she assured him, "I'm not."

His knees went weak, and he barely managed to keep from collapsing. "Thank you," he breathed, nearly dizzy with relief.

"You're welcome," the goddess said. "But, Jinshi, there are other ways to be a sacrifice." There was no malice in her words, but they struck him deeply anyways.

Without giving himself the opportunity to overthink it, Jinshi sank to his knees before her; he had to look up at her from this new angle, but something about it felt right. "Whatever you want, I'll do," he said. "Anything at all."

"Anything?" the goddess asked, her smile sharpening the faintest bit.

"Anything," he confirmed. "It's the least I could do in return for sparing my life."

She reached out, brushing his bangs from his eyes just as she had before she manifested in front of him. "Would you give up your life?" she asked, "Would you stay here with me, cater to all my whims?"

"I would," he agreed, almost desperately; he was essentially exchanging one gilded cage for another, but at least here he would never have to worry about being targeted for his status or position in his family.

Her gaze sharpened to something akin to hunger. "Would you be my pet, Jinshi, my lifelong companion?"

"I would." He leaned into her faint touch, looking up at her through his lashes. "I meant it when I said anything, Your Loveliness."

Something Jinshi couldn't quite name flashed in his goddess's eyes, and she tipped his chin up with two of her fingers. "Well then, Jinshi," she mused, "I suppose I'll keep you. Welcome to your new home."

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"This isn't my fault!" Jinshi insisted, though his blood had run cold at their words. "I haven't done anything, sacrificing me won't help you! Let me go!!"

His struggling only stopped when someone punched him in the chest, all the air forcibly pushed from his lungs quickly rendering him immobile. "You've done more to upset her than any of the rest of us have," a voice spat at him. "Now move, we're almost there."

Though he wanted to fight, continue to argue, Jinshi did as he was told, still catching his breath. He had no idea how many people were with him, but he knew he'd never be able to take all of them on with his hands bound. So he cooperated, walking blindly wherever his captors led him.

Before long, they stopped, and the bag was removed from his head. He winced at the harsh light that suddenly hit him, but once he was no longer blinded, he realized they were standing in front of a shrine. It looked a bit out of place in the landscape, clean and polished and shining in the sun, its paint standing out from brown and green of the surrounding landscape.

"Do not disrespect her," one of the men – clearly a farmer – warned, and Jinshi turned to look at him. "Just because she's going to kill you anyways doesn't mean you can treat her poorly. She deserves your respect and all of our worship."

All he managed was a nod before he was pushed forward once again, the whole group walking into the shrine in complete silence.

"Goddess," one of the farmers called out, voice far gentler and more reverent than it had been when it was directed at his kidnapping victim. "We've brought you an offering. Will you tell us if it's to your liking?" The group of men went silent again afterwards, looking around the shrine almost nervously, though whether their nerves were about being left without an answer or something else was unclear.

Jinshi had never been in the presence of a deity before, so he wasn't sure what to expect; given that he was being presented as a sacrifice, he could only assume this would be a deeply unpleasant experience.

What he definitely hadn't expected was the sudden warmth and scent of peach blossoms that filled the shrine, and the way that the farmers surrounding him instantly dropped to their knees. He looked around, searching for something to indicate the arrival of the goddess he was being sacrificed to, but there was nothing. After a moment, Jinshi realized he could see a soft breeze moving around the shrine, wind chimes and paper prayers fluttering softly in its wake. Though his heart was in his throat, he tracked the movement closely; clearly the goddess was here, but she was choosing not to reveal herself. When the breeze reached him, he startled, caught off guard by the way it brushed his hair from his eyes, as gentle and solid as a hand.

"Your sacrifice is accepted. Leave us."

The voice resonated through the whole shrine, but it was soft, the murmur of wind over rice fields. Wordlessly, the farmers left the temple, their eyes locked on the ground and hats pulled low as they hurried away.

Despite the shuffling around him, Jinshi's gaze never left the spot in front of him, where the breeze that had moved his hair seemed to linger. Once the sound of retreating footsteps completely disappeared, the air shimmered, a human form appeared before him.

She was shorter than he'd expected for a goddess, her body softer, but that did nothing to diminish the gravity of her presence. Her hair tumbled past her shoulders in gentle waves, brown like the rich soil the farmers depended on for their crops, and her eyes glittered like sunrise on the river. The way she stared at him, unblinking and analytical, was unsettling, but Jinshi did his best not to squirm.

"You've never worked in the fields," she said; it was a statement, not a question, but he felt compelled to answer anyways.

"I have not."

"You've never even been to a farm, have you?"

A sudden wave of shame washed over him. "No," he confirmed, face burning. "I haven't."

The only response he received with a hum. She circled him slowly, wordlessly, and he felt her gaze on the back of his neck. He dared not move as she looked him over, though every instinct screamed at him to bolt.

She stopped in front of him again a moment later, her head tilted slightly as she looked up at him. "What is your name?"

"…Huh?"

"Your name," she repeated. "I need to know what to call you."

Why would she need to know my name if she's just going to kill me? he thought, hesitating for a beat as he debated whether he should lie.

"Don't lie to me," the goddess said, a knowing smile tugging the corner of her lips. "I'll know if you're lying. You humans are awful at disguising it."

He dropped his gaze, embarrassed that he had underestimated her, even if it was only for a moment. "Jinshi," he said quietly. "They call me Jinshi."

"Is that what I should call you?" The teasing list to her voice was almost unnerving, though it was outweighed by how soft her tone was.

"You can call me whatever you'd like, Your Holiness."

The goddess laughed suddenly at that, bright and tinkling like the glass wind chimes around the shrine. "Your Holiness," she laughed – giggled, really – and grinned up at him. "That's certainly a new one."

A cold panic rushed down his spine. "I– wh… what do people usually call you?"

"'Goddess', mostly," she said. "Though I do enjoy the few of the farmers' daughters who call me 'Your Loveliness', if I'm being honest." She took a step closer to him then, closer than any woman besides his mother had ever stood. "But you, Jinshi, can call me Dai Lu. Or at least I hope you will one day."

The goddess dropped her gaze to the bindings on his wrists, and with a wave of her hand, the fibers disintegrated, leaving behind nothing more than the red marks from his struggles to escape them when he was being dragged to the shrine.

A moment later, her words finally clicked with him. "Someday…?" Jinshi asked, confused, rubbing lightly at the skin of his wrists. "You told the farmers you accepted their sacrifice, so I thought—" His jaw snapped shut when she looked up at him again, worried that if he argued or pushed for an answer things would not go well for him.

"I heard the way you begged them to let you live," she replied. "I've never heard anyone beg like that. You don't want to die, but you don't seem eager to return home."

Jinshi turned his head away sharply, swallowing thickly at her words. She was absolutely right, and he hated himself for it; he didn't want to die, but he had no desire to return to his life as the heir to an estate, every facet of his life laid out before he was even born. Even this tiny taste of freedom had made him realize how suffocated he felt with his family, though he wished he'd gained this freedom without being kidnapped and offered as a sacrifice to a fertility goddess.

"Jinshi."

Her voice was gentle, familiar in a way it shouldn't have been, and he couldn't resist the desire to look at her. When he met her gaze, her expression had softened, and it made his heart skip a beat.

"I'm not going to kill you."

"You're not?"

The goddess smiled, shaking her head. "No," she assured him, "I'm not."

His knees went weak, and he barely managed to keep from collapsing. "Thank you," he breathed, nearly dizzy with relief.

"You're welcome," the goddess said. "But, Jinshi, there are other ways to be a sacrifice." There was no malice in her words, but they struck him deeply anyways.

Without giving himself the opportunity to overthink it, Jinshi sank to his knees before her; he had to look up at her from this new angle, but something about it felt right. "Whatever you want, I'll do," he said. "Anything at all."

"Anything?" the goddess asked, her smile sharpening the faintest bit.

"Anything," he confirmed. "It's the least I could do in return for sparing my life."

She reached out, brushing his bangs from his eyes just as she had before she manifested in front of him. "Would you give up your life?" she asked, "Would you stay here with me, cater to all my whims?"

"I would," he agreed, almost desperately; he was essentially exchanging one gilded cage for another, but at least here he would never have to worry about being targeted for his status or position in his family.

Her gaze sharpened to something akin to hunger. "Would you be my pet, Jinshi, my lifelong companion?"

"I would." He leaned into her faint touch, looking up at her through his lashes. "I meant it when I said anything, Your Loveliness."

Something Jinshi couldn't quite name flashed in his goddess's eyes, and she tipped his chin up with two of her fingers. "Well then, Jinshi," she mused, "I suppose I'll keep you. Welcome to your new home."

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"I'll do my best to behave from now on," he promised as he pulled away, still smiling down at you. "Or at least while we're in the onsen." The wind hashira's eyes glinted playfully, and you couldn't help but chuckle at him.

"Thank you, my love," you said, pulling him back down into another kiss. Though you allowed the touch to linger for a moment, you did eventually pull away, settling back down with your head resting against his shoulder. When he adjusted his hold on your waist and shifted your position again, you didn't protest, trusting him not to cause you any pain or discomfort.

You ended up sitting with your back pressed to his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your skin a song you hoped you'd never hear the end of. The two of you sat there for a few moments, enjoying the view of the mountains in the distance. Silence settled over you, but it wasn't uncomfortable – it was peaceful, in fact, a pleasant reprieve from the chaos and danger that filled every other day of your lives.

After a few moments, Sanemi loosened his hold around your waist, lifting his hands to your shoulders. The heat of his palms on your skin matched the water that surrounded you, and as his fingers began to press into your shoulder blades, you practically melted into his touch.

Almost as familiar with your body as he was his own, he worked the tension from your muscles with ease, slowly making his way down your arms. He took special care as he reached your wrists where he knew you had the most lingering pain, gentling his touch a bit and using the hot water a bit more to ease your discomfort, even if you both knew it was only temporary.

Eventually, once he had massaged the away the tension and the pain in your hands, he turned them over so your palms rested against his own, and delicately laced your fingers together. The act made you smile, and you tilted your head back to look up at him. Sanemi was already looking at you as did, the look in his eyes speaking his feelings for you louder than any words ever could.

"I love you, Sanemi," you murmured, giving his hands a light squeeze.

Squeezing your hands gently in return, he tipped his head down to steal a kiss from your lips. A soft hum escaped you at the touch, and you easily returned the affection. One kiss easily melted into another, then another, then another, and you only pulled away when you finally needed to breathe.

Still settled back against your husband's chest, you were a bit surprised to see snowflakes falling from the sky. They didn't last long, all of the ones closest to you melting as soon as they met the steam rising from the water, but they continued to come down, slowly dusting the landscape white.

"It's early for snow," you mused, mostly to yourself; it wasn't quite December yet, so though you knew it would be cold, you hadn't expected such wintry weather.

"Just means I'll have to keep you extra warm tonight," Sanemi murmured against your ear, the feeling of his breath across your skin making you squirm and giggle faintly. The chuckle that spilled from his lips in response rumbled pleasantly from his chest and into your ribs, the vibrations grounding you even further in the intimacy of the moment.

"C'mon, baby," he said after a moment, disentangling his hands from yours and pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. "Let's get inside before it gets too cold out here. Can't have my beautiful wife freezing to death on my birthday."

You rolled his eyes at his teasing words, but once he was out of the water and offering you a hand out, you easily accepted. "I guess that would make for a rather unpleasant memory," you responded seriously, though you couldn't manage to keep the playful smile from tugging at the corner of your lips.

"It would," Sanemi agreed, grinning as he pulled you close, wrapping a towel around you as he kissed your forehead. "I'd much rather enjoy dinner and fall asleep with you in my arms."

"No dessert?"

"No need, you're all the sweets I need."

The compliment sent an unexpected heat to your cheeks, and you turned away, holding your towel secure as you made your way back to your room. "That's a shame," you called over your shoulder, "Because I brought some homemade ohagi with us to celebrate."

There was a pause, and when you glanced behind you, Sanemi had started to hurry after you, completely nude, and you couldn't help but laugh at the sight. "Sanemi, your towel! You can't walk naked through the ryokan!"

Your husband groaned, turning back and dutifully returning for his towel, securing it around his waist before rushing back to catch up to you again. "You made ohagi for me?"

"I did. But I'm not telling you where I hid them until after dinner."

He let out a long sigh, but it was clear his mood wasn't actually soured. "Fine," he conceded, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and bringing you into his side. "Thank you, my love," he added after a moment, leaning over and kissing your temple softly. "Today has been wonderful."

"You're welcome, Sanemi. Happy birthday, my love."

also tysm to @eliza-and-her-monsters for beta reading this for me, you're a lifesaver 💜

taglist:

@mitsuristoleme @redlikerozez @oceaneyesinla @pixelcafe-network @cherrisuki 

@lemonloaves @stuckinthewrongworld @hayatoseyepatch @peachdues

@togame-hoe @sootspritestar @roselleviennesstuff @awksrambles @alt--er--love 

As her pregnancy progressed, though, it required more and more of her energy to make her way to and from the town, let alone do the shopping she needed to do while she was there. She was at the eight month mark now, and was a bit short of breath by the time she reached the market square. Though she didn't want to admit it, she knew her trips would have to come to an end soon.

Suzume had grown accustomed to many of the aches throughout her body over the last few months, but there was one that was getting harder to ignore. When she'd woken up that morning with a slight discomfort in her chest, she ignored it, figuring it would go away once she was up and moving around. It didn't go away, though, instead rising to a dull ache as she made her usual trek. Throughout her time in the market, the ache continued to intensify, so much so that she cut her trip short, desperate to go back and rest in her own home.

By the time she reached her estate, her chest ached more than it ever had before, and she barely remembered to take off her sandals before stepping out of the genkan, desperate to get to her bedroom and remove her restrictive clothing. She made her way first to the kitchen, knowing she needed to put away the few groceries she'd gotten at the market before they wound up forgotten in the corner of her bedroom.

"Aneki?" Senjuro's voice pulled her out of her thoughts about her miserable achiness. "Are you alright?" His features were pinched with concern as he crossed the room to meet her in the kitchen doorway.

"I started feeling a bit unwell at the market," Suzume admitted, after a moment of consideration. "I think I'll feel better if I lay down for a bit, though. I just need to put away what I bought."

Before she could step further into the room, Senjuro placed a hand on her arm, the other gently taking the bag from her hand. "I can do that," he assured her. "Go get some rest. I'll send Kyojuro to see you when he returns from training with Tanjiro and the others."

She hesitated for a moment, not wanting to give her little brother a task she was more than capable of doing herself, but between the persistent ache in her chest and the look on his face, she quickly gave in. "I didn't manage to get everything on the list before I started feeling unwell, I'm sorry." Passing him the bag, she also pulled the folded list and her coin purse from where she'd tucked them in her obi. "If you need to get anything else for dinner tonight or for anything tomorrow, there should be enough money left over."

"It's okay," the younger boy promised, offering her a small smile despite the concern that was still obvious in his eyes. "Just get some rest, I'll take care of everything else."

With a small nod, the forest hashira turned and made her way down the hall to the bedroom she shared with her husband. She slid the door shut quietly behind herself, then quickly set to undressing; the pressure of her clothes was only exacerbating the discomfort she felt. Her obi fell to the floor first, followed by her yukata a moment later. That relieved a small amount of pressure, but it wasn't enough to fully dispel the ache. With a soft huff, she lowered herself to the futon — she and Kyojuro had taken to leaving it out at all times, rather than rolling it up and storing it in the mornings, since Suzume was using it to rest more often as her pregnancy progressed — and got herself seated comfortably.

Working her fingers under the edge of her sarashi, she began to unwrap the binding from around her chest. Even before the garment was completely removed, there was an even greater reprieve from the ache she'd felt for most of the day, though it didn't entirely disappear. Suzume tossed the fabric aside with the rest of her clothes once it was fully unwound from her, and she let out a soft sigh of relief. Looking down at her breasts, though, she noticed they looked much more swollen than they had when she'd gotten dressed that morning. Her nipples had darkened to an angry red, as if they'd been rubbed raw by the material of her sarashi. The sight made her frown, but more than anything she was confused; she wasn't sure what could've caused such a sudden change. For a moment, the brunette considered redressing and going to the butterfly mansion, but ultimately decided it was pointless; it wasn't like any of the girls who worked there would know any more about this than she did, and the extra discomfort wouldn't be worth it to not get any answers.

Sighing softly, Suzume decided to try and rest while she waited for her husband. It was unlikely he had answers either, but it would be a relief to have someone else to talk to about the issue. Settling herself under the covers of the futon was easy enough, and she turned to lay on her side like she always did — it was the only position that was comfortable for her now that her bump had gotten so large. She allowed herself to relax into the soft material, her eyes drifting shut. Just a moment later, though she noticed something odd.

It was a wet feeling, not all that different than when she would sweat profusely during training or on missions in the summer. Despite the fact that she'd begun to feel a bit warm on her walk home from the market, she hadn't been sweating hard enough to be dripping down her skin that way. A sudden thought flashed through her mind — Am I bleeding? — and, in a moment of panic, she pulled aside the blanket to check herself for some sort of wound.

What she found wasn't blood, though. Instead, she was greeted with the sight of small rivulets of a watery white fluid rolling down her breasts and soaking into the material of the futon beneath her. Relief that she wasn't bleeding was quickly washed away by more confusion — that is, until she watched a bit of the fluid well up from her nipples before joining the stream across her skin.

Is that… breast milk? she wondered. It must be. What else would it be? The realization made everything else make more sense, even if it wasn't something she'd known could happen before she gave birth, and she had to admit it was reassuring to know that it wasn't anything dangerous to herself or the baby. Pulling the blanket back up over her shoulders, the hashira settled down again, closing her eyes and hoping she could get in a small nap before her husband returned home.

Suzume didn't remember actually dozing off, but she was eventually stirred awake by the sound of the bedroom door being slid open.

"Little flame?" Kyojuro's voice was softer than usual, and laced with concern. Suzume blinked blearily up at him as he stepped into the room, sliding the door shut behind himself.

"Kyo," she greeted softly. Around a yawn, she added, "How are Tanjiro and the others?"

He ignored her question as he lowered himself to kneel beside her, too focused on his wife and her well being. "Senjuro told me you weren't feeling well when you returned from the market. Are you alright?"

"Mm, yes, I'm fine. I figured out what the problem was," she assured him, lifting one hand from beneath the blanket to rub the sleep from her eyes. "Still a bit uncomfortable, though."

Her words only caused his features to crease further with concern. "What's wrong?"

The brunette felt her face begin to burn at the question, a wave of embarrassment washing over her. It wasn't that she thought he would minimize her discomfort or otherwise be unkind, because she knew he wouldn't, but it felt like such a ridiculous thing to say out loud. When she looked into his face again, though, her desire to assure him she wasn't ill or injured won out over her embarrassment.

"I'm… leaking," she said after a moment.

Kyojuro blinked, clearly trying to process what she'd said. "Leaking," he echoed.

Suzume nodded. "Yes. Leaking."

"…From where?"

His question nearly pulled a giggle from her lips, and all her lingering concerns vanished. Rather than answer him right away, she pushed herself to sit up again, allowing the cover to fall from her shoulders and reveal her mostly nude body to him. Glancing down at where she'd been laying, she decided she must not have been asleep very long, as the wet spot on the futon wasn't very large.

When she lifted her gaze back to her husband, he was completely motionless, his gaze locked on her chest. Fleetingly, she thought about how his intense focus on her was once something she found disconcerting; she was glad that was no longer the case, his intensity now one of her favorite things about him. After a moment, he spoke again.

"Can I touch you?" He met her gaze again, his good eye searching her face for any sign of hesitation. When she nodded, he shifted closer, only reaching out to touch her once he was settled on the futon in front of her.

His touch was gentle at first, his desire not to cause her any discomfort obvious in the way his fingers trailed across the wet skin of her breasts. Kyojuro's hands were warm as he moved to fully cup them in his palms, and a soft hum slipped from his lips. "They feel swollen."

"They are," Suzume confirmed. Despite how tender and distended her breasts were, his touch felt nice, and she let herself appreciate the warmth he always provided.

"I imagine that's uncomfortable." His voice was low, careful to keep the conversation between just the two of them. "Do you think if we stopped the leaking it would help?"

"Probably," she agreed. "You don't have to, Kyo, I'm sure it'll—"

"Little flame," he interrupted, his tone firm but adoring. "How often must I remind you that taking care of you is the greatest honor I've ever been bestowed? I want to help you with this." When she still seemed unconvinced, he added, "I would do anything in the world for you. Don't deny me the chance to care for you like you deserve."

His words melted her heart, and she nodded, not trusting her voice in that moment. Kyojuro offered her a gentle smile, then returned his attention to her chest. He kept his touch as gentle as possible, giving her breasts a small squeeze, but deciding not to repeat the action when he caught the way it made her wince. He brushed his thumbs over her nipples, then gave one of them a pinch and a small tug.

Suzume flinched away from the touch, a small hiss slipping from her lips. Instantly, he stopped, pulling his hand away completely.

"Too much?" his voice was gentle, his expression a bit pinched with concern.

She nodded. "Your fingers are a little too rough," she said. Before she could assure him it was fine, not wanting to inconvenience him in any way, he offered another solution.

"I could try using my mouth."

Silence settled over them for a moment, Suzume too stunned to speak at first. "You… you'd be okay with that?"

"Why wouldn't I?" He asked, seeming genuinely confused as to why he would be bothered by such a thing. "If you're comfortable with it, I don't have any problems. All I want is to help you, little flame, to care for you in whatever way I can."

For a moment, all she could do was stare at him, still a bit disbelieving.

"Do you trust me?"

"With my life."

"Then trust me with this, too."

He leaned closer, reaching behind her to prop up their pillows against the wall, before easing her to lean back against them. She put up no resistance, letting him guide her any way he wished; he'd only ever treated her with gentleness and adoration, and this time certainly was no different. She settled back against the pillows and the wall, her eyes locked on his face all the while.

Kyojuro smiled softly at her. "Comfortable?"

Suzume nodded, smiling softly back at him. "Yes," she whispered.

"Good," he hummed. "Tell me if any of this gets to be too much."

Though his words weren't a request, the brunette nodded in agreement, watching as he settled himself over her. He was careful to find a position that would let him stay at least somewhat comfortable without putting any extra pressure on her growing belly. With his face now level with her chest, he cupped her breast gently in one hand, then leaned in and wrapped his lips around her nipple.

The sudden pressure as he began to suck caused her breath to stutter, but it wasn't unpleasant. She didn't know what to do with her hands, didn't know where to look; would it be strange to watch him, to touch him while he did this? The flurry of thoughts in her head were quickly quieted when her husband adjusted, the heat of his mouth enveloping a bit more of her breast and the pressure of his tongue shifting as he continued to suck. There was a faint tingling sensation for a moment, then the milk that had only been a faint trickle before turned to a steady flow.

A soft sound slipped from Kyojuro's lips as the liquid hit his tongue, and though his eye fluttered faintly, he didn't falter in his ministrations. Suzume couldn't help but watch his mouth for a few moments: his lips were faintly chapped — not surprise, given that the weather was slowly beginning to cool — but the feeling wasn't abrasive against her skin like she'd expected; all she felt was the soft heat she'd long since begun to associate with him.

When Suzume eventually lifted her gaze from his mouth, she was a bit surprised to find her was already looking at her, a peacefulness gracing his features she rarely saw when he was awake. Gently, she slipped her fingers beneath the band of his eye patch, pulling it up and off of his face, placing it carefully off to the side. Once his face was fully visible to her, she cradled his cheek in her palm. Her thumb stroked lightly over the skin beneath his blind eye, and for a brief moment, she was nearly overwhelmed with the fear she'd felt when she'd been given the news that her fiance had fought and been greatly injured by an upper rank demon.

His brows furrowed slightly at whatever change he noticed in her expression, and he pulled his lips away from her breast. "Little flame," he murmured, leaning into her gentle touch. "What's the matter? You look upset."

"I'm fine," she was quick to assure him, offering him a soft smile. "I'm… I'm just really glad you're still here with us. With me."

Kyojuro's featured softened in understanding, knowing exactly what she was referring to without her having to say it. "I promised you even before we married that I would never leave you, and that's not a promise I have any plans of breaking." After he spoke, he turned his head just enough to press a kiss to her palm. "I love you."

"I love you too."

Her words brought the smile back to his lips, and he relaxed enough to get back to his previous task. "Does this feel alright?"

"Yes, Kyo. It feels… really good, actually." The brunette's cheeked burned at the admission, but she didn't look away out of embarrassment like she might have in the past.

"It's helping?"

She nodded, biting her lip lightly. He simply nodded back, then resumed his sucking.

Time turned liquid around them, slow and thick and sweet like honey. Suzume found herself relaxing under her husband's attention, the wet heat of his mouth pulling the ache from her breast. She let out a quiet sigh, gazing down at him with a soft smile. He was still looking up at her, though his eyelids had lowered a bit. When she threaded her fingers through his hair, her nails scratching lightly across his scalp, his lashes fluttered again, and he swallowed one last time before pulling away again.

"Better?" Kyojuro asked softly, pressing a few light kisses to the soft skin of her chest.

"Mm, yes," the brunette agreed; the pressure and ache in that breast was now completely alleviated, which just made the discomfort caused by the other more pronounced.

"Good," the flame hashira hummed, smiling faintly against her skin. He said nothing else for a moment, shifting so he was lying at her other side. Once he was settled again, he pressed a soft kiss to her breast, then took her nipple into his mouth.

Now used to the feeling, Suzume hummed softly, her fingers winding their way into her husband's fiery hair and lightly scratching at his scalp again. The touch drew a low hum from him, and though the sound was muffled by the nipple between his lips, it sent a shiver through her anyways.

The forest hashira watched her husband's face as he continued to suck, slowly draining the ache from her breast. As she continued scratching his scalp, she watched his eyes go a bit glassy. She couldn't say she was very surprised by that though; he'd always loved when she played with his hair and scratched his scalp, but she'd never had the opportunity to give him that kind of attention in such an intimate setting.

Eventually, once the ache and pressure had fully left, she withdrew her fingers from his hair to instead cup his cheek. "Thank you, Kyo," she murmured, brushing her thumb across his cheekbone.

The sound of Suzume's voice pulled Kyojuro out of his head, and he blinked slowly a few times before he finally released her nipple. His expression was soft and serene as he leaned into her touch, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "You're welcome, little flame," he eventually murmured. He turned his head and pressed a gentle to her palm, allowing his eyes to slip shut again for a moment. "Thank you."

"For what?"

The flame hashira's eyes opened halfway, and he smiled a bit wider up at his wife. "For allowing me to care for you. It is always an honor."

His words had her cheeks flooding with heat, and she looked away for a moment. "You don't need to say such things to charm me," she murmured. "We're already married."

"Not trying to charm," he insisted, leaning in and pressing a few soft kisses up the bare skin of her chest. "I mean every word. Being the one to care for you and attend to your every need is highest honor I could have ever received, and I will cherish every second I get to spend by your side." He bumped his nose lightly against hers, then pressed an adoring kiss to her lips.

"Now," he continued, after pulling away. "I'm sure Senj will be finished making dinner soon enough. Let me help you get dressed again, hm? You and the baby need to eat."

Cheeks still burning, Suzume gave her husband a lovesick look as he sat up and reached for the yukata she had shed after returning home. "I love you, Kyo," she told him. "I'm glad you're mine."

Kyojuro turned back to her, his expression warm and smile bright. "That I am," he agreed, "For the rest of our lives."

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