Sukuna helps his girlfriend of three years move in together, but an unexpected discovery among her belongings triggers his competitive nature in ways neither of them anticipated—leading to a heartfelt exploration of insecurity, devotion, and what it truly means to be someone's "best."
The cardboard box hit the floor of the new apartment with a heavy thud, and Ryomen Sukuna straightened up, rolling his shoulders with an audible crack that echoed through the empty space. Three years. Three years of dating you, and now you were finally—finally—moving in with him. The apartment was sleek, modern, all clean lines and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city skyline. It suited him. It suited them.
"That's the last of the bedroom stuff," he announced, his voice carrying that familiar gravelly timbre that still sent shivers down your spine even after all this time. He wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, his pink hair slightly disheveled from the day's labor. Even in a simple black tank top and joggas, he looked dangerous—muscles coiled like a predator's, those eyes hidden behind a pair of designer sunglasses that he'd donned to avoid frightening the neighbors.
You emerged from the kitchen, holding two water bottles. "Thank you," you breathed, pressing one into his massive hand. "I seriously couldn't have done this without you."
He took the water, his fingers brushing yours, and for a moment his expression softened—the way it only ever did for you. "You'd have managed," he grunted, but there was pride in his voice. "You always do."
The afternoon sun was scorching outside, the living room where dozens of boxes sat waiting to be unpacked. Sukuna's gaze drifted over them—kitchenware, books, clothes, and then—his eyes narrowed.
"What's in that one?" he asked, nodding toward a battered cardboard box tucked in the corner. It was different from the others—older, worn, with "TRASH???" scrawled across the side in faded marker.
You followed his gaze and winced slightly. "Oh. That's just… old stuff I haven't gone through in years. Things I meant to throw out but never got around to."
Sukuna's curiosity was piqued. He moved toward it with the predatory grace that defined every movement of his body, crouching down despite your protest of "Sukuna, wait, you don't have to—"
He was already opening it.
The box contained the detritus of a life half-forgotten: old concert tickets, dried flowers pressed between pages of a notebook, a chipped mug, and then—his hand stilled.
He pulled it out slowly, turning it over in his calloused palms.
Small, gold-painted plastic, the kind you could buy at any novelty store. It read "BEST BOYFRIEND EVER" in bold, slightly tacky letters.
"Sukuna," you said carefully, approaching him. "I can explain—"
"Explain what?" His voice was carefully controlled, but you knew him well enough to hear the edge beneath it. The way his jaw tightened, the muscle ticking in his cheek. He turned the trophy over in his hands, reading the inscription again. "Best. Boyfriend. Ever."
"It was from when I was eighteen," you said quickly, reaching for it. "My ex. I gave it to him because I didn't know what else to get, and when we broke up, he returned it sarcastically. I threw it in that box and forgot about it. It's trash, literally. That's why it's in the trash box."
Sukuna looked at you, his expression unreadable behind those sunglasses. "You gave this to him."
"Years ago. When I was a teenager."
"Because he was an asshole," you said firmly. "Sukuna, it didn't mean anything. It was a stupid, cheap thing. I bought it at a gas station on the way to his apartment because I felt obligated to get him something for our anniversary and I was broke."
Sukuna set the trophy down on the floor with deliberate care. Too careful. "I see," he said.
And then he stood, all six-plus feet of coiled power, and walked toward the kitchen without another word.
"Let's finish unpacking," he said, his back to you. "We still have the kitchen boxes."
Throughout the rest of the day, Sukuna helped you unpack with efficiency. He hung your clothes in the closet next to his—silk dresses beside his hoodies, delicate blouses beside his training gear. He arranged your books on the shelf, organized your skincare products in the bathroom, even placed your favorite mug in the cabinet beside his own.
Except he wasn't saying much.
And he wasn't touching you as much as he usually did—the casual hand on your waist, the brush of fingers against your neck, the way he'd normally crowd your space just to breathe you in. All of it, absent.
You told yourself he was just tired. Moving was exhausting. Even for a man who could bench press three times his body weight, who spent hours in the boxing gym every week, who had a trophy case in his old apartment filled with golden cups and championship belts—actual achievements, hard-won through blood and sweat and broken knuckles.
But as the sun set and the city lights began to twinkle outside your new shared windows, you found him standing on the balcony, arms braced against the railing, staring out at nothing.
"Sukuna?" You stepped out behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek between his shoulder blades. "You okay?"
He was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was rough. "In three years," he said slowly, "you've never given me a trophy."
Your heart sank. "Sukuna—"
"You gave me that leather jacket last winter," he continued, as if reciting a list. "The one from that boutique in Harajuku. You remembered I mentioned liking it three months prior. You tracked it down even though they said it was sold out everywhere."
"You gave me that first edition book of poetry for my birthday. The one I'd been looking for since I was twenty. You found it in an estate sale in another country and had it shipped."
"I remember," you whispered.
"You gave me that watch," he said, his voice dropping lower. "The vintage one. You spent weeks researching the movement, the history, found the exact reference I wanted. You remembered everything. Every detail."
"Because I love you," you said, tightening your arms around him. "Because you deserve thoughtful gifts."
"But never a trophy." He turned around finally, and you saw it—the vulnerability he so rarely showed. The way his jaw was set, the tightness around his eyes, the faint flush of color on his sharp cheekbones. He looked almost… embarrassed. Ashamed of his own feelings. "Never something that said… that."
The realization hit you like a physical blow. Sukuna—Ryomen Sukuna, who had faced down opponents in the ring without flinching, who had built an empire with his bare hands, who was feared and respected in equal measure—was jealous.
Given to a boy when you were eighteen.
"Sukuna," you breathed, reaching up to touch his face. He flinched slightly, then leaned into your palm. "That trophy was nothing. It was cheap plastic. It was a joke, even when I gave it. I didn't know what love was. I didn't know what a real relationship looked like. I gave him a gas station trophy because I was young and stupid and didn't know how to show I cared."
"He got a trophy," Sukuna said, and his voice cracked slightly. "He got words. Best boyfriend ever. Even if you didn't mean it. Even if it was cheap. You gave it to him."
"And he threw it back in my face," you said firmly. "Literally. He returned it when we broke up. He didn't want it. He didn't deserve it."
"But you gave it," Sukuna insisted, and now you saw the real pain there—the insecurity buried so deep under layers of confidence and strength that it rarely saw the light of day. "You thought to give it. In three years, you've never thought to give me something like that. Something that… claims me. That tells the world what I am to you."
"Is that what you want?" you asked softly. "To be claimed?"
His eyes—those beautiful, terrifying eyes—met yours. "I want to be your best," he said, the words raw and honest. "I want to be the one you give trophies to. I want… I want to know I'm better than him. Better than anyone. That after three years, I'm not just… convenient. That I'm chosen."
The confession hung in the air between you, fragile and trembling.
You stepped closer, rising on your toes to press a kiss to his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. "You are chosen," you whispered. "You are my choice. Every day. That stupid trophy meant nothing—it was a placeholder for feelings I didn't understand. The things I've given you, I gave because I know you. Because I see you. Because I love you in ways I didn't even know existed when I was eighteen."
Sukuna's hands came up to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones. "Then why does it hurt?" he asked, and he sounded so young in that moment—so unlike the powerful man the world knew. "Why does that plastic piece of garbage make me feel like I'm losing? I've won championships. I've held belts. I've beaten men twice my size. But this…" He laughed, bitter and self-deprecating. "This makes me want to burn something down."
"Because you want to be my champion," you said, understanding dawning. "Not just in the ring. In everything."
"Pathetic," he muttered, but he was pulling you closer, burying his face in your neck, inhaling deeply. "I'm pathetic."
"You're mine," you corrected, holding him tight. "And I'm yours. That trophy is going in the actual trash tomorrow. And if you want, I'll buy you a hundred trophies. I'll fill this apartment with them. Best Boyfriend Ever. Best Partner Ever. Best Everything Ever."
He made a sound—half laugh, half groan. "Don't mock me."
"I'm not," you promised, pulling back to look at him. "I'm serious. If that's what you need, that's what you'll get. But Sukuna—you already have everything I have to give. My heart isn't a trophy. It's not something you win once and display. It's yours. Every day. In the jacket, in the book, in the watch. In the way I moved my entire life to be with you."
He kissed you then—desperate and deep and full of all the words he couldn't say. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breathing ragged.
"Okay," he repeated, and kissed you again, softer this time. "I believe you."
But you couldn't stop thinking about it.
Even after you fell asleep in his arms, even after you woke to his soft breathing and the warmth of his body wrapped around yours—you kept hearing his voice. That crack in his armor. The way he'd asked, "Why does it hurt?"
He'd given you everything. Every part of himself. And somewhere in the back of his mind, that stupid plastic trophy had become a symbol of everything he feared—that he wasn't enough, that he wasn't claimed, that he wasn't chosen in the way he needed to be.
You slipped out of bed at 5 AM, careful not to wake him. The city was still dark, the apartment quiet. You dressed quickly, grabbed your keys, and slipped out the door.
You went to four different stores before you found it.
The first was a party supply shop that only had "World's Best Dad" and "Employee of the Month." The second was a gift shop that looked promising but only sold corporate awards. The third didn't open until 8. The fourth—a novelty store near the gym where Sukuna trained—had exactly what you needed.
You bought it with shaking hands, paid cash because your card was acting up, and practically ran home.
The sun was rising when you let yourself back into the apartment, the trophy tucked inside your jacket like a secret. Sukuna was still asleep, sprawled across the bed, one arm reaching toward your empty side. You placed the trophy on the nightstand and crawled back into bed beside him.
He woke an hour later, as he always did, reaching for you immediately. His hand found your hip, pulled you close, and he buried his face in your hair with a contented hum.
"Morning," you whispered.
"Morning," he rumbled, his voice thick with sleep. "You're warm."
"Come have breakfast with me," you said, pulling away just enough to look at him. "I want to show you something."
He opened his eyes slowly, blinking at you with that rare, vulnerable softness he only showed in the first moments of waking. "Show me what?"
"Come to the kitchen," you said, and kissed his forehead. "I'll make coffee."
You dressed in one of his oversized hoodies while he pulled on pajama pants, both of you moving through the new apartment with the quiet intimacy of shared space. You'd assembled the small breakfast table yesterday, laughing as you tried to decipher the Swedish instructions. Now it sat by the window, bathed in morning light.
Sukuna padded into the kitchen, scratching his chest, his pink hair sticking up in every direction. "You didn't have to get up early," he said, leaning against the counter as you started the coffee. "We could have slept in."
"I wanted to," you said, and turned to face him.
Then you reached under the table—where you'd hidden it—and brought out the trophy.
It was gold and gleaming, catching the morning light. Small, like the other one had been. But new. Shiny. Yours to give.
Sukuna froze. His eyes locked onto the trophy, then lifted to your face, then back to the trophy. His mouth opened slightly, but no words came out.
You held it in both hands, suddenly nervous. "I went to four stores this morning," you said, your voice trembling slightly. "The first three didn't have what I needed. But the fourth… the fourth had exactly one left."
You stepped closer to him, holding the trophy out like an offering. "Ryomen Sukuna," you said formally, your heart hammering against your ribs. "You are the best boyfriend I have ever had. You are the best man I have ever known. You are my champion, my protector, my home. And I should have given you this three years ago. I should have given it to you on our first month anniversary, on our first year, on every day that you've made me feel loved."
Tears blurred your vision, but you kept going. "I didn't give you a trophy because I thought you were above cheap plastic. Because the gifts I gave you were meant to show how well I know you, how deeply I see you. But I understand now. I understand that sometimes you need the words. You need the claim. You need to know that I am proud to call you mine, that I want the world to know what you are to me."
You turned the trophy so he could read the inscription.
"I looked for 'boyfriend,'" you said, laughing through your tears. "I looked everywhere. But they were sold out. Or maybe they don't make them anymore. But they had this one. And I thought… I thought maybe that's okay. Because I don't want you to be my boyfriend anymore, Sukuna. I want you to be my future. My forever. My husband."
You held the trophy out to him, your hands shaking. "So here. This is yours. You earned it. Not because you asked for it, but because you've been earning it every single day for three years. Will you… will you take it?"
Sukuna stared at the trophy. Then at you. Then back at the trophy.
His eyes were wet—he would deny it later, claim it was allergies, but you knew. You knew him.
He reached out with trembling hands and took the trophy from you, his fingers brushing yours. He held it like it was made of glass, like it weighed more than all his championship belts combined.
"You went to four stores," he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper.
"At five in the morning," you confirmed.
He looked at the trophy again, turning it over in his hands, reading the inscription like it was sacred text. Best Fiance Ever. The plastic caught the light, cheap and gaudy and perfect.
"I didn't even ask," he said, his voice cracking. "I didn't ask you to—"
"I know," you said, stepping closer, placing your hands on his chest. "I wanted to. I needed to. You needed to know, Sukuna. You needed to know that you're chosen. That you're claimed. That you're my best, my only, my everything."
He broke then—the way he only ever did for you. The trophy clattered to the counter as he swept you into his arms, lifting you off your feet, burying his face in your neck. You felt his shoulders shake, felt the wetness of tears against your skin.
"I love you," he choked out, the words raw and broken and true. "I love you so much it scares me. I love you so much I don't know what to do with it. I saw that trophy yesterday and I wanted to destroy something. I wanted to find him and show him what it means to lose. But you… you went and bought me one. You gave it to me. You chose me."
"Always," you whispered, holding him tight. "I will always choose you. Every day. For the rest of my life."
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his face streaked with tears he wasn't ashamed of, not with you. Never with you. "Is that a proposal?" he asked, his voice thick with emotion.
You laughed, the sound wet and joyful. "I guess it is. Is that… is that okay? Should I have waited? Should I have done it differently?"
Sukuna cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs wiping away tears you hadn't realized you were shedding. "It's perfect," he said, and he was smiling now—that rare, blinding smile that transformed his face from dangerous to devastatingly beautiful. "You're perfect. And yes. Yes, I'll marry you. I'll be your fiancé. I'll be your husband. I'll be whatever you want, whatever you need, as long as I'm yours."
"You're mine," you confirmed, rising on your toes to kiss him. "And I'm yours."
He kissed you then—deep and reverent and full of promise, the morning light wrapping around you both like a blessing. When he finally pulled back, he reached for the trophy on the counter, holding it carefully in one hand while keeping the other wrapped around your waist.
"I have twenty-seven trophies," he said, his voice soft with wonder. "Twenty-seven championships, tournaments, belts. They used to mean everything to me. They were proof that I was strong. That I was the best."
He looked at the cheap plastic trophy in his hand, then at you. "But this one," he said, his voice breaking slightly. "This one means more than all of them combined. Because you gave it to me. Because you chose to give it to me. Because you woke up at five in the morning and went to four different stores just to make sure I knew."
He pressed a kiss to your forehead, your temple, the corner of your mouth. "I'll treasure it forever," he whispered. "I'll put it where I can see it every day. I'll earn it every morning. I'll be the best fiancé you've ever had, I promise. I'll be the best husband. I'll be everything you deserve."
"You already are," you said, taking the trophy from him and placing it on the breakfast table where it caught the light like a golden promise. "Now feed me breakfast, fiancé. We have a future to plan."
He laughed—that rare and beautiful sound—and pulled you into his arms again, holding you like you were the only thing that mattered.
Because to him, you were.
And now he had the trophy to prove it.
Later, when the apartment was fully unpacked and the trophy had found a permanent home on the shelf beside his championship belts, Sukuna would catch you looking at it and smile that secret, satisfied smile.
He'd won a lot of trophies in his life.
But this one—this cheap, gold-painted, slightly ridiculous declaration of love—this one he treasured most of all.
Because you'd given it to him.
Because you'd chosen him.
Because he was yours, and you were his, and that was the only victory that had ever mattered.
