violet

he looks up when you approach. no big smile, just a small tilt of his head, like he is measuring you without trying to hide it.

“first time?” his voice is low, a little rough at the edges, but not unkind.

you nod and glance at the menu board written in delicate chalk. “yeah. it smells amazing in here.”

he gives a short hum, almost like approval. “most people say that. what are you in the mood for?”

you keep it simple. “just a hot chocolate. nothing fancy.”

he nods once, already turning toward the machines. you watch him work. his movements are precise, no wasted motion. he pours milk into a small pot, heats it slowly, then adds dark chocolate pieces one by one until they melt into something rich and glossy. while it warms he grabs a mug, plain white with a thin gold rim, and sets it on the counter. he does not write anything down. when the drink is ready he tops it with a swirl of fresh whipped cream and a light dusting of cocoa. the whole thing takes less than two minutes, yet it feels like he put more care into it than most baristas ever do.

he slides the mug toward you. a thin curl of steam rises between you both.

“on the house for new customers,” he says.

you blink. “really? thanks.”

he shrugs, the motion pulling the apron tighter across his shoulders. “name’s sukuna. i run this place.”

you tell him your name. he repeats it once, quietly, like he is tasting the sound, then nods again. something about the way he says it sticks with you, the low rumble of his voice making the simple word feel heavier than it should.

you carry the mug to a small table by the window. the rain has eased into a soft drizzle that streaks the glass in slow lines. you wrap your hands around the warm ceramic and take the first sip. the chocolate is deep and smooth, not too sweet, with a faint bitter edge that keeps it interesting. it settles warm in your chest. the café feels like a pocket of quiet in the middle of the busy city. no loud music, no rushing customers. just the soft clink of dishes from the back and the occasional creak of the old wooden floor.

after a few minutes sukuna comes out from behind the counter carrying a small plate. on it sits one perfect chocolate truffle, dark and glossy, rolled in fine cocoa powder with a single tiny heart piped on top in white chocolate.

“thought you might want to try this,” he says, setting the plate down without asking. “pairs well with the drink.”

you look up at him. he stands there with his hands loose at his sides, red eyes watching your face instead of the plate. there is no pressure in his expression, only a quiet patience that makes the moment feel strangely intimate for two strangers.

“thank you,” you say. you pick up the truffle and bite into it. the shell cracks softly, and a smooth ganache center melts on your tongue, rich with notes of cherry and something darker you cannot quite name. it is good. better than good. you make a small sound of surprise.

sukuna’s mouth curves just enough to count as a smile, the first one you have seen from him. it is small and uneven, like he is not used to offering it.

“good?” he asks.

“really good,” you answer, already taking another small bite.

he lingers for a moment longer than necessary, then nods once and returns to the counter. you watch him go. the tattoos on his forearms shift when he reaches for a cloth to wipe his hands. there is something steady about him, something that feels both solid and watchful. you cannot decide if it makes you want to stay longer or come back tomorrow.

the afternoon slips by slowly. you finish the hot chocolate and the truffle, then decide to order a second drink just to have an excuse to stay. when you bring the empty mug back to the counter sukuna is already preparing something new. he glances at you, red eyes flicking over your face.

“same again?” he asks before you can speak.

you pause. “yeah. how did you—”

“you finished the first one fast. looked like you wanted more.” he says it simply, like it is obvious. he does not smile this time, but his voice carries the same low warmth.

you sit back down with the fresh mug. the whipped cream has a little swirl on top this time, almost like a tiny ribbon. you do not remember asking for it. outside, the rain has stopped completely and weak sunlight filters through the clouds, painting the pastel walls in softer pinks and golds. the café feels even cozier now, like it is breathing with you.

sukuna moves around the space quietly, restocking the display case with fresh macarons from the back. every so often his gaze drifts toward your table. it is not staring exactly, more like he is checking that you are still comfortable, that the drink is still warm. you catch him once and he does not look away right away. instead he gives another small tilt of his head, almost a question. you lift your mug in a tiny salute and he returns to his work.

when the sky starts to darken you finally stand up, pulling your coat back on. the bell chimes again as you head for the door. sukuna is wiping down the counter one last time. he looks up.

“come back anytime,” he says. it is not the usual customer line. the words feel heavier, like he means them.

you nod. “i will. thanks for the truffle.”

he hums softly, that same low sound. “your order is easy to remember.”

you step outside into the cooling evening air. the city noise rushes back in, cars and distant voices, but the warmth from the café still sits in your chest. the taste of dark chocolate and cherry lingers on your tongue. you walk a few blocks before you realize you are already thinking about what you might order next time.

the next afternoon you find yourself pushing the door open again. the bell chimes its soft greeting. the pastel colors feel familiar now, the string lights just as welcoming. sukuna is behind the counter, arranging a new batch of heart-shaped cookies. he looks up the moment you enter, pink hair catching the light.

“back already,” he says. it is not a question.

you smile a little. “couldn’t stop thinking about that hot chocolate.”

he nods once, already reaching for the milk. “same as yesterday then.”

you watch him work. he still does not write anything down. the tattoos on his hands flex as he stirs the chocolate into the milk, slow and careful. when he sets the finished drink in front of you there is another small addition, a single chocolate curl balanced on the whipped cream like a delicate decoration.

“try it,” he says simply.

you take the mug and return to the same table by the window. the drink tastes even better today, or maybe it is just the way the café seems to settle around you. sukuna keeps the space clean and quiet. customers come and go, but none of them stay as long as you do. he remembers their orders too, you notice, but with you he adds the small extras without being asked.

late in the afternoon he brings you another truffle, this one dusted with a faint shimmer of gold powder. he sets it down and pauses, one hand resting lightly on the edge of the table.

“you sit in the same spot every time,” he observes, voice low.

you look up at him. his red eyes are steady, curious in a way that feels personal. the tension is there again, soft and humming beneath the surface, like the quiet pull between two people who have not yet decided what they are circling.

“it’s comfortable,” you answer. “and the view is nice.”

he glances out the window, then back to you. a faint curve touches his mouth again, smaller this time, almost private. “good. stay as long as you like.”

he leaves you with the truffle and returns to the counter. you break the chocolate open and the ganache inside is darker today, richer, with a warmth that spreads through your whole body. you sip the hot chocolate slowly, letting the afternoon stretch. every so often sukuna’s gaze finds you again. each time it lingers a moment longer than the last.

when you finally stand to leave, the sky outside is painted in soft oranges and pinks that match the café walls. sukuna is boxing up a small order for another customer, but he looks over as you approach the door.

“same time tomorrow?” he asks, casual but direct.

you pause with your hand on the door. the question feels like more than just business. the subtle tension pulls a little tighter, warm and intriguing, like the first sip of something you already know you will want again.

“probably,” you say.

he nods, satisfied. “i’ll have it ready.”

you step outside, the bell chiming behind you. the taste of chocolate still coats your tongue. the city feels a little softer tonight, the streetlights gentler. you walk home thinking about pink hair, red eyes, and the quiet way sukuna watches you, like he is already learning the shape of your silences as well as your orders.

the next day you return earlier. the café is the same gentle haven, string lights glowing, soft music playing. sukuna looks up from behind the counter the second you walk in. his expression does not change much, but something in his shoulders relaxes, like a small weight has lifted.

“hot chocolate,” he says before you reach the counter. it is not a question this time.

you smile. “yeah.”

he starts preparing it immediately. you notice he adds an extra swirl of cream without being asked. when he hands you the mug his fingers brush yours for half a second, warm and steady. the contact is brief, but it leaves a faint spark under your skin.

you take your usual seat. the truffle that appears ten minutes later has a tiny initial piped on top in white chocolate, the first letter of your name. you glance toward the counter. sukuna is watching, red eyes calm and unreadable. he gives the smallest nod when your eyes meet, like he is confirming something only the two of you understand.

you eat the truffle slowly, letting the rich center melt on your tongue. the tension between you both is still quiet, still gentle, but it has grown a little thicker, a little sweeter, like the chocolate he keeps making just for you. you do not know what it means yet. you only know you are not ready to leave.

the bell chimes the same soft note when you push the door open a week later. the rain has stayed away this time, leaving the city air crisp and cool. inside, the pastel café feels even more familiar, like slipping back into a warm coat. string lights glow gently over the heart-shaped tables. the display case still sparkles with rows of delicate macarons and ribbon-tied chocolate boxes. the record player spins something slow and sweet in the background, a piano melody that curls through the room like warm sugar.

you carry a book under your arm, a thick paperback you have been meaning to finish for days. the café seems like the perfect place to sink into it without the noise of your apartment or the distractions of the street. you scan the room for your usual table by the window. it is empty, waiting.

sukuna stands behind the counter. his pink hair isn't slicked back today, a few strands falling across his forehead. the black tattoos shift along his arms as he arranges a tray of fresh pastries. the frilled pink apron stretches across his broad chest, looking somehow both absurd and natural on his large frame. he looks up the moment you step inside, red eyes finding you immediately. there is no big reaction, just a small, steady nod, like he had been expecting you.

“back again,” he says, voice low and even. he does not ask what you want. instead he turns toward the machines right away, already reaching for the milk.

you walk to the counter and set your book down for a moment. “yeah. figured this was a good spot to read.”

he hums softly, a sound that feels almost approving. his hands move with the same careful precision as before. he heats the milk slowly, adds dark chocolate pieces, then stirs until everything melts into a rich, glossy liquid. this time he does not stop at the usual hot chocolate. he adds a dash of something extra, a faint spice you catch on the air, and tops the finished drink with whipped cream and a delicate swirl of white chocolate that forms a small, neat spiral. he sets a small plate beside the mug too, holding two truffles, one dark and one lighter, both dusted with a fine cocoa that glimmers under the lights.

“thought you might like this today,” he says, sliding everything toward you. “pairs with reading. keeps you warm without being too heavy.”

you blink at the custom drink. he had not asked a single question. “you remembered.”

sukuna’s red eyes meet yours across the counter. his mouth curves just slightly, that uneven almost-smile again. “your order is simple. easy to remember.” he pauses, then adds quieter, “and you sat in the same spot the last three times.”

the words feel personal in a way that warms your chest more than the steam rising from the mug. you thank him softly and carry the drink and truffles to your table. the book waits in your hands as you settle in. the chair feels comfortable, the light from the window just right for reading. you take the first sip of the hot chocolate. the added spice is subtle, a gentle heat that spreads through you without overpowering the deep chocolate. it tastes like it was made exactly for a quiet afternoon with a story.

you open the book and lose yourself in the pages for a while. the café stays peaceful around you. a few customers come and go, their voices soft against the piano music. sukuna moves quietly behind the counter, wiping surfaces, restocking the display. every so often you feel his gaze drift toward your table. it is not intrusive. it feels like he is making sure the drink stays warm or that you have enough space. when your mug gets low he appears beside the table without being called, carrying a fresh one.

“refill,” he says simply, replacing the empty mug. his fingers brush the edge of the table near your book. “same as before.”

you look up at him. up close, the tattoos on his neck stand out more clearly, sharp black lines that disappear under his collar. his red eyes hold steady, patient. there is a softness in the interaction now, a quiet familiarity that has grown in just a few visits. “thanks. you didn’t have to.”

he shrugs, the motion pulling the apron tighter. “i wanted to.” the words hang between you for a moment, low and genuine. then he returns to the counter, leaving you with the new drink and the lingering warmth of his attention.

the afternoon stretches comfortably. you read deeper into the book, the hot chocolate keeping you cozy. the truffles disappear one by one, their centers melting rich and smooth on your tongue. the café feels like a small bubble, separate from the city outside. sukuna’s presence at the counter is steady, reassuring in its quiet way. he does not hover, but he notices everything. when you shift in your seat he adjusts the string lights slightly so the glow falls better on your pages. when another customer asks for directions he answers in the same low voice, polite but brief, then his gaze returns to you.

later, as the light outside starts to soften, the door opens again. a man walks in, loud and restless. he orders something simple at the counter, but his voice carries too much, cutting through the gentle piano music. he glances around the café and his eyes land on you. he smiles in a way that feels too sharp, too eager. before you can focus back on your book he walks over, pulling out the chair across from you without asking.

“mind if i sit? place is packed,” he says, even though it is not. his tone is casual, but there is an edge to it, like he is testing how far he can push.

you tense slightly, fingers tightening on the edge of your book. “actually, i’m reading. i’d rather be alone.”

he leans in anyway, ignoring the refusal. “come on, just for a minute. you look like you could use some company. what are you reading anyway?”

the interaction feels wrong against the soft atmosphere of the café. you glance toward the counter. sukuna is watching. his hands have stopped moving. the pink apron still sits neatly on his broad frame, but his red eyes have narrowed just a fraction. he does not speak yet. he simply observes, tattoos shifting as his arms rest on the counter.

you turn back to the man. “no, thanks. i’m fine on my own.”

he laughs, low and dismissive, and reaches toward your book like he wants to see the cover. “don’t be like that. it’s just a conversation.”

before you can pull the book away, sukuna’s voice cuts through the space, calm and even. “she said she wants to be alone.”

the man looks up, surprised. sukuna has stepped out from behind the counter. he towers without trying, his large frame filling the aisle between tables. his expression stays neutral, almost gentle, but there is a weight to his presence that makes the air feel thicker. the tattoos on his arms stand out under the string lights.

“just talking, man,” the stranger says, but his voice has lost some of its confidence.

sukuna does not raise his voice. he simply stands there, red eyes steady on the man. “she wants to read. find another table.”

the man hesitates, then stands up with a muttered comment under his breath. he grabs his order from the counter and leaves quickly, the bell chiming sharply behind him. the café falls quiet again, the piano music filling the space once more.

you let out a slow breath. sukuna returns to your table, his steps unhurried. he sets down a new truffle on a small plate, this one with a faint dusting of gold powder, like the one from before but a little more ornate.

“sorry about that,” he says quietly. his voice has returned to that low, gentle tone. “some people don’t know when to stop.”

you look up at him. the tension from the interruption still lingers in your chest, but sukuna’s presence eases it. “it's fine.. thanks for stepping in.”

he nods once, red eyes meeting yours with a quiet intensity. there is something softer in the way he looks at you now, like the small exchange has drawn the two of you closer. “no need to thank me. your table is yours.” he pauses, then adds, almost under his breath, “always is.”

he leaves you with the truffle and returns to the counter. you watch him go, the broad line of his shoulders under the pink apron, the pink hair catching the light. the interaction feels more personal now, the quiet protectiveness settling between you like another layer of warmth.

you try to return to your book, but the words blur for a few minutes. the new truffle sits on the plate, rich and inviting. you eat it slowly. the center is even smoother than before, with a hint of spice that matches the custom hot chocolate. it helps the unease fade.

the rest of the afternoon passes in the same gentle rhythm. sukuna keeps the space quiet and comfortable. he refills your drink once more without being asked, adding the same delicate swirl on top. each time your eyes meet across the room the interaction feels a little softer, a little more charged with something unspoken. he does not push. he simply remembers, notices, and offers small things that make the café feel like it belongs to the two of you in some quiet way.

when the sky outside begins to darken you finally close the book and stand up. your legs feel a little stiff from sitting so long. sukuna is at the counter, boxing a small order for the last customer. as you approach the door he looks over, red eyes calm.

“finished the chapter?” he asks, voice low.

you nod. “yeah. the drink helped.”

he gives that small, uneven smile again. “good. come back soon. i’ll have something new ready next time.”

you pause at the door, hand on the handle. the bell waits above you. “i will.”

outside, the evening air feels cooler against your skin. the city noise returns, but it feels distant. you walk a few blocks before you realize you are thinking about sukuna’s steady red eyes and the way he stepped in without making a scene. the man from earlier does not cross your mind much. you figure he simply left and moved on to somewhere else. the café stays in your thoughts instead, warm and inviting, with its pastel walls and the quiet baker who remembers exactly how you like your chocolate.

a few days later you hear something small from a regular passing by on the street. the loud man from the café has not been seen around the neighborhood since that afternoon. no one seems to know where he went. it is mentioned in passing, like any other bit of city gossip. people vanish sometimes. the comment fades as quickly as it comes.

you return to the café the following week anyway. the bell chimes softly. the pastel interior welcomes you again. sukuna looks up from behind the counter, pink hair loose today, tattoos visible along his arms. he nods once, already reaching for the milk.

“same table?” he asks, voice low and steady, like nothing has changed.

you smile a little and nod. the custom hot chocolate appears a few minutes later, spiced just right, with an extra truffle on the side. when he sets it down his fingers linger near the mug for half a second longer than necessary. his red eyes meet yours with that same quiet intensity.

“welcome back,” he says simply.

the interaction feels softer now, the space between you both shrinking in small, careful steps. you settle into your chair with the book and the drink. the café wraps around you, sweet and comforting. sukuna moves quietly in the background, observant as ever. whatever happened with the loud stranger feels far away, like a small ripple that never touched the gentle rhythm of this place.

you take a sip of the hot chocolate and let the warmth settle in your chest. sukuna’s gaze finds you again from across the room. this time you hold it a moment longer. he does not look away. the tension between you both stays intriguing, quiet, and slowly deepening, like the rich center of one of his perfect truffles.

the afternoon stretches ahead, soft and sweet, with the promise of more quiet moments shared in the pastel light.

the bell chimes with its familiar soft sound as you step into the café again a few days later. the pastel walls greet you like an old friend, string lights casting their gentle glow over the heart-shaped tables. the air carries the same warm mix of vanilla and dark chocolate, thicker today with a faint note of something richer underneath. you have started coming more often now, sometimes every other day, sometimes twice in one week. the little place has carved out a spot in your routine, a quiet pocket where the city noise fades and the pages of your book turn easier.

sukuna stands behind the counter, pink hair slicked back neatly from his face, the sharp black tattoos climbing up his neck and across his arms. the frilled pink apron still stretches over his broad chest, but it no longer looks out of place. he looks up the moment you enter, red eyes locking onto you with that steady, knowing focus. his mouth curves into a small, uneven smile, the kind that has grown more frequent with each visit.

“there you are,” he says, voice low and warm. “missed you yesterday.”

the words settle in your chest, soft and personal. you walk to the counter and set your bag down. “got caught up with work. but i’m here now.”

he nods once, already moving. he does not ask what you want anymore. instead he reaches for the milk and begins preparing your drink exactly the way you like it, with the subtle spice and the perfect swirl of whipped cream on top. this time he adds a small touch, a faint dusting of cinnamon across the foam. when he slides the mug toward you he sets a plate beside it with three truffles, arranged in a neat row.

“for my favorite regular,” he murmurs, the words carrying a quiet intimacy. “extra dark today. thought you might need it after a long week.”

you feel the heat rise in your cheeks at the casual pet name. favorite regular. it sounds simple, but the way he says it makes the space between you both feel smaller, more comfortable. almost domestic, like this has become a shared ritual rather than just a stop for chocolate.

“thanks, sukuna,” you reply softly. you take the mug and the plate to your usual table by the window. the hot chocolate tastes perfect, the cinnamon adding a warm depth that matches the cool weather outside. the truffles melt rich and smooth on your tongue, one with a hint of cherry, another with something deeper and more complex.

sukuna moves around the café with his usual quiet efficiency. he wipes the counter, restocks the display case, but his attention keeps drifting back to you. when you shift in your seat he adjusts the string lights without a word so the glow falls better on your book. when your mug empties he appears at your table with a fresh one before you can even think to ask.

“here,” he says, setting it down. his fingers brush yours for a brief moment, warm and steady. “drink up. you look like you could use the warmth.”

you smile up at him. the interactions have grown softer over the visits, the conversations stretching longer. he asks about your book now, listens when you mention a rough day at work, and offers small comments in that low voice that makes everything feel calmer. “take your time,” he says often. “the table is yours as long as you want it.”

one afternoon you stay until closing. the last customer leaves and sukuna flips the sign on the door with a soft click. he does not ask you to go. instead he brings you another custom drink, this one topped with a delicate chocolate heart that has your initial piped in white.

“for staying late,” he says, sliding into the chair across from you for the first time. his large frame makes the small table feel even smaller, but it feels right. the tattoos on his forearms rest on the lace doily as he watches you sip. “you always choose the same spot. makes the place feel steadier when you’re here.”

the words hang between you, warm and almost domestic. you talk quietly about nothing important, the weather, the new pastries in the case, the way the city lights look from the window. he listens with that same focused attention, red eyes never drifting far from your face. when you laugh at something small he gives that uneven smile again, softer now, like it is meant only for you.

the connection has deepened without fanfare. he starts using small pet names naturally, slipping them in like they have always belonged there. “careful with that one, sweetheart,” he says when he brings a particularly rich truffle. or “you look tired today, doll. let me make you something light.” each time the words land gentle against the quiet tension that simmers underneath, intriguing and comfortable all at once.

you begin to notice other things too. the way certain desserts carry a new, subtle taste. one evening he offers you a special macaron, pale pink with a glossy filling. when you bite into it the center has a faint coppery edge beneath the sweetness, metallic and warm, like blood mixed into the ganache. you pause mid-bite, the flavor lingering on your tongue. it is not unpleasant. it feels intentional, like a secret folded into the recipe just for those who pay attention.

you glance toward the counter where sukuna is cleaning the machines. he meets your eyes calmly, red gaze steady. there is no explanation, no apology in his expression. he simply nods once, like he knows you have noticed and accepts it. the coppery note fades into the rich chocolate, leaving you with a strange sense of clarity rather than fear. someone had made you uncomfortable the week before, a different stranger who had lingered too long at your table, his comments crossing lines until sukuna had stepped in again with that quiet, heavy presence. the man had left quickly that day. now he is simply gone from the neighborhood, like the loud one before him. no one mentions it much. people vanish sometimes.

you finish the macaron slowly. the taste stays with you, copper and sugar blending in a way that feels deliberate. sukuna’s attention on you feels heavier now, more focused. he knows you have started to see the pattern, yet he does not hide it. instead he brings you another drink later, his voice low when he sets it down.

“everything alright?” he asks, the pet name slipping out soft and protective.

you nod, meeting his red eyes. “yeah. it’s good.”

he hums in that low way, satisfied. the quiet sense that he handles things in his own way settles over you, not as a threat but as something intentional, woven into the comfort of the café. you keep coming back anyway. the fear never fully arrives. instead the realization sits warm in your chest, mixed with the chocolate and the growing pull toward the man behind the counter.

another visit a few days later brings a similar moment. you arrive in the late afternoon to find the café mostly empty. sukuna greets you with the usual custom hot chocolate, this time with an extra swirl of cream shaped like a small bow. he calls you “darling” when he hands it over, the word rolling off his tongue like it has been waiting there. you settle at your table and open your book, the routine feeling almost domestic now. the string lights glow softly, the record player spins its gentle melody, and sukuna’s presence fills the space without crowding it.

halfway through the chapter a woman enters. she orders at the counter with a sharp tone, complaining about the wait even though the place is quiet. when she turns and spots you she walks over, eyes narrowing like she has decided you are the problem.

“this seat taken?” she asks, already pulling out the chair. her voice carries an edge that makes your shoulders tense.

“yes, actually,” you say quietly. “i’m using it.”

she scoffs and sits anyway, leaning in too close. “you’ve been here every day this week. some of us have real things to do. move if you’re just wasting space.”

the discomfort rises fast. you glance toward the counter. sukuna has stopped what he is doing, his broad frame still, pink hair slicked back, red eyes fixed on the scene. the tattoos on his arms stand out as his hands rest on the counter. he does not speak immediately. he simply watches, the weight of his gaze heavy enough to shift the air.

before you can respond again, sukuna’s voice cuts through, calm and low. “she stays. you don’t.”

the woman looks up, surprised by the authority in his tone. sukuna steps out from behind the counter, towering without effort. his expression remains neutral, almost gentle, but the quiet power in his presence makes her stand up quickly.

“whatever,” she mutters, grabbing her order and heading for the door. the bell chimes sharply as she leaves.

sukuna returns to your table a few minutes later carrying a small plate with a new dessert, a glossy chocolate tartlet. he sets it down in front of you, his fingers lingering near the edge.

“sorry about her,” he says softly. “some people forget their manners.” his red eyes meet yours, steady and protective. “you alright, sweetheart?”

you nod, the tension easing under his attention. “yeah. thanks.”

he stays a moment longer, the interaction feeling even more personal now. “good. eat that. it’ll help.” the words carry a double meaning you both understand without saying it aloud.

later that evening, when you bite into the tartlet, the filling has that same faint coppery note, richer this time, blended so skillfully into the dark chocolate that it almost tastes like a deliberate addition. you pause, letting the flavor sit on your tongue. the pattern is clearer now. the people who push too far, who make the space uncomfortable, they disappear soon after. and sukuna’s desserts carry the trace of it, blood turned into something sweet and intentional. you look toward the counter where he is working, pink hair catching the light, tattoos shifting with each movement. he meets your gaze calmly, no denial in his red eyes. instead there is a quiet acknowledgment, like he is offering you the truth folded into sugar and letting you decide what to do with it.

it does not scare you the way it should. the realization feels layered, heavy with the growing connection between you. he protects the quiet of the café, protects your place in it, in his own way. the coppery taste lingers, warm and metallic beneath the sweetness, and you keep eating. the fear stays distant. instead the tension pulls tighter, intriguing and almost intimate, like sharing a secret recipe only the two of you understand.

you finish the tartlet and take another sip of the hot chocolate. sukuna brings you a refill without being asked, his voice low when he sets it down.

“stay as long as you like, doll,” he says, the pet name soft against the quiet room. “this place is better with you in it.”

you smile up at him, the domestic comfort settling deeper. the café feels like a world of its own now, pastel and sweet on the surface, with something darker and more intentional woven underneath. sukuna’s red eyes hold yours a moment longer, the connection between you both growing stronger with every visit, every shared silence, every copper-tinged bite.

outside, the city moves on, people vanishing without much notice. inside, the string lights glow softly and the record player keeps spinning. you turn the page in your book and let the warmth of the chocolate and sukuna’s quiet attention wrap around you. the pattern is there, clear and deliberate, and you are still here, still coming back, the slow pull between you both deepening like the richest ganache.

the afternoon fades into evening, and you stay longer than usual, the café holding you both in its gentle, knowing embrace.

the bell chimes softly as you step inside the café again, the sound familiar enough now to feel like coming home. the pastel walls glow under the string lights, heart-shaped tables arranged neatly, the air thick with vanilla and deep chocolate. you have been coming almost every day this week. the routine has settled into something comfortable, almost domestic, the small space wrapping around you like a secret kept between two people.

sukuna stands behind the counter, pink hair slicked back from his face, the sharp black tattoos crawling up his neck and along his arms. the frilled pink apron stretches across his broad chest as he wipes down the surface with steady hands. he looks up the moment you enter, red eyes finding you with that quiet intensity that has grown sharper with each visit. his mouth curves into a small, uneven smile.

“there you are, sweetheart,” he says, voice low and warm. “same time as yesterday. good.”

you walk to the counter and set your bag down. the interactions have become effortless now, words slipping between you both with an ease that feels personal. he no longer waits for your order. he turns immediately to the machines, heating the milk slow and careful, adding the dark chocolate pieces one by one until the mixture turns glossy and rich. today he adds a touch more spice, the faint heat you have come to expect, and finishes with a delicate swirl of whipped cream topped by a thin chocolate curl shaped like a small heart.

he slides the mug toward you along with a small plate holding a single glossy tartlet, the filling dark and inviting under a smooth glaze.

“for you, doll,” he murmurs, red eyes steady on your face. “made it fresh this morning. thought you might like something a little richer today.”

you take the mug and the plate, fingers brushing his for a brief second. the contact feels warmer than usual, charged with the unspoken things that have been building between you. you carry everything to your usual table by the window and settle in. the hot chocolate tastes perfect, the spice blooming gently on your tongue. when you bite into the tartlet the center melts smooth and deep, carrying that faint coppery note again, metallic and warm beneath the sweetness. it lingers longer this time, intentional, like a signature folded into the recipe.

you eat slowly, letting the flavor settle. the pattern has become impossible to ignore now. you fully realize what sukuna has been doing. the people who made you uncomfortable, the ones who pushed too far or lingered with sharp words, they disappear shortly after. their absence leaves no loud ripples in the neighborhood, just quiet gaps where faces used to be. and each time, one of sukuna’s desserts carries that subtle copper taste, blood turned into something sweet and deliberate. he has been removing them for you, clearing the space so your quiet afternoons stay undisturbed. the realization sits heavy but not shocking, woven into the comfort of the café like another layer of ganache.

there is an unspoken understanding between you now. he watches you from behind the counter as you finish the tartlet, red eyes patient and expectant. he knows you have noticed. the way he prepares your drinks without asking, the soft pet names that slip out more freely, the quiet protectiveness in his gaze, it all points to the same truth. he expects some kind of reaction, a flinch, a question, maybe even fear. his broad frame moves with the same calm efficiency, but there is a new weight in the air, like he is waiting for you to speak it aloud.

you say nothing.

instead you take another slow sip of the hot chocolate, letting the warmth spread through your chest. the coppery trace from the tartlet fades into the rich chocolate, leaving only the sweetness behind. you turn the page in your book, the words blurring slightly as your thoughts settle on the truth you have carried longer than he realizes. weeks before you ever pushed open the café door for the first time, you had witnessed him. it was late one night in a narrow alley two blocks away, the kind of place most people avoid after dark. you had taken a shortcut home and stopped in the shadows when you heard the low sounds of struggle. sukuna had been there, moving with a terrifying calm, his large hands efficient and final. the man he dealt with had been loud and aggressive earlier that evening, catcalling strangers near the station. you had seen the whole thing from the darkness, heart pounding but feet rooted in place. you didn't scream. you didn't run to call for help. you had simply watched until it was over, then slipped away without a sound. the memory had stayed with you, sharp and private, and when you stumbled into the pastel café days later and saw his face behind the counter, something had clicked into place instead of breaking.

you never mentioned it. you simply started coming back.

the afternoon stretches in that familiar gentle rhythm. sukuna keeps the space quiet and comfortable, refilling your mug once without being asked, adding the same delicate swirl on top. each time your eyes meet across the room the unspoken understanding deepens. he does not push for words. he simply observes, red gaze steady, waiting. you keep reading, the book a shield for the calm acceptance settling in your chest. you are not a victim in this. you have allowed it, choosing the warmth of the café and the quiet protection it offers over any urge to pull away. the copper taste in his desserts no longer feels like a warning. it feels like a gift, carefully prepared and offered only to you.

when the light outside begins to soften into evening, the café empties completely. sukuna flips the sign on the door with a soft click and walks over to your table. he carries another small plate, this one holding a single perfect truffle, dark and glossy with a faint shimmer of gold powder on top. he sets it down in front of you, then pulls out the chair across from you and sits. his large frame makes the table feel intimate, tattoos shifting along his forearms as he rests them on the lace doily.

“you’ve been quiet today,” he says, voice low and even. there is no accusation in it, only that patient curiosity. his red eyes study your face, searching for the reaction he still expects. “everything alright, little one?”

you meet his gaze calmly and nod. “yeah. the tartlet was good.”

he hums softly, that low sound of approval. the unspoken truth hangs between you, thick and heavy, yet neither of you breaks it. he does not acknowledge what he has done or what you have pieced together. he simply watches you with that steady focus, the tension between you both pulling tighter in the quiet room. you pick up the truffle and bite into it. the center melts rich and smooth, carrying the faintest copper edge again, warm and metallic beneath the dark chocolate. you swallow without hesitation, the flavor lingering like a shared secret.

sukuna leans back slightly, his expression softening into something almost gentle despite the sharp lines of his tattoos and the red of his eyes. “you keep coming back,” he says quietly. “most people don’t. not after they start noticing things.”

you say nothing, only finish the last bite of the truffle and take a sip from your mug. the acceptance sits steady in your chest. you have known longer than he thinks, and the knowledge has not driven you away. it has drawn you closer, the pastel sweetness of the café masking something darker that you have chosen to accept.

he watches you for a long moment, the string lights casting soft shadows across his face. then he speaks again, voice dropping lower, more direct.

“there’s a place a few blocks over. small, quiet. good food, nothing fancy. let me take you there sometime. just us.”

the question hangs in the air, simple and clear. he is asking you out, the invitation slipping into the space between you like another custom drink prepared without asking. his red eyes hold yours, patient but intent, the broad line of his shoulders steady under the pink apron. he still does not acknowledge the full weight of what you both know. he simply offers this next step, testing whether the unspoken understanding will carry you forward.

you set the empty mug down and stand slowly, gathering your things. the café feels even smaller now, the air thick with chocolate and the quiet tension that has been building for weeks. you do not answer with words. instead you give him a soft smile, slightly unsettling in its calm, the corners of your mouth curving in a way that shows you are not afraid, not running, not a victim. you have allowed this. you have chosen it.

“i’ll think about it,” you say quietly, the smile lingering as you head toward the door.

sukuna stays seated for a moment, red eyes following you. there is no disappointment in his expression, only that same steady patience mixed with something deeper, like he recognizes the acceptance in your silence. you push the door open and the bell chimes behind you, soft and final for the evening.

outside, the city air feels cooler against your skin, the streetlights flickering on one by one. you walk a few steps before pausing, the taste of copper and dark chocolate still coating your tongue. the memory of that alley weeks ago flashes through your mind again, sharp and private. you had watched him then without intervening, just as you watch him now. the realization that you are not surprised, that you have known and still returned, settles warm and heavy in your chest. you are not leaving. you are not scared. you are simply continuing whatever this is, on your own terms.

you glance back at the café once. through the window you can see sukuna standing again, tall and broad behind the counter, pink hair slicked back, tattoos visible under the soft lights. he is already cleaning the table where you sat, movements calm and deliberate. he looks up and meets your eyes through the glass. you give him that same soft, slightly unsettling smile before turning away and continuing down the street.

the warmth from the hot chocolate lingers in your body, the coppery trace from his desserts a quiet reminder of the choices you have made. the connection between you both has shifted into something new tonight, unspoken but accepted. you walk home with the taste of his offerings on your tongue and the image of his red eyes in your mind, the slow burn pulling you both deeper into whatever comes next.