RaeBlue

Three days later, the smell of smoke still clung to the street. 

It wasn’t as strong as the night of the fire, but it lingered, soaked into the brick, the pavement, the metal sign that once glowed proudly above the door. Now the neon of Cursed Ink hung crooked, not one of the letters even flickering weakly. 

You stood on the sidewalk with the others; hands stuffed into the sleeves of your hoodie as you stared at what was left of the shop. 

The caution tape had been pushed aside for the morning while the fire marshal allowed Sukuna to step inside and evaluate what could be saved. The door itself had been removed entirely, leaning against the side of the building like a tombstone. 

“Well,” Gojo said beside you, pushing his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose as he surveyed the damage. “I’ll say it again and again... open floor plan.” 

Uraume smacked the back of his arm without even looking at him. Geto sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “You really can’t help yourself, can you?” 

“What? I’m trying to lighten the mood.” 

“Try less.” 

Sukuna stood a few feet ahead of everyone else, staring into the darkened interior. The shop looked like the aftermath of a warzone: blackened walls, melted equipment, the smell of wet ash and burnt wood still thick in the air. One of the tattoo chairs had collapsed completely, its metal frame warped from heat. 

Your chest tightened at the sight. This place meant so much to him, to all of them. But to Sukuna, it had been a fresh start, a stable life. Without thinking, you stepped forward and slid your hand into his. His fingers closed around yours immediately, grip firm. 

“Ready?” you asked softly. 

He glanced down at you, eyes tired but steady. “Yeah.” 

Behind you, Gojo stretched his arms over his head. “Alright team! Let’s go see if Sukuna’s horrifying dragon sketchbooks survived the apocalypse.” 

“They better have,” Sukuna muttered as he stepped inside. “Or I’m burning something else down.” 

Uraume walked in next, already pulling on a pair of work gloves. “Let’s focus on the front desk first. The filing cabinets might have protected some of the documents. That should be our number one priority.” 

Geto followed, carefully stepping over charred debris. “Tattoo machines might be salvageable too if the motors didn’t warp.” 

You trailed in last, pausing just inside the doorway. 

The interior was worse up close. The smell hit harder; the floors were soaked from the fire hoses, and one of the walls had been partially torn open where firefighters had broken through to stop the flames from spreading. 

But beneath all the damage… the bones of the shop were still there. 

Your throat tightened. 

“We're gonna rebuild it,” you murmured. 

Sukuna looked around slowly, taking it all in; the destruction, all of the memories. Then he squeezed your hand again. “Yeah,” he said quietly. 

Behind you, Gojo suddenly shouted from the back room. “HEY! I FOUND THE SNACK DRAWER SAVED!” 

Geto groaned immediately. “Those were there for customers, you animal.” 

“You snooze, you lose!” 

Uraume pinched the bridge of their nose. 

The first hour they started to work passed quietly. 

Dust masks went on, sleeves rolled up, gloves pulled tight over hands that were more used to tattoo needles. Sukuna started with the front of the shop. 

The counter had taken the brunt of the heat, the wood blistered and blackened where the fire had licked along its edges. He worked carefully, clearing away melted plastic containers and warped metal trays that once held clean needles and ink caps. Beneath the soot, the familiar grain of the wood was still visible in places. 

He brushed his hand over it once, letting him think back to when he first installed it himself before setting to work again. 

Behind him, Uraume methodically worked through the filing cabinets. The metal had protected most of the paperwork inside, though the edges of the folders were damp and curled from heat and water. One by one they spread the documents across a salvageable portion of the floor to dry; licenses, client forms, sketches customers had left for reference. 

Stacks began to form. 

Across the room, Geto tackled the tattoo stations. 

The chairs were the worst of it. One had collapsed entirely, the leather melted into hardened ripples where the flames had curled along the seat. Another was salvageable, though the armrest had warped slightly from the heat. Geto wiped away soot with slow strokes of a rag, inspecting the metal frame, checking bolts and joints to make sure they were still functional. 

Nearby, Gojo had taken it upon himself to clear the wall of framed artwork. 

The glass had shattered in several frames, leaving charcoal-smudged sketches exposed beneath cracked panes. Dragons, serpents, koi fish, elaborate floral sleeves, and a lot of Sukuna’s earlier work. Gojo stacked the salvageable pieces carefully against the wall, brushing ash from the edges with unexpected gentleness. 

Every now and then he paused, studying the drawings like artifacts pulled from a museum fire. 

The hours slipped by like that. 

Debris filled trash bags, ash turned to gray streaks on gloves and sleeves, and the floor slowly emerged from beneath the soot. 

At one point, the back room door had to be forced open where the wood had swollen from the heat. Inside, the design station had survived better than expected. Sketchbooks sat stacked neatly on the desk, their edges darkened but intact. 

Sukuna paused there longer than anywhere else. He flipped through the pages slowly. Black ink drawings stared back at him; unfinished sleeves, experimental pieces, customer commissions waiting for their appointment dates. None of them ruined. 

One of the sketchbooks was smudged where water had seeped into the edges, but the pages themselves were still readable. 

He set them aside carefully and pinched the bridge of his nose for a second to shove down the emotions he was suddenly feeling.  

By the third hour, the shop had transformed from disaster site to something a little better. It slowly became more recognizable again, although not without some more work. 

The design boards were wiped down and leaned carefully against the wall. The remaining tattoo machine parts had been separated into piles; salvageable, repairable, or completely destroyed. Chairs that could be saved were pushed to one side of the room, their metal frames still strong despite the damage.  

The work continued well into the afternoon longer than anyone really intended for it to. There was a rhythm to it now. Lift, sort, wipe, set aside. Everyone's hands were blackened with soot again despite the gloves, but you all worked with a quiet focus. 

At one point, Sukuna paused by the cork wall where photos of past clients had once been pinned. Most of the photos had curled from heat, some edges burned, others warped by water. He salvaged what he could and set them in a neat stack. 

Across the room, Gojo had taken to narrating the cleanup process to no one in particular. Occasionally a muttered complaint drifted through the air; something about how Sukuna clearly needed to invest in better shelving, or how he was heroically rescuing a bag of barely singed candy from the snack drawer.  

The bag of candy disappeared shortly afterward. 

Geto continued working near the back of the shop, dismantling the remains of a workstation with calm efficiency, already accepting the damage and moving on to solutions. Every so often he’d pause, holding up some half-melted object with a look that suggested it might once have been useful, before tossing it into the discard pile with a quiet shake of his head. 

Once, after discovering a warped stencil tray, he made a dry remark about modern art installations and the surprising market value of “fire-damaged minimalism.” Even Uraume, who had begun the day in their usual composed silence, allowed the smallest huff of amusement at that. 

Hours slipped by like that. 

Your own work had mostly centered around clearing the design area; wiping ash from tablet screens, salvaging ink bottles that hadn’t cracked from heat, carefully separating the undamaged from the ruined. The smell of smoke lingered stubbornly, woven into everything. 

At one point, Sukuna passed behind you with a box of recovered supplies and paused. His hand rested briefly at the small of your back, warm and grounding through the fabric of your shirt. It wasn’t a grand gesture, just a quiet touch to steady you as you shifted your weight while lifting a crate. 

But it lingered for a moment longer than necessary, so you glanced back. His eyes met yours for half a second, the exhaustion in them softened by something else, something calmer than the anger from the night this all happened. 

Then he was moving again. 

Later, when you crouched near the back wall sorting through stacks of salvaged paper, Sukuna returned with a rag draped over his shoulder. Without a word he knelt beside you, brushing soot gently from the sleeve of your hoodie where you’d missed a streak earlier. 

The touch was careful, almost absent minded, and tour shoulder leaned lightly into his. Neither of you said anything. 

Across the shop, Gojo had discovered one of Sukuna’s earlier sketchbooks and was flipping through it dramatically, holding up particularly aggressive-looking designs like museum pieces. A faintly scandalized noise followed a page that featured a rather intense demon motif, and he muttered something about Sukuna clearly having “some feelings to work through.” 

The book was promptly taken away and stashed somewhere “the snow-haired bastard” would never find it.  

The afternoon light shifted again as the sun lowered, and by the time the fourth hour passed, the shop looked different. Sukuna stood there quietly for a moment, surveying the space. You approached slowly, brushing dust from your hands. His hand found yours again, and he allowed himself to stay just like that for a moment. 

By the time the sun dipped behind the buildings and the sky faded into deep blue, the shop was locked up again. No one had the energy to keep working, so naturally, the only logical next step had been drinks. 

- 

You were squeezed into a booth that was definitely designed for four people, not six. Somehow Gojo had managed to claim the most space anyway, sprawled across the end of the seat like a cat who believed the furniture belonged to him. 

Across from you, Geto had a drink in one hand and the expression of a man watching chaos unfold in slow motion. That chaos, naturally, was Gojo. 

“—and then,” he was saying, gesturing wildly with his drink, “I heroically pulled the sketchbook out of the rubble. Truly a moment of bravery.” 

Geto, sitting beside him, took a slow sip of his drink with the expression of a man who had heard this story at least three times already tonight. “You found it on a chair,” he said calmly. 

“After searching the wreckage,” Gojo corrected. 

“You tripped over it.” 

“That’s not the point.” 

Uraume sat across from them, posture straight, glass in hand, observing the entire scene with the quiet patience of someone watching chaos unfold from a safe distance. 

“The point,” Uraume said flatly, “is that you also tried to keep the candy drawer.” 

“It was salvageable!” 

“It was melted.” 

“Only mostly.” You buried your face in your drink to hide your laughter. 

Beside you, Sukuna leaned back in the booth, one arm stretched comfortably along the backrest behind your shoulders. His other hand rested loosely around his beer bottle, his posture relaxed in a way that had been noticeably absent all week. 

He watched Gojo’s dramatics for a moment before exhaling through his nose. “You know,” he said lazily, “for someone who doesn’t even work at the shop, you’re awfully invested in the rebuilding process.” 

Gojo froze mid-gesture. “I contribute emotionally,” he replied. 

“You contribute noise.” 

“I contribute vision.” 

Geto raised an eyebrow. “Your vision involves installing a fog machine.” 

“Ambience!” 

“It’s a tattoo shop,” Sukuna said. 

“Exactly.” 

Sukuna took another sip of his drink before adding dryly, “You’re not even on payroll.” 

Gojo gasped, clutching his chest like he’d been personally attacked. “I am an unpaid consultant.” 

“You’re a customer who won’t leave.” 

“Same difference.” 

You snorted into your glass. Across the table, Geto leaned back with a faint smirk. “To be fair, Sukuna, you did let him reorganize the snack drawer once.” 

“That was a mistake.” 

“A mistake that improved morale.” 

“Morale dropped when he ate half the inventory.” 

Gojo shrugged unapologetically. “You snooze, you lose.” 

Uraume finally spoke again, voice calm and decisive. “If Gojo is involved in the renovation process at all, I will personally lock him outside the building.” 

“That seems extreme.” 

“That seems necessary,” Geto agreed. 

“No, no, hear me out,” Gojo continued. “We open it up. Brighter lighting. Plants. Maybe a water feature.” 

Geto snorted into his drink. “A water feature?” he repeated. 

“Yeah! Customers love calming environments.” 

Sukuna slowly turned his head toward him. “If I walk into my own shop and hear a waterfall,” he said calmly, “I’m pushing you into it.” 

You laughed into your drink, so Gojo pointed at you triumphantly. “See? She likes the idea.” 

“I like the idea of watching you get pushed into a decorative pond,” you corrected. 

“Same,” Geto added without hesitation. 

Uraume nodded once in solemn agreement. Gojo, however, looked personally betrayed. “You people have no vision.” 

“Your vision involves indoor plumbing hazards,” Geto said. 

“Which is why,” Sukuna added dryly, “you’re not allowed within ten feet of the renovation.” 

Gojo scoffed and leaned back dramatically. “Fine. When your shop is stuck in 2008 forever, don’t come crying to me.” 

A server dropped off another round of drinks, and the conversation immediately shifted to arguing over who had worked the hardest during the cleanup. 

Gojo, claiming he had rescued “several priceless works of art.” Geto pointed out those “works of art” had mostly been a half-melted snack drawer and a sketchbook Gojo had tried to keep. Uraume quietly reminded everyone that Gojo had spent at least thirty minutes pretending to be trapped under a chair that wasn’t actually heavy. 

You nearly spit out your drink laughing. Sukuna leaned closer to you as the noise around the table swelled again, his shoulder brushing yours. 

“See?” he murmured quietly. “You should’ve let the shop burn down sooner.” 

You elbowed him lightly. “Don’t say that.” 

“I’m kidding.” 

“You better be.” 

Across the table, Gojo was now trying to convince the bartender to let him pick the music for the entire bar, Geto looked like he was considering faking a phone call to escape, and Uraume was calmly sipping their drink like they were witnessing a documentary about poor decision-making. 

And beside you, Sukuna was finally laughing. Not the dark, sarcastic kind. Just… laughing. 

A sound that was rare from him, yet music to your ears all the same.  

- 

You and Sukuna had slipped out first. 

There hadn’t been any real discussion about it. No “let’s go” or “walk with me.” It had simply happened the way things sometimes did between the two of you now. Unspoken understanding. 

You walked beside him with your hands tucked into the sleeves of your hoodie. Sukuna had his hands buried in his pockets, shoulders relaxed in a way you hadn’t really seen much in the past few days. Every now and then your arms brushed when your steps fell into the same rhythm, the contact small but warm. 

Neither of you spoke much. But neither of you felt the need to. You didn’t realize where you were going until the familiar neon glow appeared at the end of the street. 

The sign for Cursed Ink flickered faintly in the darkness. Your steps slowed and so did his. 

The building looked different at night now. The broken front window had been boarded up earlier that afternoon, but the damage was still obvious. Sukuna stopped a few feet from the doorway, so you stopped beside him. 

For a long moment he just looked at it, his gaze traveling slowly over the front of the shop. “Honestly, I can’t believe it’s still standing,” he muttered eventually. 

The words were simple, but there was something underneath them, something quiet and heavy. You looked at the building too, remembering what it had looked like three nights ago when flames had been pouring out of that same window. 

“It will be again,” you said softly. 

He glanced down at you, one eyebrow lifting slightly. “You’re weirdly optimistic about this whole thing, y’know that?” 

You shrugged a little. “You built it once. You can do it again.” 

He let out a quiet breath that sounded almost like a laugh, though it carried a hint of exhaustion. “Yeah,” he said. 

Then the silence returned, and your heart had started beating faster. It had been doing that all night, actually. Ever since you left the bar, ever since you realized where your feet were taking you. 

Because standing here made the memory rush back all at once. 

The smoke, the fire. The way your chest had nearly collapsed when you realized he might still be inside. 

You could still feel it if you let yourself remember too clearly; the moment you’d stood outside the shop staring at the flames, your brain refusing to process anything except one overwhelming thought. 

He’s in there. That panic had been so sharp, so immediate, that it still made your stomach twist even now. Ever since that night, something had been sitting in your chest, refusing to settle down. 

A realization, one you hadn’t been brave enough to say out loud yet. 

“Sukuna?” you said quietly. He hummed in response, still looking at the shop. “I’ve been thinking about something.” 

That got his attention. He turned toward you, one eyebrow lifting again. “Uh oh,” he said lightly. “Usually means trouble.” 

You let out a nervous breath that almost sounded like a laugh. “Probably.” 

You rubbed the back of your neck, suddenly very aware of how fast your heart was beating. It was ridiculous, really. You had stood up to Toji without flinching. You had yelled at Naoya in the middle of the street. You had climbed through a broken window and run into a burning building. 

And yet somehow this felt harder than all of those things combined. For a moment you just looked at him, really looked. 

The faint bruise along his jaw from the fight earlier. The way the streetlight caught the red in his eyes. The tiredness in his posture after the long day of cleaning ash and debris from the shop. And suddenly the memory of that night came back so vividly it made your chest ache. 

The sight of him slumped in that chair, and the moment your heart had nearly stopped when he didn’t wake up immediately. 

Your voice came out softer than you expected. “When the shop caught fire… and you weren’t answering your phone…” 

He went still. 

You swallowed, forcing yourself to keep going. “I thought you were still inside.” 

He didn’t interrupt, certainly didn’t joke, just listened. 

“And I realized something,” you said slowly. “If something had happened to you… if you hadn’t woken up…” 

Your throat tightened. 

“I don’t think I would’ve been okay.” The words felt too small for what you meant. 

Because the truth was bigger than that. It was the way your chest had hurt just imagining a world where he wasn’t in it anymore. The way every quiet moment since then had made you realize how much space he had taken up in your life without you noticing. 

How normal he had become, how necessary. 

You took a shaky breath. “I’ve been trying to find the right time to say this, but that night kind of proved that waiting is stupid.” 

Your hands were trembling now, but you pushed through it. 

“Sukuna… I love you.” 

For a moment after the words left your mouth, the world seemed to narrow down to the two of you standing beneath that buzzing streetlight. 

You could hear your own heartbeat in your ears; fast, loud, almost embarrassing in the quiet of the street. You couldn’t tell if the silence had lasted two seconds or twenty. 

He hadn’t said anything yet. Your stomach twisted. 

The rational part of your brain immediately began scrambling for excuses. Maybe it had been too sudden. Maybe the night had been too heavy. Maybe this wasn’t the kind of thing you should have blurted out in front of a half-burned building after a few drinks. 

God, maybe you’d completely misread everything. 

You were just about to open your mouth to soften the moment, maybe laugh it off, maybe say something like wow that sounded dramatic, sorry, when Sukuna finally moved. 

His hand came up slowly, dragging down over his face like he was trying to process something too big to fit in his head all at once. “You really picked the middle of a burned-down tattoo shop to drop that on me,” he muttered. 

Your chest sank instantly. “…Is that bad?” you asked quietly. 

The moment the words left your mouth, his head snapped up. “No,” he said immediately, the word sharper than you expected. “No, that’s not—” 

He stopped himself mid-sentence, letting out a quiet breath that sounded half like a laugh and half like disbelief. 

For a second he just looked at you, with his cheeks flushing pink to match your own.  

The faint soot still smudged along the edge of your sleeve from earlier. The way your hands were half hidden inside your hoodie because you were nervous. The tiny crease between your brows where you were clearly overthinking every second of this. 

You ran into a burning building for him. 

The thought hit him again with the same weight it had the moment you told him. 

You had run through smoke and fire without hesitation. You had faced down two men who terrified most people without flinching. And now you were standing here looking like you were afraid he might break your heart. 

Something in his chest twisted painfully. 

Idiot, he thought, though the word carried no real bite. He stepped closer before you could spiral any further into your own thoughts, and your breath caught as the distance between you disappeared. 

Sukuna’s hands came up slowly, almost hesitantly, before settling against your face. His palms were warm against your cheeks, thumbs brushing softly along your skin like he was grounding himself just as much as you. 

“You ran into a burning building for me,” he said quietly. 

The words sent a small ripple through your chest. 

“You stood up to Toji,” he continued, his voice low. “You told Naoya to get lost like he was some asshole bothering you at a bar.” 

You let out a small, shaky laugh despite the nerves twisting in your stomach. 

“And now,” he added, tilting his head slightly, “you’re standing here looking like you think I’m about to reject you.” 

Your voice was barely above a whisper. “Well?” 

For a second Sukuna just stared at you. There was something overwhelming about this moment; about the way you were looking at him like he mattered that much, like your whole heart was sitting right there in front of him. 

For someone who had spent most of his life keeping people at arm’s length, it was terrifying. And perfect. 

He leaned down slowly until his forehead rested against yours. “Idiot,” he murmured softly. 

Then he kissed you. 

It started slow, almost tentative, like he was giving you time to pull away if you wanted to. His lips were warm against yours, steady, certain, and when you didn’t hesitate, when your hands immediately came up to grip the front of his jacket something in him melted completely. 

He deepened the kiss just slightly, one hand sliding from your cheek to the back of your neck, pulling you closer until there wasn’t any space left between you. 

Your brain had gone completely quiet. 

All you could think about was him; the warmth of his hands, the way his breath brushed your skin, the steady pressure of his lips against yours like this had always been inevitable. 

He’s kissing me. The realization sent a rush of warmth through your chest. He loves me too. 

For Sukuna, the moment felt just as unreal. 

He had imagined this before, more times than he’d ever admit out loud. But the reality of it, of you standing here with your arms around him, kissing him back like this was the most natural thing in the world, hit him harder than he expected. 

You chose him. 

When he finally pulled back, it was only because he needed air, but his forehead stayed pressed to yours as his thumb traced lightly along your cheek. 

“I love you too,” he said quietly. The words settled warmly between you. 

Sure, the shop still needed rebuilding. And that would bother him for awhile in the months or years ahead.  

But right now, standing there under the streetlight, with your arms wrapped around each other and the city humming quietly around you... 

To Sukuna, it felt like the beginning of something new. 

- 

Back at the bar, several blocks away from the quiet street where two idiots were currently confessing their feelings in front of a half-burned tattoo shop, the rest of the group had not yet noticed their absence. 

Well, not immediately. 

Gojo had been too busy arguing with the bartender about the jukebox playlist to care about anything else. 

“You cannot follow Bohemian Rhapsody with Nickelback,” he was insisting, leaning halfway over the counter like he personally managed the music industry. “That’s musical whiplash.” 

“Sit down,” Geto said calmly from the stool beside him, not even looking up from his drink. 

“I’m advocating for the people.” 

“You’re advocating for chaos.” 

Across the table, Uraume had quietly finished their drink and set the empty glass down with the soft patience of someone who had already mentally checked out of the conversation. 

Eventually, though, Geto glanced around, then frowned slightly. “…Where did Sukuna go?” 

Gojo waved a dismissive hand. “Probably sulking somewhere.” 

“Sukuna doesn’t sulk.” 

“He absolutely sulks.” 

Geto ignored that and scanned the bar again. “…And where did she go?” 

That made Gojo pause. He leaned back in his chair, glancing around the room more carefully this time. 

Huh. You were gone too. Slowly, a grin began spreading across Gojo's face. “Oh.” 

Geto raised an eyebrow. “Oh?” he repeated. 

“Oh,” Gojo said again, leaning back dramatically in his chair like he’d just solved a mystery. “Well well well.” 

Uraume sighed. “Explain.” 

Gojo clasped his hands together like a delighted detective. “They left at the same time.” 

Geto blinked once. Then twice. “…Oh.” 

The realization dawned slowly. Uraume leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing in thought. “Interesting.” 

Gojo was already vibrating with excitement. “Do you think—” 

“Yes,” Geto said immediately. 

Gojo pointed at him. “Right?!” 

Uraume looked mildly annoyed. “Do either of you intend to finish that sentence?” 

Geto calmly took another sip of his drink. “I believe they are asking the same question we have all been waiting weeks to see answered.” 

Gojo leaned across the table, lowering his voice like he was sharing state secrets. “Do you think either of them finally grew the balls to say ‘I love you’ yet?” 

Uraume blinked slowly. “…Statistically speaking, Sukuna is far more likely to fight another building fire than verbally admit his feelings.” 

“True,” Gojo admitted. 

“Though she did run into a burning building for him.” Geto hummed thoughtfully.  

“Very romantic,” Gojo agreed. 

“Reckless,” Uraume corrected. 

Gojo leaned back again, resting his chin in his hand. “So what do we think? Tonight’s the night?” 

Geto tilted his head slightly. “…If either of them actually manages to say it first, I will personally buy the drinks next time.” 

“You’re that confident?”  Gojo gasped. 

“I’m that curious.” 

Uraume folded their arms. “Sukuna will probably panic and make a joke.” 

“Or short-circuit completely,” Gojo added. 

Geto chuckled quietly. “Or both.” 

They all sat there for a moment imagining the scenario, until Gojo lifted his glass. “Well,” he said with a grin, “here’s to emotional growth.” 

Geto clinked his glass against it. “To miracles, knowing that brute” 

Uraume stared at them both before reluctantly raising their drink as well. “To statistical anomalies.” 

Several blocks away, under the flickering neon sign of Cursed Ink, those two people were currently kissing under a streetlight after confessing their love to each other. 

Back at the bar, the trio continued debating the odds. 

Little did they know. 

⊹. ݁˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁₊

By the time you left your chambers, the corridors were a tangle of servants carrying linens, trays, and fresh-cut flowers. The air smelled faintly of polish, beeswax, and the first scents of food drifting from the lower kitchens. 

You descended the service stairwell instead of taking the main hall—faster, quieter, and less likely to draw attention from anyone who might decide to intercept you with some ceremonial distraction. 

The kitchen was warm and bustling, the air heavy with steam and spice. Copper pots hung in gleaming rows above the central workspace, and a long table in the middle was already covered with bowls of prepared vegetables, trays of rising bread, and neat piles of herbs. 

The head cook, Marcellin, spotted you almost immediately. He was a large man with a quick stride, wiping his hands on a clean cloth as he approached. “Your Majesty,” he said with a short bow, his voice carrying over the noise. “I didn’t expect you down here today.” 

“I wanted to see how preparations were going,” you replied, keeping your tone light. “And to make sure there were no oversights with the guest accommodations.” 

That earned a faint smile from him. “We’re on schedule. The first course will be served within the hour of the banquet’s opening—duck consommé with fresh herbs, bread on the table, and fruit for the smaller children in attendance.” 

You stepped past him toward the neatly stacked parchment lists pinned beside the pantry door. “The Duke of Zen’in prefers no shellfish,” you noted, scanning the names. “And the Lady Kugisaki—no onions. She’ll eat around them, but she will comment if they’re present.” 

Marcellin nodded, scribbling a note for one of his sous chefs. 

“And,” you added, tapping another line on the parchment, “Lord Okkotsu’s youngest daughter is allergic to almonds. The kitchen will need to keep her desserts separate from anything with nut pastes or almond flour.” 

“That was already in the notes, Your Majesty,” Marcellin assured you. “But I’ll make certain it’s double-marked.” 

You moved to the side table where two assistants were carefully arranging platters for the cold course—paper-thin slices of cured venison, spiced pears, and soft cheese garnished with herbs. The scent of rosemary and cinnamon rose from them, warming the air. 

“It all looks excellent,” you said, and you meant it. These small checks—these quiet moments with the staff—were among the few parts of your role that still felt like they belonged to you. Here, at least, your attention to detail mattered. 

Marcellin dipped into another brief bow. “We’ll make you proud, Your Majesty.” 

You gave him a faint smile. “I know you will.” 

You should have left after speaking with Marcellin, but the warmth, the smells, and the rare lack of formality held you in place. 

You found yourself at one of the long worktables where an assistant was hurriedly trimming herbs. Without thinking, you asked, “May I?” and gestured toward the pile. 

She froze, eyes going wide, before glancing to Marcellin. He gave an amused nod. “If Her Majesty wishes to work, we’ll find her a task.” 

The girl handed you a small paring knife, and you began stripping rosemary leaves from their stems, laying them in neat rows. The simple repetition was oddly calming. You hadn’t been working long when you felt a presence at your elbow. Then another. And another. 

You turned to find a cluster of very young girls—some still apprentices, their aprons nearly swallowing them whole—hovering just close enough to be noticed. Their eyes were round with a mix of curiosity and nerves, and they all looked like they’d been whispering to each other before daring to approach. 

“Your Majesty,” one of them breathed, clutching her floury hands together. “You… you can do kitchen work?” 

You smiled faintly. “I can, though it’s been a long time. I used to help in the kitchens when I was younger. Much smaller kitchens than this.” 

That set them whispering amongst themselves, until another piped up, “Did you ever make anything… wrong?” 

A soft laugh escaped you. “Once, I burnt an entire tray of tarts because I forgot they were in the oven. The whole house smelled of smoke for hours.” 

They giggled behind their hands, some exchanging gleeful looks as though the idea of a queen ruining a dish was the most scandalous thing they’d ever heard. 

One of the smallest girls—no more than ten—stepped forward, her cheeks pink. “You’re prettier than the stories say,” she blurted, earning a round of shushing and more giggles from her companions. 

You crouched slightly so you were closer to their height. “And you are all far prettier than any stories could say. But more importantly, you’re clever and hardworking, and tonight, the entire banquet will run smoother because of you.” 

Their faces lit up, chests puffing with pride. One tried a quick curtsy and nearly tripped over her own hem, which made them all laugh again. 

“Now,” you said, nodding toward their workstations, “show me how well you can keep up with the rest of the kitchen. I’ll be checking.” 

They scattered back to their stations in a flurry of excitement, still sneaking glances at you. Marcellin passed by with a grin. “You’ve just made their month, Your Majesty.” 

Eventually, one bold girl leaned over with a handful of thyme. “Would Your Majesty… like to do this one too?” she asked, as if offering you something rare. 

You smiled. “I would.” You took the bundle from her and began plucking the tiny leaves from their stems, showing her how to gather them into a neat mound. She watched intently, then copied your movements, biting her lip in concentration. 

Around you, the kitchen moved like a living machine. A baker in the far corner tested the crust of a half-cooled pie with the edge of a knife, while a boy no older than twelve ferried platters from one table to another.  

Another of the girls sidled closer. “Do you really eat at the banquets?” she asked, wide-eyed. 

You laughed softly. “Not as much as I’d like. Too many people to greet, too many speeches to listen to. But I always try the bread.” 

That earned you another round of giggles. The smallest one, her apron dusted with flour, blurted out, “If you eat the bread tonight, I’ll tell my mother you liked hers best.” 

You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice conspiratorially. “Then I suppose I must make sure to eat it.” 

The girl beamed and scurried back to her station, nearly colliding with a servant carrying a steaming pot. When you finished the thyme, you gathered the neatly sorted herbs and passed them to the assistant at your side. She gave you a shy smile. “Thank you, Your Majesty.” 

Marcellin appeared then, glancing at your work before nodding in approval. “You’ve still got the touch,” he said with a grin. “If you tire of the throne, there’s always a place for you here.” 

You allowed yourself a small, genuine smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.” 

You were setting aside the last of the trimmed rosemary when the kitchen door creaked open and Elira slipped inside. Her gaze swept over the bustle of the room before finding you near the center table. 

“There you are,” she said, weaving her way between two scullery boys carrying a basin of potatoes. “I should have known I’d find you in here.” 

Her tone wasn’t scolding, but there was a hint of urgency in it. She came to your side, lowering her voice so only you could hear. “It’s nearly time to review the final banquet arrangements. The steward has been pacing the corridor outside your chambers for the better part of ten minutes.” 

You brushed the last flecks of rosemary from your fingers and handed the bundle to the assistant beside you. “Thank you,” you said softly to the girl, who dipped in a hurried curtsy before rushing off to deliver it to Marcellin. 

The head cook caught your eye from across the table. “We’ll be ready, Your Majesty,” he assured you with a firm nod. “Everything will be perfect.” 

“I have no doubt,” you replied. 

Elira stepped back, making space for you to pass, and you felt the heat of the kitchen fall away with each stride toward the door. Behind you, the laughter of the younger girls followed faintly until the heavy wood closed and muffled it into nothing. 

As you began the climb back toward your chambers with Elira at your side, she glanced at you. “I hope you didn’t promise too many favors down there,” she teased lightly. “If you so much as smile at them again tonight, they’ll take it as a royal endorsement.” 

You allowed a faint smile. “Then I suppose I’ll have to be careful where I look.” 

Her answering smirk softened as she reached ahead to open the door to your apartments. “Come. We’ve still got to see to your gown, your hair, and whatever last-minute details the steward will try to press on you.” 

The moment you stepped into your chambers, the calm dissolved into movement. Two maidens emerged from the adjoining room with armfuls of fabric, the rich folds of your chosen violet gown gleaming in the afternoon light. On the low table near the hearth, a velvet-lined tray displayed a selection of jewels—silver filigree combs, a slender necklace set with amethysts, a scattering of delicate rings. 

Elira moved with quiet efficiency, directing the others as she loosened the laces of your day dress. “We’ll start with your hair,” she said, her tone decisive but not unkind. “It will need to hold through the evening, so we’ll braid it first, then twist it into a crown.” 

You sank into the high-backed chair before the dressing mirror, letting her fingers work through your hair. The scent of lavender water reached you as she dampened it slightly to tame the flyaways. In the reflection, you could see the rest of the room coming alive—one maiden steaming the final wrinkles from the gown’s sweeping train, another polishing the silver clasps for your shoes until they caught the firelight. 

While Elira wove your hair into smooth, precise braids, the steward arrived, bowing just far enough to be proper before approaching with a thin stack of parchment. “Final confirmations, Your Majesty,” he said, laying the pages on the table beside you. “Every course has been approved, the seating chart finalized, and the musicians are rehearsing in the east hall. If you wish to review the guest arrival order, now would be the time.” 

You scanned the list quickly, eyes catching on certain names. You didn’t let your gaze linger, not wanting to see if Gojo's name was still absent. You don’t know what it would do to your mind if you had the knowledge.  

“I trust it’s been arranged to His Majesty’s satisfaction,” you said evenly, handing the parchment back. 

“Entirely,” the steward replied with a faint smile. He stepped back, disappearing as quietly as he had entered. 

By the time your hair was pinned into its braided crown and secured with silver combs, the gown had been readied. The silk slid over your shoulders like water, the fabric cool at first before warming against your skin. Elira fastened the silver-and-amethyst clasp at your collarbone, then stepped back to survey her work. 

“Perfect,” she said softly. “You look every inch the queen they expect to see tonight.” 

The jewels were added last—rings on your fingers, the necklace glinting in the low light, a final touch of color to your cheeks. When you rose, the gown’s long train whispered across the carpet, catching faint threads of silver from the embroidery in its hem. 

- 

The great hall was already awash in the golden glow of torchlight, every polished surface gleaming, every banner hanging crisp and perfect. The heavy doors stood open to the night, and the first guests were beginning to arrive, their cloaks dusted with the lingering chill of early spring. 

Geto stood at the center of the reception line, regal in deep black with gold embroidery curling like vines along the edges of his mantle. Kenjaku hovered just over his shoulder, offering quiet reminders and subtle glances that felt more like surveillance than assistance. 

You took your place at Geto’s side, the silk of your gown whispering against the marble as you moved. To your surprise, it wasn’t one of your usual attendants who took up position just behind you—it was Choso. 

He gave you a slight nod, his presence steady but unobtrusive, and for reasons you didn’t fully understand, your shoulders eased just a fraction. 

The first noble couple approached—Lord and Lady Fushiguro, their smiles wide, their bows deep. Geto greeted them first, exchanging the expected pleasantries before turning the conversation to you. You met their eyes, offered polite words, and listened to their brief remarks about the changing season. 

Kenjaku leaned in toward Geto then, murmuring something you couldn’t hear. Whatever it was, Geto’s expression didn’t change—he only moved seamlessly to greet the next arrival. 

On your side, Choso stepped forward slightly as a young lady’s train snagged on the edge of the stone stair. He bent without hesitation, freeing the fabric and offering it back to her with a quiet, “Careful, my lady.” The girl blushed and thanked him before turning to you. 

More guests flowed in—a steady rhythm of bows, curtsies, and well-rehearsed smiles. You matched Geto’s pace, your voice warm but measured, each greeting just long enough to be polite and just short enough to keep the line moving. 

Every so often, Choso’s presence caught at the edge of your awareness. He didn’t speak unless necessary, but you could feel his attention—directed outward toward the crowd, protective in a way that wasn’t ostentatious. It was a stark contrast to Kenjaku’s still, calculating posture on Geto’s side, his sharp gaze cataloging every expression and gesture. 

As the arrivals continued, you couldn’t help but notice how Kenjaku’s eyes lingered on you longer than usual whenever your voice carried over the music or when a guest seemed too comfortable in your company. 

But each time, Choso shifted subtly, standing a touch closer—as though he, too, had noticed. 

The stream of guests began to thin as the hour wore on. The great hall was filling with the soft rise and fall of conversation, the clink of goblets being filled, and the faint notes of strings from the musicians in the east gallery. 

You’d settled into the rhythm of it—smile, nod, polite words—when you noticed a subtle shift ripple through the crowd near the door. It wasn’t the hush of scandal, nor the sudden cheer for a beloved friend. It was sharper than that, tinged with anticipation. 

Then you saw him. 

Gojo stepped through the wide doors as though the night belonged to him. He was dressed in the formal silks of his station, deep blue trimmed with silver, the crest of his house gleaming at his shoulder. The torches caught in his hair like fresh-fallen snow, and his smile—faint, deliberate—was for no one in particular. 

But you felt it all the same. 

The shift in the air was immediate. 

“Your Majesty,” Gojo greeted, his bow short but precise. “I was starting to wonder if my invitation had been lost in some unfortunate accident. Arrived a little late, didn’t it?” 

The words were smooth, but the undertone was pointed enough to draw a ripple of awareness from those within earshot. 

Geto’s smile didn’t falter, but there was a sharpness in it now. “Ah, but you’ve always made an entrance, haven’t you? Perhaps I should be asking when we’ll be celebrating your union, Lord Gojo. Surely there must be a queen somewhere who could handle you.” 

A few polite laughs sounded from nearby guests, though most watched in careful silence. 

Gojo’s grin widened, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Finding the right queen takes time. I’d rather get it right the first time.” 

The implication hung there, quiet but heavy. 

You kept your expression carefully neutral, offering your own greeting when Geto’s pause demanded it. “Welcome, my lord. We’re pleased you could join us.” 

Gojo’s gaze flicked to you then, and for a heartbeat, the noise of the hall seemed to recede. His answering bow was deeper than the one he’d given Geto, though still perfectly proper. “The pleasure is mine, Your Majesty.” 

Kenjaku stood just behind Geto, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly at the exchange. On your side, Choso shifted subtly, the faintest angle of his stance placing himself more between you and the rest of the watching court. 

Geto’s hand flexed at his side before he shifted slightly, signaling the end of the exchange with a smooth gesture toward the banquet hall. “Enjoy the evening.” 

Gojo inclined his head, stepping past. His sleeve brushed faintly against yours as he moved by, and without looking back, he disappeared into the press of the crowd. 

Choso’s gaze flicked from Gojo’s retreating form to you, just long enough to make you wonder if he’d caught the way your breath had hitched in that moment. 

The last of the guests were ushered through, and the great doors of the hall swung closed with a resonant thud, sealing the warmth and hum of conversation inside. 

Stewards moved quickly to guide the assembled crowd toward the long banquet tables. The torchlight and chandeliers bathed everything in gold—the polished silverware, the jewel-colored glass goblets, the gleam of polished floors. Musicians in the corner began a low, stately melody as servants swept in with the first course. 

You took your seat beside Geto at the head of the table, his goblet already being filled by a waiting attendant. Kenjaku stood just behind him, hands folded neatly, scanning the room with quiet calculation. Choso remained on your side, a silent shadow, his attention always moving—over the guests, the servants, the doorways. 

Gojo had been seated further down the main table, close enough that you could see the curve of his grin as he spoke to the lord beside him, far enough that any words between you would have to wait. His coat had been removed and draped over his chair, the blue fabric catching the candlelight like still water. 

The first course was set before you—duck consommé in delicate porcelain bowls, steam curling upward with the scent of rosemary and thyme. Alongside it came baskets of warm bread, small dishes of fruit for the younger guests, and pitchers of wine making their rounds. 

Geto leaned toward you slightly, his voice low. “Smile,” he murmured, though you already were. 

You inclined your head faintly, lifting your spoon. Around you, polite conversation began to rise and weave through the hall. Laughter rang out from a few places further down the table—one of them Gojo’s, low and easy, cutting through the noise just enough for you to hear it. 

You kept your gaze on your bowl, even when you felt the faint tug of his presence. 

Beside you, Geto raised his goblet in acknowledgment to a toast offered further down the table. Kenjaku leaned in, murmuring something you couldn’t catch, and Geto’s lips curved into a small, knowing smile. 

The warmth of the soup sat heavy in your chest, the room feeling both too large and too close. The music swelled faintly, the smell of roasting meat from the kitchens promising the next course soon. 

And from where he sat, Gojo didn’t look away from you for long. 

The servers returned, clearing the empty bowls and replacing them with platters of roasted venison, glazed root vegetables, and rich, dark gravy. The smell was enough to draw murmurs of appreciation from the guests. Wine was refilled, and the music shifted to a slightly livelier tune in the corner. 

You forced yourself into a brief exchange with the duchess across from you, answering her polite questions about the palace gardens and agreeing to walk them together when the lilacs were in bloom. All the while, you felt the weight of two separate gazes—one sharp and unyielding from your husband’s side, and one warmer, heavier, and infinitely more dangerous from further down the table. 

After some time and conversation had passed, the venison platters had been cleared away to be replaced by delicate sugared pastries and small glasses of sweet liqueur. The hum of conversation had risen, buoyed by wine and warmth, until the steward stepped forward and made a formal announcement. 

“His Majesty and Her Majesty will now open the floor.” 

The musicians shifted instantly, the soft background melody swelling into a graceful, measured piece meant for a formal waltz. The space at the center of the hall cleared as chairs scraped back and guests moved toward the edges, creating a wide, polished expanse under the chandeliers. 

Geto rose smoothly from his chair, every inch the composed king, and turned to you with his hand extended. “Shall we?” 

You stood, letting your fingers rest lightly in his, the silk of your gown sweeping behind you as he led you to the center. The weight of dozens of eyes followed every step. 

The music began in earnest, and Geto’s hand settled firmly at your waist. His other clasped yours in the proper hold, guiding you into the first turn. His movements were precise, practiced—there was no hesitation, no falter in his rhythm. 

“You’re quiet,” he murmured, voice pitched for you alone as you passed close enough to see the watchful glint in Kenjaku’s eyes from the edge of the crowd. 

“I thought this was meant to be for show,” you replied evenly, keeping your smile in place for the benefit of the onlookers. 

“It is,” he said, turning you with effortless control. “And we look good together when we try.” 

The floor spun gently beneath you as you moved through the steps, the hem of your gown catching in brief arcs of silver and violet. Guests at the edges murmured their approval—some smiling, some whispering—but your focus remained on keeping the perfect balance between poise and compliance. 

As the music carried you through another turn, your gaze drifted past Geto’s shoulder—just long enough to find Gojo among the crowd. He stood near the far edge, coat draped loosely over one arm, eyes fixed entirely on you. 

The song was long enough for you to feel the weight of that stare with every step. 

Geto must have noticed the shift in your attention, because his hand tightened fractionally at your waist. “Eyes on me,” he murmured, the smoothness of his tone not hiding the order beneath it. 

You turned your face back toward him, the smile never leaving your lips. 

The music swelled into its second pass, and Geto didn’t lead you from the floor like usual. Instead, he drew you back into his hold, the turn smooth enough that the onlookers might think it had been planned all along. 

His hand rested firmly at your waist, the pressure steady—not bruising, but a reminder of his control. His gaze stayed locked on yours, the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth as though he were enjoying himself. 

“You’ve been moving well tonight,” he said, his voice low, meant only for you. “I almost forget how long it’s been since we danced together.” 

“Perhaps because we haven’t,” you replied, letting the edge in your tone soften just enough to pass as teasing. 

His thumb shifted slightly where it rested against your ribs, the smallest movement. “We should do it more often.” 

“Would that be for our benefit or the court’s?” 

The faintest chuckle escaped him, low and amused. “Does it matter? They like to see us this way.” 

He spun you in a graceful arc, the skirt of your gown sweeping wide before he caught you back into the rhythm. Around you, the crowd’s attention had softened; their eyes still followed you, but the initial scrutiny had given way to admiration. 

“You’re beautiful tonight,” Geto said after a pause, and there was no mockery in it. Just a statement—simple, warm enough to almost disarm you. 

Your steps faltered by a fraction, but you recovered quickly, offering a small, measured smile. “Thank you.” 

“I don’t say it enough,” he continued, guiding you through a turn. “I should.” 

The words might have carried weight if you didn’t know how easily he could slip between tenderness and calculation. Still, there was something in his tone—whether genuine or practiced—that settled between you like an unspoken truce. 

The song carried you both across the polished floor, every step a careful balance of poise and tension, warmth and wariness. From the outside, you looked effortless together—a king and queen in perfect sync. 

The final notes of the song drifted through the hall, strings fading into a soft, elegant close. Geto released you just enough for a formal bow, and you dipped into a curtsy, the applause from the surrounding guests polite but sustained. 

You expected him to lead you from the floor—perhaps to the head table, perhaps to the next cluster of guests waiting for a word. Instead, a shadow slipped into your periphery. 

“Your Majesty,” Kenjaku’s voice came smooth as silk, carrying just enough to draw the attention of those nearest. “Might I have the honor of this dance?” 

The request was couched in perfect courtesy, but the faint glint in his eyes told you it was no simple gesture. Around you, the shift in the air was subtle—heads turning, conversations pausing for just a beat too long. 

Geto glanced at him, unreadable for a moment, before turning to you. “If my queen is willing,” he said evenly, the edge of permission in his voice deliberate. 

Kenjaku extended his hand. The angle of his bow was precise, his smile almost pleasant. 

Every instinct told you to refuse. But the eyes of the court were on you, and to deny him would be a statement—one you weren’t certain you could afford tonight. 

You placed your hand in his, cool and steady. “Of course, Lord Kenjaku.” 

He led you into the opening steps as the musicians began a slower, more deliberate piece. His grip was firm but not overbearing, his movements calculated for elegance. 

“You dance well,” he said, his tone conversational on the surface. “I’ve noticed you avoid the floor at smaller gatherings.” 

“I dance when it’s required,” you replied, keeping your expression light, your gaze level. 

His eyes flickered briefly, as if he’d expected you to say more. “Ah, ever the dutiful queen.” 

The way he said dutiful was almost imperceptibly sharper, like the point of a hidden blade. 

You kept your smile in place. “One must be, to keep a kingdom running.” 

Kenjaku’s hand shifted fractionally at your waist, the motion so slight it might have been missed by anyone watching. “And yet,” he murmured, “some duties are more… binding than others.” 

You didn’t break stride. “Some are easier to bear when one isn’t being watched too closely.” 

His smile didn’t falter, but the pause in his step told you the remark had landed. The music carried you both another slow turn across the polished floor, your movements flawless even as the exchange between you burned quietly beneath the surface. 

At the edge of the crowd, you caught a flicker of white hair—Gojo, his posture relaxed, but his gaze locked on you. 

And, for just a breath, Kenjaku’s eyes followed yours. 

Kenjaku followed your glance for only a heartbeat before returning his focus to you, his smile sharpening ever so slightly. The slow, deliberate steps of the dance seemed to stretch the space between each exchange, giving every word more weight than it ought to carry. 

“You seem distracted tonight,” he said lightly, as if making an idle observation. “The music not to your taste?” 

You kept your gaze fixed just past his shoulder, voice even. “The music is fine. The evening is… busy.” 

“Busy,” he echoed, drawing the word out like he was tasting it. “Or… demanding?” 

The subtle pressure of his hand at your waist was no accident now—it was a reminder. Not forceful, but a quiet claim. 

“I imagine you find ways to meet demands easily enough,” you said, the faintest suggestion of a smile on your lips. “It seems to be your specialty.” 

His eyes narrowed a fraction, though the expression never broke from its polished facade. “Specialties are only useful when properly applied, Your Majesty. And I apply mine where they are most needed.” 

“Needed,” you repeated, as if weighing the word. “Or wanted?” 

That earned you a very small chuckle, low enough that only you could hear it. “Both, ideally. But I suspect you know better than most that what is needed often outweighs what is wanted.” 

You met his gaze then, holding it longer than was proper. “I also know that what is wanted is not always so easily dismissed.” 

The air between you tightened. The music carried you through another turn, the hem of your gown brushing the polished floor in a slow sweep. His fingers adjusted on your hand, a calculated pause before he spoke again. 

“I do wonder,” he murmured, his voice almost pleasant, “how you’ll feel about such things when the matter of the heir is resolved.” 

Your smile didn’t slip, though you felt the heat of the implication like a spark under your ribs. “I suppose we’ll both have to wait and see.” 

Kenjaku’s smile widened—not kindly. “Indeed.” 

The last notes of the song curled into the air, the musicians letting the final chord linger just long enough for the couples to finish their steps. Kenjaku’s hand loosened from yours with practiced grace, and he bowed—not too deeply, just enough to honor the formality of the moment. 

You curtsied, the movement smooth, and allowed him to offer his arm for the walk back across the floor. The eyes of the court followed you both, though whether out of interest or curiosity, you couldn’t tell. 

When you reached the head table, Kenjaku released you with a small, knowing smile. He bent slightly toward you, his voice pitched low enough for only you to hear. 

“I trust whatever is served to you after the meal will be… exactly as it should be.” 

The words were soft, polite on the surface—yet threaded with the unmistakable weight of intent. 

He straightened, giving Geto a courteous nod before stepping away to reclaim his place at the edge of the hall, leaving you to lower yourself into your seat with the faint echo of his meaning still clinging to you. 

Geto leaned toward you, his voice lowered so it wouldn’t carry far. “Lord Zen’in’s son is returning from the coast next month. We’ll have to consider whether to place him with the western cavalry or keep him here for political training.” 

You nodded, listening, though your mind was still half on Kenjaku’s parting words after your dance. The music was softer now, just enough to fill the background, and the hall felt warm from the press of bodies and candlelight. 

A servant appeared at your side with perfect timing—silver tray in hand, a porcelain cup steaming faintly upon it. The scent of orange peel and mint rose immediately; bitter undertones just faint enough to be masked. 

Geto’s eyes moved to the cup almost immediately. “And where’s mine?” 

The servant blinked. “Yours, Your Majesty?” 

“Yes,” Geto said, voice calm but edged. “If the queen is being served something outside the standard courses, I expect to be served the same.” 

The servant hesitated, his knuckles whitening slightly around the edge of the tray. “It was… prepared as a specific request, Your Majesty. For her alone.” 

A ripple of attention moved down the table as nearby conversations faltered. 

Geto’s tone cooled further. “By whose request?” 

The servant froze. His lips parted, then closed again, eyes flicking somewhere over Geto’s shoulder—as if weighing the danger of the truth against the danger of silence. 

You didn’t need to follow his gaze to know where it had gone. From the corner of your vision, you caught Kenjaku across the hall, still as stone but with a faint tightness in his posture, the kind that betrayed strain beneath a mask. His eyes darted once toward the servant, quick and sharp—don’t say it—before returning to the crowd as though nothing was amiss. 

The servant bowed low, avoiding both of your eyes. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say, Your Majesty.” 

Geto’s expression hardened. “Not at liberty?” He leaned back slightly, letting the words carry to the nearest guests. “In my hall, serving my queen, and you aren’t at liberty to tell me who ordered it?” 

The servant swallowed. “It was… meant as a courtesy.” 

Geto’s eyes narrowed, though his voice stayed measured. “Then it won’t trouble anyone if it’s inspected before my queen drinks it.” 

He didn’t look at you—instead, his gaze slid down the table. “General Kamo.” 

Choso was at your side in moments, his presence a solid wall between you and the rest of the hall. “Your Majesty?” 

“Take this to the side table,” Geto said, gesturing to the porcelain cup. “Have it examined. Discreetly.” His tone made it clear it was an order, not a suggestion. “I want to know exactly what’s in it before it touches her lips.” 

Choso’s eyes flickered to yours briefly, a silent reassurance, before he lifted the cup from the table with careful hands. The steam still curled upward, carrying that faintly bitter scent beneath the citrus. 

Around you, nearby guests tried—and failed—not to stare. 

From across the hall, Kenjaku had gone very still, the tension in his shoulders betraying a strain that most would miss. You caught the quick flicker of his gaze to Choso, measuring, calculating. This wasn’t the reaction he’d expected, and it showed in the faint tightening at the corners of his mouth before his expression smoothed over again. 

Choso stepped back with the cup, moving toward a sideboard near the wall. Two of his men discreetly followed, shielding the process from curious eyes. 

Geto settled back in his seat, his expression still unreadable but his voice low enough for only you to hear. “If someone is slipping things to my queen, I’ll know who, and I’ll know why.” 

Choso had only taken a few steps toward the sideboard when a familiar voice cut through the low murmur of the hall. 

“If it’s tea you’re worried about,” Gojo said, stepping forward from his place down the table, “I’ve spent more time around herbs and blends than I’d like to admit. I could take a look.” 

The easy smile on his face didn’t quite match the sharp focus in his eyes. 

Geto’s attention shifted to him immediately, his posture tightening. “And why,” he said slowly, “would I hand it over to you?” 

Gojo didn’t flinch. “Because I know what I’m looking for, and I don’t have any interest in poisoning your queen. We both know there are faster ways to get under your skin than that.” His tone was light, but the implication beneath it wasn’t. 

A few nearby guests went quiet, pretending to be absorbed in their conversations but clearly listening. 

Geto’s gaze lingered on him, measuring, weighing the risk against the possibility of an answer. Finally, he leaned back just enough to gesture toward Choso. “Take Lord Gojo with you.” 

Choso gave a brief nod, pausing only to glance at you before moving toward the far side of the hall. Gojo followed easily, long strides unhurried but deliberate, his coat brushing past the watching guests as if he didn’tnotice—or didn’t care—that he was the center of their curiosity. 

Geto rose from his chair without another word, following after them. Whatever suspicion had been in his voice before, now it was shadowed with something sharper: control, determination, and a need to see for himself. 

The moment Geto disappeared into the crowd with Gojo and Choso, the air around you seemed to thin. Guests resumed their chatter in cautious waves, though more than a few eyes still flicked toward the far corner where the three men had gone. 

You reached for your goblet, the cool metal grounding against your palm. 

That’s when the chair beside you scraped back. 

Kenjaku settled into it with deliberate ease, folding his hands on the table as though this had been his seat all along. His smile was small, polite—carefully shaped for anyone watching—but his eyes were locked on yours with unnerving stillness. 

“It’s fortunate you have so many willing to come to your aid,” he said lightly, as though commenting on nothing more than the weather. “Choso, the king… even Lord Gojo.” He let the last name linger just slightly. “You’re very… well-protected.” 

You set your goblet down, keeping your voice steady. “Isn’t that what’s expected of a queen?” 

His smile twitched, though whether from amusement or annoyance, you couldn’t tell. “Yes. Though protection often depends on loyalty. And loyalty, as you know, can be… fragile.” 

Your fingers tightened imperceptibly around the stem of your goblet. “I’ve never given anyone reason to doubt mine.” 

Kenjaku leaned in just enough that his words wouldn’t carry to the nearby guests. “Let’s keep it that way.” The shift in his tone was subtle, but unmistakable. “The little arrangements we have—our private courtesies—work best when they’re quiet. You’ve done well so far not to invite unnecessary attention to them.” 

The implication was a blade, sharp and cold, pressed just beneath the warmth of his words. He wasn’t talking about the cup tonight. He was talking about every morning’s tea, the one you drank without fail. 

“I’d hate,” he added softly, “for any… misunderstanding to make things more complicated for you than they already are.” 

You didn’t look away. “I’m sure you would.” 

His eyes lingered on you for a moment longer, reading every flicker of your expression before his smile smoothed again. He leaned back in his chair as though nothing had been said at all, idly scanning the room. 

From the far side of the hall, movement caught your attention—Geto and Gojo were returning, Choso just behind them, the porcelain cup nowhere in sight. 

The moment Geto’s eyes found you across the hall, you knew something was coming. His pace toward the head table was steady, but his jaw was set, his gaze fixed entirely on you. Gojo followed just a step behind him, expression unusually grave, and Choso flanked them both, his attention moving over the room like a guard still on high alert. 

When they reached you, Geto didn’t speak to the guests, didn’t offer an explanation—he simply extended his hand and said, “Walk with me.” 

The hall quieted around you as he led you toward the side doors, the whispers of speculation already curling in your wake. You caught a glimpse of Kenjaku still seated at the table, his expression unreadable save for the faint, watchful tilt of his head. 

The doors closed behind you, muffling the noise of the banquet. The four of you were alone in the dimly lit corridor, the air cooler here, the flicker of torches casting sharp shadows on the stone. 

Geto stopped a few steps from the doors, turning to face you fully. “They’ve confirmed what it was,” he said, his voice low but iron-edged. “Abortive tea. Strong enough to be effective even if you didn’t know you were expecting.” 

You swallowed, keeping your face as still as you could manage. 

Gojo’s voice cut in, calm but carrying its own weight. “The blend wasn’t subtle—someone wanted it to work without question. We’ve already had the servant taken into custody. Choso’s men are holding him for questioning now.” 

Choso nodded once. “He’s not talking yet, but he will.” 

Geto’s eyes stayed on you, unblinking. “So, tell me,” he said slowly, “how long have you been drinking this?” 

Your mouth felt dry. “I… didn’t know that’s what it was.” 

“Didn’t you?” His tone sharpened. “The servant said you had it every morning, without fail? And you never once thought to ask what was in it?” 

Gojo shifted slightly, his gaze flicking between the two of you, but he didn’t interrupt. Choso stayed silent as well, his attention fixed entirely on you, his expression unreadable. 

“I assumed,” you said carefully, “it was for my health. For the long winter. It was sent with the same explanation every time.” 

“By whom?” Geto asked, and the weight behind the question told you he already suspected the answer. 

You hesitated, just for a breath. It was enough. 

His jaw tightened. “You’re going to tell me,” he said quietly, dangerously, “and you’re going to tell me now.” 

Your pulse pounded in your ears, the shadows from the torches along the corridor seeming to stretch around you. Geto stood too close, his presence filling every inch of space between you, the gold embroidery at the collar of his cloak catching the flicker of the light. 

“How long have you been drinking it?” he asked again, his voice low but with a weight behind it that made your stomach knot. 

You forced your breathing steady. “I don’t know” 

His jaw worked, and then his voice dropped lower, almost a growl. “Don’t lie to me. You’ve fought me every step of the way when it comes to an heir. You’ve argued, delayed, found excuses. And now—now I find this?” 

“I told you—” you began, but the words cut off when his hand closed around your upper arm, not hard enough to leave a mark yet, but with a force that made it clear you weren’t walking away. 

“Don’t play stupid with me,” he hissed, stepping closer until your back nearly touched the wall. “You’ve resisted me at every turn about an heir, and now I find you’ve been swallowing this every day? You expect me to think that’s a coincidence?” 

When you didn’t answer immediately, his grip tightened. 

“That’s enough,” Choso said firmly, taking one step forward. 

“Let her go,” Gojo added, his tone deceptively calm, though the faintest edge under it cut through the air like steel. 

Geto’s head turned just enough to glare over his shoulder at them. “This is between my wife and me.” 

“Not when you’ve got her backed against a wall like this,” Gojo replied, pushing off the wall where he’d been leaning. “And especially not when she’s already told you she didn’t know.” 

Choso came to stand a half-step closer, his gaze fixed on Geto’s hand where it gripped your arm. “Your Majesty,” he said, voice low but unyielding, “you’re making a scene. The guests will notice you’re gone for too long.” 

For a moment, it seemed Geto might ignore them both. His eyes came back to you, the sharpness in them like a blade pressed to skin. “If I find out you’ve been complicit—” He broke off, his grip tightening once more before finally releasing you with a sharp flick of his hand. 

“You’d better hope the servant talks,” he said coldly, then turned to Choso. “Bring him to me the moment he’s ready.” 

Choso inclined his head slightly, still keeping himself positioned between you and Geto until your husband stalked off toward the banquet doors. 

Gojo stayed where he was, watching Geto disappear, before his gaze slid to you. His eyes lingered a beat longer than they should have—searching, assessing—before he said, “You alright?” 

Gojo’s question hung in the air, low and steady, his eyes locked on yours like he was trying to read every flicker of your expression. 

You swallowed, straightening your shoulders. “I’m fine,” you said quietly, though the faint ache in your arm told a different story. 

Choso’s gaze flicked between the two of you, lingering on you just long enough to make sure you weren’t about to collapse under the weight of what had just happened. Then, without a word, he took a measured step back. 

“I’ll see to the servant,” he said, his tone clipped but respectful. “And I’ll give you… a moment.” 

His eyes met Gojo’s in a silent exchange before he turned and headed down the corridor toward the side passage, his boots a dull echo against the stone. 

Gojo waited until Choso’s footsteps had faded before speaking again. “He’s losing control,” he murmured, glancing toward the banquet doors. “Doesn’t matter how good he is at putting on the show—behind closed doors, he’s cracking.” 

You looked at him, the low torchlight catching in his eyes. “You think I don’t know that?” 

You moved to step past him, but Gojo’s hand brushed your elbow—light, careful, enough to make you stop. 

“That scene in there,” he said quietly, tilting his head toward the banquet doors, “wasn’t an accident.” 

Your brows pulled together. “What do you mean?” 

A faint, knowing smile tugged at his mouth, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “All it took was stalling the servant for a few minutes. Holding him back just long enough to throw the timing off so he’d walk in with that cup right in front of Geto.” 

You stared at him, the realization settling in like a stone. “You—” 

“I made sure he’d deliver it when it couldn’t be ignored,” Gojo cut in, his tone even. “Now he knows something’s been going on for a while, and he’s going to dig. Hard.” 

Your voice was low, almost a whisper. “You wanted him to find out.” 

Gojo’s gaze held yours, unwavering. “I wanted him to find out where it hurts him the most—through the one thing he thinks he controls completely.” He didn’t have to say you for it to land. 

The weight of his words pressed in, the quiet of the corridor amplifying every beat of your pulse. “You realize what he might do now,” you murmured. 

“I do,” Gojo said simply. “And I’ll be watching. Closer than before.” 

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, with an almost casual step back, he gave you space again, his voice lowering to a more careful register. “We should go back in separately.” 

You nodded faintly, though your chest was tight. Gojo pushed the banquet doors open just wide enough for you to slip inside first, his eyes on you until the crowd swallowed you again. 

Your eyes found the head table instantly. Geto was seated, leaning slightly toward Kenjaku, their heads close together. Whatever they were discussing was sharp—Geto’s jaw was tense, his words clipped, while Kenjaku’sexpression was perfectly composed, lips moving in slow, measured replies. 

The moment Kenjaku saw you, his face shifted. The mask came on instantly—warmth in his eyes, the faint lift of a sympathetic smile, his voice carrying just enough for nearby guests to hear as he pushed back from the table. 

“Your Majesty,” he said, stepping toward you, his tone lined with feigned concern. “You look pale—has all the excitement been too much?” 

You felt the eyes of the surrounding guests turn your way as he reached for your hand. His grip was firm—too firm. The pads of his fingers pressed into your skin, just shy of painful, his thumb brushing in what to others might have looked like a soothing motion but was nothing short of a warning. 

“I was worried when you left so suddenly,” he murmured, his voice low enough now that only you could hear. “We can’t have people thinking you’ve been… unwell.” 

His eyes held yours, and the warmth in them was hollow, the kind of light that burned without giving any heat. The pressure of his grip increased by a fraction, just enough to make your knuckles ache. 

“I’m fine,” you said, matching his tone, matching his mask. “Thank you for your… concern.” 

Kenjaku smiled wider for the audience, turning his head slightly so the nearest guests could see the performance. “That’s good to hear. Perhaps, after the meal, we should have someone fetch you some tea. Something… restorative.” 

The subtle emphasis on the last word sent a shiver down your spine. 

Kenjaku’s grip was still tight around your hand when Geto’s voice cut in, low but carrying enough command to still the air around the head table. 

“Lord Kenjaku,” he said, his eyes fixed sharply on his advisor, “I want your assistance in the investigation into that cup. Now.” 

Kenjaku turned his head slowly toward him, the mask never slipping, though you felt his fingers tighten one last time before releasing you. “Of course, Your Majesty,” he said smoothly, inclining his head. “If you’ll permit me a moment to prepare the appropriate questions.” 

Geto’s gaze flicked to you briefly—assessing, perhaps calculating—before he looked past you toward the edge of the table. “General Kamo.” 

Choso stepped forward at once, bowing his head slightly. “Your Majesty.” 

“Escort the queen back to her chambers,” Geto ordered, his tone clipped. “She’s had enough of the evening.” 

The words weren’t quite gentle, but they weren’t for the benefit of the guests either—they were a dismissal, clean and final. 

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Choso’s voice was steady, no hint of hesitation. He moved to your side, offering his arm with a respectful dip of his head. 

You took it, allowing him to lead you away from the noise and heat of the hall. As you moved, you could still feel the phantom pressure of Kenjaku’s grip lingering on your skin, the low murmur of his last words threading through your thoughts. 

Behind you, the hum of the banquet resumed, and somewhere among it, Gojo’s watchful gaze followed your steps until the crowd swallowed you from view. 

The heavy banquet doors closed behind you, muffling the swell of music and voices until it was little more than a distant hum. The cooler air of the corridor was a welcome relief after the stifling heat of the hall, though the faint scent of candle wax and stone felt sharper here, almost too quiet after the noise. 

Choso kept his pace measured, his arm steady beneath your hand, the echo of your steps matching in unison on the polished floor. For several moments, neither of you spoke. His presence was solid—comfortably so—but you could sense the weight of his thoughts pressing just beneath the surface. 

Choso’s arm was steady beneath your hand, his stride matching yours exactly. For a while, he said nothing, his expression fixed ahead. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, even. 

“How long have you been drinking that tea?” 

You kept your gaze forward. “A while.” 

His eyes flicked to you briefly, the faintest crease forming between his brows. “Did you know what it was all along?” 

You nodded your head once. “Yes.” 

His jaw worked slightly before his next question came. “Do you know who sent it to you?” 

The pause in your step was almost imperceptible, but you knew he caught it. Your answer came quiet, deliberate. “It’s not safe for me to tell you.” 

Choso didn’t press, though his gaze lingered on you for a moment longer before returning to the corridor ahead. “Understood,” he said simply. 

You reached the turn leading to your chambers, the guards posted there straightening as you approached.  

“I’ll post someone I trust outside tonight,” he said, voice dropping so the guards wouldn’t overhear. “If anything feels wrong, even for a second, call for them.” 

You gave a small nod, the quiet weight of his words grounding you. “Thank you, Choso.” He inclined his head, then stepped back, waiting until you crossed the threshold before turning away. 

You don’t undress right away. Instead, you sat there, letting the silence press in until it was nearly suffocating. Tomorrow, there would be questions—pointed, deliberate ones—from Geto, from Kenjaku, perhaps even from others who had caught wind of the scene in the banquet hall. The investigation into the tea would not be quiet, and whether or not you spoke the truth, the scrutiny would inevitably turn toward you. 

Chaos was coming; you could feel it as surely as the weight of the blankets beneath your hands. Geto’s suspicion, Kenjaku’s watchful malice, Gojo’s dangerous protectiveness—they would all collide sooner or later, and you stood in the center of it, with no room to move without someone deciding you’d stepped out of line. 

When you finally lay down, staring up at the canopy, it wasn’t rest you found—it was the awareness that tomorrow would be a day of judgment. And in this palace, judgment was rarely merciful. 

-.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅ -.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅ -.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅ -.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅

The night air hung heavily over the street, damp with the lingering scent of rain and smoke. Most of the storefronts were closed; their windows shuttered or dark, but the faint glow behind the blinds of Cursed Ink pulsed softly.  

Toji’s boots hit the pavement with slow, measured steps as he rounded the corner. He stopped across the street, letting the smoke curl lazily from his mouth as he took a drag from his cigarette, one brow twitching faintly at the flickering "R" in Cursed in the sign. 

Behind him, another set of footsteps echoed, lighter, with a peculiar rhythm that didn’t quite match the stillness of the night. They stared at Cursed Ink with visible disgust, like the signage alone offended them. 

“Tch,” Naoya Zenin scoffed, wrinkling his nose. “This is where he plays house now? What a fucking downgrade. I thought the rumors were exaggerated, but no, this is really it. The great Ryomen Sukuna, reduced to a glorified tattoo artist? What a joke.” 

Toji glanced sideways. “He’s not exactly looking for your approval.” 

Naoya ignored him, too caught up in his own self-satisfaction. “And he’s playin’ boyfriend now too, isn’t he? That girl, the pretty thing you told me about?” He laughed under his breath, sharp and mean. “Hope she doesn’t mind the secondhand embarrassment.” 

Toji didn’t reply, but the silence between them was thick. 

Naoya pressed on. “Honestly, I expected more from Geto. That one had potential. Could’ve taken his power somewhere respectable.” He rolled his eyes. “But no. He’s working here, wasting away like some washed-up rebel.” 

“And Gojo?” Toji finally asked, tone dry. 

Naoya’s lip curled like he’d just stepped in something foul. 

“Don’t even get me started on that arrogant clown. If anyone belongs in a cell, it’s him. Walking around like he’s untouchable.” He shook his head, jaw tight. “I should’ve broken his nose the last time I saw him.” 

Toji chuckled low. “Pretty sure he’d break more than that.” 

Naoya glared at him. “You picking sides now?” 

“Not at all,” Toji said, exhaling smoke through his nose. “Just saying... you come at any of them, you’d better be ready to finish the job.” 

Naoya smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Who says I’m not?” 

- 

“For the love of—pick up your damn phone,” you muttered, squinting at the screen as it rang... and rang… and rang. Voicemail. Again. “Unbelievable.” 

You flopped back on your couch with a dramatic sigh, the phone landing next to you like it was betraying you. 

“He’s totally asleep in that stupid chair again. I know it.” You stared at the ceiling. “Probably knocked out mid-doodle like he’s some tortured artist. I swear if he’s drooling on another stencil...” 

Your apartment was too quiet. The kind of quiet that reminded you Sukuna wasn’t there, and neither were his stupid grumbles or sarcastic comments or the way he always took way more space than necessary on your couch. 

“At least Gojo’s not around to encourage him,” you grumbled, getting up and pacing the room. “Or Geto with his fake-deep thoughts.” 

Your phone buzzed, and you nearly leapt for it. A spam notification.  

You dropped back onto the couch and pulled a blanket over your lap. “Okay. Fine. He’s not dead. He’s not in a ditch. He’s just being his usual emotionally repressed, ink-stained self.” You let your head fall back onto the cushion with a dramatic thud. “Which would be fine if I wasn’t, you know, in love with him or whatever.” 

Something you still have yet to say aloud to him. Or anyone else for that matter. Only to yourself in the safety of your own apartment where you wouldn’t have to risk not hearing it back.  

A long sigh passed your lips as you stared at your phone one last time. Still nothing. With a burst of sudden determination, you tossed the blanket off and shuffled to the kitchen.  “Okay, screw it. I’mgoing over there.” 

You flicked on the light, grabbing one of the energy drinks he liked from the fridge, because of course you kept them on hand, and dug around in your snack drawer. 

“Chips… gummy worms… beef jerky?” You held it up, then shrugged. “Yeah, sure. Protein.” 

You crammed everything into a little tote bag and zipped up your hoodie. 

Back in the kitchen, you reached for your keys before pausing. You looked down at the bag, then rolled your eyes with a fond smile. “He better not make fun of me for showing up like some worried girlfriend,” you muttered, then added softly, “...even if that’s basically what I am.” 

After slipping on your shoes you stepped outside, locking the door behind you. “He better appreciate me for this.” You huffed before going on your way. 

- 

“Back in the day, you wouldn’t catch Sukuna settling down and going soft with some girl.” 

From where Naoya was leaning, he glanced over at Toji and scoffed at his words. “Chick’s probably a phase. He always got distracted easily. You remember how he used to be? Guy was a menace.” 

Toji’s smile widened slightly at the memory. “Oh, I remember. Brawls in back alleys. Racing down Fifth Street like a bat outta hell. The shit he’d pull with that crew of his...” His eyes drifted across the street. “Now look at him. Domestic. Gentle. Predictable.” 

“Weak,” Naoya said bluntly. “Sukuna was at his best when he had nothing to lose. Now? Now he’s got soft edges. All because of her. And those idiots he keeps around.” 

Toji didn’t respond at first, just took another drag from his cigarette and let the silence simmer. That is, until his phone buzzed in his back pocket. 

He pulled it out lazily, eyes scanning the screen, and a slow, amused grin spread across his face. Naoya raised a brow. “What?” 

Without a word, Toji turned the screen toward him. A picture lit up the display: Gojo, Geto, and Uraume sitting at a bar, drinks in hand, mid-laugh. The timestamp showed it was just taken, live surveillance by the looks of it. 

“Looks like not everyone’s at the shop tonight,” Toji drawled.  

Naoya hummed, eyes narrowing as he looked at the image. “Good to know.” 

Toji locked his phone and slipped it back into his pocket, that grin still tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Looks like we’ve got time to pay an old friend a visit.” 

They crossed the road at an unhurried pace, the neon glow of Cursed Ink washing over them as they stopped in front of the door. Toji tried the handle first—locked. He knocked once, sharp and loud, then again for good measure. The sound echoed down the empty street. 

Nothing. 

Naoya leaned closer to the glass, peering through the slats of the blinds. “Lights are on,” he said. “Someone’s in there.” 

Toji knocked harder this time, rapping his knuckles against the door with a faint smirk. “Hey, Sukuna. Open up. Miss us.” 

Still nothing. No footsteps. No movement. Just the low hum of electricity behind the walls. 

Naoya straightened, annoyance flashing across his face. “Tch. Typical. He’s always been good at ignoring things he doesn’t want to deal with.” 

Toji huffed a laugh. “Guess he learned something.” 

They stood there for a beat longer, the silence stretching thin. Then Naoya’s lips curled into something sharp and pleased. 

“Well,” he said lightly, tilting his head as if a thought had just occurred to him, “if he won’t come out… maybe we make it so he has to.” 

Toji glanced at him sideways. “You got something in mind?” 

Naoya’s eyes flicked to the storefront—the large glass window, the flickering sign above it, the carefully painted logo. “This place means something to him now,” he said. “That’s new. And new things are… fragile.” 

A slow grin spread across Toji’s face. “You’re thinking small.” 

Naoya smiled wider. “I’m thinking effective.” 

He stepped closer to the window, examining it like a piece on a chessboard. “Nothing permanent,” he added casually. “Just enough damage to send a message. Shake him up a little. Remind him that playing house doesn’t make him untouchable.” 

Toji rolled his shoulders, already scanning the street for witnesses. “You really hate him that much?” 

Naoya scoffed. “I hate what he’s become.” He shifted his weight on his heels, while the corners of his mouth curled into something smug, almost amused, before he turned to Toji. “You still got that gear in your trunk?” 

Toji didn’t even blink. “You mean the party favors?” 

Naoya snorted. “Call it what you want. I’m feeling festive.” 

Toji let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he turned and started walking toward where he parked a block down. “You’re a damn child sometimes.” 

“Yeah, well,” Naoya shrugged, falling in step beside him. “Takes one to entertain one.” 

They reached the matte black car that blended  into the shadows of the side street. Toji popped the trunk and lifted the false bottom panel revealing a hidden duffel bag—old, frayed at the edges, and heavy with the kind of supplies neither of them had any business owning anymore. 

He unzipped it, and Naoya’s eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. Inside sat a metal bat, worn but clean, along with a few small smoke canisters, military surplus by the look of them. The same kind they’d both used back in the worst days of their youth. 

“I can’t believe you still have these,” Naoya murmured, picking up one of the canisters and rolling it between his fingers. “You said you got rid of all your old shit.” 

Toji smirked. “I lied.” 

Naoya chuckled, grabbing both smoke bombs. Toji slung the bat over his shoulder and shut the trunk with a solid thunk.  

“This isn’t just about Sukuna, is it?” Toji asked suddenly, voice low but firm. 

Naoya tilted his head, feigning innocence. “What? You mean my vendetta against our local reformed psycho and his merry band of self-righteous pricks?” 

Toji raised a brow. 

Naoya’s smirk widened, but there was something colder behind it now. “Gojo’s the one I want. Sukuna’s just... collateral.” 

Toji gave a small shake of his head. “You’ve got issues.” 

“I have goals.” 

As they made their way back towards the shop, Naoya slipped the smoke bombs into his coat pockets, fingers flexing with anticipation. Toji adjusted the grip on the bat resting over his shoulder, eyes locked on the front window. “Fuck it,” he muttered under his breath, voice low and eager. “Let’s give ‘em something to talk about.” 

Before Naoya could even ask what he meant, Toji stepped forward, swung the bat back, and with a thunderous CRACK shattered one of the large front windows. Glass rained on the sidewalk, the sound ringing down the street like a gunshot. 

“Jesus,” Naoya hissed, eyes wide with glee. “Subtlety’s really not your thing, huh?” 

Toji didn’t answer, he just grinned. 

Naoya reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a smoke bomb, flicked the ignition, and tossed it through the broken window. It hit the floor inside the darkened tattoo shop with a faint clink before erupting in a hissing cloud of thick, curling smoke. 

Toji stepped back, admiring their handiwork. “That should do it,” he muttered, dusting his hands off. 

But Naoya wasn’t done. 

With a reckless glint in his eyes, he grabbed the second canister and threw it in, this one landing deeper inside the shop. The interior quickly filled with smoke, tendrils of grey leaking out through the cracks in the window frame. 

“Toji, one more!” Naoya cackled, already fishing out a third smoke bomb. 

Toji rolled his eyes. “You’re like a damn pyromaniac.” 

“You love it,” Naoya replied, tossing the third canister with a careless arc. It clanged loudly against a metal chair inside before erupting like the others, filling the shop with a dense fog. The smell of chemicals drifted into the street as the haze thickened. The two men stood there, satisfied, watching smoke curl up toward the shattered windowpane. 

Then—footsteps. Fast ones. 

“Hey!” A voice rang out from down the street, sharp and filled with alarm. 

Both men whipped around to see you charging up the sidewalk, plastic bag in one hand and an energy drink in the other. Your eyes locked on the shattered window, then on the two men standing in front of it like kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar. 

Toji’s smile twitched. “Aw, shit,” Naoya muttered under his breath. 

You didn’t slow down. You dropped the drink and bag right onto the pavement and stormed forward. Your footsteps echoed against the concrete, barely registering the sound of your energy drink can rolling across the street behind you. All you saw was the shattered glass, the smoke curling from the broken window of Cursed Ink, and Toji standing there with a goddamn bat. 

“Toji?” you barked, eyes wide in disbelief. “What the fuck are you doing?” 

He didn’t flinch, just turned toward you with that same smug, nonchalant expression you’d come to hate. “Relax, sweetheart,” he drawled, like this was some casual joke. “Just a little payback.” 

“Payback?” you repeated, incredulous. “You vandalized the shop, what the hell could you possibly be trying to pay back?” 

Beside him, the other man—taller, leaner, and unfamiliar to you—crossed his arms with a grin that made your skin crawl. “Guess that depends on who’s asking,” he said, gazing over you in a way that made your fists clench. “She doesn’t know who I am?” 

Toji waved a hand, “This is Ryomen’s girl.” 

“Then allow me to introduce myself,” the stranger said, stepping forward slightly. “Naoya. Naoya Zenin.” 

Your brows shot up. Zenin? 

Before you could react, Toji chimed in, tone suddenly sharper. “Don’t give her the full show, Naoya.” 

Naoya clicked his tongue but stepped back obediently. You turned your attention back to Toji, voice rising. “You think this is some kind of game? This isn’t just a shop, it’s his life. What, breaking a few windows makes you feel better about yourself?” 

Toji’s smirk faltered for the first time, just slightly. “He’s had it coming for a long time,” he muttered, jaw flexing. “I’m just making sure he remembers he’s not untouchable.” 

The smoke continued to billow out of the shop behind them, and your stomach twisted. You didn’t know if Sukuna was still inside, asleep at his desk, or if anyone else was nearby. You reached for your phone. “What, calling your boyfriend now?” Naoya sneered. 

You gave him a venomous glare. “Damn right I am.” 

Your fingers were already moving before your brain caught up; phone out, screen lit, Sukuna’s name pulled up like muscle memory. “Don’t,” Toji said sharply. 

You ignored him and hit call. The dial tone barely had time to ring before a hand snapped out and ripped the phone from your grip. 

“Hey—!” you lunged forward, fury flashing white-hot. “Give that back!” 

Toji held it just out of reach, jaw tight now, the humor gone. “You call him right now and this turns into something ugly. You don’t want that.” 

“I don’t care what it turns into,” you snapped, shoving his chest hard enough to make him take a half step back. “You don’t get to decide that for me. Give. It. Back.” 

Behind him, the other man laughed, low and pleased. 

“You’re really protective,” Naoya mused, pulling something small and cylindrical from his coat pocket. “That’s cute.” 

Your head snapped toward him. “What are you doing?” 

Toji turned just in time to see Naoya flick the pin free. “Naoya—don’t,” he barked, realizing that it looked too different from the smoke bombs they had been using. 

Too late. Naoya tossed it through the already shattered window with an easy, careless arc. The canister hit the floor inside the shop with a dull metallic clatter and for half a second, nothing happened. 

Then— 

WHOOMF. 

Not an explosion, but a sudden, violent bloom of flame. Fire raced outward along the floor in crawling tongues, catching on paper, ink-stained rags, and the edge of a discarded cardboard box. Heat blasted through the broken window, the smell of burning chemicals and scorched wood hitting you like a punch to the chest, making you instinctively cover your face from the burn. 

“Oh my god,” you breathed. 

The inside of the shop  lit up in flickering orange, shadows dancing wildly across the walls as smoke thickened into something darker, heavier. 

“That wasn’t a smoke grenade,” you shouted, panic ripping through your voice. “That’s fire, what the hell did you do?!” 

Naoya grinned, eyes bright. “Relax. Incendiary, not explosive. Think of it as… emphasis.” 

Toji swore viciously. “You said smoke.” 

“I said gear,” Naoya corrected lightly. “This makes a better point.” 

Your heart was pounding so hard it hurt. Toji swore violently at Naoya, the curse ripped straight from his chest. “Are you insane? That wasn’t part of the goddamn plan!” 

Naoya shrugged, though even his smug expression faltered for a second as the flames surged higher inside Cursed Ink. “It’ll go out. It’s controlled—” 

“No, it’s not,” Toji snapped, his voice ragged. “You just torched the place!” 

But you weren’t listening to either of them anymore. You stood frozen, staring into the growing inferno. The flames had already reached the front desk, and Sukuna hadn’t come out. 

He hadn’t come out. 

Your stomach dropped, a wave of nausea slamming into your ribs. You took one stumbling step toward the building. 

“What if he’s inside?” you whispered, more to yourself than anyone else. Your voice shook, tight with panic. “What if he—he was inside—” 

He had to be. He always stayed late. He always fell asleep at his station, headphones on full volume listening to metal. You turned wide eyes back to the door, willing it to swing open. Willing him to walk out, scowling and irritated and fine. 

But it stayed shut, and the fire kept growing. 

“Oh my god,” you choked, and then louder, desperately, “Sukuna!” 

Toji flinched like he’d been punched in the gut. “Shit. Shit.” He turned toward the flames, hands clenched at his sides. “I thought the shop was empty, no one came out when we started.” 

But you were already moving, feet carrying you forward before your brain caught up. You didn’t care about the smoke, or the heat, or the panic bubbling in your chest— 

“What the hell are you doing?” Toji’s voice snapped behind you, but you didn’t stop. 

You reached for the door handle anyway, metal hot beneath your palm—but before you could pull it open, a strong arm wrapped around your waist and yanked you back. 

“Are you insane?” Toji barked, holding you tight. “It’s on fire! You go in there now, you’ll both end up dead!” 

“I don’t care!” you screamed, struggling wildly in his grip. “He’s in there! Sukuna’s in there! Let me go!” 

But Toji wasn’t budging. “You’ll get yourself killed! That smoke alone could drop you in seconds—!” 

You twisted sharply, elbowing him hard enough that he cursed and stumbled back, giving you just enough slack to break free. The moment his grip loosened, you were off like a shot, feet pounding across the pavement. 

“Don’t you f—!” Toji started, but it was too late. 

You hurled yourself toward the smashed window, heart hammering so loud it drowned out every voice and every alarm blaring in your head. The heat radiating from inside was unbearable. 

You grabbed the edge of the broken frame, hissing as shards of glass bit into your palm as you hauled yourself through. Smoke hit you like a wall but you pressed forward, crawling over scorched ink bottles and designs, hand clutched over your mouth. 

The stupid couch Gojo spent too much money on. All of Sukuna’s designs proudly displayed on the walls. The photo of the four of them hanging by the front desk. It was all burning.  

“Sukuna!” you coughed, voice raw as you staggered deeper into the building. “Sukuna, where are you?!” 

Please… please, don’t be here. Please be somewhere else, safe. 

The smoke swirled violently in the light of the flames. You made your way toward the back room where the fire hadn’t spread just yet, where his workstation was, vision swimming, lungs screaming. 

You reached the door to his office and swung it open. And then, through watery eyes, you saw him. Your knees nearly buckled when you reached him; slumped in his chair like a ragdoll, head tilted back, one arm dangling lazily over the armrest. 

“Sukuna,” you gasped, falling to your knees beside him, shaking his arm hard. “Sukuna, wake up, come on, please!” 

He didn’t move. Your panic flared, until you determined that the bulky headphones clamped over his ears were the culprit; and the faint, tinny sound of screaming metal vocals leaking out of them. 

“…You’ve got to be kidding me.” You ripped the headphones off in one smooth motion and shouted, “SUKUNA!” 

The effect was immediate. His whole body jolted like he’d been electrocuted, eyes snapping wide open. He swung out instinctively, only stopping when he realized who was grabbing him. “What the—?!” His eyes focused on you, smoke swirling around your face and tears streaming down your cheeks, lips trembling. 

“You idiot!” you smacked his chest with your palm, tears pricking at your eyes. “The shop’s on fire! I thought—I thought you—” 

 “What’s happening? What the fuck—” Sukuna was already up, hands grasping your face as he crouched in front of you, eyes wide with disbelief and growing horror. “Are you okay? Did you get burned? Are you breathing okay? Talk to me.” 

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” you stammered, though your voice shook. “But we have to go, now—” 

His arms wrapped around you so tightly it knocked the air from your lungs, holding you like he thought you might disappear. “Fuck,” he whispered against your hair. “I didn’t hear anything.” 

“Toji and someone else. They were outside, said it was payback. But Naoya threw something, one of the grenades, it started the fire.” 

Sukuna’s jaw clenched so hard you felt it through his chest. “…They’re dead.” 

“Later,” you huffed. “Right now, we have to get out.” 

He pulled back just enough to look you over, his hands trailing over your shoulders, your arms, checking for injuries even as his jaw clenched tight with barely restrained rage. He nodded sharply, already shifting you behind him. “Hold onto me.” 

With one arm around your waist and the other shielding your head, Sukuna guided you through the blackened haze, his voice rough against your ear as he muttered curses and kept you close. Smoke stung your eyes, flames crackling somewhere behind you, but his grip never faltered. 

With total seriousness, you heard him say, “…I’m never wearing noise-canceling headphones again.” 

“Shut the fuck up.” You wanted to laugh, you really did, but you couldn’t focus on any ounce of happiness right now. 

You buried your face in his shoulder, clinging tightly as he moved fast through the haze, ducking debris and pushing open the cracked front door with a sharp kick. You could feel his heart hammering in his chest. 

Once outside, the cool air hit like a wave, and only then did Sukuna let you go—just for a moment—only to turn, fists clenched at his sides, and march across the pavement straight toward Toji and Naoya. 

“Sukuna—!” you called out, reaching for his arm, but he didn’t stop. 

Toji and Naoya stood frozen across the street, the orange glow from the fire reflecting in their eyes. Naoya looked smug for about half a second… until he saw the expression on Sukuna’s face. 

“What the hell did you do?” Sukuna’s voice came low and furious, like a storm building just before it breaks. “You threw a fucking incendiary inside my shop?! Are you out of your goddamn mind?” 

Naoya actually had the audacity to roll his eyes. “It wasn’t supposed to light much. Just scare you a little. How was I supposed to know it’d catch fire?” 

“Scare me?” Sukuna growled, taking another step forward. “You could’ve killed her. She came in after me, you knew I was inside—” 

“We didn’t know for sure that you were inside, and I sure as hell didn’t know she’d go in,” Toji cut in sharply, voice tight. “That wasn’t the plan. None of this was supposed to go that far.” 

His tone had shifted, there was something tired in it now, something regretful. He was still leaning against the wall, but his usual cocky smirk was gone. 

“I called the fire department,” Toji added, motioning vaguely to his phone. “As soon as I saw it wasn’t just smoke. I stayed. Don’t act like I wanted it to go down this way.” 

“Oh, you stayed?” Sukuna snapped, eyes blazing. “You get a fucking medal for that?” 

You hurried to catch up to him, sliding up behind Sukuna. His chest was heaving, his hands trembling at his sides.  

“Sukuna,” you said gently, placing a hand on his back. “It’s not worth it. The fire’s already spreading. The cops will be here soon.” 

He didn’t take his eyes off Toji, who now looked like he was trying to hide the smallest sliver of guilt. Naoya, on the other hand, still looked like part of this was funny. 

But Sukuna didn’t take the bait. He let out a long breath, jaw twitching. “You come near her again, or this shop,” he said slowly, voice sharp as broken glass, “and I will forget I’ve changed.” 

Naoya snorted. “Oh, scary. The reformed bad boy’s gonna have a relapse.” 

Toji elbowed him hard. 

“Say one more thing,” Sukuna growled. 

“Okay, okay, let’s go,” Toji said quickly, grabbing Naoya’s sleeve and dragging him backward. “We’re done here. Let’s get out of here before the trucks show up.”  

But before Toji and Naoya could even move, the pounding of footsteps echoed from the opposite end of the block. 

Gojo rounded the corner first, breathless but alert, white hair catching in the flickering glow of the shop’s smoldering remains. Geto was right behind him, eyes narrowed, and Uraume flanked them both with a phone still in hand, clearly having already dialed someone for backup. 

“We saw the smoke from halfway across downtown!” Gojo shouted, skidding to a stop. And then he saw you, covered in soot, visibly shaken. Then he saw Sukuna, knuckles white and breathing hard. And finally, he saw them. 

Toji. Naoya. Standing way too casually for two men who had just torched a building. 

Gojo’s face dropped into something deadly calm. “What the fuck did you two do?” 

“Gojo,” you started, trying to keep him from making things worse— 

But it was too late. In one stride, he was across the street. Naoya barely had time to open his mouth before Gojo’s fist cracked right into his nose, sending him stumbling backward with a howl. 

“Are you insane?!” Naoya shrieked, blood spurting between his fingers. “You hit me!” 

“That was for her,” Gojo said, tilting his head toward you. “This one’s for Sukuna.” He drew his arm back again. 

“You’re out of your mind!” Toji lunged forward, yanking Naoya back and stepping in Gojo’s path. 

That was when Geto stepped in, swift and fluid, grabbing Toji by the shirt and slamming him against the nearby wall. The sound echoed through the street. “Try it,” Geto growled low, eye to eye with Toji. 

Uraume stood still with you at the curb, not interfering, but their hand flexed at their side. However, Sukuna didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward, face darker than you'd ever seen it, and stormed toward Naoya. 

“You think hiding behind Toji’s going to save you now?” He snarled. Naoya tried to speak, maybe to try and justify it, maybe mock him again, but Sukuna’s punch knocked him sideways before he got the chance. 

Everything quickly erupted into chaos. 

Toji shoved Geto back, swinging for his ribs. Sukuna tackled Naoya straight into the sidewalk. Gojo laughed—laughed—as fists flew around him, ducking and landing blows like he’d been waiting for this all week. Geto fought with a sharp precision that showed this wasn’t his first time dealing with Toji either.  

You were begininng to see the history that Sukuna tried to get away from, tried to not let you see. And despite the panic swelling in your chest, a tiny, traitorous voice in the back of your head whispered, okay… maybe they kind of deserved it. 

The firetruck sirens began wailing closer. Red and blue lights painted the street in frantic flashes as the first firetruck skidded to a halt at the curb, brakes hissing. The firefighters poured out in seconds, eyes locking onto the billowing smoke still seeping from the broken windows of the shop. 

“Go! Get hoses on the north side, watch the back door for spread!” a voice barked sharply. 

And then— “What the hell is going on over here?!” 

You turned just as Choso leapt down from the passenger side of the firetruck, helmet already off, hair tied back and face full of disbelief. He barely looked at the building before his eyes narrowed on the brawl happening right in front of it. 

Gojo had Naoya in a headlock. Sukuna had a bloody knuckle and was hauling back for another punch. Geto was keeping Toji cornered, but it was clear the fight had crossed into personal territory. 

Choso didn’t hesitate. “Sukuna!” he roared, charging over and grabbing his half-brother around the waist from behind. “What the hell are you doing?!” 

Sukuna thrashed once, but when he realized who it was, he didn’t fight back. “Let me go—” 

“No! Jesus, there’s a fire! You own this place! What is wrong with you?!” 

Gojo, meanwhile, released Naoya with a final shove that sent him stumbling. “You’re lucky, Zenin,” he spat, wiping blood off his cheek. “If it weren’t for this handsome man in uniform—” he motioned dramatically at Choso, “—I’d still be rearranging your nose.” 

Naoya glared, face bruised and bloodied, but clearly weighing his options. 

Toji grabbed him by the shoulder, tugging him back. “We’re leaving.” 

Naoya hesitated for half a second too long, until he caught sight of the second firetruck arriving down the street, followed closely by the flashing lights of a police cruiser. 

He spat blood onto the sidewalk and turned away. Toji threw one last look over his shoulder, something unreadable flickering across his face, then disappeared with Naoya quickly down the street. 

Sukuna was still breathing hard, watching them vanish, fists clenched and jaw tight. Choso finally let go, stepping in front of him, eyes scanning his face. “Are you okay?” 

Sukuna didn’t answer immediately. Then: “They could’ve killed her.” 

“But they didn’t. And now you’re going to let us handle it.” Choso said calmly. 

You stepped forward then, touching Sukuna’s arm gently. His head turned immediately, eyes softening just slightly at the sight of you still there, still safe. 

Gojo limped over next, Geto not far behind, both of them scraped and bruised but somehow still grinning like idiots. Uraume, somewhere behind you all, finally muttered, “I’m going to kill Toji myself next time.” 

Choso had rejoined the other firefighters, barking orders as they methodically worked to stop the spread and assess the structural damage. You, Sukuna, Gojo, Geto, and Uraume sat together on the curb across the street; bruised, soot-covered, and exhausted. 

No one spoke for a moment. Just the crackle of the fire being extinguished and the occasional cough from someone breathing in more smoke than they should’ve. 

Gojo was the first to break the silence, exhaling heavily. “So… I’m just gonna say it... if we rebuild, can we please fix the god-awful lighting in the bathroom?” 

Uraume groaned beside him. “You set one foot in that shop every two weeks and you still complain.” 

“I have sensitive eyes!” Gojo said, dramatically shielding his face. 

“You don’t have sensitive anything,” Geto muttered, then glanced over at Sukuna. “That front wall’s completely gone. The chair setups too. If the ceiling’s compromised, they’ll have to seal the whole interior for weeks.” 

Sukuna stared at the building, his expression unreadable. He’d barely spoken since the fight, his arms resting on his knees, dried blood crusted on his knuckles. 

You touched his hand softly, brushing your pinky against his. He didn’t look at you, but his pinky curled back around yours. A small, silent comfort. “We can rebuild. You’ll rebuild.” 

He finally glanced at you, jaw still tight. “It’ll take time. Money. Permits. Insurance might not even cover this—” 

“Then we figure it out,” you replied. “You guys always do.” 

“You mean I figure it out,” Sukuna muttered, though the bitterness lacked bite now. 

“No,” Geto corrected, “We. You’ve got a team, dumbass. Don’t forget that.” 

“And an emotional support idiot,” Gojo added, thumbing toward himself proudly. 

Uraume snorted. “More like emotional instigator.” 

Still, Sukuna gave a small chuckle under his breath, and you could feel the weight on his shoulders loosen, just a little. 

“Maybe,” he muttered, eyes still locked on the building, “this is the universe’s way of telling me I need new floors.” 

“Oh my God, thank you!” Gojo leaned over you to slap his shoulder, causing Sukuna to wince. “That linoleum was a war crime.” 

“Not the time,” Uraume said flatly. 

The five of you fell into a strange sort of quiet again. A shared exhaustion. A moment of stillness amid the chaos.  

- 

The fire was finally out. 

What remained of Cursed Ink stood damp and charred, the last of the steam curling off the roof and broken window frames as the firefighters began to pack up their hoses. The flashing red lights gave the whole street a surreal glow, and though the night was cooling off, the air still smelled like smoke, ash, and melted vinyl. 

You, Sukuna, and the others had migrated from the curb to the front of the shop, standing just outside the caution tape that Choso’s team had stretched across the sidewalk. Choso approached slowly, helmet off, sweat and soot streaked across his forehead, clipboard in one hand. 

Sukuna straightened as his half-brother drew near, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. “Well?” he asked, voice low and gravel-edged. 

Choso let out a breath. “We got to it before it hit the main support beams, but not by much. The interior’s smoke damaged, back wall’s compromised, most of the electrical’s fried. You’re going to need a full inspection and structural review before you can even think about reopening.” 

Sukuna’s jaw tensed. You saw his fingers curl against his biceps. 

Choso glanced between him and the rest of you, then stopped, his eyes landing on you. He looked you up and down slowly, frowning deeper the longer he looked. 

“She ran into the fire,” Sukuna said, his voice low but firm. “I was out cold in the chair with headphones on. If she hadn’t—” 

“You what?” Choso turned to you sharply, eyes wide now with a mix of panic and disbelief. “You ran inside?” 

You hesitated, offering a sheepish nod. “He wasn’t answering his phone. I thought—he could’ve—” 

“You could’ve died,” Choso snapped, stepping closer. “That building was one minute away from full collapse. What were you thinking?!” 

“I was thinking I wasn’t going to let him burn to death,” you bit back, more shaken than you meant to sound. 

Choso opened his mouth like he wanted to argue, but then, his expression softened. Just slightly. “Shit. Alright. Okay.” 

Then, quieter: “Thank you. For not letting that happen. Even if it was the dumbest thing I’ve seen in a long time.” 

“Yeah, I get that a lot,” you muttered. 

Choso shook his head and flipped a few pages on the clipboard. “We’ll submit the report to the fire marshal by morning. The city’s going to send someone out to assess the structure. If it’s stable, you’llbe allowed to start repairs.” 

“How long?” Sukuna asked, eyes still on the darkened interior. 

Choso hesitated. “Best case? Six weeks. Maybe more.” 

Silence followed. Six weeks. You could feel Sukuna trying not to react; trying to bury the frustration, the helplessness, the fire still simmering beneath his skin. 

But his shoulders dropped slightly. Just slightly. 

“What about the stuff inside?” you asked, stepping up beside him. “His gear, the chairs, anything salvageable?” 

Choso glanced back at the shop, brow furrowed. “We’ll know more once it cools off and they let you inside tomorrow. Right now, I’d assume most of its toast.” 

Geto sighed quietly. Uraume crossed their arms tighter. 

“Guess that means new chairs too,” Gojo offered lightly, trying for humor again. “Could finally get the fancy ones that recline all the way back.” 

Sukuna didn’t laugh this time. But he also didn’t argue. He just stood there, jaw working behind clenched teeth as his eyes stayed locked on the shop. 

Choso stepped closer, placing a firm hand on Sukuna’s shoulder. “Hey. You walked out. She walked out.” His eyes flicked to you again, softer now. “No one got seriously hurt. That’s the part that matters.” 

Sukuna finally nodded, once. “Yeah. I know.” 

But you could tell he was still seeing the smoke. The flames. The shop he built with his own hands, blackened and broken. You gently slid your hand into his, and this time, he didn’t hesitate to squeeze back.  

But then he turned, eyes scanning your face again, lingering on the soot smudged along your cheek, the burn of smoke still in your eyes. 

“We’re going to the hospital,” he said firmly, already letting go of your hand and moving as if the decision had been made. 

“No,” you groaned immediately, grabbing his wrist. “I’m fine, seriously. I just—” you waved a hand vaguely at yourself, “—need a shower, some sleep, and maybe a gallon of water. Please, I don’t want to deal with fluorescent lights and a nurse asking me how much I weigh.” 

“You inhaled a shit-ton of smoke,” Sukuna said, giving you a look like he was already planning to physically carry you if you resisted. “You were in the fire. That’s not a scratch-and-go-home kind of night.” 

You looked up at him, eyes pleading. “I can breathe, I’m not coughing up blood, and nothing’s broken. I’ll go in the morning, I promise.” 

From behind you, Gojo chimed in, not helping at all. “Y’know, she does kinda smell like smoked ham. Like... artisanal brisket with a little bit of charcoal.” 

“I was gonna say a burnt marshmallow,” Geto added. 

You rolled your eyes so hard it nearly gave you a headache. “Thanks, guys. Really feeling the support.” 

But Sukuna just huffed a tired, half-relieved laugh, finally cracking the tight line of his jaw. “Well,” he muttered, slipping an arm around your waist as he pulled you a little closer, “they’re not wrong. You do reek.” 

You gasped, lightly smacking his chest. “Excuse me?” 

“I’m serious. Like if an ashtray and a campfire had a baby.” 

“Oh my God, take me home before I light you on fire.” 

He chuckled again, the sound softer this time, less tense and more like him. “Deal. But if you pass out on the way, we’re pulling a U-turn to the ER. No arguments.” 

“Fine,” you grumbled, leaning into his side. “But I’m using your fancy shampoo.” 

“You touch that bottle, and you really will be going to the ER.” 

Laughter finally broke through the group, the tension lifting a little now that the worst was over. As Sukuna led you gently down the street, past firetrucks and ash-covered sidewalks, you leaned into his warmth and let your eyes flutter closed just for a second. 

- 

By the time you got back to your apartment, the adrenaline had fully worn off. The ache had settled deep in your bones, smoke still clinging to your clothes and hair, and your limbs felt heavy. 

Sukuna closed the door behind you gently, like he didn’t want to disturb the quiet that had wrapped around both of you. You kicked off your shoes with a sigh and dropped your keys to the counter, head already swimming. 

He was watching you. You could feel it. 

“Sukuna,” you murmured, trying to offer a tired smile, “I’m fine. Really.” 

“You’re not fine,” he said softly, stepping closer, brushing your hair out of your face where it clung to your cheek. “You ran into a burning building. You almost fought Toji in the street. You got into it with Naoya, of all people. That’s not... a casual Tuesday.” 

You smiled despite yourself. “Could’ve been worse. Could’ve been Monday.” 

He huffed through his nose, shaking his head as his fingers ghosted down your arm. “You’re lucky I’m too tired to lecture you the way I really want to.” 

You leaned into him, your forehead resting lightly against his collarbone. “I’d do it again. You know that, right?” 

He was quiet for a beat. Then his arms slid around you, pulling you in. 

“I do know that,” he murmured, voice low and close to your ear. “And that’s what terrifies me the most.” 

You swallowed hard, your hand fisting the front of his shirt. “If something had happened to you, and I hadn’t tried… I wouldn’t have forgiven myself.” 

His lips pressed gently into your hair. “You didn’t even hesitate.” 

“Neither would you,” you whispered. 

He didn’t argue. Because he knew you were right. “Come on,” he said after a pause, pulling back just enough to lead you toward the bathroom. “You need to wash all this smoke off before it becomes a part of your skin.” 

“And you’re gonna help me?” you teased, even though your body ached and your voice wavered. 

He shot you a look over his shoulder, something equal parts fond and exasperated. “Only to make sure you don’t pass out, dumbass.” 

The water was already running warm by the time he helped you undress. His hands were careful, reverent almost, as he peeled your soot-stained clothes from your skin. He didn’t touch more than he needed to, didn’t ogle or smirk like usual. He just… took care of you.  

Sukuna moved behind you, tugging off his shirt wordlessly, his brows knit in quiet concern. “You don’t have to—” you started, glancing at him in the mirror. 

“I know,” he interrupted gently. “I want to.” 

With a tired nod, you stepped into the shower first, the water warm as it cascaded over your shoulders, washing away the grime of the night. You heard the curtain shift as Sukuna stepped in behind you, his presence immediately soothing. 

You felt his hands first, warm and steady, as he gently guided your hair under the stream. He didn’t say much, just started massaging shampoo into your scalp with slow, careful fingers. The kind of touch that made your chest ache in a different way. 

“You’re being weirdly gentle,” you murmured over the sound of the water. 

“You ran into a fire,” he said, voice low and quiet behind you. “I’m not about to scrub you like I’m cleaning a pan.” 

You huffed a laugh, even as your eyes fluttered closed. “This is… nice.” 

His hands slowed for a beat. “You scared the shit out of me.” 

“I know,” you whispered. “You scare me too sometimes.” 

That earned a soft snort from him. “Fair.” 

After a long moment, you leaned your back into his chest, letting the stream hit both of you. His arms wrapped around you naturally, resting just below your ribs. “Let me stay like this a little longer,” you mumbled. 

He kissed the top of your wet head and murmured, “As long as you want.” 

Later that night, the two of you finally crawled into bed, clean and dry and worn down to the bone. Sukuna pulled you in like he always did, one arm tucked under your neck, the other wrapped tightly around your waist like he was still afraid you might disappear if he let go. His skin was warm against yours, chest rising and falling slowly beneath your cheek. 

You weren’t sure how long you laid there in silence, letting his heartbeat lull you closer to sleep, but your thoughts kept drifting back to the fire. 

What if he hadn’t woken up? 

What if you hadn’t gotten there at all? 

What if the smoke had done more damage than either of you realized? 

The what-ifs curled around your ribs like a vice. You couldn’t stop seeing the flames in your mind, couldn’t stop picturing him still inside, still asleep, completely unaware of the danger. 

You held him tighter, just a little. 

Because the truth was simple and terrifying: if anything ever happened to him, you weren’t sure how you’d recover. The mere thought of your world without Sukuna in it made your chest ache in a way you didn’t have words for. 

And the worst part? He didn’t even know. He didn’t know how much space he’d taken up in your heart. How much you loved him. 

Not yet, anyway. But you’d tell him soon. You had to. 

Because tonight proved how fragile everything was; that if you loved someone, really loved them, you couldn’t wait. 

⊹. ݁˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁₊

It had been nearly a month since your return, and you had grown thinner. 

At first, Elira didn’t say a word. She just brought heartier food to your rooms, added extra honey to your tea, tucked heavier furs around your shoulders when she thought you weren’t paying attention. But when your sleeves began to hang too loose around your wrists, and she had to cinch your waist tighter with every dressing, she finally broke the silence. 

“You’re not eating,” she said softly, smoothing the back of your hair. “And you barely sleep.” 

You told her you were fine. You always told her that. But you hadn’t felt “fine” in weeks. Maybe longer. 

You’d stopped keeping track. 

Sleep came, but never gently. It wrapped you in a fog, left you more exhausted than you’d been before closing your eyes. When you awoke, your limbs felt like stone, your mouth dry, your head full of static. The dreams—when they did come—were brief and formless, fleeting things that dissolved before you could name them. 

You didn’t fear the nights anymore. You simply endured them. 

Because they belonged to him. 

Geto had grown more… insistent. Not cruel. Not loud, just relentless. 

He summoned you when it pleased him, touched you when it suited him. He no longer bothered with affection, or even pretense. There was only expectation now, masked by formality. It was your duty to try. Again. And again. And again. 

You’d learned how to disappear beneath him. 

You let your eyes drift to the carving above the bed. Counted breaths. Waited for the silence that always came after. You would rise once it was over, wash your skin clean in the basin while the room still smelled like him. You never spoke; he never asked. 

The tea still came. 

It arrived without fanfare, delivered on a silver tray by a servant who never met your eyes. A pale, steaming brew, earthy and bitter, masked with orange peel and mint. Elira stopped questioning it weeks ago. She only handed you the cup and turned away while you drank. 

You never hesitated because you couldn’t afford to. 

You couldn’t bring a child into this—into him. And you couldn’t let Kenjaku win. You knew what this was. The tea was never about protection. It was a test, a trap. A ticking clock he placed in your hands each morning to see how long you would play along. 

You drank it anyway. Not out of fear, not out of obedience; out of sheer, exhausted survival. 

Sometimes, after the last sip, you would press your palm against your stomach and close your eyes. Not in mourning, or in guilt. Just… to feel something. And yet, even that felt farther away with each passing day. 

The palace no longer felt like a home. The halls were colder, the windows higher, the silence sharper. There were more guards posted outside your chambers than there used to be. You hadn’t been invited to a council meeting since your return. Every time you picked up a quill, someone interrupted. Every time you asked for time alone, someone found a reason to stand outside your door. 

And for the first time since wearing the crown, you realized: you could vanish inside these walls, and no one would stop it. Because some of them would prefer it. 

So you smiled at the servants. You nodded at the guards. You let Geto lay claim to you each night and drank the tea each morning. 

And you wondered quietly, painfully, how much longer there would be of you left at all. 

On this day, the field beyond the inner gate buzzed faintly with shouts and steel; new recruits shouting responses in unison, their movements timed and crisp under the sharp instructions of their captains. You stood at the edge of the parapet above the yard, posture perfect, hands folded in front of you, expression unreadable. 

Geto stood just behind your left shoulder. Close enough that you could feel the heat of his presence. He hadn’t spoken much since morning, had simply taken your elbow after breakfast and announced that the new guards were to be reviewed today. Together. 

A show of unity, no doubt. The King and Queen, overseeing their kingdom in tandem. You were dressed for the part. Hair pinned, cloak fastened with a clasp that bore the royal crest, boots spotless despite the mud below. 

You hadn’t asked to come, yet you hadn’t refused. 

Below, the line of recruits adjusted formation again. The sound of boots meeting stone echoed upward, followed by the sharp snap of a command. 

And then— 

You saw him. A flash of bright white hair in the sunless morning light. Cut short. Sticking up just slightly despite the damp. 

Your breath caught. You blinked, heart leaping before your mind could catch up. He was standing near the end of the second row, tall, not as tall as him, but— 

It wasn’t him. Of course it wasn’t. 

The boy turned slightly, too young. Too unsure of himself. His eyes were brown, not blue, and when he moved, there was none of the familiar ease. None of that effortless grace you could’ve picked out in a crowd of hundreds. 

Still. For that half-second, you’d let yourself believe. 

Geto didn’t notice. He was speaking to one of the field captains now, gesturing toward the spearmen as they prepared to switch formations. His voice was even, unbothered. 

You stayed quiet beside him, but your gaze lingered on the boy for a beat longer. It was foolish, you told yourself. 

You hadn’t seen Gojo in over a month. No letters, no visits, just silence. You didn’t know if he’d stayed away by choice or necessity. You weren’t sure which was worse. 

“Eyes forward,” Geto said suddenly, a low reprimand in his voice. 

You flinched, your expression smoothing before you turned your attention back to the field. “Yes, Your Majesty,” you murmured. 

“Your posture’s improved,” Geto said beside you, tone deceptively light. “You used to shift your weight when you got bored.” 

You didn’t respond right away. He was watching the field, but his words were meant for you. You could hear the edge in them—dry, pointed, almost teasing. Almost. 

“I suppose I’ve had practice,” you replied, keeping your gaze fixed on the line of recruits. They were now pairing off into sparring positions, the clash of wooden weapons echoing between the walls. 

“Still fidget, though. With your rings.” Your thumb stilled instinctively against your index finger. He noticed. Of course he did. There was silence again for a beat too long, then, “I remember when you hated these inspections. Said watching people run in circles was hardly fit for a queen.” 

You glanced at him, cautious. “I still think that.” 

That made him smirk. For a moment, his expression was boyish, familiar even. You remembered that smirk from years ago. From the early days, before the weight of crowns and expectations made everything so heavy. 

But it didn’t last. 

“Still, you’re here,” he said, and there was something sharper under the surface now. “Doing your duty.” 

Your breath hitched. “That’s what’s expected.” 

He turned his head toward you. “Is it?” 

His gaze lingered on you a beat too long. The same gaze he used to give when you argued in council chambers, back when he still allowed you to speak in them. It made you feel like your skin was under scrutiny, like every part of you was a question he was already answering in his mind. 

“I’m not your enemy,” you said softly. 

Something flickered in his expression. “I didn’t say you were.” 

“But you act like it.” 

He scoffed, looking back down at the yard. “You’ve just changed.” 

You looked away. “No,” you said, barely above a whisper. “I haven’t.” 

He didn’t reply. Down below, one of the recruits fell hard onto the stone, letting out a curse as he hit the ground. The captain barked something indecipherable, and the boy scrambled back to his feet. 

“You see that?” Geto’s voice was tight now, clipped. “That’s the difference between the weak and the loyal. The ones who get up. The ones who don’t need coaxing.” 

You said nothing. 

“I’ve given you everything,” he said quietly, not looking at you. “Everything. And yet somehow, I’m the one being punished.” 

Your stomach turned. “I’ve done everything that’s required of me,” you replied, calm but cold. “You’re the one who changed the rules.” 

His jaw clenched, but he said no more. The silence between you stretched thin and frayed. 

Eventually, he took a step back. “I have meetings. You can stay or return to your chambers. Your presence is no longer required.” 

He didn’t wait for your answer. Just turned and walked away, his cloak snapping sharply behind him. You stood alone on the parapet, the wind tugging at your sleeves. Below, the training continued—swords clashing, voices shouting, feet slamming into wet stone. 

You didn’t leave. 

Not right away, at least. After Geto disappeared into the far hall, the chill of the wind settled deeper into your sleeves, but still you stayed, standing at the edge of the parapet like you could will yourself into stillness. Below, the recruits were winding down their drills, red-faced and sweating, their wooden swords nicked from sparring. 

The clang of effort rang out again and again, but it all sounded far away. 

“Your Majesty,” a voice said, steady but quiet, from behind you. 

You turned, only slightly startled. The man standing there was tall and broad-shouldered, armor dark with a clean polish and dust from the field still clinging to the hem of his cloak. His dark hair was tied twice at the nape of his neck, and his brown eyes, always a little too perceptive for your comfort, met yours with steady calm. 

“General Kamo,” you greeted, inclining your head slightly. “I didn’t know you were back.” 

He offered a faint nod. “I arrived two days ago. Was stationed at the southern border until the winter routes reopened.” 

“And now you’re back to train boys with bruised egos and something to prove?” 

A flicker of amusement tugged at his mouth. “In short, yes.” 

For a moment, the wind filled the space between you again. 

“I imagine you find this all dull,” he said after a while. “Routine drills. Predictable movements.” 

You looked down at the field. A younger boy tripped mid-swing, nearly sending his blade flying into the mud. The captain barked something sharp at him, and he nodded furiously, trying to right himself. 

“It used to bore me,” you admitted. “But not anymore.” 

You turned back to the railing, and Choso moved beside you, careful not to stand too close. He never did. Always quiet, always respectful: he’d been that way since he first arrived years ago, sent by his family to serve as a general in Geto’s army. A political placement. But over time, he’d become something more than that. 

A quiet constant. A rare friend. 

He looked out at the field, voice gentler now. “I remember when you first arrived at the palace. You had dirt on your gown from the stables and bark in your hair.” 

You laughed softly. “I was seventeen.” 

“You were furious they wouldn’t let you ride your own horse through the gates.” 

You smiled, genuine, small. “It was symbolic.” 

“You said it was stupid.” 

You bit back a laugh. “It was.” 

The wind shifted. One of the recruits dropped their practice blade, and the captain barked an order. 

Choso straightened slightly. “You’ve always been stronger than they give you credit for.” 

You glanced up at him, something tight in your chest unspooling. 

“Thank you,” you said, and meant it. 

He bowed his head slightly. “Would you allow me to escort you back to your chambers?” 

You nodded. “Yes, I think I’d like that.” 

He didn’t offer his arm. He never had. He simply walked beside you like he always had, with quiet loyalty, no fanfare, and no expectations. 

The stone walkway was quiet under your boots, the clipped rhythm of your and Choso’s steps falling into a kind of calm sync. The air was still sharp and damp, but not unpleasant, and the mist had finally begun to lift from the edges of the courtyard. 

Neither of you spoke at first. You’d always appreciated that about Choso; his silence never felt expectant. He didn’t fill the space just to hear his own voice. You could exist beside him without explanation. 

But then, as you turned the corner toward the corridor that led to your chambers, he spoke. “I heard the King of the Silver Crown sent for you last month.” 

You blinked, surprised by the mention. The nickname was an old one, used mostly outside of official court. It referred to Gojo’s kingdom—white marble palaces, silver inlaid crests, and of course… his hair. 

You glanced at Choso. His tone hadn’t shifted. He wasn’t fishing, just curious. 

“He did,” you said simply. “I was asked to consult on archival reorganizations and estate transitions for several noble families under his rule. Mostly ceremonial.” 

Choso made a quiet noise in acknowledgment, nodding once. “And was it… a restful stay?” 

The question wasn’t pointed. Not quite, but he had noticed. The weight you’d taken. The way your eyes had cleared, even if only for a short while. 

You hesitated, then allowed a small breath through your nose. “It was different.” 

“That’s not a no.” 

You gave him a sideways glance, but there was no mockery in his expression. Only something close to understanding. You stopped just shy of your door. 

“He treats people differently there,” you said finally, voice low. “His court is more relaxed. Less rigid. Even his servants speak freely.” 

Choso didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was thoughtful. “I met him once. Briefly. Years ago.” 

You raised an eyebrow. “You did?” 

Choso nodded. “Before he was king. He and Geto crossed through the southern territories to oversee a campaign. I was still in training, stationed in the outer garrisons.” 

Your lips tilted up faintly. “What did you think of him?” 

Choso paused, then answered with quiet honesty. “He was… brightness. Unfiltered. Like he didn’t know how to tone himself down. But when he talked to someone, it was as if nothing else existed.” 

You stilled. He didn’t elaborate, didn’t need to. You looked at him carefully. “You always did watch more than you spoke.” 

Choso held your gaze. “And I’ve never spoken what I didn’t mean.” 

A silence passed between you. Then he bowed, slow and deliberate. 

“I’ll leave you to rest, Your Majesty.” 

You inclined your head. “Thank you, General Kamo.” 

As he turned and walked down the corridor, his figure disappearing into the shadowed archway, you realized he hadn’t been asking about Gojo for gossip or rumor. 

He was checking on you. 

As Choso’s footsteps faded down the corridor, you lingered at your chamber door, hand resting on the handle but not turning it just yet. 

The conversation echoed quietly in your mind—the way he’d spoken of Gojo, the calm, deliberate cadence of his voice, the weight in his pause when he described how Gojo spoke to others. You weren’t sure why it unsettled you. 

Or maybe you were. And you just didn’t want to name it. 

You sighed softly, finally pushing open the door. The room was cold, fire left unlit. Elira hadn’t returned yet. You stepped inside, letting the door fall closed behind you, and leaned back against it for a moment. Eyes closed. 

You didn’t hear the whisper of footsteps returning down the hall. 

Outside your chambers, Choso had stopped again, just around the corner. A quiet moment alone. He pulled his gloves off one finger at a time, methodical. Then he reached inside the lining of his cloak, producing a small scrap of parchment from the inner pocket. He turned it over in his palm, eyes scanning the short note he’d scribbled earlier that morning but hadn’t yet delivered. 

No title. No signature. Just a name. And a single sentence beneath it. 

You should come soon. She’s not well. 

He folded it carefully, slid it back into the seam of his cloak, and kept walking. 

🜲

Elira woke you early, though you hadn’t been sleeping. She moved quietly, setting out your gown for the day: deep blue wool lined with pale silk, a modest cut fit for walking the public halls. 

“You have the embroidery mistress after the midday meal,” she reminded you as she helped fasten the clasp at your shoulder. “And the steward asked that you approve the spring banquet seating chart.” 

You nodded, already knowing the “approval” would be ceremonial, every seat likely decided before the parchment reached your hands. 

Breakfast was taken in your chambers, as it had been most mornings lately. A small plate of fruit, a heel of bread with soft cheese, and tea—mint and orange peel, still steaming in its porcelain cup. The familiar scent curled in the air, and you sipped it slowly, willing yourself not to dwell on the bitter taste beneath the citrus.  

The rest of the morning blurred into small, careful interactions. 

A short walk through the inner garden—escorted by two guards who followed at a polite but constant distance. The flower beds were still bare, earth damp and dark from the lingering cold. The head gardener bowed when you passed, showing you the neat rows where bulbs had been planted for spring. You murmured your approval, but it was hard to imagine color here with the sky so heavy. 

From there, you were led to the steward’s office. It was warm compared to the corridors, the air heavy with the scent of beeswax and parchment. Two tall candles burned at either end of his desk, their flames steady despite the faint draft seeping under the door. 

He was already standing when you entered, bowing with stiff formality before gesturing toward the wide oak table. The scroll was laid out in perfect alignment, its edges pinned flat with small, polished stones. 

“I appreciate your time, Your Majesty,” he began, voice polite but brisk. “The seating arrangement for the spring banquet is nearly finalized. Only your approval is required.” 

You stepped closer, eyes scanning the neat rows of names written in his practiced hand. Your own sat at the top beside Geto’s, the curve of the ink sharper than most, as though he’d pressed harder when writing it. 

Below you were the dukes and duchesses, lords and ladies, merchants of significant standing, each placed with careful precision. Lines of ink connected certain names like invisible threads. 

“This pairing here,” he pointed to the left column, “is meant to maintain cordial relations between Lord Nanami and the Countess of Mei. They had… an unpleasant disagreement over land rights two winters ago. We’ll seat them far enough apart to avoid incident, but still close enough to appear reconciled.” 

You nodded faintly. “I see.” 

“And here,” he tapped another section, “Lady Kugisaki beside the Marquess of Ieiri. Their conversation at the last banquet was well-received among the other guests. A favorable connection for the crown.” 

Your gaze drifted to the far end of the table where lesser nobles and wealthy tradespeople were clustered. The names there were written just as neatly, but smaller, as if importance diminished with every inch from the head of the table. 

“Has this already been discussed with His Majesty?” you asked, though you already knew. 

“Of course. His input was most helpful,” the steward replied smoothly. “We only need your seal to proceed with the printing of invitations.” 

You let your eyes scan the chart again, slower this time. The arrangement was perfect in its formality, balanced in power and appearance. You could have made changes, moved certain families nearer to your side, shifted a few alliances, but you knew those changes would never last beyond this room. 

Still, you hesitated before reaching for the seal. 

“And Lord Gojo?” you asked lightly, as though it were just another name. “Has he confirmed his attendance?” 

The steward’s gaze flickered, just for a second. “His name has not been placed, Your Majesty. His Majesty the King has not yet determined whether an invitation will be extended.” 

You kept your expression neutral. “I see.” You pressed the seal into the waiting wax, the royal crest taking cleanly in deep red. 

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” the steward said with a shallow bow, rolling the scroll carefully as though the ink might smudge if he so much as breathed on it. 

When you stepped back into the corridor, the air felt cooler than before, and the echo of your question lingered in your ears. You walked at an even pace toward the small dining hall where your midday meal would be waiting, the memory of the steward’s flicker in expression replaying in your mind. 

His name has not been placed. 

That alone was strange. Gojo had attended nearly every major banquet in the past; sometimes invited formally, other times appearing without warning, sweeping into the hall with the kind of confidence only he could wear like a second skin. Even when the distance between the kingdoms grew politically strained, he’d always found his way to the table. 

Now… the King “had not yet determined” whether he would be invited at all. 

You kept your face composed as you passed a pair of guards stationed outside one of the council rooms, but your mind refused to still. Had Geto already decided not to invite him? Or was this simply the steward’s polite way of telling you it was being discussed behind closed doors, without you? 

Either way, the meaning was clear: if Gojo came, it would be by Geto’s permission. And if he didn’t… 

You inhaled slowly, letting the cold air in the corridor clear your thoughts before you stepped into the warmth of the dining room. Elira was already waiting at the side table, your meal laid out before her: stew, fresh bread, and a small plate of winter apples sliced neatly. 

You offered her a faint smile as you took your seat, but the question still gnawed quietly at the back of your mind. 

Why hadn’t his name been placed? And, more troubling still, what would it mean for you if it never was? 

The steam from the stew curled upward in soft, fragrant ribbons, carrying the scent of rosemary and slow-cooked meat. You broke a piece of bread between your fingers, dipping it absently into the broth as your thoughts stayed on the seating chart. 

You chewed slowly, eyes unfocused on the far wall. Memories came unbidden: Gojo’s easy grin across a crowded banquet hall, the way his laughter could cut through the noise like sunlight through clouds. He had always been a fixture at these events, not just for the political weight his presence carried, but for the way he filled a room without even trying. 

Would he know if he hadn’t been invited? Would he come anyway? 

You were still tracing the curve of the questions in your mind when the door opened behind you. 

You glanced up expecting Elira, or perhaps one of the serving staff, to bring the next course. Instead, Geto stepped inside. 

He wasn’t in his formal robes, but he still carried himself like he was in full regalia; black tunic fitted neatly under a heavy cloak, his hair tied back in the same precise way. He didn’t usually take his midday meal with you. In fact, it had been weeks since he’d joined you for anything less than a formal dinner. 

“Your Majesty,” he said smoothly, as if greeting you at court rather than in the quiet privacy of the small dining room. 

You straightened slightly in your chair. “Your Majesty.” 

He crossed the room without pause and took the seat opposite you. The servants appeared almost instantly, setting a place before him and pouring a dark red wine into his goblet. 

“You’re quiet today,” he observed, reaching for his bread. 

“I’ve had the steward most of the morning,” you replied. “Approving the seating for the spring banquet.” 

“Ah,” he said, in that way of his that gave nothing away. He sipped his wine, studying you over the rim. 

You kept your gaze steady on your stew, though your heart thudded once, hard. 

“Any objections?” he asked at last. 

You hesitated. “No.” Then, more carefully, “Though I noticed one name missing.” 

The corner of his mouth curved, but it wasn’t quite a smile. “And whose name was that?” 

You didn’t look away. “Lord Gojo.” 

He set down his goblet with deliberate slowness. “Mm. Yes. I haven’t decided whether he’ll be in attendance this year.” 

You opened your mouth, but the weight of his gaze stopped you from speaking too quickly. 

“Why not?” you asked finally, voice quieter now. 

Geto’s expression didn’t change. “Because not every guest is worth the cost of their presence.” The words hung between you, heavy and pointed, and you weren’t entirely sure if he meant them for Gojo… or for you.  

Geto didn’t linger on his comment about Gojo. Instead, he reached for the stew the servants had just ladled into his bowl, breaking a piece of bread and dipping it into the broth like this was any other shared meal between husband and wife. 

“You should eat more,” he said, almost gently. “You’ve gotten thinner since winter set in.” 

The remark caught you off guard. His tone wasn’t biting. There was no sharpness under the words, no implication of failure—just an observation that almost sounded like concern. 

Almost. You murmured a quiet acknowledgment and lifted your spoon, taking a careful sip. The warmth spread through your chest, though it did nothing to loosen the knot there. 

“I imagine the steward was tiresome,” he went on, his voice lighter now. “He’s very proud of his seating arrangements. Talks about them as though he’s commanding a battlefield.” 

A faint practiced smile touched your lips. “That’s an apt comparison.” 

He chuckled, actually chuckled, and you found yourself momentarily unsure how to respond. In public, his laughter was rare and deliberate, deployed only when it served a purpose. Now, with only the two of you in the room, it sounded… different. Almost real. 

And that was what unsettled you. 

You stirred your stew, letting the spoon trace slow circles. Why now? He had spent the last month keeping you at a measured distance, his warmth metered out only in the eyes of others... Kenjaku’s eyes most of all. But Kenjaku wasn’t here. 

You realized with a slow, cold clarity: you hadn’t seen him all morning. Was this Geto without Kenjaku’s shadow looming over him? Or was this simply another kind of performance, meant for you alone? 

He reached for the wine jug and poured into your goblet without asking, the dark liquid catching the low light. “You’ll need your strength for the banquet season. We’ll be hosting more guests this year than ever before. I’ll want you rested, well-fed, and prepared to meet them.” 

Prepared. Not comfortable. Not happy. Prepared. 

Still, his gaze lingered on you in a way it hadn’t for weeks. You forced another bite, wondering whether this was genuine or merely a different tactic, an adjustment in how he intended to handle you when no one else was watching. 

And a quieter thought followed, unbidden and dangerous: If Kenjaku were in the room, would Geto still be speaking to you like this at all? 

Geto leaned back slightly in his chair, his posture still regal but less rigid than you were used to. He broke another piece of bread, this time setting it on the edge of your plate before returning to his own meal, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. 

“You’ve always had a way of putting people at ease,” he said conversationally. “It will serve us well this season.” 

You blinked, unsure whether to thank him or question the sudden compliment. “I’m glad to be of use,” you replied evenly. 

He tilted his head at you, as though trying to read something beneath your composure. “Not just of use. Your presence changes a room. People speak more freely when you’re there.” 

It was… strange, hearing him say that without the edge of criticism or expectation. He took a sip of his wine, then glanced toward the window, the faintest trace of a smile at his lips. 

“I remember the first banquet after our wedding,” he said. “You were seated between the Duchess Amanai and the old Lord Yaga. You had them both laughing before the first course. Do you remember?” 

You nodded slowly. “They were arguing over the proper way to serve pheasant.” 

“And you told them the only correct way was whichever made the bird taste best,” he recalled with a soft chuckle. “You had them in agreement by the end of the night. I’ve never seen either of them agree with anyone before, or since.” 

The memory was harmless enough, but it still made you wary. He rarely reminisced with you now, and never in such an easy tone. You forced a faint smile. “I suppose I was younger then.” 

“Not so much younger,” he countered. “And no less clever now.” 

The compliment landed oddly. It wasn’t false, there was no obvious manipulation in it, but it was still too smooth, too deliberate. You couldn’t decide if he was softening because he wanted to, or because Kenjaku wasn’t here to steer the moment elsewhere. 

“I’d like us to present a united front this year,” he went on, reaching for his goblet again. “Whatever the court may whisper, I want no doubts in the minds of our guests. They should see a strong king and queen: equal in presence, equal in command.” 

You studied him for a beat. “That’s… a change from last year.” 

He met your eyes directly. “Perhaps I’ve learned a few things.” 

There was a steadiness to his voice that made it hard to tell whether he was being sincere or playing a deeper game. You sipped your wine to buy yourself a moment, the taste heavy on your tongue. 

And for the rest of the meal, he kept to that tone; measured, warm, as if the last few months of cold distance had been an illusion. Asking after the embroidery mistress, suggesting which guests you might pair together at the banquet, even mentioning that the gardens would soon be in bloom again. 

The warmth between you lingered, at least on the surface, as the last of the bread was eaten and the wine decanter sat nearly empty between you. Geto dabbed his mouth with his napkin before setting it neatly beside his plate. His gaze rested on you in a way that, for a moment seemed almost casual, until you caught the faint shift in his eyes. 

“I’ll be requesting you in my chambers tonight,” he said smoothly, as if announcing nothing more consequential than a change in the weather. “It’s been some time since we’ve… given proper attention to our duty.” 

The words landed like a stone in your chest. You kept your face still, your fingers resting lightly on the stem of your goblet. Inside, you felt the familiar urge to push back—to tell him you were tired, to tell him the timing was wrong, to tell him you didn’t want to. 

But the words caught in your throat before they could even take shape. You knew too well what came of open refusal, and whatever strange warmth he’d shown you today, you weren’t naive enough to think it would survive such a challenge. 

So, you gave the smallest of nods, keeping your voice neutral. “As you wish.” 

For a moment, he simply studied you. You couldn’t tell if he was satisfied with your answer or weighing your reaction for later. Then he rose from his chair, smoothing the front of his cloak. 

“I’ll have the servants see to your preparations after supper,” he said, his tone once again perfectly even. 

You inclined your head, holding his gaze just long enough to keep it from feeling like retreat. “Of course.” 

Geto left without further comment, his footfalls measured as they faded into the corridor. The door closed behind him with a soft click, and you let out the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Your hands were steady as you reached for your wine again, but only because you’d trained them to be. 

Inside, every part of you wanted to argue. To say no. To claw back some small corner of your own will. Instead, you took a slow sip, swallowed, and let the silence of the dining room settle around you like a shroud. 

🜲

The fire in your chambers had burned low by the time you returned. Elira had already turned down the bed and set a cup of warm water on the side table. She didn’t ask how your evening had gone. She never did anymore. 

You sat on the edge of the bed, your fingers tracing the embroidered edge of the blanket without looking at it. 

The night lingered in fragments—small, sharp pieces you hadn’t asked for but couldn’t shake. 

The knock after supper had been quiet but deliberate, the servant bowing low as he delivered the king’s summons. His eyes never lifted from the floor, as if even glancing at you might be dangerous. 

The walk to Geto’s chambers had been long and cold, the corridor lined with tall torches that spat and hissed with every draft. The shadows seemed to move with you, stretching and twisting against the stone. 

When you entered, he was already waiting—standing near the window, cloak discarded, tunic loose at the collar. He hadn’t asked how the rest of your day had been, hadn’t offered a word of small talk. Only, “Come here.” 

You’d stepped forward, each pace measured, until you were close enough for him to take your chin lightly between his fingers. He tilted your face toward his, his eyes scanning yours like he was searching for something. The touch wasn’t rough, but it wasn’t tender either; it was possession disguised as gentleness. 

The rest was a slow, unyielding sequence. The rustle of silk sheets as he drew you onto the bed. The weight of his body pressing you down. The faint scent of the spiced wine he’d been drinking. His breath warm at your ear as he murmured about duty, the words as much for himself as for you. 

Your mind had slipped away almost immediately, fastening onto anything else: the uneven rhythm of the wind rattling the shutters, the muted crackle of the fire in the hearth, the number of your own breaths in time with his movements. You counted them like stepping stones, one after another, until it was done. 

And then, when he was finished, he’d rolled away to reach for the goblet on his bedside table, as if the moment had been nothing more than another task completed. You’d gathered yourself in silence, the cool air against your skin both a relief and a reminder. 

Now, back in your own chambers, you let your hand fall from the blanket. The fire crackled faintly, its warmth fading. You laid down without undressing further, staring up at the canopy overhead. 

You told yourself that sleep would come eventually. 

-.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅ -.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅ -.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅ -.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅

A week passes in quiet, snow-laden stretches. The absence of pressure feels foreign, like walking barefoot over silk—softer than you’re used to, almost suspiciously so. 

Gojo shows up at your chamber door nearly every morning, sometimes with a rolled-up map in hand, sometimes with two mugs of spiced tea. One afternoon he found you in the library and spent an hour dramatically narrating excerpts from a poorly written war chronicle, earning shushing from a blushing steward. Another evening, you found him already seated in the gardens, boots up on the stone bench like a boy waiting for a playmate. 

He doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t press. But he lingers, and not a single soul in his castle stops him. 

Your time here is supposed to be temporary. Just a visit, a reprieve. But the longer you stay, the more difficult it is to remember how you used to feel at home anywhere else. 

Even your walks feel freer. No guards. No eyes watching your every step. Elira laughs more here—smiles with her teeth and doesn’t flinch when she speaks out of turn. One of Gojo’s stewards showed you a collection of antique embroidery from the northern provinces earlier today. You spent half the afternoon running your fingers over threadbare silks older than your grandmother. 

You try not to think about how little time you have left here—about how much harder it will be to go. Because this quiet peace, this freedom to be, is not yours to keep. You know it in your bones. 

And when the message finally comes—delivered not by a steward, but by Gojo himself, waiting for you in the solar. 

You take the letter from Gojo’s hand carefully, eyes scanning the familiar seal pressed deep into red wax—Geto’s crest, unmistakable in its authority. You hesitate, but you know better than to expect kindness hidden behind formality. 

You break the seal. Your eyes move quickly over the words. Every line is crisp, calculated. 

Her Majesty is hereby summoned to return to court at once.  Your prolonged absence has delayed the handling of several pressing domestic and political affairs.  Your presence is required to resume the obligations of your station, and to fulfill duties befitting your title and your house.  This is not a request. 

You fold the letter once, quietly, and place it on the table. Gojo doesn’t speak. He steps closer, reaches down, and unfolds the parchment without asking. 

You watch him read. His gaze flicks across each line with a slow, growing tension. His brow creases, his mouth tightening in a sharp, humorless curve. “‘Duties,’” he says, rolling the word off his tongue like it tastes sour. “That’s what he’s calling it?” 

You don’t reply, you just wrap your arms around yourself and look out the frost-dusted window. 

Gojo continues,“‘This indulgence.’ That’s rich. You take a breath outside his walls for the first time in months and suddenly you’re indulging.” 

You swallow, throat dry. “He’s still my husband.” 

Gojo gives you a look. “So?” 

“So, he has the right to call me back.” 

“That doesn’t make him right to do it.” His jaw tenses, the letter crumpling slightly in his hand before he sets it back down. “You’ve barely been gone a fortnight, and he’s already clutching his crown like you ran off with half his army.” 

“I knew it was coming,” you murmur. “I just… didn’t think it would feel this hard.” 

Gojo doesn’t answer right away. When he does, his voice is quieter. “You don’t have to go yet.” 

“I do.” 

“You don’t.” 

You turn to face him. He’s looking at you with something raw in his expression—something he’s been swallowing for too long. 

You hesitate. “If I don’t, he’ll send someone.” 

“Then let him,” Gojo says, not flinching. “Let him step foot in my lands and try to drag you home like some forgotten ornament. I dare him.” 

Your breath catches. The words hang between you, reckless and quiet and filled with something far too big to name. 

You look at him for a long moment. And then, gently, “Will you walk with me?” 

Gojo exhales slowly, tension melting from his frame like thawing ice. “Always.” 

You walk the long stretch of corridor in silence, the only sounds the faint echo of your footsteps and the low groan of the old stone adjusting to the winter chill. The torches flicker softly along the walls, casting a golden warmth that contrasts the snow piling steadily outside the narrow windows. 

Gojo walks beside you, hands folded behind his back, gaze forward. He doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t push. Just walks like he’s always meant to be here beside you—like this is the only place that’s ever made sense. 

You slow when you reach the west gallery, a quiet alcove lined with high glass and old tapestries. The courtyard below is blanketed in white. The topiary trees look like frosted statues, the pond sealed over with a thin, milky sheet of ice. 

You pause there, staring out for a moment. Then, without quite meaning to, you speak. 

“Do you remember the sword? The one Geto had forged when we were fifteen?” 

Gojo’s head tilts, amused already. “The one with the obsidian hilt?” 

You nod. “And the etched spine. It had that old inscription in his family’s dialect… something about honor and legacy.” 

Gojo groans. “Gods, how could I forget? He had it on display for three hours before I took it.” 

You laugh, the sound light but distant. “You snuck into his study and took it off the wall. He nearly tore the barracks apart looking for you.” 

“In my defense,” Gojo says, raising a hand, “it was a terrible display sword. No balance. Decorative at best.” 

“You rode off with it anyway.” 

“For a hunt,” he adds. “A short one.” 

“Three days.” 

“Time flies when you’re being pursued by an angry noble and six guards.” 

You laugh again, hand covering your mouth before it draws too much attention, the sound bouncing off the stone around you. 

“He didn’t speak to you for a week,” you say, smiling faintly. “Wouldn’t even look at you during lessons.” 

“He tried to hex me, actually. Do you remember that? He put crushed frostberry in my wine.” 

“He said you took something that wasn’t yours.” 

Gojo’s expression shifts. The grin slips, just slightly. He looks at you, quiet. 

“I didn’t understand what he meant by it at the time,” you continue. “But I think I do now.” 

Gojo says nothing for a long moment. His voice, when it comes, is softer. “That sword sat untouched for a year before he ever drew it. I think he just liked knowing it was his. That no one else could lay a hand on it.” 

You glance at him. He’s not smiling anymore. 

“And when you did,” you say carefully, “it didn’t matter that you meant no harm. It only mattered that you could.” 

The words sit heavy between you. Gojo turns his gaze forward again. “He still thinks everything he’s been given is owed to him. Even you.” 

You don’t respond. Not right away. You look back to the courtyard. Snow still falls. Slowly. Peacefully. 

“I used to think the three of us were unshakable,” you say. “That we’d grow up and rule side by side. That nothing could touch us.” 

“We were just children,” Gojo replies quietly. “And he—he grew up wanting different things. I just wanted…” 

He trails off. But you don’t need him to finish. You know. 

You always have. 

- 

The snow was still falling. 

It hadn’t let up all night—blanketing the grounds in silence, the rooftops heavy with it, the garden paths already erased. Your chambers were warm, but the heat didn’t settle in your chest. Not today. 

Your cloak was already laid out—fur-lined, clasped in silver. Another quiet gift from Gojo’s household, likely ordered before the letter ever came. Elira worked quietly at your trunk, carefully arranging your traveling gowns and the satchel of dried herbs you always brought with you. You weren’t rushing. But you weren’t lingering either. 

There was a knock. Just one, sharp and distinct. Your heart stuttered before Elira even looked up. 

“Come in,” you said quietly. 

The door eased open, and Gojo stepped through without his usual flourish—no grin, no comment, just his eyes landing on the half-packed trunks and the faintest flicker of something sharp in his jaw. 

“You’re early,” you said softly. 

“You’re leaving.” 

You nodded, folding a scarf. “The carriage is being prepared now. I asked for a small escort.” 

“Elira, could you give us a moment?” Elira bowed quickly and slipped out, closing the door behind her. “So, you’re really doing it.” 

You turned, surprised by the bitterness in his voice. “I told you I was leaving today.” 

He scoffed. “You said it like you were reporting the weather.” 

“I didn’t know how else to say it.” 

“Try something that doesn’t sound like a death sentence.” 

You blinked at him. “That’s not fair.” 

He stepped forward, the sound of the door closing behind him sharp in the quiet. “Isn’t it? You’re going back to a man who treats you like property. Who sends letters with orders instead of questions. And you’re just—what? Obeying? Again?” 

“It’s not that simple.” 

“It is that simple,” he snapped. “You could stay. Just say the word and I’ll keep you here. He won’t touch you while I’m breathing.” 

You stared at him, the weight of his words hitting too fast, too deep. “And then what? He accuses you of treason? Sends soldiers? You start a war with the man who used to be your friend—over me?” 

Gojo’s expression twisted, like the words physically pained him. “Don’t you dare make it sound like you’re a burden.” 

“I’m not,” you said, but your voice cracked. “I’m not trying to be. I just—Gojo, I don’t know how to be selfish. Not like this.” 

He stepped even closer. “Maybe it’s time you learn.” 

You swallowed, shaking your head. “You don’t understand.” 

“No,” he bit out, “you don’t understand. You’ve spent so long surviving you’ve forgotten what it means to choose yourself.” 

You looked away, breathing shallow now, hands clenched at your sides. 

Gojo’s voice dropped, softer but no less intense. “He doesn’t love you. He just wants an heir. A queen who bends when he says so. You could rot in that palace, and he’d still call it duty.” 

Silence. You met his eyes again, and for the first time, there was something desperate in your own. “Then what would you have me do?” 

He stepped forward, close enough now that you could see the storm behind his expression. 

“I’d have you stay,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Not because I need to win. Not because I want to take something from him. But because you deserve to wake up without dread in your chest. You deserve to laugh without flinching. You deserve peace.” 

You froze. The words caught between your ribs, something unspoken unraveling in your throat. 

Then—quick, almost like a wound closing—you looked away. He didn’t say anything else. Just reached out, gently, and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, the backs of his fingers grazing your cheek like he was afraid to touch you more than that. 

He shook his head slowly, jaw clenched. “I should’ve said something. Years ago.” 

You almost laughed. “It wouldn’t have changed anything.” 

“It might have.” 

The words hung there, suspended between you. Heavy. True. You stepped back before you could do something foolish—reach for him, lean into the heat of his anger and care. You turned toward the trunk instead, laying the scarf gently across your gloves. 

“I’ll leave before dark.” 

Gojo stared at you for a long time. His voice, when it came, was rough with restraint. “I’ll see you off.” 

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. And without another word, he left—quietly this time. 

The door closed behind him like an ending you weren’t ready for. 

The fire in the hearth burned low by the time your carriage was ready, Elira’s arms full of your final travel items. She didn’t speak at first—not when she saw your expression, or the untouched tea beside your dressing table, or the way you sat on the edge of your bed like your body didn’t quite know how to belong to the room anymore. 

“We’ll be ready soon,” she said softly, folding your travel cloak over the trunk. “The carriage has been fitted with warmer lining. And the steward has arranged for five guards to escort us, along with two handmaids.” 

You nodded, but the motion felt mechanical. She offered a quiet sound of understanding, then moved to your side to fasten the final ties on the trunk. The two of you worked in silence, elbows brushing occasionally, the rustle of fabric and the hiss of closing latches filling the space that words couldn’t. 

When the knock came just before dusk, you were already standing. 

Gojo stood in the doorway, backlit by the fading gold of late afternoon, snow still dusting the shoulders of his cloak. His hands were gloved, fingers twitching slightly as if he’d either just clenched them—or was holding back the urge to.  

“They’ve readied your guards,” he said. “The horses are calm. The roads have been cleared up to the border.” His voice was even. Controlled. 

You nodded. “Thank you.” 

His gaze lingered on your face longer than necessary. “Will you be safe, when you return?” 

The question wasn’t simple. Neither was the answer. “I’ll survive,” you said. 

He breathed in sharply through his nose, then looked away. You stepped into the corridor, cloak falling around your shoulders like armor. He fell into step beside you as you walked, the soft tap of your shoes against the marble echoing off the stone walls. 

As you neared the main doors, the guards waiting just beyond the archway tensed slightly at the sight of the two of you approaching together. You felt their eyes, but you kept your chin high. 

At the top of the stairs, just before the carriage, he finally looked at you again. 

“Write to me,” he said. “Even if it’s just to say you’re still breathing.” 

You nodded. His hand hovered for a second—like he meant to touch your cheek. But he didn’t. He just let it fall back to his side. You stepped down the stairs slowly. Elira followed, and the handmaids bowed their heads as the guards helped you into the carriage. Just before the door closed, you looked back. 

Gojo hadn’t moved from the steps. He stood there, snow catching in his hair, eyes locked on you with something far too loud to name. You held that gaze for one heartbeat too long.  

And as the door closed behind you, you didn’t look back again. Not because you didn’t want to—but because you were afraid that if you did… you wouldn’t be able to leave at all. 

Gojo still didn’t move. 

Not when the carriage door shut.  Not when the guards signaled the departure.  Not when the wheels creaked over stone and started rolling you away from him. 

He just stood there on the palace steps, snow catching in his hair and melting against his skin. 

He stayed long after the horses disappeared from sight, after the final trace of you vanished beyond the gates. His lungs burned, but he still didn’t breathe. 

He felt it like a cut—no, like a carving. A piece of him sliced away cleanly and tucked in beside you where he couldn't follow. 

You hadn’t even looked back. He didn’t blame you, because if you had…  Gods. 

If you had turned around, even for a second—  If you had looked at him with those eyes, the ones that always softened just for him, even when you tried to keep them guarded—  He would’ve run. Would’ve grabbed your hand. Would’ve told the guards to stand down and let the gods damn the consequences. 

And then what?  War? Betrayal? A throne soaked in blood? 

He couldn’t protect you from all of it.  But he could protect you from that. From himself. 

Still… He stood there like a fool. A king without his crown, a man stripped bare beneath his own choices. He couldn’t even pretend anymore. 

Not with the way you laugh still echoed through the corridors.  Not with the ghost of your touch still burning across his knuckles.  Not when he could still feel the warmth of you head resting on his shoulder from nights you’d fallen asleep in the solar, back when you two were just barely more than children. 

Back when everything was simpler.  Before duty had names.  Before you heart had been signed away to another man. 

He should have said something. Years ago. Before the engagement. Before Geto. Before the weight of titles and expectations drowned the words in his throat. 

But you had looked happy then. Or at least content.  And what right did he have to ruin your future with his selfish longing? 

He thought he could live with it.  He was wrong. 

He turned finally, slowly, walking back through the corridor like a man exiled from his own home. 

He walked with purpose now, though his thoughts felt fractured—like every step pulled at the fraying seams of something he’d spent too long pretending wasn’t unraveling. 

You were gone. Back to him. To that suffocating palace, that gilded, rotting trap. 

Gojo’s stomach churned at the thought of you under Geto’s thumb again—of Kenjaku’s eyes tracking your every breath, of orders disguised as affection, of expectations wrapped in poisoned silk. 

And what would you do? Smile politely? Fulfill your “duties”? Drink the tea? Be touched by hands you didn’t want aynmore, again and again, because duty demanded it? 

He stopped walking, pressing a hand to the nearest pillar as the air in his lungs felt too thin. 

He should have done more. He should have kept you here. He should have said— 

No. There were still lines to be drawn. Still pieces to move. 

And if Satoru Gojo had anything to say about it, this wasn’t the end. Not yet. 

- 

The journey back was long and quiet. 

Snow followed you all the way to the southern border, turning slush-grey by the time the first familiar stone walls of your kingdom came into view. The roads here were rougher. Patrolled. The air felt heavier somehow—like even the sky knew where you were returning to. 

You hadn’t spoken much. Elira had sat beside you, hands folded neatly in her lap, eyes downcast except for the rare moment she dared to glance at you. There was a silent understanding between you—no need to put voice to the dread that had crept into your chest with every mile closer to home. 

The carriage slowed to a halt just beyond the inner gates. 

You didn’t move at first. 

The creak of the wheels still echoed in your chest, a hollow sound you’d been bracing against for miles. Your hands, gloved now, rested in your lap—fingers curled too tightly to be casual. The moment the door opened, and the cold air of home swept in, something in your ribs pulled tight. 

You stepped out slowly, your boots crunching against the damp stone. The sky was overcast, heavy with gray. A line of guards stood flanking the entry stairs, flanked by a collection of staff and advisors, all waiting stiffly, formally. 

And at the center of them—of course—stood Geto. Gold stitching along his black cloak, dark hair tied neatly back. His expression was unreadable. But it was the man beside him who made your stomach turn. 

Kenjaku. 

Standing just behind the king’s right shoulder like a shadow made flesh. Pale, unbothered, his smile a mere ghost at the edge of his lips. His hands were folded calmly in front of him, eyes watching you like a hawk stalks a field mouse. 

You met Geto halfway down the stone steps. He didn’t offer his hand. Didn’t lean forward and didn’t smile. 

“You were gone longer than expected,” he said. 

“The roads were slower due to the snowfall,” you replied carefully. “We had to stop at the border for a full day.” 

A pause. Then, his voice dropped, only for you to hear: “You will not go again.” 

You blinked. “Excuse me?” 

“You heard me,” he said, louder this time. “You will not be traveling there again. It is beneath the dignity of this house to have our queen wandering.” 

Your spine straightened. “It was not wandering. I was there on agreed duties. Ones you approved.” 

“I revoked that approval the moment you overstayed.” 

“I overstayed because you refused to send a reply for nearly a week.” 

A sharp intake of breath sounded beside him—Kenjaku. Still quiet, still smiling. Geto’s eyes narrowed. “Mind your tone.” 

“I will not,” you said, voice quiet but firm. “Not when you’re treating me like a disobedient servant instead of a queen.” 

Geto stepped forward, too close. “And if you wish to keep your crown,” he said coldly, “you’ll remember exactly who placed it on your head.” 

A long silence followed. 

Then, from behind him, Kenjaku finally spoke—calmly, as if he were commenting on the weather.  “She must be tired from her journey. These things always stir up... emotions. Perhaps a day’s rest before she rejoins court, Your Majesty?” 

It wasn’t kindness. It was strategy. You felt it in the way Geto turned from you with a tight nod. “Very well. You will attend duties tomorrow morning.” 

He didn’t say “welcome back.” Didn’t ask after your health. He simply turned and walked into the palace. 

Kenjaku lingered, watching you with barely concealed interest. And when he finally turned to follow the king, his voice drifted over his shoulder: “We’re all glad you are home, Your Majesty.” 

You stared after them both, rage and shame twisting somewhere deep in your chest. Elira moved beside you, silent, ready. 

You climbed the steps. Slowly. The doors closed behind you with a heavy, echoing thud—final and absolute. 

Inside, the air was colder than you remembered. Not in temperature, but in presence. Every servant’s bowed head felt more rigid. Every step through the corridor more calculated. It was like the entire palace had been holding its breath in your absence and now exhaled with wary restraint. 

Elira followed silently. She didn’t ask where you were going, and you didn’t tell her. You moved through the halls like a ghost returning to haunt the place it once called home. 

The queen’s chambers were just as you left them, but somehow still foreign. Someone had changed the drapes—paler now, too stark for winter. A fire had been lit, but it burned low, like an afterthought. Everything smelled faintly of lavender, but there was no warmth behind it. 

Elira helped you remove your cloak. Her hands were gentle, but her face was strained with unspoken concern. 

You sank onto the edge of the bed, eyes drifting to the window where the snow still fell in lazy, tired spirals. You’d only been gone a handful of weeks, but it felt like you’d crossed lifetimes. 

“He knew,” you murmured. “He knew I was happy.” 

Elira hesitated. “Do you think… the tea will continue?” 

You didn’t answer. The bitter taste of it still haunted you. A carefully masked blend of herbs—soothing to the tongue, damning to the body. Every sip was a lie. Every swallow a choice you weren’t allowed to make for yourself. 

And now… now you wondered if Kenjaku had ever needed Geto’s permission for anything. 

“I’ll draw a bath,” Elira said gently. “You should rest before council tomorrow.” 

You nodded. But rest felt like an impossible thing. 

Later, as steam drifted from the basin and your hair clung to the back of your neck, you leaned your forehead against the cool rim of the tub and tried not to think of Gojo. 

Tried not to remember the way he walked beside you with no guards. The way his laughter filled the space like sunlight, the way he looked at you like you were someone worth choosing. 

And gods help you—  You were already forgetting what it felt like to be chosen at all. 

You didn’t cry. But you felt it building in your throat like a storm. 

And all you could do was sit in the water, alone, and wait for morning. The water had long gone cold by the time you rose from the bath. You hadn’t noticed—your limbs already felt numb. 

You dressed without assistance, despite Elira’s quiet offer. Sleep that night was shallow and dreamless, like your body knew better than to rest too deeply here.

As dawn crept in through the narrow window slats, you were already awake, sitting in the armchair near the hearth, still wrapped in your robe. 

The knock came just as the first light hit the stone floor. 

“Your Majesty,” came a guard’s voice—brisk, not unkind. “The king requests your presence.” 

Not a summons. A request. But only in name. 

You dressed quickly and stepped into the corridor, where two guards waited on either side of the door—new faces. That in itself wasn’t unusual. What was unusual was the third man posted farther down the hall. And the fourth, trailing behind you at a calculated distance. 

They didn’t speak. Didn’t offer a hand. Just walked with you, like shadows with armor. By the time you reached the lower levels of the court, the number had doubled. 

It wasn’t protection. It was containment. 

You were escorted not to the council chamber or the meeting room you’d once frequented, but to a decorative hall just off the main gallery—beautiful and sunlit, but empty. A holding space, not a seat of power. 

You turned to one of the guards. “Is His Majesty not attending council?” 

“He is, Your Majesty,” the man said. “You were instructed to wait here.” 

You smiled, tight and hollow. “Of course I was.” 

They didn’t offer a seat. So, you walked instead—once around the room, then twice. You paused at the long windows. Snow still fell beyond the glass, soft and slow, cloaking the courtyards below in white. 

The solar had once been visible from here. But when you leaned forward to look, a heavy velvet curtain had been drawn across its arched entrance, blocking it from view. 

Of course. 

The rest of the day unfolded in fragments. A maid appeared not long after with a tray of tea and dried fruit—nothing warm, nothing comforting. A steward brought a stack of documents, but they were purely ceremonial: a guest list for a winter feast, the embroidery pattern for a banner. Not one political record. Not one trade report. Not one document that required your judgment. 

Later, when you tried to retrieve parchment and ink to write a letter—just a letter, nothing formal—Elira had barely handed it to you before someone else appeared at the door. 

A tailor needing input on wardrobe.  A page delivering a question about garden flowers.  A servant suddenly unsure which linens you preferred in the west wing. 

Every time your pen touched the page, someone interrupted. By the fourth time, you set the parchment down and didn’t pick it up again. 

You weren’t being watched, you were being managed. Even Elira looked nervous, her glances toward the door more frequent than before. 

“I’ll see if the seamstress is truly waiting,” she whispered at one point, clearly unconvinced, before stepping into the hall. 

You were left alone then. For just a minute. But the quiet only made the pressure more palpable. You rose and walked to the window again, pressing your hand flat against the cold pane. 

You stayed by the window until your fingers ached from the chill radiating through the glass. Even then, you didn’t move. The hall behind you was silent—too silent. No footsteps, no voices, just the occasional soft groan of old stone settling, like the walls themselves were tired of pretending not to listen. 

The door creaked open behind you, and you didn’t turn. You already knew it wouldn’t be Elira. 

“Your Majesty,” said a familiar voice—low, sickly smooth. “I was told I might find you here.” 

Kenjaku. You turned slowly, schooling your expression. “Were you looking for me?” 

“I always am,” he said, smile thin. He stepped inside without invitation, the guards behind him shifting in perfect rhythm before resuming their posts. “I thought perhaps we could speak, a brief moment. Something personal.” 

You said nothing. He took your silence as agreement. 

He approached with measured calm, glancing around the chamber like it was beneath him. “I’ve heard your journey to the northern kingdom was… pleasant.” 

Your jaw clenched. He didn’t wait for a response. 

“And productive,” he added, eyes flicking to yours with cold amusement. “You do look well, Your Majesty. The air there must’ve suited you.” 

You kept your voice level. “Was there something you needed, Councilor?” 

Kenjaku tsked softly. “Only to express my concern. You returned to us without—how shall I say—fruitful results.” 

Your blood went cold. “Excuse me?” 

He stepped closer, tone still pleasant. “Surely you understand how vital your role is. The king, in his grace, has waited long enough for an heir. Some of us had hoped your time away might… inspire your body to cooperate.” 

You stared at him. “You hoped I would return pregnant.” 

“Oh no,” he said with mock surprise. “Of course not. We would never wish to burden another realm with a claim to our line. I simply hoped you’d feel… urgency. About your position. About your responsibilities.” 

You said nothing. He stepped even closer, lowering his voice. 

“There are many women who would kill for your place,” he murmured. “But few of them would need to.” 

For a moment, you didn’t breathe. Then, “Is that a threat?” 

Kenjaku’s smile didn’t waver. “Just a reminder, my queen. Time is precious. And patience, even from kings, has its limits.” He bowed slightly. “I’ll see to it that your attendance is no longer needed in the solar. I imagine all this standing around is dreadfully tiring.” 

With that, he turned and exited as calmly as he entered, his footsteps vanishing down the corridor like the scrape of a blade being sheathed. You didn’t move for a long time. 

Eventually, Elira returned. She said nothing when she saw your face. She only set down a fresh pot of tea on the side table, then quietly slipped the parchment and quill back into your lap. 

And this time, no one interrupted. But you didn’t write.  

You just stared down at the blank page, fingers hovering, and wondered how long it would take before they tried to take even this from you. 

-.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅ -.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅ -.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅ -.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅

You wake later than you have in weeks. 

The light filtering through the curtains is strong and warm. You’re still under the covers, still in bed. And for once, you don’t feel like your body is dragging itself out of sleep. There’s no tightness in your limbs. No soreness in your back. You feel… normal. 

You stretch slowly, careful not to break the quiet. No knocks. No footsteps outside the door. No one asking if you’re ready for court. 

You sit up, hair loose, feet finding the warm rug beneath the bed. The floor is heated from below—unexpected, but not surprising. He always remembered the little things like that. 

Then, a knock. Soft. Just once. 

“Your Majesty?” Elira’s voice, tentative. “You… didn’t ring this morning.” 

“You may come in,” you call back. 

She opens the door, peeking in before stepping fully inside. Her eyes scan the room, then land on you. “You’re still—” She stops herself. “I mean—you haven’t—” 

“I know,” you say, lightly. “It’s alright.” 

She hesitates by the door, then slowly walks further inside, her hands clasped in front of her apron. “Forgive me, I just… you haven’t slept this late in months.” 

“I noticed.” You glance toward the window. “What time is it?” 

“Just past midday.” 

You blink. “Really?” 

“I wasn’t sure if I should check,” she says softly. “In the other palace, someone would’ve already…” 

You nod, understanding. “They would’ve had the guards unlock the door.” 

Her eyes flicker. “Yes. I didn’t know if something was wrong.” 

“Nothing’s wrong,” you assure her. “Just… no one came to drag me out of bed.” 

Elira lets out a quiet breath. “If you don’t mind me saying so, you look different today.” 

You raise an eyebrow. “Different how?” 

She smiles, small and honest. “Better. Rested. Peaceful.” 

You exhale slowly. Let the word settle into your skin. You’re not sure you’d call it that. Not yet. But it’s closer to peaceful you’ve been in a long time. You turn your gaze back to her. “Tell the kitchen I’ll take breakfast here. Something warm.” 

“Yes, of course.” Elira straightens, her shoulders relaxing. “Would you like me to prepare your wardrobe for the day? There was a message from the steward, I believe His Grace requested your company sometime after—” 

“Yes, please.” You pause. “Something light. For walking.”  

She nods, bowing slightly, and disappears with a little more ease than when she entered. You stay on the edge of the bed for a while after she leaves, feet planted on the warm floor, arms resting on your knees. No orders. No summons. No tea laced with expectation. 

Just the sun, the warmth beneath your feet, and the memory of a voice last night that said, “You’re safe here.” 

When breakfast arrives, Elira sets the tray down and quietly excuses herself. You lift the teacup first out of habit—and pause. It doesn’t smell sharp or medicinal. It isn’t bitter. Just warm. Floral. Exactly as it should be. 

You sip it without flinching. 

You dress without rush. A pale wool gown, soft against your skin. Elira braids your hair loose, leaves it trailing down your back. There’s no tiara. No heavy jewelry or royal pins. Just the thin silver chain you’ve always worn when given the choice. 

When you step out of your chamber, the halls are as quiet as the night before. A few servants pass by, heads bowed respectfully, but none stop you. None follow. 

It’s almost unnerving how free you are to move here. 

You find yourself walking aimlessly, letting your feet guide you. The southern hallway opens into a long colonnade that overlooks the stables, and beyond them, the snow-covered hills that stretch toward the edge of the kingdom. For a moment, you just stand there, breathing in the cold air through the open arches. 

“Elira said you might wander.” The voice startles you slightly—only slightly. You turn, and Gojo's there. 

He’s dressed casually by his standards. Still in layers of cream and gray, but his coat is lighter, his hair windswept like he’s just returned from walking the grounds himself. There’s no crown, no guards in tow, just him. 

“Did she tell you where?” you ask. 

“No,” he says, coming to stand beside you. “But I figured you’d come here eventually. You always liked the view.” 

You look back out over the snowy hills. “I’m not sure what I like anymore.” 

Gojo’s jaw flexes. He says nothing, but the look in his eyes is sharp. 

“It’s warmer today than yesterday,” he says casually. “Still cold enough to feel like winter, but the wind’s quiet. The garden paths should be mostly clear.” 

You look at him, unsure where he’s going with this. 

He glances sideways, catching your expression. “We haven’t walked the gardens together in years.” 

“Since I was what, twelve?” you murmur. 

“Fourteen,” he says. “You tried to convince me to steal honey cakes from the kitchens, then blamed me when we got caught.” 

“I didn’t blame you,” you say, smiling before you can stop yourself. “You confessed before they even asked.” 

“I was being chivalrous,” he says, mock-offended. “You were crying.” 

“I was laughing,” you correct. 

“Crying,” he insists. “And don’t argue, or I’ll find a witness.” 

You roll your eyes. “You’d be a poor king if your court remembers that over anything else.” 

He shrugs, grinning now. “We're memorable.” 

You shake your head, the smallest laugh slipping past your lips. 

He tilts his head toward the corridor behind him. “Come on. You’ve barely seen the grounds. I made sure they kept the old paths just the way they were.” 

You hesitate for only a second. Then nod. “All right,” you say. 

He offers his arm. Not formally. Not with the stiffness of court. Just a gesture—simple and open. 

He keeps his pace slow, matching yours as you step out into the cold. The air bites faintly at your skin, but it’s clean, bright, and crisp. The snow has thinned, just enough for the cobblestones beneath your boots to peek through. 

The garden stretches out ahead of you—terraced and layered, with soft winding paths and bare-limbed trees dusted in white. A few birds rustle in the evergreens along the wall. No guards follow, though you know they’re likely not far. 

Gojo leads you down a familiar path, one that curves past a small frozen pond, now ringed with ivy-blanketed benches. “It’s smaller than I remember,” you murmur, glancing at the stone railing ahead. 

“That’s because you were smaller,” he says, eyes scanning the space. “Your legs barely reached the ground when you sat on that bench.” 

“I used to pretend this pond was a lake,” you add, half-smiling. “I thought if I stared into the ice long enough, it would melt.” 

He chuckles. “You did that for a week. I started calling it your witchcraft.” 

You shoot him a look. “I never heard you say that.” 

He raises a brow. “I said it to everyone else.” 

You let out a quiet sound that’s almost laughter. The cold nips at your nose, but your chest feels warm. The two of you reach the bench, and Gojo sits down without letting go of your hand. He tugs gently, encouraging you to join him. 

You hesitate, then let yourself sit. For a while, neither of you say anything. The world is quiet but not empty. The wind shifts the trees slightly, the ice in the pond creaks faintly, and somewhere above, a crow calls once and flies off. 

Gojo finally breaks the silence. “I used to sit here after you left.” 

You turn toward him, unsure how to respond. 

“When you got married,” he clarifies, voice even. “After the wedding. After the parade. After I smiled and toasted and said all the right things.” 

Your stomach tightens. 

“I’d sit here,” he says again. “When no one was around. And I’d try to picture you as happy. I tried really hard to imagine it.” 

You speak before you can stop yourself. “And could you?” 

His expression softens, but he doesn’t look at you. “No.” 

The wind moves through your hair, tugging strands across your face. You don’t push them back. 

“I told myself I just didn’t want to get in the way,” he says quietly. “That you’d chosen him, and it wasn’t my place.” 

“I didn’t choose him.” The words leave you low, steady. Certain. 

He turns to look at you then, slowly, eyes narrowing just a little. “You didn’t,” he repeats. 

You shake your head once. “It was decided for me.” 

He swallows, something flickering in his jaw. 

You let the silence stretch again. Then: “He was kind to me, in the beginning.” 

That makes Gojo look away again, jaw tightening. “He was lucky.” 

You don’t answer. You both know he doesn’t believe in luck. The cold sharpens a little as the clouds shift overhead, but neither of you move to go back. 

He glances down at your hand, still loosely held in his. “I never stopped wondering,” he murmurs. 

You don’t ask what he wondered. Because you know. 

And because you did too. 

You feel it—the air between you tightening, shifting. The moment balancing on the edge of something unspoken. Your hand is still in his. His thumb brushes the back of it absently, gently, like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. 

You look away.  “We used to plant lilacs here,” you say, voice soft. “Right along the stone fence.” 

Gojo lets out a slow breath, his grip loosening only slightly, but not falling away. “Every spring,” he replies. “You always said they smelled like sugar.” 

“They did,” you say. “Or maybe I just wanted them to.” 

A pause. 

You pull your hand back slowly, folding it in your lap. “It’s strange,” you continue, keeping your voice light, “just how different everything feels now.” 

“You were always easier to impress,” he says, playing along. “That was before you started giving court opinions with more bite than the generals.” 

“I don’t give opinions anymore,” you remind him quietly. 

The words sit awkwardly between you. He opens his mouth, but you don’t let him respond. 

“I’m sorry,” you say quickly. “I didn’t mean for that to come out bitter.” 

“You don’t have to apologize for the truth.” 

You shake your head. “We shouldn’t be talking like this.” 

He follows your gaze to the far wall—where a guard is just barely visible through the trees, standing still in the white. Silent. Watching. Gojo nods once, slowly. “You’re right.” 

You both rise, your steps careful on the stone path as you start to head back. The cold nips more sharply now, the wind picking up just enough to remind you that it’s still winter. You reach the edge of the garden when a figure approaches at a brisk pace—one of Gojo’s stewards, young and out of breath. 

“Your Grace,” the steward says, bowing slightly. “Forgive the interruption, but the ambassador from Lord Zen'in has arrived ahead of schedule. They’re waiting in the solar.” 

Gojo’s expression shifts—irritation, brief and masked, before he forces a more neutral look. “I thought we had until evening.” 

“They insist it’s urgent.” 

He sighs, then turns to you. “Will you be alright on your own?” 

You nod. “Of course.” 

“I’ll send someone to walk you back.” 

“No need.” You give him the smallest smile. “I remember the way.” 

He holds your gaze for a beat longer than necessary. 

Then he nods once and turns to follow the steward down the corridor. You don’t watch him go. Not this time. You turn back toward the corridors alone, retracing your steps with the ease of familiarity—or so you think. 

The castle has changed since you were a girl. Some hallways are longer than you remember, others fork in ways you’re certain they never used to. And without Elira or a maid trailing behind, it doesn’t take long for your memory to lead you in the wrong direction. 

You follow a long stone hall lined with high, narrow windows that filter pale light onto the floor. It curves slightly and opens into a more formal wing—vaulted ceilings, tapestries of old battles, and doors sealed tight. 

One stands ajar. You pause. Something holds you there—not suspicion, exactly, but a pull. A feeling. 

Then, you hear his voice. At first, it’s low, measured. The tone he always uses during council. But it sharpens mid-sentence, rough and too loud to ignore. 

“I said no, and I meant it.” 

Your breath stills. You know you should leave. Turn back. Return to your chambers like you told him you would. But you take a silent step closer instead, until your shoulder brushes the cold stone beside the door. 

A second voice—older, male, smooth in that practiced way diplomats often are. “With all respect, Your Grace, this is not a personal matter. If Lord Zen'in cuts winter grain supply by half, your people will feel it within the month.” 

“Then we’ll find another supplier,” Gojo snaps. “I won’t be blackmailed with food.” 

“There are only three kingdoms that deal in that quantity—” 

“I said no.” A heavy silence follows, and when Gojo speaks again, it’s lower. More dangerous. “I’m not going to trade land rights for a few crates of barley. I’m not giving up river patrol just to appease a crown too cowardly to protect its own trade roads. And I will not, under any circumstances, allow them to dictate who stays under my roof.” 

Your stomach twists. “I wasn’t aware anyone was trying to do that,” the ambassador says carefully. 

Gojo laughs once, bitter. “No? Then perhaps your informants should stop receving messages from Kenjaku through third parties. Because I assure you, I know exactly where that suggestion came from.” 

You cover your mouth with your hand, heart suddenly hammering. You can’t be sure… but it sounds like they’re talking about you. 

“I don’t think you understand the risks,” the ambassador says after a pause. “Keeping her here—however innocent it may seem—makes you vulnerable. Especially if your alliance with Lord Geto begins to fray.” 

“It already has,” Gojo says flatly. “He made his choice when he let his advisor poison his own household.” 

The silence that follows is long. Unspoken words hum in the air between them. 

“She deserves more than that,” Gojo says, quieter now. “And I’ll burn this alliance before I stand by and do nothing.” 

You take a step back. Breath shallow. You shouldn’t have heard this. You weren’t meant to. 

You turn on your heel, footsteps careful and soundless against the stone. You don’t know where you’re walking now—only that you need to get away from the doorway. Away from the truth you were never meant to know but already suspected. 

Gojo’s voice had been sharp. Fierce. Like steel meeting stone. And he hadn’t raised it for his court. Or his council. Or even his land. 

He raised it for you. 

- 

It’s nearing dusk by the time you realize how long you’ve been pacing. 

The light outside your chamber window has dimmed into a soft gray-blue, and the first torches have been lit along the outer path. The castle beyond your door has settled into its evening rhythm—footsteps quieter, conversations more reserved. But inside your room, the quiet is a cage. 

You can’t stop moving. 

You’d hoped a walk would clear your thoughts after what you heard in the solar, but the opposite has happened. The longer you sit with it, the worse it becomes. 

You don’t know what your absence has cost you yet. But you know it’s costing something. Because if Kenjaku wanted to stir unrest, this was exactly the kind of opportunity he’d exploit. Let Geto stew in your absence. Let the silence grow into suspicion. Feed him doubt where there hadn’t been any before. 

Kenjaku wouldn’t need to lie. He’d just need to twist. To nudge. A whisper in the wrong ear. A reminder at the right time. “She’s been gone a long while, hasn’t she?”  

You don’t know what’s been said. Only that it’s likely already begun. 

You run a hand through your hair, pausing by the fire before circling the room again. Your dress is still rumpled from earlier. You haven’t changed for dinner. You haven’t even eaten since morning. Your stomach feels tight with nerves. 

A knock cuts through the air. You freeze. 

A pause—then a second knock, lighter. “It’s me.” His voice. 

You take a deep breath, exhale slowly, and smooth your skirt with your hands. “Come in,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. 

The door opens and Gojo steps in. He’s changed from earlier—still dressed simply, but a thicker coat rests across his shoulders, deep blue embroidered with pale threading at the collar. 

“I was about to send someone,” he says. “You missed lunch.” 

“I wasn’t hungry,” you lie. 

He glances at you—just once, then again, more slowly. You’re still standing stiffly near the fire. Your hands are clasped in front of you, your mouth pulled tight, and there’s something in your eyes that won’t meet his. 

“I thought I’d come get you for dinner,” he says after a moment. “Unless you’d rather eat here.” 

You shake your head quickly. “No, I’ll come. Just give me a moment to change.” 

He watches you for another beat, expression unreadable. 

You smile—not too wide, not too small. Just enough. “Really. I’m fine.” 

His jaw tics once, but he doesn’t press. “Alright,” he says. “I’ll wait outside.” 

You nod, moving toward the wardrobe as he turns and steps into the hall. The door closes gently behind him. 

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Your fingers tremble slightly as you reach for a clean gown, brushing past silks and velvets until your hand finds something simpler. 

The gown you choose is modest but elegant. Elira would have insisted on something more formal, something jeweled and layered, but you aren’t in the mood to be dressed like a prize. You pull your hair back with a ribbon and smooth your skirt once before opening the door. 

Gojo stands just outside, hands folded loosely behind his back. He glances over as the door creaks open—and you catch the way his eyes flick over your appearance, not lingering, but not without notice. 

He doesn’t say anything. Just offers his arm again, as he did yesterday. 

The walk to the great hall is quieter than the garden path was. Your footsteps echo lightly across the stone, and though you try not to let your thoughts show on your face, you know he can feel the tension in your posture. 

He doesn’t comment, and you’re grateful for it. 

When the two of you enter the hall, the murmurs of staff arranging the tables pause just briefly—just long enough for the room to notice that you’ve arrived together again. 

No one speaks. But the glance exchanged between two attendants near the hearth, and the way one maid quickly turns away when Gojo leads you to the head table, says enough. 

They noticed the seating arrangement last time. They noticed again tonight. 

Tradition places a guest of your status—queen or not—at least one chair removed from the head. But Gojo doesn’t even glance at the far end. He brings you straight to the center table and pulls your chair out before taking the seat directly beside you. 

You sit as if it’s nothing. As if your heart isn’t pounding at the subtle breach of protocol. 

Dinner is simple tonight: roast pheasant with wild onions, buttered root vegetables, a loaf of dark bread sliced into rounds, and a delicate stew of mushrooms and barley served in shallow brass bowls. Your plate is filled silently, respectfully, as Gojo engages one of the captains of his guard across the table in polite conversation about the thaw of the eastern roads. 

You nod where appropriate. You smile when spoken to. But your stomach still churns. 

Eventually, Gojo leans slightly toward you—his voice low, for your ears alone. “Did you eat anything at all today?” 

You pick up your fork. “I said I wasn’t hungry.” 

He hums, not in amusement. More like he’s letting the conversation slide for now. 

You sip your wine slowly. The maids continue to steal glances. A few of the older guards seem indifferent, but the younger ones shift uncomfortably, unsure of what to make of your placement beside the king. 

Across the table, one guard clears his throat and starts discussing a recent skirmish amongst a trade envoy from the southern isles. Gojo entertains the topic briefly, then turns to you again. 

“You don’t have to stay the whole meal,” he says, quiet. “If you want to return to your chambers, I’ll make an excuse.” 

You shake your head once. “I’d rather stay.” He doesn’t smile, not fully, but there’s a softness in his expression that says he’s glad you said it. 

So, you sit beside him as the room settles into warmth and conversation, trying to ignore the subtle shift in the way the entire table tilts toward the two of you.  

- 

Dinner lingers long after the plates have been cleared. 

A steward offers honeyed figs and candied nuts for dessert, but you wave them off gently, fingers curling around the base of your wine glass instead. Gojo politely accepts a handful of spiced almonds and nudges the dish toward you but doesn’t push when you ignore it. 

Conversation shifts around the table—toward patrol routes and spring allocations, all the necessary logistics of rule that mean little to you right now. Your body is present. Your title is present. 

But your mind is already drifting back to the walk, to your chambers, to the echo of Gojo’s voice in the solar and the sharp memory of what he said in your defense. 

And to what that defense might cost him. 

The meal finally winds down. One by one, the courtiers and staff excuse themselves, bowing and murmuring their titles as they retreat to their duties. A few lower-ranked guards stand to offer a proper escort for you, bowing with practiced formality. 

“Your Majesty,” one says to Gojo, gesturing toward you. You immediately take note of his hair – a hue of pink, like a cherry blossom tree, is tousled and unkept. “Shall we see the queen safely to her chambers?” 

Gojo doesn’t look up from the table. “No.” 

There’s a beat of silence. 

He leans back in his chair, then lifts his gaze slowly. “I’ll take her.” 

The guard stiffens slightly but nods. “As you wish, Your Grace.” 

Another tries—less cautious. He stands next to his fellow guard confidently, with dark hair and dark eyes that could pierce a soul faster than his sword. “The halls are dark this time of night. There are fewer staff on this side of the palace—” 

Gojo stands. “They know better than to interfere under my roof.” He places a hand on the back of your chair and glances toward you. “Ready?” 

You nod wordlessly and rise with him. He doesn’t offer his arm this time. Not out of coldness—just a kind of quiet urgency, the air between you too tightly wound with things unsaid. 

The hallways are hushed now, lit only by low-burning sconces and moonlight filtering through tall windows. Your footsteps echo as you walk, soft against the stone, unhurried. 

For several minutes, neither of you speak. 

Only once you near the corridor leading to your chamber doors does he finally break the silence. 

“So,” Gojo says, voice light but too casual to be accidental, “how was your little expedition earlier?” 

You glance sideways at him. “Expedition?” 

He hums, clasping his hands behind his back like he’s just making small talk. “You know—the one through the restricted wings of the palace, dangerously close to the solar where I just happened to be having a very quiet, very private meeting.” 

You stop mid-step. “I got turned around.” 

“Mhm,” he nods sagely, eyes narrowed in mock seriousness. “Easy mistake. Happens to the best of us. The south wing looks exactly like your chambers. And it’s only… three floors off and down a separate staircase.” 

You shoot him a glare, but he just grins. 

“I’m just saying,” he continues, “if you were going to eavesdrop, you could’ve at least stolen a plate of pastries while you were at it. You’d make a terrible spy.” 

“I wasn’t spying.” 

“No,” he agrees easily. “You were wandering. Like a ghost with extremely inconvenient timing.” 

“I told you—” 

“You got turned around. Right. Classic royal direction blindness.” 

Despite yourself, a laugh slips past your lips, quiet and reluctant. His grin only grows. 

“I mean,” he adds with a faux sigh, “I could’ve sworn I heard a creak behind the door just after I threatened to light half the alliance on fire, but I assumed it was the structural tension from my overwhelming nobility.” 

“You’re impossible.” 

“And yet,” he says with a dramatic bow of his head, “you’re still walking next to me. Fascinating.” 

The teasing eases as the two of you approach your door. He sobers slightly, eyes flicking over you, softer now. “You’re not mad?” you ask, more cautious this time. 

He shrugs. “You overheard a meeting I didn’t want you part of—so you could hear me defend you with teeth. Why would I be mad?” 

You look at him, and it’s the first time all day you feel like your chest isn’t full of stones. “You shouldn’t joke so much. Not about things like this.” 

“I joke because if I don’t, I’ll storm back in there and start another fight,” he adds with a shrug. 

You smile. “Still dramatic.” 

Gojo gasps, hand to his chest like you’ve mortally wounded him. “Dramatic? I’ll have you know I’m the picture of restraint and dignity.” 

You snort. 

“I gave a perfectly measured speech today,” he goes on, walking a slow circle around you like he’s addressing an invisible audience. “I only raised my voice once. Twice, if you count when I implied I’d rather starve than negotiate with fools, which frankly, is diplomacy.” 

“You’re dreadful,” you say through a laugh. 

“And yet so lovable,” he replies, flashing a grin that would’ve earned him a scolding in any other court. 

You shake your head, trying to fight the growing grin on your face, but he isn’t done. 

“Don’t worry,” he says solemnly. “If I’m arrested for diplomatic slander, you can come visit me in the dungeons. I’ll be easy to find—top floor suite, best pillows, tragic reputation.” 

You press your hand to your mouth, stifling the loud laugh that escapes anyway. It echoes down the hall before you can catch it, and you immediately shoot a wide-eyed look toward the torchlit corridor. “Stop—” you whisper between fits of laughter. “You’re going to get us both talked about.” 

He leans in slightly, eyes bright. “Too late. You already sat next to me at dinner twice. Scandalous.” 

You let out a helpless noise, muffled by your palm. 

Finally, breathless and flushed from the cold and the laughter, you reach your chamber door and steady yourself against it. Gojo’s smile softens. “Sleep well,” he says gently, dipping his head in something that falls somewhere between a bow and a farewell. 

You nod, your voice quieter now. “Goodnight.” 

You slip inside before the warmth in your chest gives away too much. Behind the door, you pause. 

And on the other side, Gojo doesn’t move. He stays there in the hall for a long while—long after the laughter has faded, long after the silence has returned. 

-.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅ -.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅ -.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅ -.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅

It was late morning, and the hum of fingers tapping against keyboards was only broken by the occasional murmur of coworkers or the sputter of the temperamental coffee machine. You sat cross-legged in your office chair, chin resting in one hand while the other aimlessly scrolled through your inbox. 

“Okay, you’ve been rereading the same email for the last five minutes,” Maki’s voice called from the other side of your desk. “Spill it.” 

You blinked. “Huh?” 

She rounded the corner, holding two coffees in one hand and her phone in the other. “You’ve got that look again. The ‘I’m mentally somewhere else, probably tangled up in questionable decisions’ look.” 

You raised an eyebrow, taking the coffee she offered. “That’s specific.” 

“It’s about Sukuna, isn’t it?” she sang, plopping into the chair next to yours. 

Your silence was all the answer she needed. 

“Oh my god, you’re in it with him, aren’t you?” Maki grinned, crossing one leg over the other and sipping smugly. “Tell me everything. How’s the tattooed menace? Still grumpy and emotionally unavailable, or has he evolved into a full-on brooding boyfriend?” 

You tried not to smile too obviously. “He’s… better.” 

“Better?” she echoed. 

You shrugged, staring into your coffee. “He’s trying. Like, really trying. Actual romantic dates. Thoughtful texts. He even argued with Gojo over what kind of pastries I’d want for breakfast.” 

“That’s real love,” Maki deadpanned. 

You smiled to yourself. “I know.” 

“Okay, but tell me this…” she leaned in conspiratorially. “Has he said it yet? The L word?” 

You nearly choked. “Maki!” 

“Don’t Maki me,” she teased. “It’s been a few months now, and you’ve got that soft look in your eyes. I’ve only ever seen that when you’re looking at him or videos of dogs trying to climb stairs.” 

You rolled your eyes. “It’s complicated.” 

“It’s always complicated. But from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re happy.” 

You exhaled slowly. “I am.” 

Maki nodded, the teasing momentarily fading from her expression. “Then that’s what matters. Just… don’t let him off the hook too easy. If he messes up again, I will personally launch his ass into the sun.” 

You chuckled. “You’ll have to fight Gojo, Geto, and Uraume for that honor.” 

“Please. I’d pay to throw down with Gojo.” 

Before you could reply, a new email pinged on your screen. You glanced at the subject line and groaned. 

“What now?” Maki asked, raising an eyebrow. 

You pushed your chair back and grabbed your coffee. “A meeting with the higher-ups.” 

“Oof. Good luck.” 

The tag line of the email had read “Department Development: Introduction”, it was standard enough. Probably another round of new hires, maybe someone would be joining the department.  

You opened the glass door to the conference room, offering your manager a polite smile. He beamed back, looking far too pleased with himself.  

“Glad you could make it,” he said brightly. “We wanted you to be the first to meet your new co-worker—he’ll be shadowing you for the next couple of weeks.” 

You blinked. Shadowing you? That wasn’t in your job description. Still, you managed a polite nod and glanced toward the open door—just as the new hire stepped into the room. 

And your heart absolutely dropped into your stomach. 

Tall. Dark. Smug. 

“You?” you breathed. 

Toji grinned like the cat who’d just swallowed the goddamn canary. 

“Surprise,” he drawled, giving a lazy wave as he stepped inside and offered the higher-ups a firm handshake. “Thanks for the opportunity. Looking forward to learning the ropes from... one of your best, I assume.” 

You could feel your pulse in your temples. Was this real life? 

Your boss beamed. “Yes, we thought it best to have him shadow someone experienced. And since your department's been running so smoothly lately, we knew you could handle it.” 

You barely managed to nod.  “Mind showing me to my desk?” he asked, like this wasn’t a complete ambush. 

You blinked. Once. Twice. 

You forced your mouth into the shape of a smile and nodded stiffly. “Of course.” 

Toji’s eyes didn’t leave yours for a second. He looked amused. Like he was thoroughly enjoying watching your sanity erode in real time. You wanted to throttle him. You wanted to scream. Mostly, you wanted to vanish into the carpet.  

Once you were out of earshot of the conference room and down the hallway, your tone dropped. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” 

“Not thrilled to see me?” Toji grinned as he followed you casually. “That hurts.” 

“Toji, what are you doing here?” 

He shrugged. “Getting a job. Turning over a new leaf. You know, being a contributing member of society.” 

“Did you know I worked here?” 

“Of course I did.” 

You whirled around, eyes narrowed. “Then this isn’t a coincidence?” 

“Not even a little,” he replied, unapologetic. “Besides, you’re the one who said I should be more productive. Figured I’d follow your advice.” 

You glared at him. “And by some miracle, you were hired here?” 

“Guess my references were good,” he winked. 

Your jaw clenched. This wasn’t good, it was very, very bad. Because the last thing Sukuna needed was Toji Fushiguro waltzing back into your orbit. And the last thing you needed was Toji in your office every day, acting like a flirtatious landmine ready to blow. 

When you reached your desk, you stopped abruptly. “Fine. Since you’re here, go through the onboarding packet. I have actual work to do.” 

“Can’t wait.” He dragged the syllables out like he was tasting them. 

You tried to focus. Really, you did. 

But it was almost impossible to concentrate with him sitting a few feet away, lounging at the spare desk. Toji had barely touched the onboarding packet and every five minutes he’d make some offhanded comment that had you debating jail time. 

“So… is this where the magic happens?” he asked, peering over your shoulder at your screen. 

“This is where I file reports and debate my life choices,” you muttered without looking up. “You’re not helping.” 

Toji just hummed in response, clearly entertained by your slow descent into madness. “You always this serious when you're in work mode?” 

“Do you always breathe this loudly?” you shot back. 

Before he could return fire, the door to the office swung open, and a familiar voice cut through the tension like a knife. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” 

You looked up and thank god. Actually, thank Maki. 

She stopped mid-step, one hand still on the door, eyes wide in disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” 

Toji smirked from his borrowed chair. “Missed me?” 

“Like a root canal,” Maki deadpanned. 

You gave her a desperate look, mouthing help me from across the room. 

“You didn’t tell me he was the new guy,” she said as she stalked toward your desk, tossing her bag into her chair with a thud. “I thought you meant someone competent.” 

“Wow,” Toji replied, hand over his chest in mock offense. “Is that how you greet family?” 

“Don’t remind me we share DNA.” Maki turned to you, hands on her hips. “Did you know he flunked out of two different office jobs in a year?” 

“Three,” Toji corrected. “You’re forgetting the one with the vending machine contracts.” 

“Because you stole five boxes of protein bars and resold them to a gym,” Maki snapped. 

You blinked. “You what?” 

Toji only shrugged. “Entrepreneurship.” 

Maki ignored him and dropped into the seat next to yours with a heavy sigh. “Unbelievable. You know, I told our manager not to hire someone without a background check.” 

“I passed,” Toji said proudly. 

“Barely. The bar must’ve been buried underground.” 

You pressed your hands to your temples, trying not to lose it. “Maki, please tell me you’re here all day.” 

“All day and then some. No way I’m leaving you alone with him.” 

“Hey,” Toji drawled, clearly unfazed. “I’m right here, you know.” 

“Unfortunately,” Maki muttered. 

Toji leaned back in the chair and laced his fingers behind his head. “You two always this mean in the office, or am I just special?” 

“Special like a parking ticket,” Maki said flatly. 

You laughed — actually laughed — despite how exhausted you already were. This was somehow worse and better than you expected. Worse, because Toji was Toji. Better, because Maki was here now. 

With her around, maybe you could survive the day. Maybe. 

But you still hadn’t told Sukuna. And if Toji didn’t do something outrageous first (a long shot), you knew that conversation would be coming very, very soon. 

Especially if Toji kept calling you “boss” with that smirk like he was trying to get under more than just your skin. 

“Okay,” you said, spinning your chair toward them both, hands in the air. “Here’s the deal. Toji — you stay quiet, do your reading, and do not steal anything. Maki — try not to stab him.” 

“No promises,” she said. 

Toji winked. “You two are adorable when you gang up on me.” 

You groaned. This was going to be a long day. 

- 

“He what?!” 

Sukuna’s voice rang out loud enough that half the bar turned to look, including the poor bartender who nearly dropped a pint glass. 

You winced, clutching your whiskey like it might shield you from the wrath to come. “Okay, you don’t have to yell.” 

Gojo immediately perked up from across the booth, practically bouncing with glee. “Oh no, please do. I wanna see the vein in your forehead pop.” 

Geto sipped calmly from his drink, barely hiding his smirk. “You didn’t lead with this when we sat down?” 

You gave him a flat look. “Forgive me for wanting to enjoy exactly ten seconds of peace before detonating the bomb.” 

Sukuna looked absolutely murderous. One hand was gripping the edge of the table like he might rip it from the floor. “You mean to tell me—you’re training him? At your job? Like… daily?” 

“Yes,” you sighed, dragging your hand down your face. “He’s shadowing me. He’s apparently my responsibility.” 

“Oh my god,” Gojo choked out, wheezing into his beer. “You’re basically raising him.” 

“Gojo, I will kill you,” Sukuna snapped. 

“You’d have to get through me first,” Geto said, deadpan. 

Sukuna ignored them both, eyes drilling into yours like he was trying to determine if this was some elaborate prank. “Did you tell them he's a degenerate” 

You hesitated. 

“You didn’t, did you.” 

“I didn’t exactly get a chance, okay? The meeting was a shock, and then Maki—” 

Sukuna blinked. “Maki’s letting this happen?” 

“She hates him more than you do.” 

“Doubt it.” 

“She tried to strangle him with a printer cable,” you deadpanned. 

Sukuna paused. “...Okay, I feel slightly better.” 

“But!” Gojo butted in, slamming his glass down. “You know what I don’t feel better about? That you are just now telling us this. We could’ve done something! Staged a break-in! Started a corporate espionage subplot! I have outfits!” 

“Satoru,” Geto warned, “I’m not breaking into an office building for your revenge cosplay.” 

You groaned. “Can we focus? I’m trying to have a serious conversation here.” 

Sukuna exhaled, finally letting go of the table. “Okay. So, what exactly did he say today? Was he… decent?” 

There was a long pause. “…Define decent,” you muttered. Sukuna’s eyes narrowed instantly.  

“Oh my god,” Gojo whispered like it was Christmas. 

“I’m kidding,” you said quickly. “Mostly. He was annoying, flirty, and borderline insufferable. But nothing new.” 

“Did he touch you?” Sukuna asked, suddenly very quiet. 

You hesitated again — a beat too long — and Sukuna’s jaw locked. 

“Sukuna,” Geto warned from across the booth, placing his glass down with a slow clink. 

“No, I got it,” you said, holding up a hand. “He was... Toji. He made a few dumb comments. But Maki was there. And I made it clear I wasn’t interested.” 

Sukuna didn’t look satisfied. In fact, he looked like he was calculating the quickest route from the bar to your office. “This is not over.” 

“Oh no,” Gojo grinned. “This is the beginning of a sitcom arc.’” 

“Gojo,” you warned. 

Geto chuckled and leaned back in his seat. “I’m just waiting for the day Sukuna walks in and commits a felony.” 

“He’ll have to fight Maki for it,” you muttered. 

Sukuna pinched the bridge of his nose. “I need another drink. And possibly bail money.” 

The booth felt quieter once Gojo and Geto finally slipped outside, Gojo dramatically shouting something about needing a cigarette “before the tension in the booth killed him.” 

You watched their silhouettes blur behind the frosted bar window, the soft orange glow of a lighter flicking to life just before the door shut behind them. It left just you and Sukuna — and a silence that immediately felt heavier. 

Sukuna stared into his drink for a long moment before speaking. “I hate that he’s around you.” 

You looked up, catching the way his thumb dragged slowly across the rim of the glass. The edge in his voice was gone, replaced by something more bitter, quieter. 

“I know,” you replied softly. “I don’t like it either.” 

He finally glanced up at you, and the frustration in his eyes wasn’t sharp anymore. It was something else. “It’s not about trust. I know you’d never… I know you’re not into someone like him. It’s just...” 

“Just what?” 

Sukuna exhaled like he was forcing the tension out with it. “Just that I spent years being someone like him.” 

The words hit harder than either of you expected. Your breath caught in your throat, but you didn’t interrupt. 

“I was angry,” he continued. “Selfish. Careless with people. With myself. Toji’s what I could’ve become if I hadn’t… if I didn’t pull myself out when I did.” 

Your fingers instinctively reached for his under the table. “But you did pull yourself out. You did change.” 

He stared at your joined hands for a second like he wasn’t sure how he got lucky enough to have them again. “Sometimes I wonder if it’s enough. If the people I hurt—if you—deserve better than someone still trying to figure it all out.” 

You squeezed his hand gently. “Everyone’s still figuring it out. The difference is, you’re trying. You’re honest. And I know the kind of man you are now.” 

His jaw clenched. “If he ever says something to you—touches you—” 

“I’ll punch him first,” you smirked. “Then let Maki finish the job.” 

That earned a small laugh from him — the real kind, the kind that reached his eyes. 

“I don’t deserve you,” Sukuna muttered, thumb brushing over the top of your hand. 

“Too late,” you shrugged, trying to keep your voice light despite the flush rising in your cheeks. “You’re stuck with me.” 

He leaned in just a little closer, voice dropping to a low murmur. “Good.” 

For a beat, you just sat there, soaking in the warmth of the moment — the quiet vulnerability between two people who had fought to rebuild something worth holding onto. 

Then the door burst back open. 

“DID YOU GUYS GET MARRIED IN HERE WHILE WE WERE GONE?” Gojo shouted. 

Geto sighed behind him, blowing out a puff of smoke. “Ten minutes, Satoru. You couldn’t give them ten minutes of peace?” 

Sukuna groaned and buried his face in your shoulder as Gojo practically skipped back to the table. You just laughed and rubbed his back. 

“You are stuck with me,” you whispered, and felt the quiet hum of agreement in the way his arm wrapped around your waist. 

- 

The front door of your apartment clicked softly shut behind the two of you, muffling the distant noise of the street below. Sukuna kicked off his boots without a word, letting them thud against the wall while you flicked on the small lamp in the corner of the living room.  

Sukuna stood in the doorway for a second, watching as you stretched and rolled your shoulders with a sleepy groan. You turned toward him with a quiet smile. “You want tea or anything?” 

He shook his head and crossed the room toward you. “Just you.” 

That made your breath hitch, just a little. 

When his arms wrapped around your waist, it wasn’t desperate or heavy. Just steady. Grounding. His chin rested on your shoulder, and you leaned into him like instinct. 

For a long moment, neither of you said anything. 

Eventually, you pulled back slightly and looked up at him. “You’re in your head again.” 

Sukuna gave a low hum, his eyes scanning your face like he was afraid you’d disappear if he looked away too long. “Yeah. Just thinking.” 

“About?” 

He paused. “You. How I got here. How I almost ruined it.” 

Your fingers brushed gently through the hair at the nape of his neck. “You didn’t ruin it.” 

He exhaled through his nose. “You’re too good to me.” 

You grinned, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “I am.” 

That pulled a low laugh from him, the sound rumbling through his chest where you leaned against him. He pulled you closer, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “I just don’t want to lose this. Lose you.” 

“You won’t,” you whispered. “Not unless you do something really stupid. Like forget my favorite snack again.” 

He gave an exaggerated groan. “The one time—” 

“I told you it was the sour kind!” 

“You said, ‘Get whichever,’ which is a trap, and you know it.” 

You both devolved into laughter, as Sukuna tugged you toward the couch. the two of you collapsed in a tangled heap of limbs and blankets, your legs draped over his lap as he absentmindedly ran his fingers along your calf. 

“You make it hard not to fall for you,” he murmured, almost like it wasn’t meant for you to hear. 

But you did. 

And you didn’t need to say it back — not yet. Instead, you curled closer into him, your voice barely audible as you whispered, “Good.” 

Sukuna didn’t say anything else — didn’t need to. The way his hand slowed over your leg, fingers pressing a little deeper into your skin, said enough. So did the quiet shift in his breathing as he looked at you, eyes tracing every inch of your face like he was memorizing it again for the hundredth time. 

Your body responded before your mind could catch up — leaning in, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you pressed a kiss to the edge of his mouth. It wasn’t rushed or heated at first. Just a soft, lingering touch. 

But it made Sukuna still. 

And then—he turned his face into yours. 

His lips found yours fully this time, and the kiss deepened with an urgency that you both understood. It had been a long week — the kind of stretch that made you crave closeness, and now, with the quiet of your apartment around you, there was nothing left to stop it. 

His hand slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, warm fingers brushing over your skin as he pulled you onto his lap. You gasped softly into his mouth at the shift, and he swallowed the sound greedily, kissing you again like he was starving. Like you were air. 

When you finally broke the kiss, your foreheads pressed together, you both sat there for a moment — your breaths uneven, your heart hammering in your chest. 

“You’re beautiful,” he said , voice hoarse, thumb brushing your cheek. 

You didn’t answer. You just took his hand and guided it up beneath your shirt, pressing his palm flat against your ribs, where your heart was racing. 

“Feel that?” you whispered. “That’s what you do to me.” 

That undid something in him. Sukuna let out a sound between a sigh and a groan, dragging his mouth along your jaw, your neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to the space beneath your ear. You tilted your head back to give him more access, eyes fluttering closed, your fingers tangling in the soft strands of his hair. 

“You’re killin’ me,” he murmured against your skin. 

“Good,” you breathed out, grinning. 

He chuckled, then lifted you in one smooth motion, carrying you the short distance to the bed. You couldn't help but laugh softly as he laid you down gently against the pillows. 

Later, as the night deepened, you two were a tangle of blankets and skin and warmth. Sukuna’s fingers drew idle patterns on your back. Neither of you needed to say a word. 

And when you finally drifted off against his chest, breathing even and soft, Sukuna stayed perfectly still — not daring to shift, not even to pull the blanket higher. He just laid there, staring down at you like you were something fragile and holy, like any sudden movement might wake you or worse, break the spell. 

He hated how gentle he felt. 

That wasn’t him — not really. Or at least, it hadn’t been. But here you were, curled into him like you belonged, and something in his chest ached at the sight. His fingers ghosted over your spine beneath the sheet, careful not to disturb the peace etched across your sleeping face. 

How the hell did this happen?  

He didn’t mean it in a bitter way. Just... stunned. He’d spent so long building walls, earning the kind of reputation that kept people at arm’s length. It was easier that way. Safer. But now you were here — soft, warm, real — and he didn’t want the safety anymore. 

Your cheek was pressed against his ribs, lips parted slightly, lashes resting against your skin. You looked so calm. Like none of the chaos of the world could reach you here. Like you trusted him to keep it all away. 

And God, that wrecked him a little. 

Sukuna exhaled slowly, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. How did I ever live without this? Without her? He didn’t think he was someone built for softness, but with you... he wanted to try. 

Maybe he didn’t say the right things. Maybe he still carried more anger than he should. But tonight, with your fingers still clutching faintly at his side even in sleep, he thought... maybe he could become someone worthy of this. 

Of you. 

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your temple, letting his lips linger just a second longer than necessary. 

“I love you,” he whispered, so softly he wasn’t sure if he even said it aloud. 

But he meant it. God, he meant it. Even if you weren’t awake to hear it. 

And with your steady breathing anchoring him to something better than he ever thought he deserved, Sukuna finally let his eyes close. 

Sleep took him slower than usual, but when it came, it was peaceful. 

⊹. ݁˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁₊

The journey is long. Longer than it needs to be. The snow is thick across the roads, the wind biting through the cracks of the carriage walls. You do not sleep much. You read even less. On the third day, just as the pale light of morning spills over the horizon, the spires of the White Crown appear through the trees. 

You sit forward, breath catching in your throat. It’s beautiful here. Stark and sharp like winter itself—towers that glitter under frost, banners that ripple in the wind like silk made from snow. It’s nothing like the heavy gray stone of your own palace. 

This place doesn’t loom. It stands. 

The carriage creaks to a slow stop inside the main courtyard. The doors open, and he’s already there. No guards, no fanfare, and no intermediaries. Just him. 

Standing a few paces away, hands folded behind his back, wind tugging at his white coat and tousling the loose strands of his hair. He doesn’t wear a crown. His eyes find you before your feet even touch the ground. 

You step down slowly, the cold biting at your face, your cloak drawn tight. The air is crisp here—cleaner, brighter. It burns your lungs when you breathe. But he is warmer than the wind. He watches you with that same impossible stillness, like you are something he’s been waiting years to see again but is afraid to reach for too soon. 

“Did you have a good ride?” he asks, voice even but softer than you remember. 

You study him for a breath longer, taking in the quiet tension behind his expression—the faint crease between his brows, the way he doesn’t move toward you, doesn’t smile like he usually would. “I wasn’t expecting you to meet me,” you say finally. 

A small, flickering smirk touches his lips. “They told me not to.” 

You raise a brow. “And when has that ever stopped you?” 

The smirk fades into something gentler. Something more real. “It’s been a long time since you’ve come here,” he says. 

Your voice is steady. “I wasn’t allowed to.” 

He nods once. “You are now.” You don’t speak. You just stand there for a moment, the air between you charged with everything you can’t say here—not yet, not in front of the others watching from the archways, pretending not to. 

Gojo steps closer, careful, deliberate. Not too close. Just enough for you to feel it—that quiet tether that’s always existed between you. 

“I had them prepare your rooms,” he says, almost an afterthought. “They’re just beneath mine. Warmer. Better view.” 

Of course. You nod once, your voice softer now. “Thank you.” 

He holds your gaze. “You’re here to rest. No obligations. Not unless you ask for them.” 

You want to cry. Not because you’re sad—but because this is the first time in months someone has given you a choice. Instead, you nod again. “I understand.” 

He gestures gently. “Come. You should warm up.” 

After your maidens help you settle into your temporary chambers, you wander. The walls of this place don’t press in the way you’ve grown used to. Here, no guards follow you. No soft footsteps echo just behind. No quiet presence waits outside your chamber door to escort you from one carefully chosen room to another. 

The palace of the White Crown breathes differently. The halls are wide, pale with polished marble and soft light filtering in through tall arched windows. Warmth hums through the stone, drawn up from the intricate furnace systems below. Even in winter, there’s no chill here—not like home. 

You walk slowly, taking it in—the towering ceilings etched with constellations, the frost-stained glasswork, the way every corner curves gently, as if this place was never meant for sharp edges. 

It is beautiful. 

But what strikes you most is the quiet. Not heavy, like the silences in Geto’s court. Not strategic, not threatening. Just… quiet. 

You pass through a sunlit corridor and pause by a familiar alcove, a small reading nook tucked between two windows. There’s a cushion on the bench—soft blue velvet, worn slightly at the edges—and beside it, a carved wooden shelf holding a dozen old books. 

Your breath catches. It’s still here. 

This was where he brought you the first time he snuck you out of a lesson. You couldn’t have been older than ten. He said the tutors were boring and that the real stories were hidden in these halls. 

He showed you a book that day—an old tale of a warrior queen who saved her people not with a sword, but with a single, well-placed lie. You’d read it cover to cover in two hours while he sat beside you, pretending not to peek over your shoulder. 

You trace your fingers across the spine of the same book now. The leather is cracked, the title nearly rubbed away. But you remember every word. 

You blink slowly, and another memory blooms.  

A few years later, you’re sixteen. You’re running down this same hallway, cloak flapping behind you, laughter echoing. He’s chasing you barefoot, trying to steal back the polished crown replica you took from his dressing room as a joke. 

You’d darted into the alcove, pulled the curtain closed, and held your breath as he passed—only for him to double back with a grin and say, “You’re terrible at hiding. You always breathe too loud when you lie.” 

He never asked for the crown back. He let you keep it for a week. 

Your fingers curl into the fabric of your gloves. The ache in your chest feels rooted deeper here. 

You move on, through a gallery of painted archways and into a small, enclosed garden at the heart of the palace. There’s snow on the hedges, but it’s thin here—half melted, glistening under the sunlight spilling through the glass ceiling. You step onto the stone path, past frozen roses and leafless trees, until you reach the fountain at the center. 

The water still trickles, warmed from below. He brought you here once. You remember. It was early spring, just after a late snowfall, and you’d told him this garden felt forgotten. He told you nothing in this palace is forgotten. 

Not even you. 

- 

The dinner bell chimes softly through the walls as twilight settles in. Elira arrives soon after, eyes flicking over you with a mixture of concern and relief. She’s already prepared your attire—simple, elegant, dark. A midnight blue gown trimmed with pale thread. You let her dress you in silence. 

Outside, the lamps are lit. By the time you enter the dining hall, the room is already set. 

It’s not a formal banquet—no nobles, no ambassadors, no curious courtiers. Just a long table beneath an arched ceiling painted with night skies, candlelight flickering from tall candelabras, and dishes already steaming softly with delicate spices. 

There are only a few others present: your two maidens, seated respectfully a few chairs down the line; two of his guards, posted against the far wall; and a steward in quiet conversation with the cook near the service entrance. 

And him, seated at the far end of the table. The same way you’d dined with Geto for too long now—across a kingdom of polished wood, like two rulers sharing space but never warmth. You stop just inside the threshold. 

You think for a moment he’ll stay there. That he’ll offer you the seat at the other end, pretend this is still a diplomatic visit, pretend you’re still just a guest in a palace built to look like freedom. 

But then, he stands. Not with fanfare. Not to make a statement. 

He pushes his chair back slowly, then picks up his plate and goblet with one hand, balancing them casually. He rounds the table without a word, the soft thud of his boots the only sound in the vast room. 

Everyone watches. Your maidens glance at each other nervously, unsure if they should rise, unsure if this is permitted. The guards shift, eyes flicking to each other in the quiet tension. 

But he doesn't acknowledge them. He stops at the chair beside yours and lowers himself into it—graceful, unbothered. And then, as if nothing in the world is strange, he turns to you and says, “They’ve got citrus-glazed lamb tonight. I requested it.” 

You blink. “For me?” 

He tilts his head, smirking faintly. “For both of us. But mostly for you. I remember you hated that dry salted roast.” He picks up his fork and leans in a little, voice quiet. “Unless you’d rather I move back to the other end. I’m sure the diplomatic distance is what you’re used to.” 

You glance at your maidens. Elira looks positively pale. The younger one stares down at her lap, hands folded so tightly her knuckles are white. You breathe in, slow and deep, then meet his gaze. 

“No,” you say. “Stay.” 

He smiles then—not wide, not cocky, but real. A softened thing that only you see. “Alright,” he murmurs. “Then I will.” 

And he eats. Calmly. Like sitting at your side is the most natural thing in the world. 

And maybe, in another world, it would’ve been. 

He cuts his lamb with slow precision, glancing sideways at you like he’s waiting for you to say something first. When you don’t, he speaks without pressure, voice low and casual. 

“They’ve redecorated the guest wing,” he says, stabbing a bit of glazed carrot. “I told them to keep the view, though. You always liked the western windows.” 

“I remember,” you reply softly. “They face the forest.” 

“And the lake,” he adds. “When the snow melts, you’ll be able to see the light hit it just before dawn.” 

You give a small nod, eyes still on your plate. “You remembered all that?” 

He smiles, a corner of his mouth tugging upward. “I remember everything about you. Most people just pretend I don’t.” 

You look over at him, and for once, he doesn’t try to hide what’s in his eyes—something soft, something old, something aching. You drop your gaze quickly, your fingers tightening slightly around your fork. “That’s dangerous.” 

His chuckle is quiet. “It always has been.” You chew slowly, tasting the citrus glaze, surprised by how tender it is. 

“You weren’t exaggerating about the lamb,” you murmur, trying to shift the weight of the conversation. 

He perks up, visibly pleased. “Told you. My cook’s better than yours.” 

A faint laugh escapes you, unguarded and small. But real. He hears it and doesn’t hide the way his expression softens even more. 

“I missed that,” he says, almost a whisper. You look at him again. Not fully, just enough. He doesn’t press further. Doesn’t ask anything of you. Instead, he lifts his goblet, drinks, then sighs. “Do you remember the first time you stayed for dinner here? You wouldn’t eat anything. Thought I was trying to poison you with pickled radishes.” 

“I was twelve,” you mutter, cheeks flushing. “And they were horrifying.” 

“They were culturally significant!” 

“They were gray.” He laughs at that—really laughs. The sound fills the space between you, light and warm and normal in a way that makes your chest ache. 

The hall is still mostly silent. Your maidens pretend to focus on their food. The guards don’t dare look. But here, at this small stretch of table, it feels like no one else exists. 

He turns his goblet in his hand thoughtfully. “I know you didn’t come just for pickled radishes and lamb.” 

“No,” you say quietly. “I didn’t.” 

“Then while you’re here,” he says, voice gentle, “you should rest. Breathe.” 

You can only try to with him this close. 

The candles begin to burn lower, their flames thin and flickering, and the plates have long been cleared. You lean back slightly in your chair, your cup empty, the weight of dinner—of conversation—settled warmly in your chest, though your limbs are growing heavy with the kind of fatigue that only quiet can bring. 

“I should let you rest,” he says, softly. 

You glance at him. He hasn’t moved far from your side all evening, and even now, he speaks as if the suggestion pains him. His tone is gentle, laced with something tender and difficult. 

“You don’t have to.” 

It slips out before you mean for it to. He pauses, eyes flicking toward you—not surprised, but cautious. Careful. Then he smiles and stands. “At least let me walk you back. No sense letting you get lost in my own palace.” 

You rise with him. Your maidens, still seated far down the table, start to shift to follow, but Gojo turns to them with a polite dip of his head. 

“She’s safe with me.” His tone is easy, but final. They hesitate, then nod, and do not rise. 

— 

The halls of the White Crown are quiet at night—peaceful in a way your own palace never is. There, silence holds weight. Suspicion. Listening ears. Here, the quiet feels like space.  

Your footsteps echo softly against the stone floors as the two of you move through winding corridors and moonlit archways. The torches are dimmed now, and the light of the rising moon pours in through high windows, bathing the marble in a silver glow. 

You don’t speak for the first few minutes. He walks beside you, not ahead, not behind. One hand tucked into his coat pocket, the other hanging loose by his side. His pace matches yours perfectly. 

“How long has it been since you were able to walk a hall without guards?” he asks after a moment, not looking at you. 

You answer honestly. “I don’t remember.” 

He nods, slow. “That’s the part they take first. Freedom of movement. Then your words. Then your wants.” 

You say nothing, but he knows he’s right. 

He glances sideways, more serious now. “And when’s the last time you were asked what you wanted?” 

You turn your head to look at him, expression unreadable. “You just did.” 

He stops. You stop with him. 

For a breath, neither of you speak. 

Then he says, quietly, “Then I’ll keep asking.” 

You hold his gaze. The moonlight softens him—makes him look less like a king, and more like the boy you used to know. The one who always stood too close, who always knew when to speak and when to stay quiet. 

You nod, just once. That’s all you can give him tonight. 

But it’s enough. 

You reach your chamber door a few moments later. The corridor here is quiet, tucked away behind the guest wing, with tall glass windows framing the night sky. 

He stops beside the door and turns toward you, hands still in his pockets. He doesn’t lean in. Doesn’t touch you. 

He just says, “You’re safe here.” 

You believe him. 

“I know,” you say softly. Then, quieter still, “Thank you for meeting me at the gate.” 

He smiles, soft and small. “I wasn’t going to let you arrive alone.” 

You linger, fingers grazing the door handle. Part of you doesn’t want to go in—not yet. 

But he steps back slowly, giving you space. Giving you time. 

“Sleep well,” he says. “We’ll walk the gardens tomorrow. If you’d like.” 

You don’t say yes. You don’t say no. 

But as you slip into your chambers and close the door behind you, something warm lingers in your chest. 

-.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅ -.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅ -.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅ -.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅

It was a slow Saturday morning—the kind that wrapped around your limbs and begged you not to move. The room was quiet except for the occasional hum of traffic from outside and the steady, low breathing of the man next to you. 

Well, on you might’ve been a more accurate description. 

Sukuna had you trapped in what could only be described as a full-body headlock. One arm was slung across your waist, the other tucked beneath your neck, and his entire leg had claimed ownership of both of yours. You were immobilized. And, apparently, his personal body pillow. 

“I can’t feel my left foot,” you muttered. 

Sukuna stirred. “Mmh. That’s how you know it’s working,” he mumbled into your shoulder. 

“Working?” 

“Protective cuddling.” 

You groaned, managing to wiggle one arm free just in time for your phone to buzz loudly against the nightstand. The sudden noise made Sukuna twitch like a cat. 

You grabbed the phone and squinted at the screen. 

Gojo: Brunch at my place. 1pm. I’m making mimosas. Don’t be boring. 

Below it was a follow-up. 

Gojo: Also bring your boyfriend. He has to see the new espresso machine. It cost more than my car. (And yes, I know how that sounds) 

“You’re making that face,” Sukuna mumbled. 

“We're being summoned.” 

“To hell?” 

“Worse. Gojo’s place.” 

He groaned and flopped over dramatically. “Fuck that. He’s gonna try to kiss me again, isn’t he?” 

“Probably,” you replied cheerfully. “But there’ll be mimosas. And apparently, an espresso machine more expensive than a house down payment.” 

By the time you made it to Gojo’s apartment, you were once again reminded of the fact that his definition of “apartment” was apparently “sky palace.” The elevator opened directly into his penthouse, and the view alone was enough to give you imposter syndrome. Floor-to-ceiling windows, marble countertops, furniture that looked like it belonged in an art museum—not a coffee stain in sight. 

“Okay,” you whispered as you stepped in, “I need to know what Gojo actually does for a living.” 

Sukuna shot you a sideways glance. “I’ve been wondering that for years.” 

“Is it drugs? Does he sell black market diamonds? Are we... in the home of a glorified hitman?” 

“Would explain the knife set in the kitchen,” Sukuna deadpanned. 

Gojo appeared from around the corner wearing silk pajamas and his sunglasses, holding two champagne flutes. “Welcome to my humble abode.” 

“Humble?” you asked, eyebrows shooting up. “You have a wine fridge bigger than my closet.” 

“I deserve nice things,” Gojo said matter-of-factly. “And besides, I work hard.” 

“Doing what?” Sukuna challenged, arms crossed. 

Gojo took a long, dramatic sip of his mimosa. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” 

Before Sukuna to counter, the elevator chimed again. Saved by the damn bell. 

“Perfect timing,” Gojo grinned, arms spread as the doors slid open to reveal Geto, Uraume, Shoko, and Utahime—each with varying degrees of enthusiasm. 

Shoko was already halfway through a cigarette before she even stepped over the threshold. “I came for the booze and fancy soap” she declared, waving a small bottle of something suspicious.  

Utahime followed her, shooting Gojo a warning glare. “I swear, if you try to hug me—” 

“You love my hugs,” he said, arms wide and ignoring every ounce of her body language. “Come on, brunch is just breakfast with better aesthetic.” 

Geto sauntered in with two paper bags. “I brought croissants. And Uraume brought...whatever’s in that mystery Tupperware.” 

“Homemade quiche,” Uraume said simply, placing the container down and then promptly ignoring Gojo’s attempts to get a high-five. 

Sukuna watched all of them shuffle in like a bunch of dysfunctional sitcom characters—each playing their assigned roles—and then glanced sideways when Gojo slung a casual arm around your shoulder and guided you toward the mimosa station like you were royalty. 

“You gotta try the mango-passionfruit one,” Gojo said, beaming. “Made it myself. Not poisoned.” 

“I don’t know,” you laughed, sipping carefully. “I think I’d trust Shoko’s flask before I trust your experiments.” 

“Oh, don’t worry,” Shoko chimed in from across the room, “you’d just black out. I wouldn’t actually kill you.” 

The room buzzed with inside jokes and clinking glasses. You fit so effortlessly into this bizarre little group, laughing with Utahime one moment and teasing Geto the next. Sukuna couldn’t tear his eyes away from you. 

And he definitely didn’t notice the way Gojo kept brushing against your arm or leaning in to whisper something stupidly funny in your ear. Nope. Definitely didn’t notice. Not in the slightest. 

He took a long sip of his coffee and tried not to glare too obviously. 

“You alright there?” Geto asked from beside him, watching Sukuna’s eyes flick over to you for the sixth time in as many minutes. 

“I’m fine.” 

“Uh-huh.” Geto followed his gaze and smirked knowingly. “Jealous of Gojo?” 

Sukuna scoffed, nearly choking. “Of him? Never.” 

“Right,” Geto said dryly. “That’s why you’re staring at his hand on her back like it insulted your entire bloodline.” 

“It’s not like that,” Sukuna muttered, jaw tightening. “He’s just... he’s too friendly.” 

There was a brief pause. 

Then, Geto snorted under his breath and leaned back against the counter, sipping his drink. “You really are blind, aren’t you?” 

Sukuna’s eyes narrowed. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” 

Geto just shrugged, that same smug smirk playing on his lips as he looked away. “Nothing. Forget it.” 

Before Sukuna could push further, Uraume called across the room to ask if anyone knew where the hell Gojo kept the champagne flutes, and the moment passed. 

You weren't sure what you'd expected when Gojo invited everyone over for “brunch,” but it definitely wasn’t this. 

The table was almost too perfect—freshly baked croissants stacked beside a platter of sliced fruit and smoked salmon, little jam jars lined up like they’d been curated by a food stylist. Gojo, of course, was wearing sunglasses indoors, like the sun spilling through his penthouse windows was somehow too common for his eyes. 

“You know,” you said as you took your seat, “every time I step into this place, I wonder if you’re secretly a hitman.” 

“Or a sugar baby,” Sukuna added, stealing a strawberry off your plate without asking. 

Gojo gasped, feigning offense. “Excuse you! I am a man of mystery and class.” 

“He means escort,” Shoko deadpanned, sliding into her seat with a mimosa in hand. 

“Oh, come on,” Utahime said, barely containing her eye roll, “if Gojo’s a hitman, I’m the Queen of France.” 

Gojo twirled dramatically. “All hail, Queen Utahime!” 

She swatted at him with a rolled napkin, but even she couldn’t help the smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. 

Meanwhile, Uraume stood at the island plating pancakes like a professional, barely sparing the rest of you a glance. “I’d believe the hitman theory. He’s never really explained where his money comes from.” 

“See? Uraume gets it,” you said, gesturing around. “Penthouse view, marble counters, imported espresso machine. You’re either laundering money or hosting black-market auctions in your free time.” 

Gojo winked. “I can neither confirm nor deny.” 

“You know what I think?” Geto chimed in from across the table. “I think he won the lottery, got bored, and now just reinvents himself every few months.” 

“That’s rich coming from the man who once tried to sell essential oils as a front for information brokering,” Shoko replied, sipping her drink coolly. 

“I made money,” Geto said with a shrug, “until your roommate tried to use lavender to cure food poisoning.” 

Utahime groaned. “That was one time. And it was peppermint.” 

You were laughing into your mimosa when Sukuna’s arm slid across the back of your chair, and Gojo immediately made a sound like a game show buzzer. “Whoa there, big guy. Save it for the afterparty.” 

“Shut your trap or I’m swapping your shampoo with hair remover,” Sukuna shot back, not even looking at him. 

“Yikes.” Geto chuckled into his coffee. “Can we at least make it through the eggs before threats of chemical warfare?” 

Uraume placed a stack of pancakes on the table and said, without missing a beat, “It’s too late for that. I already replaced his conditioner with dish soap.” 

Gojo gasped in betrayal. “Dammit, that’s why my ends feel crispy!” 

The table erupted again. 

Through all the laughter, you couldn’t help but glance around at everyone—Gojo leaning back with his stupid shades, Shoko already reaching for another drink, Geto lazily poking at a croissant like he wasn’t three mimosas in, Utahime arguing with Uraume about proper brunch etiquette while Sukuna just sat beside you, quietly watching it all unfold with something almost fond in his eyes. 

“So,” Gojo suddenly said, spinning his fork between his fingers. “Who’s ready for round two? I’ve got French toast in the oven and absolutely no limits on champagne.” 

“God help us,” Utahime muttered. 

“Oh, he stopped answering Gojo’s prayers years ago,” Geto said. 

“Probably blocked him,” you added with a grin. 

Gojo grinned wider. “Blocked me? Please. He follows me on private.” 

And somehow, that sent the whole table into hysterics again. 

- 

The aftermath of brunch was a scene of gentle chaos and warm comfort. 

Shoko and Utahime had left to go run their own errands, meanwhile you just wanted to be burrowed beneath a mountain of Gojo’s absurdly soft throw blankets—half of which were huge and fluffy. 

“Why do you even own that many blankets?” you asked, balancing a dish in one hand and a sponge in the other as you glanced over at the sofa. 

Gojo shrugged, sleeves rolled up, up to his elbows in suds. “A man must be prepared for any emotional crisis, snuggle emergency, or poorly-timed movie night.” 

“You say that like you didn’t abduct half of these from my apartment during winter break, asshole” Geto called from the balcony, exhaling a stream of smoke as Utahime stood beside him with a mimosa in hand. 

“You’re lucky I didn’t take your kettle too,” Gojo shot back. 

You snorted and shook your head, gently elbowing him as you passed another plate his way. 

At the bar, Sukuna sat with his chin resting in his palm, watching you with the most dramatic pout on his face—like a dog left outside the bakery window, nose to glass. Every few seconds, he’d sigh or shift pointedly, like you’d look over and suddenly feel guilty for… helping with dishes? 

“Are you seriously sulking because I’m cleaning?” you called over to him, raising an eyebrow. 

“No,” Sukuna muttered like a child. 

“Yes,” Gojo grinned, rinsing off a wine glass. “You’re gonna burn a hole in her shirt with how hard you’re staring. Just say you want attention, you overgrown menace.” 

“Don’t push me,” Sukuna warned flatly. 

“Oh please,” Gojo handed you a dishtowel and turned, drying his hands. “Hey, Sukuna, come here.” 

Sukuna looked wary, but stood anyway, shooting you a quick glance before following Gojo toward the hallway. As soon as they were out of sight, Gojo leaned against the wall, his usual smile dimming slightly. 

“You good?” he asked, softer now. 

Sukuna crossed his arms. “Fine.” 

“Don’t ‘fine’ me,” Gojo scoffed. “You’ve been grinding your teeth all afternoon like someone insulted your tattooing.” 

There was a pause. Then Sukuna sighed. “I don’t know what I’m doing.” 

“Being in love? Yeah, it’s scary. That’s the point.” 

“It’s not that,” Sukuna muttered. “I’m... not fucking used to this. Feeling like I have to be good at something I’ve never done right before. Caring without ruining it.” 

Gojo tilted his head. “You’re not ruining it. You’re trying. She sees that.” 

Sukuna looked down at his hands. “What if trying isn’t enough?” 

Gojo was quiet for a moment before clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Then you keep trying anyway. Because it’s her. And if it were anyone else, you would’ve burned out already.” 

Sukuna’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t disagree. 

“Besides,” Gojo smirked again, “you know I’d kill you if you messed this up.” 

“Yeah,” Sukuna huffed. “You and everyone else.” 

They stood there in silence for a beat. 

Then, Sukuna shifted, arms still crossed as he glanced sideways at Gojo. “Can I ask you something without you turning it into a stand-up routine?” 

Gojo smirked. “Unlikely, but shoot.” 

Sukuna hesitated. “Why are you so… friendly with her? Like, extra friendly.” 

Gojo blinked. Then blinked again. And then burst out laughing. “Oh my god. You’re jealous.” 

“I’m not jealous.” Sukuna scowled. “I just think the lines get kind of blurred with you sometimes. You flirt with anything that breathes.” 

“Well, I’ll have you know, I’m a very charming and emotionally available person,” Gojo said proudly, clasping his hands over his heart. 

Sukuna continued before he could really lose his patience. “I’m not accusing you of anything. You’ve just always been real touchy, and she laughs at all your shit jokes—” 

“Which are objectively funny, by the way—” 

“Shut up. I’m saying I don’t get it. You don’t act like that with just anyone. So, what the hells your deal?” 

Gojo’s lips twitched like he was holding back a laugh, but then he tilted his head slightly. “C’mon, you really don’t know?” 

“Don’t play games,” Sukuna warned, eyes narrowing. 

Gojo was quiet for a moment. Then he leaned closer, dropped his voice low like he was about to confess a war crime. “Okay, listen. But you gotta promise not to die of shock or start crying.” 

“Spit it out, Gojo.” 

He grinned. “I’m in love.” 

The words hit Sukuna like a sucker punch. His brain stalled for half a second. Then he scoffed, unsure whether to laugh or roll his eyes. “Bullshit. You?” 

Gojo just smiled, slower this time. More certain. “Dead serious.” 

“With her?” 

“What? No.” Gojo wrinkled his nose like the idea was offensive. “She’s like—platonic sunshine. I’d die for her, but I’m not in love with her.” 

Sukuna narrowed his eyes. “Then who the hell are you talking about?” 

Gojo gave him a meaningful look. No answer, just the look. 

And then it clicked. 

“Wait,” Sukuna said, his voice quiet. “No.” 

Gojo said nothing. 

“Geto?” 

The grin that bloomed across Gojo’s face told him everything. 

“Holy shit,” Sukuna breathed, stunned. “You’re in love with Geto?” 

“Have been for years,” Gojo said like it was no big deal, like he hadn’t just broken Sukuna’s brain in half. “But don’t worry, he’s well aware. He kissed me first.” 

“You… what—how did I not—What the fuck?” 

“I think the real question is: how did everyone know but you?” 

And suddenly, Sukuna heard Geto’s voice echo in his memory: “You really are blind, aren’t you?” 

“Oh my god,” Sukuna groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “He meant that?” 

Gojo clapped him on the back. “Takes you a while, huh? Don’t worry, it’s cute.” 

Sukuna stared at him. “I don’t know what’s worse—this conversation or the fact that I thought you were flirting with my girlfriend.” 

“Oh, I was,” Gojo said cheerfully. “But only because it made you squirm.” 

Sukuna shoved him off with a muttered curse and stalked back toward the kitchen. “I’m never having a serious conversation with you again.” 

Gojo followed, whistling as he went. “You say that now…” 

Sukuna returned to the kitchen with the expression of a man who had just been drop-kicked by fate itself. His steps were heavy, a bit too stiff, and his face— 

“Oh my god,” you blinked. “Why are you red? Did Gojo try to kiss you again or something?” 

He didn’t answer, just pulled open the fridge with more force than necessary, pretending to be very invested in the orange juice he clearly had no intention of drinking. Behind him, Gojo strolled in like the embodiment of smugness, practically glowing. 

“Seriously,” you said, eyebrows furrowing. “What the hell did he say? Sukuna. Babe.” 

No response. Gojo whistled innocently, pouring himself water with the grace of a man who’d just set a building on fire and was waiting to admire the flames. 

“Ryomen.” You poked Sukuna’s arm. 

He didn’t even glance at you. 

“Ryo,” you repeated, poking again. 

“Nothing,” he muttered. “It was nothing.” 

You stepped closer, arms crossed now. “Your entire face is red and Gojo is practically vibrating. That’s not nothing.” 

“I swear to God,” Sukuna grumbled under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re not gonna let this go, are you?” 

“Not even a little.” 

Gojo leaned against the wall and sipped his water with a theatrical slurp. “Tell her, Suku. C’mon. I won’t even interrupt.” 

Sukuna shot him a look, then turned to you with a resigned sigh. “Fine. He told me…” he trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. “He told me he’s in love with Geto.” 

Your blink was slow. “Wait. That’s it?” 

“That’s it?!” Sukuna repeated, aghast. “How the fuck are you not shocked?!” 

You didn’t answer right away. 

Because you were laughing. Hard. 

You doubled over against the counter, your hand slapping the marble as you cackled. “You—you didn’t know?!” 

Sukuna looked offended. “You knew?!” 

“Everyone knows!” you managed to choke out between laughs. “God, Geto literally looks at him like he hung the moon! Gojo acts like a walking disaster until he walks into a room and sees him and suddenly, he’s on his best behavior.” 

“And no one told me?!” 

Gojo shrugged, his grin widening. “To be fair, I thought you knew. You’re not exactly the most emotionally observant person.” 

Sukuna grumbled something too low for you to catch, but you leaned over and kissed his cheek anyway. “Don’t worry. You’re good at other things.” 

Gojo snorted behind you. “Like being the last to know.” 

Sukuna swiped a kitchen towel off the counter and chucked it at him. 

It missed. Barely. 

“I hate this damn group,” Sukuna muttered, but there was the faintest smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. 

You smiled too, bumping his hip with yours as you turned back to finish rinsing the dishes. “It’s okay. You’re pretty when you’re confused.” 

“I’m rethinking this whole relationship.” 

Gojo shot finger guns as he walked away. “You can’t. You’re in love.” 

“Shut up, Gojo.” 

Geto and Uraume reentered the penthouse just as you handed Sukuna a dish towel, still grinning at his half-glowering, half-flustered state. Uraume looked entirely too refreshed from the balcony, while Geto’s eyes scanned the kitchen like he was expecting chaos—and clearly, he found exactly what he was hoping for. 

“Alright,” Geto drawled, raising a brow as he kicked off his shoes. “Why does Sukuna look like he just walked in on a telenovela plot twist?” 

Uraume glanced between the three of you, instantly picking up on the vibe. “Did Gojo say something stupid again?” 

“Again?” you echoed, giggling. “More like… something overdue.” 

Sukuna groaned and dropped his head onto his forearm on the counter. “I hate you all.” 

You leaned back against the counter, a mischievous grin tugging at the corners of your mouth as you pointed a thumb toward the very flustered, very red-faced man beside you. 

“Sukuna just found out about you two,” you announced, loud and clear, voice practically ringing through the apartment. 

“Oh my god,” Geto’s eyes widened as realization hit. “You just found out?” 

Uraume let out a rare bark of laughter. “Wait. Seriously?” 

You nodded enthusiastically. “Yup. Gojo pulled him aside all dramatically, and now Sukuna’s life is forever changed.” 

Geto leaned against the island with an amused smirk, folding his arms across his chest. “I wish I’d been in the room for that. How did he even say it?” 

Gojo, now sprawled upside down on the couch like a lazy cat, called out from the living room, “Like a gentleman, thank you.” 

Geto turned back to the group and mimed a swooning sigh, placing a hand on his chest. “Ah, to relive the memory. He cornered me here one night, when I’d stayed too late, holding a single flower—a daisy, of all things—and said, ‘I think I’m in love with you, and if you laugh, I will throw myself off this balcony’” 

You howled with laughter, Sukuna muttering something into the countertop that sounded like, “Jesus Christ.” 

“Did he actually have a daisy?” you asked, wide-eyed. 

“Oh yeah,” Geto said, deadpan. “Stole it from a neighbor’s potted plant. Still had dirt on the stem.” 

“True love,” Uraume rolled their eyes, pouring themself another mimosa as if this was all completely normal. 

Sukuna lifted his head just enough to glare at them all. “Am I the only one here who’s concerned this is what passes for a functioning relationship?” 

“No,” Uraume said, sipping. “But we’ve stopped trying to fight it.” 

“Besides,” Geto added, nudging Sukuna with his elbow, “you’re just mad because you didn’t have a daisy.” 

Sukuna straightened and deadpanned, “I swear to God if I ever bring you a flower, it’ll be poison-tipped.” 

“And that’s how I know you care,” Geto replied with a wink. 

You leaned against Sukuna’s shoulder with a grin, slipping your hand into his. “Don’t worry. You’ve got other ways of being romantic. Like showing up at my work and threatening to rip someone’s spine out.” 

Sukuna smirked. “See? That’s love.” 

Uraume sighed into their glass. “This group is emotionally stunted.” 

“Speak for yourself,” Gojo called out. “I’m thriving!” 

“You stole a daisy,” Geto said over his shoulder. 

“AND confessed my feelings. Growth.” 

Sukuna shook his head, squeezing your hand gently. “I’m in hell.” 

You kissed his cheek, beaming. “You love it here.” 

“…maybe.” 

Gojo, ever the agent of chaos and incapable of letting a tender moment settle for too long, leaned forward on the couch grinning like the devil himself. “Sooooo… speaking of grand declarations of love,” he sang, wiggling his fingers playfully in the air. “Sukuna, have you had your mushy little confession yet?” 

You froze and felt the heat explode across your face like a detonation. “Gojo—” 

Sukuna stood ramrod straight, shoulders tensing so fast you’d think someone pulled a pin from his spine. “What the hell kind of question is that?” 

Geto turned slowly, a wicked grin curling across his lips. “Oh… oh. That means no.” 

Uraume paused mid-sip, eyes flicking between you both like they were watching a car crash in slow motion. “Seriously?” 

Gojo gasped. “You’ve been fucking for months, and no one’s dropped the L-bomb yet?” 

“Gojo, shut up,” you and Sukuna snapped in perfect unison—your voices too high-pitched to sound truly threatening. 

Geto let out a low whistle. “Damn. I thought you two were sneaking off to say it like teenagers behind the bleachers.” 

“We’re not—what—no! We’re just—” You flailed for a reasonable excuse that didn’t sound like total emotional cowardice. “Timing! You can’t rush that stuff!” 

Sukuna, cheeks blooming red, rubbed at the back of his neck like he could scrub the awkwardness away. “Not everything has to be a romcom, Gojo.” 

Gojo ignored him entirely, practically vibrating. “Okay but imagine the possibilities. You on a rooftop. Rain. A soft piano ballad playing in the distance. You take a hand and whisper—” 

“I swear to god if you finish that sentence, I will punt you off the balcony.” Sukuna growled, eyes sharp despite his burning ears betraying him. 

Uraume looked far too amused, clearly enjoying the spectacle. “It’s kind of endearing watching the two most emotionally constipated people alive squirm.” 

“Truly,” Geto added, tossing a grape into his mouth like it was popcorn. “But now I’m invested. Who’s gonna say it first?” 

“No one’s saying it first!” Sukuna barked. 

“Why not?” Gojo pouted. 

“Because we’re—fine the way we are!” Sukuna crossed his arms in protest, glaring at everyone but mostly the air because he refused to look at you. 

You were trying to hide your face behind your hands now, muffling your laughter and shame. “Please stop. I’m gonna die.” 

“No dying,” Uraume replied dryly, “We still need to watch whatever movie Gojo forced us to vote on.” 

“Something tragic and romantic,” Gojo said dreamily, already queuing up titles. “Maybe Titanic. Get you two in the mood to finally break the silence.” 

“I will end you,” Sukuna muttered, dragging a hand down his face. 

You peeked up at him through your fingers, still blushing furiously. “For what it’s worth…” you said quietly, “I don’t need a rooftop or rain. You just have to mean it.” 

Sukuna’s gaze flicked to yours. Despite the teasing and the laughter ... everything softened for just a second. 

“…Yeah,” he said under his breath. “Me too.” 

“Did he just say it?!” 

“Roll credits!” 

“I hate all of you.” 

“Looooove you too, Suku!” 

You reached over and laced your fingers with his. 

And in response, Sukuna gave your hand three light, consecutive, squeezes. He hoped you didn’t notice, but to him... it signified the three words he was too scared to say aloud.  

⊹. ݁˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁₊

The snow hasn’t melted. It clings to the castle walls and windows like it means to stay forever, thick and unmoving, draped over the grounds like a shroud. The icicles grow longer. The wind speaks louder through the stone. It has been one month since the Midwinter Concord. 

Gojo did not leave when the others did. 

He claimed it was for diplomacy—that matters between the White Crown and your kingdom required his personal attention. Treaties to oversee. Agreements to revise. An interest in court affairs. All very official. All very appropriate. But everyone knew better. 

His presence in the palace unsettled the halls. Nobles grew quieter when he entered the room. Advisors paused mid-sentence. Servants whispered behind gloved hands. 

And Suguru—your husband—grew colder. The tension between them is no longer subtle. 

Where once there had been a lifetime of closeness—shared words, shared laughter, shared trust—now there is only formality. Stiff nods in meetings. Short answers over maps. Prolonged silences where once there had been ease. 

The last time they shared a meal, they didn’t speak at all. You watched from your seat between them, a statue in silk, while they pretended not to be watching each other. 

Gojo’s charm has become a weapon. He smiles too easily now. Laughs a little too loud. He plays the court like a well-tuned instrument, and Suguru hates that he can’t control him—can’t shut him out without making it obvious. 

Because what would it look like, if one king exiled another for simply existing in the same room as his wife? It would look like weakness. Like fear. And Suguru will never allow himself to be seen that way. 

So Gojo stays. And you remain in the middle. A queen placed like a barrier between two men who once built kingdoms together. But you are no longer a bridge. You are a fault line – and you are breaking. 

Kenjaku still visits your chambers. Not in person—he would never be so brazen—but in gesture. Every morning, a cup of tea arrives on a silver tray. Steaming. Bitter. Familiar. Always with a handwritten note tucked beneath the porcelain. "With your health in mind." 

He never signs them with his name. He doesn’t have to. You recognize the handwriting. You could refuse or toss it into the hearth. But you always drink the tea. 

Because in some twisted, shameful corner of your heart, you want what the tea offers. You don’t want to be pregnant. Not with Suguru’s child. Not with a child conceived in silence and duty and resignation. 

Not when you wake up alone in a shared bed, not when his hands only reach for you out of obligation, not when your voice no longer matters, and your body has become royal property. 

You notice that the guards assigned to you now follow you more closely. Your movements are even logged, your meals are observed.  

They are waiting. Waiting for your body to betray you, to call it failure. Waiting to give Suguru a reason to release you or remove you. You don’t think he’d deliver a harsher punishment, but an annulment for a queen might as well be a death sentence. 

The fire in your chambers crackles behind you, casting a faint glow across the room. Outside, the snow continues to fall, endless and soft, blanketing the kingdom in silence. It’s morning. The palace is already alive with movement—servants rushing down polished halls, the dull thrum of boots on stone, the clatter of dishes being carried from the kitchens. 

Once, your days began in the council chambers. With reports, briefings, meetings. Decisions that mattered. Now, your mornings are quiet. 

You step into the corridor and find your two guards already waiting for you. They nod stiffly and fall into place behind you without a word. No escort is needed for a walk through your own palace, and yet here they are. Kenjaku’s idea, for your "protection." 

They follow as you make your way toward the solar—the queen’s solar, though you no longer use it for anything important. A steward meets you halfway there, bowing low. 

“Your Majesty,” she says, straightening, “Lady Maelis requests your presence in the north drawing room to consult on the Spring Festival fabrics.” 

You nod. “Of course.” 

It’s the third time this week. A month ago, you might have reviewed seasonal tax adjustments or debated border fortifications. Now, they send you bolts of fabric and ask whether peach or plum better suits the banners. 

The steward waits for your answer like its law. You give her the decision she wants to hear. 

You make it to the drawing room shortly after. Lady Maelis and three other court women are already gathered, surrounded by lengths of pastel silks and beads that sparkle faintly in the firelight. 

“Oh, finally,” Maelis says, clapping her hands. “We simply couldn’t agree on the embroidery pattern without you.” 

She’s lying, of course. You’ve stopped being necessary. You’re a figurehead—an emblem they polish and place where they need it. Still, you offer a warm, practiced smile. “What are we choosing today?” 

The women chatter around you, and you listen. You nod. You point when asked. You compliment choices you didn’t make. After an hour of pleasant uselessness, they move on to discuss floral arrangements, and you excuse yourself politely. 

The guards fall into step again. Silent. Always present. You walk the halls alone with them behind you, passing courtiers who bow just slightly too late, who speak too quickly when you greet them. 

You don’t stop to speak to anyone. No one stops you. 

Later, you take a brief meal in the south garden atrium, though you eat little. You sit beneath the frost-covered glass dome, watching snow collect along the vines that have long since withered for the season. The chill is creeping in now, even with the braziers burning low around the room. 

You used to hold court here on warmer days—hear petitions, settle minor disputes, answer questions from traveling merchants and lower nobles. Now the chairs remain empty. The tables are cleared. 

In the late afternoon, you return to your chambers. The same silver tray waits by the fire, a fresh cup of tea steaming beside another note. "Your wellness is our future." 

Your fingers tremble slightly as you lift the cup again and you stare into it for a long time before drinking. You finish the tea. Slowly. 

You're sitting by the fire when the knock comes. Three slow, deliberate raps—just loud enough to announce presence, just soft enough not to sound official. When the door opens and Gojo steps in, the firelight catches on the silver threading of his coat, on the faint creases under his eyes, and on the flush at the tips of his ears—half from cold, half from nerves, maybe. 

He shuts the door behind him quietly, his usual easy posture muted tonight. “Still awake?” 

You don’t stand. You don’t answer right away. You simply look at him, resting your chin against your knuckles where you sit curled by the fire. “You’re not supposed to be here.” 

He closes the door behind him and shrugs. “I’m not supposed to do a lot of things.” 

You exhale softly, watching as he walks closer, the flickering firelight casting his face in sharp, golden lines. “You’ll draw attention,” you murmur. 

“I always do.” 

He stops at the edge of the firelight and studies you, his pale eyes flicking across your face like he’s searching for signs of damage—bruises that aren't visible, wounds that never broke the skin. “You look tired,” he says gently. You don’t answer. There’s no need. 

Gojo lets out a breath, slow and quiet. He walks past you, toward the small table by the hearth, where the silver tray still sits. The teacup is empty, but the scent lingers. He picks it up, inspects the rim, sniffs it faintly—and his expression cracks. 

His whole face changes. The thin veil of sarcasm and charm he always wears falls away in one instant. His eyes darken, his lips part, and his hand shakes slightly as he sets the cup back down. “Still drinking it,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Even now.” 

You nod once, slow. “Yes.” 

“Do you know what it’s doing to you?” He stares at the cup like it’s something living. Something monstrous. 

“I know enough.” He looks at you then. Really looks—his mouth soft with disbelief, his brows drawn. 

“Why?” he asks. “Why the hell would you let them keep giving it to you?” 

You hold his gaze. And your voice doesn’t shake. “Because it’s the only part of this I still control. Because if they want to turn me into a vessel, I’ll empty myself before they ever get the chance.” 

Gojo looks at you like you’ve said something holy.  

“And because,” you add more quietly, “I know Kenjaku is waiting for it. For me to fail. For my body to betray me. He wants Suguru to give up on me entirely. To toss me away like I was never meant to be anything more than a vessel.” 

Gojo closes his eyes. He rubs a hand down his face and turns away from you, just slightly, like it hurts to look. “Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck.” 

He’s not angry at you. Not even at Suguru, you think. Not entirely. He’s angry at all of it. When he turns back, his expression is raw. 

“I want to take you out of here,” he says, hoarse. “I want to drag you away from this castle, wrap you in something warm, take you somewhere where no one knows your name, and—” He stops. Swallows. “And just let you breathe again.” 

Your breath catches. 

“I can't,” he continues, softer now. “You know I can't. Not without starting a war. Not without turning the whole kingdom against you. But gods—” He moves closer now, kneels beside your chair, his eyes level with yours. “If you asked me to, I would. I’d let the world burn behind us.” 

Let the world burn? You cast your gaze into the fire, mulling over his sentiment. The fire burns low. Your thoughts drift backwards – not to the court, nor the crown, but to before. 

- 

You met when you were both barely tall enough to reach the banquet tables. You’d been brought to the capital for seasonal court—a chance for alliances to be shaped in the subtle glances of children too young to understand what they were being groomed for. 

He found you outside the first evening, sitting alone beneath the marble columns, your shoes kicked off and your hair unfastened from the pins your mother had forced in. “Shouldn’t you be inside curtsying at someone?” he asked. 

You didn’t look at him. “Shouldn’t you be pretending to be charming?” 

He laughed. Loud and real. And that was how it began. 

He found you often after that. Pulled you into trouble, or maybe you pulled him. It was hard to tell. 

He taught you how to sneak past the sentries on the western wall. You taught him how to read the old dialect in the royal archives. He put a frog in the High Lord’s boot once, and you were the one who made sure no one ever traced it back to him. 

Everyone called him clever, brilliant, destined. 

But when he was with you, he never seemed to care about any of it. He was only a boy with grass stains on his knees and dirt beneath his nails, grinning at you like you were the only person who ever truly saw him. 

He never said it aloud—not once. But the way he looked at you… You felt it. 

In how he always stood just a little too close, how he listened when you spoke, like your words mattered more than gold, and how he’d stop laughing if you weren’t smiling. 

You didn’t speak of it either. You couldn’t. Because he was a prince, and you were not a princess. 

You grew older. And so did the expectations. 

You were trained to be agreeable. Gracious. Marriable. He was groomed to rule. To command. To bind nations with his signature and his smile. 

But still, he found you. 

In gardens after dusk, his voice low and hands shoved in his pockets. On balconies after banquets, pressing stolen peaches into your hands and pretending they were trophies. In the library, where he'd fall asleep beside you on quiet afternoons, open books spread across both your laps. 

He told you stories of other kingdoms. You told him about the ones you'd dreamed of living in. And never once—not even when you brushed shoulders, not even when his fingers lingered too long on yours—did he say what you both knew. 

Because saying it would make it real.  

You were around when he arrived. The dark-haired prince. The serious one. 

He came to court in your early teens—clever, calculating, quieter than the prince in every way but just as brilliant. The prince of a neighboring kingdom, and of course he walked like he knew he belonged in power. He was fire wrapped in patience. 

You remember the way the prince looked at him the first time they met—half amused, half intrigued. 

“You’re not afraid of me,” he said. 

“I’ve yet to be given a reason,” the boy replied. 

They were inseparable after that. Like sun and shadow, storm and silence. Different, but bound. 

You watched the two of them grow into men with the world already turning in their hands. Their laughter shook hallways. Their ideas shaped rooms. The court began to expect them as a pair—two halves of a future few dared to speak aloud. 

And you were there, always, orbiting close. 

The prince still found you in quiet moments. Still pulled you aside with half-lidded glances and smirks that made your stomachache in ways you didn’t yet understand. Still listened to you like no one else existed. 

But now he wasn’t alone. The raven-haired prince was there too. And you came to know him in a different way. 

He was steadier, softer in private. Thoughtful in a way that surprised you. He listened, but without expecting you to perform. When you spoke, he didn’t interrupt. When you argued, he took you seriously. You admired him. 

And maybe… maybe a part of you liked the way he never asked for your attention. Only earned it. 

So when the engagement was announced, you weren’t shocked. Not really. 

But it still didn’t feel real until you heard it spoken in the Great Hall—your name and his, tied together with the language of duty and alliances and honor. 

You were seventeen. You smiled through it. Bowed your head with grace. Let your parents place a hand on your back with pride. And when you glanced toward the prince across the room, he wasn’t smiling. 

He said nothing to you for two days. When he did finally find you—in the garden, beneath the bare branches of a sycamore—his words were quiet. “So. Him.” 

You didn’t lie. “Yes.” 

He nodded. You waited. For something. Anything. 

But he only said, “He’ll protect you.” 

You looked at him, heart aching, voice steadier than it should’ve been. “I know.” And you meant it. 

Because you didn’t mind the match. You didn’t love him, not yet, not really. But you didn’t fear it either. 

He was kind. Respectful. Smart. You could have a life with him. 

Your friend only gave you one last look—eyes shining with something close to heartbreak—and turned his back on you for the first time. 

You’ve lived a whole life since then. And still, when you close your eyes, you remember that look. 

He didn’t fight for you. But gods, he never stopped loving you. 

- 

The snow has started to melt. Not much—just enough to wet the edges of stone and soil, to make the palace floors slick near the entrances, to send the icicles dripping slow and steady from the eaves. A week has passed since that quiet night by the fire. Since he sat across from you and said I’d let the world burn behind us. 

He hasn’t visited your chambers again before taking his leave. He didn’t need to. That one evening was enough to shift something inside you. You walk with your chin higher now, not because you feel powerful, but because you remember what it feels like to be seen. 

Still, nothing has changed outwardly. Not really. 

You drink the tea every morning. You attend your softened duties—sitting through fabric meetings, reviewing names for ceremonial processions, offering approval on menus you never asked to taste. You speak less. Smile more. And the court still thinks you are exactly what you appear to be: compliant. 

Until the summons arrives. 

It’s midmorning when the steward finds you in the solar, half-listening to Lady Maelis compare seasonal embroidery threads. He kneels, head bowed, and hands you a scroll bearing a seal you haven’t seen in some time. White wax. A six-pointed star. 

Your heart skips as you break the seal with steady fingers and read. 

An invitation. A formal request for the queen's presence at the White Crown Court, to provide insight and supervision in matters of state hospitality, decorum, and preparation for the upcoming Spring Maidens’ Festival. 

In short: womanly duties. You know what it means. 

The court doesn’t need your input for an event you’ve never overseen, in a kingdom not your own. And certainly not when your presence here has been so carefully contained. This isn’t a request for your expertise. 

It’s a hand. Reaching out. Offering you air. You fold the scroll and set it calmly in your lap. Lady Maelis continues talking, unaware. 

But when you glance out the window and see the snow beginning to thin, you feel the ache of hope rise again in your chest. 

— 

That evening, you bring the letter to the king yourself. He sits in the council room, alone, pouring over maps and reports with his brow drawn and jaw clenched. He doesn’t look up as you enter. 

“You’re not expected here,” he says, without warmth. 

You lay the scroll on the table between you. “I’ve been summoned. From the White Crown.” 

That gets his attention. His eyes lift. They narrow. “For what?” 

“Etiquette counsel. Festival preparations.” 

He scoffs, leans back in his chair. “That kingdom has its own advisors. They’ve never needed your hand in their celebrations.” 

“They asked,” you reply smoothly. “Formally. It would be insulting to refuse without reason.” 

“You do have a reason,” he snaps. “Your responsibilities are here.” 

You meet his gaze, calm. “You’ve reduced those responsibilities to banquet planning and color palettes. I hardly think they’ll collapse without me.” 

His expression darkens. “You think I don’t see what this is?” 

“I’m sure you do.” 

He stands now, bracing both hands on the table. “You think you can just run to him whenever this palace grows cold?” 

Your jaw tightens. “I didn’t make the invitation. And it’s not a visit. It’s a diplomatic courtesy.” 

“You are my wife.” 

“And I will return.” 

The silence between you is sharp. Wounding. Finally, he steps back, runs a hand down his face. “Do what you want.” He turns from you, already done, already dismissing. 

Even if it’s only for a little while, even if you’ll have to return. You leave the scroll on the table and exit without a word. 

-.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅ -.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅ -.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅ -.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅

Months unfolds like any other—measured, orderly, and predictable in the way palace life always is. There are documents to review, trade routes to renegotiate, an inspection of the outer garrison, and two visiting lords who take up far too much of your time talking about nothing of real value. You nod where you should, offer opinions when required, and smile just enough to keep the mood light. 

Geto sits beside you through most of it, perfectly poised, perfectly kingly. To anyone watching, nothing seems amiss. His tone remains composed, respectful, even warm when court demands it. 

But something has slowly shifted. 

You feel it in the silence between you. In the way his shoulder never brushes yours anymore. In how his replies to you grow shorter with each passing day. In the way he’s stopped sharing the quiet, mundane things he used to—what he overheard in the kitchens, what wildflowers are blooming near the cliffs, how he couldn’t sleep the night before. 

Now, he barely speaks to you unless duty demands it. And when he does, it’s colder. Sharper. 

And lately, there’s someone else beside him. 

Kenjaku. The newest member of Geto’s inner circle. His "strategic advisor," though no one remembers exactly when he was given the title. Or where he came from. Only that Geto seems to trust him completely. 

You do not. 

Kenjaku is quiet, unnervingly so. He stands close, always watching—his expression unreadable, his words laced with veiled insult, delivered with the politeness of someone who knows they’ll never be punished for it. He speaks only when it’s useful. Only when it can cut. 

"Her Majesty has a... gentle approach to statecraft," he said once, after you disagreed with a proposed sanction against a struggling southern province. "Compassion can be so admirable. If costly." 

You had looked at Geto, expecting him to correct the insult hidden in those words. But he didn’t. He didn’t even flinch. He simply nodded. “We’ll take it under consideration.” 

You said nothing more. You learned not to. Because Kenjaku has started to speak without Geto’s permission. And Geto never corrects him. Sometimes you catch Kenjaku watching you during council meetings, his smile too thin, too knowing. As if he’s already decided how this ends. 

You try not to give him the satisfaction of reacting. But it’s difficult. Especially when Geto starts quoting him more than he does you. Especially when your suggestions are brushed aside with phrases like “We’ll revisit it later,” or “Kenjaku raised a valid concern.” 

At night, the cold stretches further. 

Geto still sleeps beside you on some nights, but there's a distance in him now that no fire can chase away. His back is often turned, his breathing deep but restless. When he speaks, it’s brief—political, procedural. Words meant for an ally, not a wife. 

But last night, he didn’t sleep. Neither did you. You felt him awake beside you, still and silent for what must’ve been hours. And when he finally spoke, it wasn’t your name he said. It was a decision. 

"Kenjaku thinks it’s time we speak of an heir." He said it plainly, like he was discussing grain stores or border patrols. 

You turned to face him then, searching his expression in the low firelight. “Kenjaku thinks so?” 

He didn’t flinch at your tone. “He’s right. It’s overdue.” 

“We haven’t spoken of it,” you said quietly. 

“Then we’re speaking of it now.” 

You sat up slowly, blanket pooling around your waist, heart beginning to thrum. “Is this what you want?” 

“I want what’s best for the kingdom,” he replied without missing a beat. “We’ve had peace for years. We’re stable. It’s time.” 

“But you’re not asking,” you said, voice tight. 

He looked at you then. Not cruelly. Not kindly. Just… indifferently. “Do I need to?” The silence that followed was louder than anything either of you could’ve said. 

Now, the next morning, you sit in your dressing room, robe draped loosely over your shoulders, staring blankly at the basin of water your maid left behind. You haven’t moved in a while. Elira knocked once. When you didn’t respond, she didn’t knock again. 

The palace is waking up beyond the door—staff moving through their routines, court officials preparing for another long day of petitions, advisors gathering for the midweek review. You’re supposed to be there. 

But you can’t stop hearing his voice. Then we’re speaking of it now. Do I need to? It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t even anger. That was the worst part. It was a decision. One made without you. 

Kenjaku has been circling this topic for months now, always dancing around it with political precision. Casual enough to seem harmless. Clever enough to plant the seed. 

“The people love their queen,” he said once, standing just a little too close behind your chair. “They would love her even more with a child in her arms.” 

Another time, during a strategy meeting, he'd murmured to Geto with that mild, thoughtful tone: “A lineage strengthens rule. Blood solidifies loyalty. Peace doesn't last forever without roots.” 

Every time, Geto had listened. And every time, you’d swallowed your dread. Now, the seed has grown. And the question isn’t if—it’s when. 

The door creaks slightly behind you. A maid peeks in. “Your Majesty, His Grace requests your presence in the royal solar. He’s dismissed the court for the morning.” 

Your heart skips. He never clears the court for you. You inhale slowly, steadying yourself. “Tell him I’ll be there shortly.” The maid nods and slips out. 

You stare at your reflection in the mirror—eyes tired, lips pressed into a thin line, hands still trembling in your lap. You are a queen. You are his wife.  

But for the first time, you wonder how much of you is left in the role you’ve been given. And what will remain if he decides your body is his kingdom, too. 

When you step into the corridor, the light from the high windows is soft, muted by passing clouds. The palace feels heavier this morning, like it knows something you don’t yet. Or maybe it’s just you, as the dread curled low in your stomach. 

The guards stationed at the solar door open it without ceremony. Inside, the air is quiet. The fire hasn’t been lit, and the chill still clings to the stone walls. 

Geto stands near the window, his hands clasped behind his back. You haven’t seen him like this since the early days of your reign together – a mere two years ago – when things were still tender between you. When he held your hand after long meetings, when he sat with you in silence through grief. 

When you’d still believed there was time. 

“Close the door,” he says, without turning. You do. Slowly. 

He doesn’t speak at first. Just stares out the tall window, watching the wind stir the courtyard trees below. 

Finally, he says, “You didn’t come to council this morning.” 

You choose your words carefully. “You dismissed the court.” 

He turns then. His face is unreadable—not angry, but resolute. “Yes. Because we needed to speak privately.” 

You fold your hands in front of you, willing your voice to remain steady. “About an heir.” His silence is answer enough. “I know you think this is the right time, but rushing into it—” 

“I’m not rushing,” he cuts in. “This isn’t sudden. You’ve known it would come. We both have.” 

“Yes,” you admit, “but I thought we would talk about it together. Decide when we were ready.” 

His brow twitches. Not with guilt—irritation. “There’s never a perfect time. There’s only now. And now, the court is expecting it. The people are beginning to ask. Whispers about succession, stability, the future of the realm—” 

“And Kenjaku,” you say, sharper than you mean to. “He’s been whispering, too, hasn’t he?” 

His jaw tightens. “He’s doing his duty. He’s advising me—us.” 

“He’s exploiting you.” You swallow. “He knows what we lost. He knows we haven’t tried again. He’s using that.” 

Geto’s expression darkens. “Don’t twist this into something it’s not.” 

“I’m not twisting anything. I’m reminding you of the one thing no one dares to mention in that council room. You and I—we tried. And we lost. And we never spoke of it again.” 

The silence that follows is jagged. Neither of you move. 

Geto steps forward, slow, measured. His voice, when it comes, is low and cold. “I’ve been patient with you.” 

You blink. “Patient?” 

“I’ve let you move at your own pace,” he says. “I didn’t push. I didn’t demand. I defended your silence when others asked why there’s no child. I waited.” 

Your chest tightens, and you fight the emotion crawling up your throat. “And now you’re finished waiting?” 

He looks at you—hard, unreadable. “Now I’m doing what needs to be done. Whether you’re ready or not.” 

There it is. No more softness. No more pretending. You stare at him, stunned. “You’d force this?” 

He doesn’t blink. “I’d fulfill my duty. Would you?” 

The room turns cold. Colder than the stone. You don’t say another word. You don’t scream, or cry, or ask him to reconsider. There’s no point. You see it in his face—the decision has already taken root. 

So you turn. Slowly. Your steps are steady as you cross the stone floor, but it feels like walking through water. Thick. Heavy. Your limbs resist each movement, your throat tight with unshed breath. The door feels impossibly far away. 

Your hand trembles only slightly as you open the door, and you’re grateful the guards outside don’t look at you. You don’t think you could stand it if they did. You keep walking. Down the corridor, past the tall windows and the flickering sconces, past servants who bow politely and pretend not to notice the way your face has gone pale, the way your mouth is pressed into a thin, brittle line. 

Inside, everything is unraveling. 

Your heart feels raw. Like something has torn open again. The wound you buried—the loss neither of you dared to name—it never healed. You just learned to carry it in silence. And now, he wants to tear it open like it was never sacred. Like it was never real. 

This—this—feels like betrayal. Not of the crown. Not of the court. Of you. 

By the time you reach your chambers, your hands are ice-cold. Your maid rises from the corner in surprise, mouth parting as if to speak. You raise a hand before she can. “Leave me.” 

She bows and slips out without protest. The door closes behind her with a soft click. And then you’re alone. 

You don’t scream. Don’t fall to the floor in tears like some tragic story whispered through the halls. No one would hear you break if you decided to. Instead, you move to the mirror. You look at yourself—truly look. 

You still wear the crown he placed on your head. Still wear the robes of a queen. But you barely recognize the woman staring back at you. There’s too much quiet in her eyes. Too much grief packed into spaces where joy used to live. 

He said he was done waiting. But he never asked if you were still grieving. 

You press your fingers to your stomach—reflexive, protective. There was once life there. Brief, small, fleeting. You never even got to feel it. Only the emptiness after. The bleeding, the quiet horror. The way no one would say the word out loud. 

And already he wants to try again. As if that first time meant nothing. As if your body is a thing he can call upon when the kingdom says now. 

You pull off your robes, let them drop to the floor. The chill bites at your skin, but you don’t reach for warmth. You step into the bath your maid had prepared earlier, the water now only lukewarm. You sink into it slowly, letting it rise around you, wash over your limbs. You close your eyes. Try to breathe. 

- 

It’s been a week since the solar. A week since he looked you in the eye and stripped the choice from your hands. Since then, the walls have begun to close in. 

The changes came quietly, one by one—small, subtle limitations that anyone else might overlook. But you see them clearly. Feel them. Each one another link in a chain he never asked you to wear. 

It started with the council. A summons was sent to your chambers that morning—formal, stiff in tone, as if you were a guest in your own palace. It stated that your “presence in today’s council meeting is not required.” 

When you went anyway, out of sheer defiance, you found your chair at the high table already occupied by Kenjaku. Geto didn’t ask you to leave. He didn’t even look at you. 

But when you tried to speak—once, to question a decree on outer territory levies—Kenjaku smoothly interrupted. “With respect, Your Majesty, this is a matter best left to the king and his appointed council.” 

No one defended you. Not even your husband. So, you left. Quietly. Because to stay would’ve meant begging for space that used to be yours by right. 

Then came the curfew. It was first mentioned as a “precaution.” You were told—by a knight who couldn’t meet your eyes—that the king wished for you to remain within your quarters after the tenth bell. For your “comfort.” 

You had stared at him in disbelief. Comfort? But he’d only bowed and added, “The doors will be locked. On his orders.” They still were. Every night since. 

And now, even in daylight, your movements are shadowed. You are no longer permitted to enter certain wings of the palace without written notice—ones where you used to walk freely, without question. The strategy rooms. The treasury. The archive tower. 

At meals, your chair is always two seats away from Geto now. He speaks when spoken to, but only in passing. There are no shared glances. No touches. No warmth. 

At first, the courtiers seemed confused. Concerned, even. But not anymore. They’ve adapted, as they always do. Whispers follow you in the halls. Bowed heads, polite smiles. But not one dares to ask what’s happening. Not out loud, because they already know. 

Your crown still rests on your head, but it weighs differently now. It feels less like power—and more like a collar. 

You sit now in the queen’s solar—your solar—watching the pale afternoon light flicker against the glass. Elira stands beside the fireplace, carefully reading a list of appointments that have been “adjusted” to accommodate your “new responsibilities.” 

“I’m no longer invited to the regional envoy reception,” you murmur, scanning the parchment. 

Elira hesitates. “No, Your Majesty. The king will attend alone.” 

You trace a finger over the ink, eyes narrowing. “And the steward’s report? The one I requested two weeks ago?” 

“It’s been rerouted. To Lord Kenjaku.” Of course it has.  

You nod once, then fold the parchment with slow precision. “Thank you.” Elira doesn’t leave. She lingers. You can feel her gaze on you, hesitant, worried. “Say it,” you murmur. 

She flinches. “I don’t know what’s happening. But this isn’t right.” 

You finally look at her. “It stopped being right a long time ago.” 

She swallows. “Do you want me to—” 

“No.” You shake your head. “Whatever you were about to offer… no. I need you where you are. Watching. Quietly.” 

Elira nods, lips pressed together. “Yes, Your Majesty.” When she leaves, the silence rushes in again. 

You cross the room to the window, resting your hands on the cold stone ledge. The glass of the window is cool beneath your fingertips, grounding you in the way nothing else has lately. You stare down at the courtyard, but your eyes don’t really see it anymore. 

Your thoughts drift—to white hair and a crooked smile. 

- 

Winter settles over the kingdom like a slow, heavy breath. 

Now, snow drapes the castle rooftops in silence, each flake softening the edges of stone and steel. The air bites, sharp and clean, and the frost paints delicate veins along every windowpane like nature’s quiet warning—everything freezes, eventually.  

Preparations for the Midwinter Concord are underway, a grand diplomatic gathering that only happens once every ten years. Lords and nobles from across the realm are expected to attend, arriving in jeweled carriages and furs lined with silver thread, bringing gifts and alliances and smiles sharp enough to draw blood. 

It’s a celebration of peace. Of unity. Of image. Which means you must be perfect. 

Your wardrobe has already been doubled. You’re fitted daily for gowns you didn’t ask for, jewels placed in your hands like weapons. Your attendants flutter around you with nervous energy, muttering about seating charts and performance troupes, while you sit still and cold, like a statue being dusted off for display. 

You barely speak anymore. Not because you can’t. But because it doesn’t matter when you do. 

Suguru hasn’t looked at you in weeks. Not really. You still share the same bed, though it’s colder than the stone beyond the windows. He touches you now—out of duty, not affection. His fingers trail your skin with reverence that feels rehearsed, practiced. 

Not love. Not warmth. And you let him. Because saying no isn’t something queens are allowed to do when the kingdom wants an heir. 

You were not ready. You knew that. He knew that. But when he came to your chambers that first night—quiet, solemn, asking nothing, demanding nothing—you didn’t resist. 

You closed your eyes, and let it happen. 

Now, you live with the aftermath. The waiting. The watching. The way Kenjaku’s eyes linger on you during court meetings, like you’re a field being measured for its yield. The way handmaidens offer warm tea with too much interest in whether you’ve finished the cup. 

Every part of you feels heavy. Every breath another performance. There’s no sign yet. Of anything. And in the cold shadow of that silence, all you can feel is dread. 

You sit by the window most mornings, wrapped in layers of wool and velvet, hands cupped around tea that always cools too fast. Snow falls gently outside, blanketing the courtyard in stillness. 

You watch the white blur beyond the glass as one of your maidens tends to your gown, wondering what it would feel like to walk into it barefoot. Not to vanish. Just to feel anything again. 

Elira enters quietly behind you one morning, boots crunching softly over fresh rushes laid on the floor. She doesn’t speak, not right away. She’s learned your silences. “There’s a carriage arriving soon,” she says finally. “From the western kingdom.” 

You hum softly, noncommittal. “Another one?” 

“This one’s special.” She hesitates, then adds carefully, “It bares the White Crown.” 

Your hands still. Slowly, you turn to her. “The White Crown?” 

She nods once. “Their king will attend. His court even sent gifts in advance.” You stare at her, the cold suddenly forgotten. 

The White Crown. 

Gojo. 

You stare at your reflection in the mirror as a maid fastens the final clasp on your gown. Your skin looks pale against the deep blue velvet, your eyes shadowed from sleeplessness. You look regal. Distant. Beautiful, in the way royalty is expected to be. 

But you don’t look like yourself. The maid steps back, curtsies, and leaves. You’re alone again, just long enough to hear the bells begin to toll across the courtyard. Evening. 

Your chest tightens. He’ll be arriving any minute now. The royal wing has been cleared. You’ve been instructed—politely, formally—not to attend the welcoming line at the gates. 

“Let the king handle his guests,” Kenjaku had said earlier with his usual smile, which never quite reaches his eyes. “You’ve had a trying season. You should rest.” 

Rest. As if rest is ever truly allowed anymore. 

You stay by the window anyway, fingers twitching as you watch the carriages pull through the snowy gates. One after another, wheels crunching through the frost, horses snorting clouds into the icy air. Flags ripple in the wind, gold and white and silver. 

And then, you see it. 

The final carriage. Not gilded like the others—sleek and sharp and striking, pulled by four white horses and flanked by guards in deep blue. The banner it carries snaps in the wind: a six-pointed star above a field of snow. 

He’s here. Your breath stutters. 

Somewhere below, courtiers will be arranging themselves in tidy lines, offering practiced bows and shallow words. Geto will greet him with that cool, distant authority he’s perfected. Kenjaku will watch from the shadows, calculating. 

And Satoru will smile. You know he will. That slow, lopsided grin that hides more than it ever reveals. But when his eyes search the crowd—because they will—he won’t find you. 

The Great Hall is alight with fire and splendor by the time you arrive, every corner dressed in gold and glass. 

Tapestries hang from vaulted ceilings, embroidered with the crests of every attending house. Music flows from the gallery above—harps and low horns weaving through the air like smoke. Lanterns flicker on every surface, their flames reflecting off polished stone floors and jeweled goblets. The Midwinter Concord is in full swing. 

You arrive late. Purposefully.  

Your gown trails behind you like ink spilling across snow, deep black velvet lined with silver, cinched high at your waist with a crystal clasp. Your sleeves are sheer, the neckline soft but high, enough to remind them you are untouchable. 

You descend the staircase slowly, feeling every pair of eyes shift in your direction. Court ladies lower their voices, lords tilt their heads. Some bow. Others watch too long. You do not falter. 

You see him before you even reach the floor—he’s standing near the hearth, tall and careless in a winter-white coat embroidered with pale silver threads, glinting faintly in the firelight. 

Gojo’s back is half-turned, but his posture is unmistakable. At ease. Untouched by the weight of formality. His laughter carries faintly over the music, warm and smooth, like he’s not in a hall of strangers but among old friends. Then he turns and finds you instantly. 

Across the room, Geto stands by the dais, dressed in midnight blue, his crown like frost across his brow. He sees you, of course. Watches you descend the stairs in a dress you didn’t ask his approval for. You step onto the floor with quiet grace, each footfall a silent rebellion. You move past courtiers who part like waves, past Kenjaku, who watches you with that amused, unreadable stare.  

You move toward Gojo—or at least, it looks that way. Your feet carry you down the marble steps with silent grace, but your spine is straight, your chin high, and your gaze flickers—just once—toward the man in white standing by the fire. 

Gojo doesn’t move. Doesn’t call out. But you feel him watching. And gods, it takes everything in you not to turn toward him. 

Instead, you walk the path carved for you since the moment you wore a crown. Straight toward the dais where your husband stands. He watches your approach with a stillness that masks everything and reveals nothing. His hands are folded neatly before him, he doesn’t offer his hand.  

You bow your head slightly when you reach him. He nods. Barely. The greeting is mechanical, rehearsed. A performance for the court. You step beside him, shoulder to shoulder, and he finally speaks—voice low, laced with ice. “You’re late.” 

You don’t look at him. “I know.” 

He glances sideways at your dress, a flicker of something passing through his eyes. Disapproval? Possession? You don’t care. “We’ll begin the toasts soon,” he says. “Stay where you are.” 

A pause. Then, with a quieter edge: “And do not embarrass me.” 

You say nothing. Because what is there left to say? Your place is here. Beside him. For now. 

But out of the corner of your eye, your gaze flickers—searching, briefly, boldly—back to the man by the hearth. Gojo hasn’t moved. He still stands in that same relaxed stance, arms now folded, one brow slightly raised as he watches from across the room. 

But his eyes—they're fixed on you. Not on your crown. Not your title. 

You. 

The evening drags on with the heavy weight of ceremony. Toasts are made, wine poured, music played. Dancers move through the hall like painted ghosts, all perfect posture and forced smiles, and still the snow falls outside in thick, quiet sheets. You remain beside Geto, a symbol of unity, of strength. Of something long cracked and hollow. 

He speaks when necessary, charming when he needs to be. But you feel it in the small things—how his hand never brushes yours, how he only looks at you when protocol demands it, how his voice tightens ever so slightly when he addresses you in front of others. 

You play your role. You smile. You nod. You listen. 

Gojo never comes too close, never makes a scene, but he moves like he belongs in this palace—even when it’s not his own. He speaks with nobles you recognize and some you don’t, standing just near enough to keep you in the corner of his vision. 

Later—long after the first rounds of music have faded, after half the guests have settled into wine-soaked comfort—Geto turns to speak with one of the foreign generals from the northern coast. You seize the chance to step back, just enough to breathe. 

You don’t go far. Only to the edge of the dais, where the shadows are softer and the flickering torchlight less blinding. You press a hand lightly to your abdomen, the way you’ve been doing lately without thinking. There’s still nothing. No change. And the stillness in your body makes you feel more like stone than ever. 

“Your Majesty.” You turn at the voice—quiet, almost hesitant. A young servant stands before you, eyes low, holding a silver tray with a delicate porcelain cup. Steam curls from its surface. “Tea?” 

You blink. “Now?” 

He nods. “With the king’s blessing.” 

Strange. Suguru never orders tea this late. Certainly not during an event. But the servant looks nervous, and you’re too tired to question it. You take the cup, fingers curling around the warmth instinctively. It’s heavier than expected. The servant bows quickly and vanishes into the crowd. 

You stare down into the pale surface of the tea, watching the faint ripples settle. A soft, herbal scent rises—familiar, yes, but altered. There’s something too sharp at the edge of it. Something that doesn’t belong, but you can’t quite place it. 

You lift it halfway to your lips before instinct whispers: don’t. 

A glance toward the dais confirms what you already suspected. Geto is turned away, deep in conversation with the general from the north, gesturing with that slow, diplomatic precision he’s perfected over the years. He didn’t send this. You shift your gaze, scanning the crowd—careful, subtle. 

And there, across the hall, half-shrouded in the curve of a marble pillar and candlelight, he watches. Kenjaku. His face is calm. Serene, even. A ghost of a smile curves his lips, the kind that never means what it pretends to. He lifts his goblet slightly in your direction. You feel your throat tighten. 

He’s been quieter these past few days—lurking more than speaking—but that has only made him more dangerous. The court has grown used to his presence, used to his counsel. Used to the way he stands just behind the king’s shoulder, always whispering, never loud. 

"That's not yours." The voice slips in low beside you. Steady. Familiar. Before you can say a word, Gojo reaches out and takes the porcelain cup from your fingers casually. As if he’s done it a hundred times. 

He lifts it, brings it just beneath his nose. Breathes in once. Then everything about him changes. 

The lightness drains from his face. The half-lidded ease in his expression vanishes. His jaw tightens, lips parting slightly—not in surprise, but in fury. His fingers clench just enough around the cup that you hear the faint creak of pressure against the porcelain. 

You glance at him, startled. “What is it?” 

He doesn’t answer right away. His gaze is fixed—cutting through the crowd—until it lands on Kenjaku. Gojo lowers the cup, voice low and deadly. “He sent this to you?” 

You nod slowly. “I suspect. The servant said it came from the king, but…” 

“But Geto doesn’t poison his own garden,” he finishes, eyes still locked across the room. “Not like this.” 

Your voice wavers. “What is it?” 

Gojo looks at you then. And there’s something behind his eyes—something cold, something furious, but also unbearably gentle. “It’s abortive.” 

Your heart drops. 

“The herbs are rare,” he continues. “Old-world. Bitter enough to be masked by honey or mint. Effective enough to end a pregnancy before it’s even confirmed.” 

Your mouth goes dry. “He wanted to—” 

“He wanted to make sure,” Gojo says. “That if you were with child… you wouldn’t be for long.” 

Your breath shudders, hands numb. The cup was warm in your hands not even minutes ago. The scent still lingers. And now it smells like death. “I haven’t even confirmed—” 

“I know.” He says it quickly, firmly. “That’s the point. You’d have never known. Until it was over.” 

Your stomach twists violently. 

Gojo glances down at the cup again, then back up. “I should break his neck.”  

“You can’t,” you whisper, grabbing his sleeve before he can step away. “Geto trusts him.” 

His eyes meet yours, and for a long, breathless second, you see all of it. The rage. The fear. The sheer depth of what he’s holding back. “Fine,” he says. “But you don’t eat or drink anything from the palace unless it’s handed to you by someone you trust. I mean it.” 

Then he steps back, disappearing into the crowd without another word. 

The evening wears on, but you feel the weight of it differently now. The music is too loud. The laughter too sharp. Every voice in the room seems to echo with an edge, like you’re standing just outside of it all, a spectator in your own life. 

The guests continue to mingle, the nobles exchanging pleasantries with all the ease of well-rehearsed actors. But you no longer feel like part of the performance. 

Not after what you’ve learned. 

Gojo is still somewhere in the hall—among the courtiers, the lords, the ladies. But you don’t need to look for him. You know he’s watching. His presence is always there, a quiet, constant force that makes the air feel just a little less suffocating. 

Yet, as the minutes drag, you feel the familiar heaviness return. The polite smiles, the hushed murmurs. And through it all, Geto’s absence hangs thick between you like a dark cloud. 

It’s nearly time to leave. You’re about to retreat further into the shadows when a pair of guards steps forward, blocking the exit with firm but respectful posture. 

“Your Majesty,” one says, his voice respectful but clipped. “By the king’s orders, we are to escort you back to your chambers.” 

A cold wave hits you. You glance past them, where Geto is still at the center of the room, deep in conversation with the southern envoy. He’s not looking at you. Not even close. 

“Escort?” You don’t recognize the tightness in your own voice, but it’s there. 

The guard’s eyes flicker, but he doesn’t waver. “Yes, Your Majesty. His Grace has requested your presence in the royal quarters. For your safety, as the event continues.” 

The other guard offers a slight bow. “We’ll be quick. The hall is still crowded.” 

You nod, too tightly, and follow them through the room. You catch a glimpse of Geto’s back as you pass, the line of his shoulders as perfect as always. He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t even acknowledge your departure. 

As you move through the crowd, you hear whispers, glances exchanged behind fans and delicate hands. You don’t need to look to know that they are talking about you. About him. About the king’s cold distance, the queen’s absence from his side. 

The guard leads you through the grand hallway, your footsteps echoing against the stone floors, and for a brief moment, the weight of it all presses down on you so hard you can barely breathe. The cold air from the windows outside wraps around you as you move further from the warmth of the gathering, until you reach the door to your chambers. The guards stop at the threshold, eyes lowering in respect. 

“You’ll be safe here, Your Majesty,” one says, before they both bow and retreat. 

The door shuts behind you with a soft thud, and you’re alone. The stillness in your room is oppressive, the quiet too loud. You look around at the grand bed, the elegant tapestries hanging from the walls, the endless space. It should feel like a sanctuary, but instead it feels like a cage. 

You take a step forward, and your eyes land on the tea you’d left sitting on your nightstand, untouched. The cup still stands there, as if it’s waiting for you. A faint tremor passes through your fingers as you approach it. You don’t touch it. You don’t want to. 

Instead, you sit at the edge of your bed, hands folding in your lap, and you stare at the door, waiting for something you know will never come. But all you hear is the distant hum of the court—faint music, voices, and the overwhelming realization that you are utterly, painfully, alone. 

- 

The fire in your chambers has burned low by the time the door creaks open. You don’t stand. You don’t speak. You remain seated at the edge of the bed, fingers clenched in your lap, the chill in the air seeping deeper into your bones. 

Suguru enters slowly, but there’s no grace in his movements. The door shuts behind him with a thud that echoes in your chest. He’s still in his ceremonial robes, though the collar is undone, the belt askew. His hair is unbound—messy in a way that used to mean softness, comfort. Now, it’s disheveled from drink. 

You can smell the wine on him before he even speaks. 

“I see you’ve settled in early,” he says, voice slurred just enough to make your stomach turn. “Didn’t wait up for me?” 

You remain still. “You had guards escort me.” 

A beat. He scoffs. “A courtesy.” 

You look at him then, slowly. “You didn’t say a word to me all evening.” He moves toward the hearth, swaying slightly as he pours himself another drink—this one from the decanter you keep for yourself. He downs half the cup in a single motion. 

You step back slightly when he closes the space between you. His movements are slower than usual, but not clumsy. There’s still purpose in them. A kind of quiet rage simmering just beneath the surface. 

“I’ve done everything,” he mutters, gaze raking over you. “Everything this kingdom asked of me.” 

Your heart pounds. “Suguru—” 

“I’m your husband.” He grabs your wrist. Not violently, but too tight. Too intentional. “I’ve waited. I’ve been patient. I've kept my mouth shut while the entire court whispers about you.” 

Your voice shakes, but you force it out. “Let go of me.” 

He does. Abruptly. The absence of his grip burns. But his hand rises again—this time to your face. He touches your cheek, not tenderly, but with something that pretends to be. His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth. 

“I could make you love me again,” he whispers. “If you’d just stop fighting me.” 

Your stomach turns. You step back. “You’re hurting me.” 

He laughs under his breath. “This isn’t hurting. You don’t even know what that word means anymore, do you?” 

He kisses you. It’s not cruel. Not unkind. But it’s empty. You let him. 

Because what would fighting change now? 

Because this is what is expected of you. Because your body is a part of the kingdom, now. A vessel. A promise. A responsibility. 

He pushes the gown from your shoulders, and you let it fall. You close your eyes, not out of shame—no, you moved past that long ago. You close your eyes so you can pretend. 

Pretend the fire is warmer. Pretend the hands are gentler. Pretend you are somewhere else. 

You do not cry, you do not move. You simply drift. Letting your mind carry you far, far away, while your body stays behind—here, in this cold room, beneath this heavy crown, beneath a man who calls it duty. And when it’s over, he says nothing. 

He merely collapses to the side of the bed, and shortly after you hear the faint snores. And you remain there, eyes still closed, breathing steady. 

-.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅ -.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅ -.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅ -.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅

The morning light spills through the high windows, warm and soft against the cold stone floors. You sit by the open balcony, half-dressed in silk and thought, watching as the courtyard below stirs to life—guards switching shifts, servants hurrying with baskets, the distant clang of steel as the soldiers begin their drills. 

It’s quiet in the chambers, save for the rustle of fabric and the slow crackle of the fire. You like mornings like this—before duty settles on your shoulders, before your husband returns from council, before the weight of being queen steals the softness from your day. 

You press your fingers to the edge of your tea cup, not quite drinking, not quite thinking. Just existing—for now. 

The door eases open, hinges whispering as a figure steps inside with the kind of quiet confidence only he carries. Geto doesn’t bow—he never does, not when it’s just the two of you—but there’s something respectful in the way he meets your eyes, something steady that never wavers. 

“My lady,” he says, voice low, rich with the calm he only seems to possess this early in the day. He leans down to press a kiss to your temple, soft and steady, before sitting beside you near the open balcony. 

You offer a faint smile, one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “You’re early.” 

“I could say the same,” he replies, gaze flicking to the untouched tea at your side, then back to you. “You’ve been up long?” 

“Not long.” You shift slightly in your chair, smoothing the fabric over your lap. “Couldn’t sleep.” 

He nods like he understands, and maybe he does. Geto always seems to know more than he says. “I missed you,” he says simply.  

And when he looks at you, there’s nothing but truth in his eyes—quiet devotion, the kind that’s never asked for anything in return except your presence beside him. 

You smile for him, because it’s easy to smile for Suguru. You love him. In many ways, it is the kind of love most people pray for—solid, enduring, without sharp edges. A love that holds rather than burns. 

But even still, your heart stirs with something else—something uninvited. Something you bury deeper. You tell yourself it’s nothing. That it must be nothing. 

Geto brushes a strand of hair from your face, eyes soft. “You’re quiet today.” 

“Just tired,” you lie gently. 

He nods and takes your hand in his, grounding, warm. The silence between you settles like a comfort. You lean into it, into him. Into safety. 

The day stretches on gently, wrapped in quiet comforts—the kind that come from familiarity, from soft words shared over warm bread and honey, from the steady presence of your husband at your side. Geto never rushes through moments like these, even when the kingdom calls for him. He takes his time, like he always does. With you, time seems to slow. 

You sit together by the window for longer than you mean to, your head resting lightly against his shoulder, his fingers brushing slow circles against your knuckles. Outside, the kingdom stirs, but in here, there’s stillness. A kind of peace. 

Until the knock. 

A soft rap against the chamber door, familiar in its rhythm. You freeze before you can help it, and Geto feels it—his hand stills, just for a moment. Then he exhales a quiet sigh. 

“Come in,” he calls. 

The door creaks open, and there he is. 

White hair slightly windswept, robes a touch too casual for court, that same carefree grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. Gojo. He bows only slightly, just enough to honor the space, but his eyes flick to yours before they drop, too quickly to mean nothing. Too quickly not to mean everything. 

“Didn’t expect you to be up here,” he says easily, eyes shifting to Geto. “Thought I’d find you in the war room.” 

“I was,” Geto replies, rising with a calm ease. “I left early.” 

Gojo hums, stepping further into the room. “Guess I missed the fun. Your strategy meeting was dragging on without you.” 

He laughs, but it doesn’t reach his eyes—not really. He throws the sound like a shield, like a distraction. Only one of you notices. 

Geto moves to pour him a drink, always a generous host, even to his oldest friend. “Stay for a while. We were just enjoying the quiet.” 

Gojo accepts the offer with a nod, but he doesn’t sit right away. His gaze flicks to you again, just briefly, but it lingers longer than it should. Long enough. You lower your eyes to your hands, to the way your fingers are still warm from Geto’s touch. You say nothing. 

Because what is there to say, when your heart pulls in two directions—toward the man you married, and the man who looks at you like he’s trying not to fall apart? 

Gojo finally sits across from you, and the air in the room shifts, subtle and sharp. Geto doesn’t notice. He never does. 

“Peace looks good on you,” Gojo says, voice light, but his eyes are tired. “Both of you.” 

And you smile, because it’s expected, because your husband is watching, because anything more would be too much. “Peace has its moments,” you say. 

Gojo lifts his cup and takes a slow sip, gaze skating lazily over the rim, like he hasn’t a care in the world. But there’s a flicker of something too sharp, too aware, before he smothers it behind that familiar smirk. 

“Your vineyards still make better wine than mine,” he says, finally leaning back into the chair like he owns the room. “That’s half the reason I keep coming back, you know.” 

“Flattery won’t get you any more barrels,” Geto chuckles, pouring himself another cup. “Though I’m sure you could afford to buy the whole damn vineyard if you wanted to.” 

Gojo grins. “Tempting. But then I’d have to send someone else to negotiate with you, and we both know I’m the charming one.” 

You listen quietly, eyes down, fingers wrapped around the tea you’ve yet to finish. It’s always like this when Gojo visits—lighthearted on the surface, all jokes and easy rhythm, the way two rulers who grew up like brothers fall back into step without hesitation. 

But you’ve learned to hear what isn’t said. 

Gojo’s visits have become more frequent over the last year. At first, they made sense—trade routes between the kingdoms, joint treaties, a shared front in the name of peace. But now, even when there's nothing to sign, no urgent political matter to discuss, he comes, leaving someone else in charge of his throne. Unlike Geto, he has the luxury to do so. 

He always comes with some sort of reason. Never the real one. Geto never questions it. Never doubts him. Their trust is absolute, forged in fire and years of loyalty. 

You wish yours was so simple. 

“I’m staying through the week,” Gojo says suddenly, shifting his gaze toward Geto. “If that’s alright.” 

“Of course,” Geto says without hesitation. “You know you’re always welcome.” 

Gojo nods once, slow and grateful. His gaze flicks to you for the briefest second, and your breath catches in a way you hope neither of them notices. But Gojo notices. He always does. “And besides,” he adds, softer now, almost too casual, “your court’s more interesting than mine.” 

Your heart stutters. 

Geto snorts, amused. “My court is boring. You just like causing trouble here instead of at home.” 

Gojo doesn’t respond right away. He just smiles, slow and unreadable. “Maybe.” 

You rise from your seat, smoothing the fabric of your gown as gracefully as you can manage. “I should check in with the steward,” you say, voice calm, even. “There’s still paperwork from the southern province waiting on my review.” 

Geto hums his acknowledgment, already distracted by his drink. “Take your time. I’ll come find you later.” 

Gojo rises when you do. Out of habit? Respect? You’re not sure anymore. His eyes meet yours briefly—enough to stir something beneath your ribs. You incline your head, polite. Detached. And then you turn to leave. 

But as you step past him, too close for comfort, his voice brushes your ear, so low only you can hear. “You don’t have to look away, you know.” 

You keep walking. But your hands tremble all the way to the door. 

The door shuts softly behind you, but the sound echoes louder than it should. Like a drumbeat in your chest, steady and damning. You walk the hall with practiced ease, chin high, back straight, as if your heart isn't clawing against your ribs. As if his words didn’t follow you out. 

You don’t have to look away, you know. 

You do. You always do. Because if you didn’t—if you let yourself look too long, linger too much—something inside you might break. 

The corridor is mostly empty this time of day, sunlight slanting through stained glass, painting the floors in fragments of gold and crimson. You move through it like you belong here, because you do. This is your kingdom now. Your crown, your people, your place. 

And yet. 

There are moments—more often now—when his voice finds you even in the silence, teasing and warm and far too dangerous. When you catch yourself wondering what things would’ve been like if he had looked at you like that before vows were exchanged, before thrones were shared. 

Before Geto. 

Geto loves you. You know that. It’s in the way he waits for your opinion in council, the way he touches your back when you walk through crowds, the way he listens—truly listens—when you speak, even if it's just about the weather or a broken hinge on a garden gate. 

You love him, too. 

But Gojo... 

Gojo looks at you like you’re a sin he’d commit twice. Like wanting you is a wound he’s learned to live with. He doesn’t say anything—never truly crosses the line—but his eyes say enough. 

You finally reach the end of the hall, slipping into the small chamber meant for your private work. Scrolls are neatly stacked on the desk, ink drying beside a half-written letter, and yet none of it feels real in this moment. 

You press your palms flat against the wood, closing your eyes. 

This is your life. This kingdom, this marriage, this role. 

And yet... you wonder. 

You busy your hands with scrolls, letting the hum of responsibility drown the chaos in your chest. There are land disputes in the eastern farms that need settling, trade reports from the port cities waiting for your seal, and a list of supply shortages from a nearby village still recovering from last month’s storm. 

You dip your quill into the ink, scrawl your name with practiced precision, and try not to think about white hair or blue eyes or the way his voice lingered like a secret against your skin. 

The door opens without ceremony—Elira, your steward, slips in with a stack of parchment in her arms and a knowing smile that you don’t entirely trust. 

“Two things, Your Grace,” she says briskly, setting the stack down. “The ambassador from the southern coast is asking if he can speak with you before next week’s court—something about revised trade terms. And Lady Maelis is asking for your opinion on the embroidery colors for the festival banners.” 

You raise a brow. “What’s wrong with the usual greens and golds?” 

Elira snorts under her breath. “Lady Maelis claims they’re tired. Her exact words were, ‘the banners lack emotional depth.’” 

You blink once. “They’re banners, not poetry.” 

“That’s what I said.” She grins, brushing a curl behind her ear. “But you know how she gets when she’s three cups into her morning cordial.” 

You sigh, rubbing your temples gently. “Tell her she can add some deep red if it will help her sleep at night. Just not too much—this is a celebration, not a mourning procession.” 

Elira mock bows. “As you command, Your Grace.” 

She turns to leave, then pauses, glancing over her shoulder with a touch more curiosity than usual. “Oh, and the king’s guest? He asked after you. Wanted to know if you’d be at the evening meal.” 

Your pulse flickers. “Did he?” 

“Mmm,” she hums, studying you for just a second too long. “Told him I assumed you would. As always.” 

You nod, carefully neutral. “Thank you, Elira.” 

She gives you a look—not quite suspicious, but interested—then slips out the door, her footsteps fading down the corridor. 

You return to your desk, eyes skimming lines of numbers and names, but your thoughts drift again. You wonder if he really asked casually. If his voice carried that same careless charm, or if it faltered just a little, like it sometimes does when no one else is listening. 

The day drags on with meetings and discussions: a short audience with the quartermaster, a review of the seasonal taxes, a garden inspection with the head groundskeeper, who prattles on about blooms and migrating birds. 

The sun climbs high, warm and golden as it filters through the tall arched windows of the council wing. Your duties pull you from chamber to chamber, task to task, each one demanding just enough of your focus to keep your thoughts from drifting—almost. 

You spend the late morning walking the inner gardens with two young scribes from the historical guild, both barely out of training, their arms full of scrolls and questions. They chatter nervously as you pace between the budding bushes, asking about royal archives, border treaties, and the proper order of titles in formal correspondence. 

One of them—Lirien, bright-eyed and a little too eager—nearly trips over her own feet trying to hand you a document. 

“She’s been up all-night preparing notes,” the other whispers, elbowing her. “She thinks you’re terrifying.” 

You raise a brow, biting back a smile. “Terrifying?” 

Lirien’s face goes crimson. “No! I mean—not terrifying. Just… very regal. And efficient. And, um, always right?” 

You laugh—genuinely, this time—and wave them off. “Relax. I don’t bite. But if you misspell the duchess of Okkotsu’s name again, I will make you recite the noble lineage aloud in front of her.” 

They both freeze in mock horror before breaking into giggles, and you let yourself enjoy the sound. It’s a small moment, but it steadies something in your chest. You are good at this—being queen, being responsible, being everything you were raised to be. 

Afterward, you spend an hour in the solar with the kitchen steward, tasting variations of the evening feast. Salted venison, spiced barley, early fruits from the highland greenhouses. 

“Should we pair the meat with the blackcurrant sauce or the mushroom glaze?” the steward asks, watching you carefully. 

You pause, then point to the second. “The glaze. The sauce is too bold for a shared table.” 

“Very good,” she says, making a note, then adds, almost offhandedly, “His Majesty’s guest seems to favor sweet flavors, though. He asked for honey bread with the midday meal.” 

Your hand stills slightly over the cup of tea. You nod once. “Then have both prepared.” 

It’s late afternoon by the time you finally return to your chambers. A stack of correspondence awaits you, mostly dull reports and polite nonsense from minor lords. You skim them while your maid refastens your hair into a neater braid, her hands gentle, practiced. 

Through the window, the sun has begun its slow descent, bathing the sky in soft amber. You can hear the distant sounds of hooves in the courtyard, children laughing near the fountain, and the muffled clang of steel from the sparring yard. 

As you stand by the window, one hand resting lightly on the frame, your eyes catch on a flash of white at the far edge of the sparring yard. Gojo stands with his coat half-flung over one shoulder, speaking to a pair of knights with that usual, breezy charm. Whatever he’s saying makes one of them laugh, but the other looks half-exhausted—like they’ve just finished sparring and lost. 

You watch without meaning to. It’s always like that. He draws the eye. He always has. 

A knock at the door pulls you back. This one is softer, more cautious. 

“Enter,” you say, turning away from the glass. 

Elira slips inside again, a bundle of documents in her arms and a suspiciously unreadable look on her face. 

“Reports from the northern border,” she says, dropping them onto your desk with a sigh. “Minor unrest—bandits, probably—but nothing the captain can’t handle.” She pauses. “Also, Lady Saelis has changed her mind again. She now insists the festival banners must include silver, because she claims gold alone doesn’t reflect the ‘moonlit spirit of celebration.’” 

You stare at her. “She’s drunk again, isn’t she?” 

“Absolutely,” Elira deadpans. “Also, your husband asked me to remind you that the evening meal starts at the bell. He’ll be attending early. With your favorite guest.” 

The sarcasm in her voice is light, teasing. She doesn’t know. She couldn’t. Still, you force a smile. “Of course.” 

Elira lingers for a moment longer, then raises a brow. “You are coming, aren’t you?” 

You glance at the window again. The sparring yard is empty now. He’s gone. “Yes,” you say finally, voice quiet. “I’ll be there.” 

She nods once, satisfied, and disappears out the door. 

By the time you step into the great hall, the tables are half-filled and the warm glow of firelight flickers against polished stone. The scent of roasted meat, honeyed bread, and spiced wine hangs in the air, familiar and rich. Musicians play softly from the corner, something graceful, background music for nobles who talk too loudly and eat too little. 

Geto is already seated at the high table, posture relaxed, speaking to one of the northern advisors. He looks up the moment you enter, and something in his expression eases. He always smiles when he sees you. 

You cross the room toward him, feeling the weight of eyes that follow you—not out of disrespect, but because you’re their queen. Because your every movement has meaning. You take your seat beside him with practiced grace. 

“Right on time,” Geto murmurs, voice low and warm. “I was starting to think I’d have to suffer through this alone.” 

You smile faintly. “I’d never be so cruel.” He chuckles, and you feel his hand rest lightly over yours for a moment. His touch is always steady. Always sure. 

Gojo slips in through the side entrance, late but not rudely so, with that same air of casual command that always makes people step aside without realizing it. His coat is still undone, hair tousled like he didn’t bother with a mirror, but he moves with the confidence of someone who knows exactly what kind of effect he has. 

He greets Geto with a crooked grin and a half-salute, and the two fall into easy banter again, something about a broken training sword and a knight who keeps tripping over his own feet. Laughter follows, natural and bright. 

As your fingers brush the rim of your goblet, lost in thought, he says something that makes Geto laugh and turn to you, nudging your arm with his. “You’d agree, wouldn’t you?” 

You blink, caught off guard. “What?” 

“That you’d make a better general than either of us,” Geto says, smiling, teasing. “He says you’re too refined for the field. I say you’d outmatch us both.” 

Gojo shrugs, raising his goblet lazily. “I never said she couldn’t. Just that we’d all be very distracted.” 

It’s a joke. The kind only he can get away with. The table laughs. But his eyes don’t leave yours. Not until you force yourself to look down. You sip your wine, throat tight. You hear Geto’s voice beside you, warm and easy, and you nod at the right moments. You play your part. 

Dinner stretches long, as feasts in royal courts often do—too many courses, too much wine, too many conversations spoken for the sake of being heard. Around you, nobles laugh and boast, trading stories they’ve told a hundred times as if tonight gives them new weight. You smile, you nod, you play the part so well that even you almost believe it. 

Geto is relaxed beside you, fingers brushing yours now and then, always grounding, always present. He leans in to murmur an occasional comment—witty, warm, a touch dry in humor. It makes you smile. He always makes you smile. 

Across the table, Gojo reclines in his seat, elbow draped over the back of the chair, swirling wine lazily in his cup. He’s laughing again—some sharp, shining comment about trade taxes or swordsmanship or something that earns a roar from one of the eastern lords—but his gaze flicks to you between sips, and when he thinks no one’s watching, the smile slips. 

You catch it this time. 

It’s not the way Geto looks at you. Not reverent. Not certain. Gojo looks at you like he’s starving. You tear your gaze away before it can linger, but something in you trembles. And you hate that you feel it. 

Not long after, a toast is called. Geto rises without hesitation, lifting his goblet. The hall quiets almost immediately—when a king speaks, the room listens. 

“To friendship,” he says, voice calm and sure. “To peace that holds, and to those who protect it.” A chorus of voices echoes the words, and goblets raise across the room. Gojo doesn’t speak during the toast, but he drinks deeply, and when he lowers his cup, his eyes are on you again. 

Something flickers across his face—brief, almost painful. But then it’s gone, hidden behind that same careless grin. He leans toward Geto, makes some quip that earns another laugh, and just like that, he disappears into the noise again. 

The rest of the meal passes in a blur. Dancers twirl near the hearth, the music turns livelier, and nobles rise in pairs to take part in the evening’s entertainment. You remain seated beside Geto, watching the room shift around you. 

“You look tired,” he says quietly, his hand brushing your back. “Should we return to the chambers?” 

You hesitate. Then shake your head. “Not yet.” 

He studies you for a moment but doesn’t push. “I’ll speak with the captain about tomorrow’s briefing. Just a few minutes.” 

You nod, and he rises, disappearing toward the outer hall with two guards at his back. The seat beside you is empty for only a moment - then Gojo’s there. He doesn’t ask. He just sits, the heat of him a sudden presence at your side, too close, too much. 

“You didn’t look away this time,” he says softly, without turning his head. 

You keep your eyes on the table, heart pounding. “Neither did you.” 

His laugh is quiet, bitter at the edges. “Yeah. I’m not as good at pretending.” 

You grip the edge of the table, fingers curling tight. “You shouldn’t be here.” 

“Maybe not,” he murmurs. “But I am.” 

The music swells again, distant and sweet. He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t even reach out. 

But gods, it feels like he does. 

The evening wears on. The hall is thick with heat now—wine and firelight, the scent of roasted meat long settled into the stone. The music softens into something slower, meant for lingering, for swaying, for lovers who still want to be seen. 

You remain at the high table, posture perfect, hands folded gently in your lap. Geto has drifted down the hall in the time since dinner ended, pulled into conversation after conversation with lords you barely remember the names of. The occasional glance you send his way goes unnoticed. 

Gojo still sits near, just far enough to be respectable, just close enough to keep you grounded. His presence has been quiet for the last half hour—no laughter, no teasing. Just steady silence. Watching. Not pushing. 

“You should dance,” he says eventually, voice quiet, not looking at you. “You always loved music like this.” 

“I don’t think tonight is the night for dancing.” He nods, slow and understanding. Doesn’t press. You’re grateful for it. 

It’s Geto’s laughter that breaks the moment—louder than before, almost sloppy now, from somewhere near the edge of the hall. You look up to see him with two noblemen, half-drunk and leaning against a pillar, wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim of his goblet. 

He’s not often like this. He drinks, yes—but rarely to excess. And almost never like this. Not in front of you. Gojo notices too, and his jaw tightens. 

“He’s had too much,” you murmur. 

Gojo leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “He never could pace himself when things were good.” 

You glance at him. “What do you mean?” 

He doesn’t answer. Just stares across the room at Geto, face unreadable. 

A moment later, Geto is crossing the room again, slower now, steps too casual, smile a little too wide. He’s not stumbling, not quite—but it’s close. The half-full goblet in his hand sways slightly with each step, and he sets it down with too much force as he drops into the seat beside you. “You left me to fend for myself out there,” he says, half-amused. 

“You seemed to be enjoying yourself.” 

“I was,” he says, a little too quickly. “Until Lord Verel started talking about grain taxes for the fourth time. I thought I’d rather fling myself from the tower.” 

You give a soft laugh, trying to keep things light, but it’s short-lived. His smile fades as he leans forward, resting his forearms on the table and looking at you—not through you, but at you, with something darker behind his eyes. 

“You’re still here,” he says when he leans onto the table, looking between the two of you. The words are simple, but something in his tone is off. 

“I didn’t want to leave early,” you say gently. 

He hums, swirling what’s left of his wine. “You always want to leave early.” 

There’s a sharpness in his voice now, subtle but unmistakable. Your brows knit together, and Gojo shifts beside you. You feel it—the way his entire body has gone still. 

“I thought I’d stay tonight,” you say softly, “for you.” 

Geto snorts, and it doesn’t sound kind. “For me?” He leans back, the goblet tipping dangerously in his hand. “You’ve barely looked at me all night.” 

“I’ve been at your side the whole evening,” you say, voice low, calm, trying to defuse. “I haven’t gone anywhere.” 

“Physically, sure,” he mutters, gesturing vaguely. “But your mind’s somewhere else. Always is lately. Wonder where it keeps going.” 

Silence drops like a stone. Gojo sits straighter now, no longer trying to mask the tension in his shoulders. “Maybe you should rest,” he says, voice tight, controlled. “You’ve had more than enough.” 

Geto glances at him like he’s just now remembering he’s there. “Maybe. But I’m the king. I’ll decide when I’ve had enough.” 

“Suguru,” you say sharply, eyes narrowing. He flinches at the name. Whether from your tone or from hearing it like that, you don’t know. 

But it snaps something back into place. He straightens, face shifting—closing. The wine glass is set down, too carefully, and he smooths his hands over his robes like nothing happened. He stands a moment later, too quickly, his chair scraping across the stone. He doesn’t look at you again as he mutters, “Don’t wait up.” 

And then he’s gone. 

The silence he leaves behind is louder than the music. 

- 

When you reach the doors of your chambers, the guards posted there straighten. One opens the door without a word. The moment you step inside, you know he’s already here. 

The fireplace is lit, throwing golden shadows along the room’s edges. The scent of wine still lingers faintly in the air. Geto sits by the hearth in a chair half-turned toward the flames, robe loosened, hair undone, a half-full decanter resting on the table beside him. He doesn’t look up when you enter.  

You close the door softly behind you. “I thought you’d be asleep by now,” you say, careful, quiet. 

“I’m the king,” he says, tone flat. “Sleep when I want.” 

You pause, then step out of your shoes and approach slowly, not yet moving to sit. “You drank too much.” He finally looks at you. His eyes are bloodshot, tired—but not just from the wine. “I’m sorry. For whatever it is you think I’ve done.” 

He lets out a bitter laugh. “You haven’t done anything.” 

You frown. “Then why are you punishing me like I have?” 

“Because you never let me in,” he says suddenly, sharply. “You do everything right. You smile, you say the right words, you wear the crown perfectly. But you’re always distant. Like you’re here, but only halfway.” 

“That’s not fair,” you say, voice catching. 

“Isn’t it?” He stands, slow and steady despite the wine, and closes the distance between you in three quiet steps. “Tell me, right now, that you want this. That this life—me—was what you wanted.” 

You open your mouth—but nothing comes. 

He waits. Just long enough. Then he scoffs and turns away, jaw tight. “Exactly.” You feel the sting rise behind your eyes, but you don’t let the tears fall. Not in front of him. Not like this. 

“I didn’t choose this,” you say quietly, your voice shaking. “But I chose you. I never said it would be easy. But I have never once turned my back on this marriage. Not even when you act like I’m the enemy.” 

He doesn’t respond. 

You step back, suddenly cold, arms wrapping around yourself. “I’m going to sleep. You should, too.” You move to the bed without another word, pulling back the covers with shaking hands, back turned to him. 

He doesn’t follow. Doesn’t say anything as you slip beneath the sheets and lie staring at the wall, heart pounding, throat tight. Eventually, you hear the soft clink of glass as he pours himself another drink. And then—nothing. 

No apology. No warmth. No comfort. Just the quiet crackle of the fire. And the space between you, growing wider by the minute. 

Sukuna stirred, his body aching from the physical altercation with Toji. He lay in bed a while longer, his mind replaying the fight outside the bar. While part of him regretted the escalation, a deeper, more primal part of him knew he would do it again if it meant keeping you safe.  

Sukuna reached for his phone on the nightstand. He paused, thumb hovering over the screen, recalling your calm demeanor and the way you had reassured him last night. It struck him then—just how much you had come to mean to him, not just as a friend or someone he felt compelled to protect, but as someone deeply ingrained in the fabric of his life. 

With a sigh, he unlocked the phone, his inbox empty of any new messages. He debated sending you a text, something casual to ensure you were okay, but also something to express his gratitude for your understanding. He typed out a message, hesitated, then deleted it. Words seemed inadequate. 

He needed to make things right, not just with you but within himself. 

The sound of his phone buzzing broke his reverie. It was Gojo, likely checking in after hearing about the fight. Sukuna answered, his tone neutral as he braced for the conversation. 

“Morning, how are you holding up?” Gojo’s voice was light, but there was an underlying seriousness that spoke of his concern. 

“I’m alright,” Sukuna responded, his gaze settling on the cityscape outside his window. “Just thinking about last night.” 

“Yeah, about that…” Gojo trailed off, then continued, “You made a tough call, but I get why you did it. Just, you know, maybe next time let’s try to handle it without the fists?” 

Sukuna chuckled dryly, “I’ll try, but no promises when it comes to him.” 

"Listen, man, I don't blame you at all," Gojo reassured Sukuna, his voice then dropping to a more serious tone. "If I see him look that way at her again, I'll be right there beside you next time." 

Sukuna was only slightly stunned by Gojo’s protectiveness of you, almost fierce enough to match his own. A part of him knew better – Gojo would go to great, dangerous lengths for his friends, and it seemed you had fallen into that category quickly in his mind.  

Meanwhile, you were in the middle of your workday, focused on some designs you were drafting for a client, when Mai approached your desk with an uncharacteristically hesitant look on her face. 

“Hey,” she began, her voice tinged with an awkwardness that immediately put you on edge. “These were delivered for you.” She set down a small, elegantly wrapped box of chocolates on your desk. The packaging was sleek, the kind of high-end confectionery that screamed expensive. However, it was the note attached to it that caught your attention and sent a shiver down your spine. 

“Thought you could use a sweet pick-me-up. – Toji” 

You stared at the box, feeling a mix of confusion and rising discomfort. “Did he say anything else when he dropped these off?” you asked Mai, hoping for some context that might mitigate the weirdness of the gesture. 

Mai shook her head. “Nope, just handed them over with that smirk of his. But, uh, there’s something else,” she added, her tone cautious. She pointed to a smaller label on the side of the box that you hadn’t noticed. It read: ‘Contains aphrodisiac ingredients – for a fun time.’ 

Your stomach turned. It felt like a blatant invasion of your personal boundaries, especially given everything that had happened. The idea that Toji thought this was an appropriate way to reach out, after the clear message you had all sent him, was both infuriating and deeply unsettling. 

Seeing your distressed reaction, Mai quickly added, “You don’t have to take them, you know. We can just toss them out. I’m really sorry, I should’ve checked first.” 

You nodded, feeling a rush of gratitude for Mai’s supportive presence. “No, it’s okay. It’s not your fault. But yeah, let’s just get rid of them. I don’t want anything from him.” 

Mai grabbed the box and disposed of it in the trash bin near your desk. “Good riddance,” she muttered. 

Trying to shake off the discomfort, you focused back on your work, but the incident had left a sour taste. What was he thinking?  

It was like Toji was trying to get under your skin – no, he was trying to get under Sukuna’s skin. There must have been some history between them, though the specifics eluded you. If it had been significant, surely Sukuna would have shared it with you... wouldn't he? 

As you mulled over this, the thought nagged at you, until you just couldn’t take any more. “Sukuna, can I ask you something?” you began, leaning against the counter next to where he was working on a tattoo design at the shop. 

He looked up from his station, his expression open and attentive. “Sure, what’s up?” 

“It’s about Toji,” you started, carefully watching his reaction. Sukuna’s demeanor shifted slightly, a subtle tenseness appearing. “Is there a history there? Something I should know about?” 

Sukuna paused for a moment, considering how much to reveal. Then, he sighed and set down his tablet, leaning against the counter. “Yeah, there’s history,” he admitted. “Toji and I go way back. We used to run in the same circles, got into a lot of trouble together. But things went south when he started going down a path I couldn’t follow—gambling, getting involved with some shady people. He hasn’t changed, and he’s not the kind of person I want around here, especially not around people I care about.” 

You listened, absorbing his words. “What kind of trouble? What dangerous things did you guys get into?” 

Sukuna looked at you, measuring his response. "Let's just say we were young and reckless. We took risks—street fights, illegal races, that sort of thing. Nothing I'm proud of, and I left that life behind a long time ago. I made a decision to change, and unfortunately, Toji didn't." 

“You,” you said, pointing your finger at him with a slight smirk, “were dumb enough to participate in illegal races? Was it on your bike?” 

“Don’t start,” Sukuna chuckled, appreciating your light-hearted teasing as he leaned over to flick your forehead playfully. “I had a shittier bike back then, didn’t matter what happened to it.” 

His expression then shifted suddenly, becoming more thoughtful. 

“Or me,” he added softly, his voice dropping to almost a whisper. 

The change in his tone made you pause, the playful atmosphere dissipating immediately. It was a rare glimpse into the more vulnerable side of Sukuna, one that he didn’t often show. 

“You really didn’t care about what happened to you?” you asked gently, noticing the somber shift in his mood. 

Sukuna looked away briefly, his eyes distant as if reliving memories he seldom spoke of. “Back then, I didn’t. It felt like nothing really mattered,” he admitted quietly, then sighed. “But I found reasons to change my outlook. Found things... and people worth caring for.” 

His gaze returned to you, lingering with a depth that conveyed unspoken truths, suggesting that you were among those reasons he referred to. You couldn’t help but feel a chill run down your spine at the way he looked at you.  

“Are you guys sharing secrets without us?” 

The sudden addition of a familiar voice almost sent even more of a shiver through your body as you physically lurched forward away from the sound. “Gojo!” you shouted at the white-haired menace, turning to see both him and Geto looking smug at the fact they’d snuck up on you. 

"Ah, what do we have here? Sukuna getting all sentimental? I never thought I'd see the day," Gojo teased, a broad grin spreading across his face as he slung an arm around your shoulder. 

Geto followed close behind, chuckling. "Yeah, Sukuna, you're usually so tough. What happened? Did you guys watch a sad movie or something?" he joked, leaning against a nearby workstation and giving you a wink. 

Sukuna rolled his eyes, but there was a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Can't a guy have a serious conversation once in a while without you two crashing the party?" 

"Serious conversation, huh? Who knew you had it in you?" Gojo continued, nudging Sukuna playfully in the arm. "Don’t worry, we'll keep your secret. Won't tell a soul that the great Sukuna has a soft side." 

"Alright, alright, enough about me," Sukuna conceded, his tone still lighthearted. "What brings you two here so late? Don’t tell me you missed us already." 

Gojo shrugged, his playful demeanor persisting. "We just finished up a project nearby and thought we’d check in. Plus, we wouldn’t miss a chance to tease you a bit." 

Geto nodded in agreement, moving to sit on one of the empty chairs. "Yeah, and we brought some late-night snacks. Figured we could all use a little pick-me-up after a long day." 

"Please tell me it's not chocolate," you groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose as you caught sight of the snacks Gojo and Geto were unpacking. 

"Why?" Sukuna asked, his curiosity piqued along with Gojo and Geto, all three pairs of eyes now focused intently on you. 

Ah, that’s right. You hadn’t mentioned that little detail of your day to them. 

"Nothing to worry about," you said quickly, waving your hand dismissively, hoping to steer their attention away from the topic. You knew all too well that nothing good would come out of telling the three guard dogs you’d somehow gained. 

Gojo, however, wasn’t so easily dissuaded. His eyes narrowed playfully as he leaned in closer. "Come on, there's clearly a story there. You can't just drop a hint like that and expect us not to dig." 

"Yeah," Geto chimed in, his tone light but persistent. "What’s wrong with chocolate?" 

Realizing that evasion might only pique their curiosity further, you sighed and decided a partial truth might be the best approach. "Let's just say I received a gift of chocolates today that were supposed to be... well, they were labeled as aphrodisiacs," you explained. 

Gojo’s eyes lit up with mischief at this revelation. "Oh, really now? That sounds like a fun gift, maybe you should share with Sukuna," he teased, a grin spreading across his face. 

Before you could respond, Sukuna’s hand swiftly came down on the back of Gojo's head. "Pervert" Sukuna warned, though there was a hint of humor in his eyes despite his annoyance. 

Gojo rubbed the spot where he'd been hit, laughing. "Okay, okay. But you have to admit, it was a little funny," he conceded, still chuckling. 

Sukuna shot Gojo a sharp look, his patience clearly wearing thin, but Gojo only continued, undeterred. "Come on, Sukuna, don't be such a spoilsport. Imagine the possibilities! A little chocolate, a little nudity..." 

Before Gojo could continue with his increasingly suggestive scenarios, Sukuna reached out as if to smack him again, but this time Geto stepped in, catching Sukuna’s arm in mid-air. “Let’s not turn this into a wrestling match, too,” Geto chuckled, holding Sukuna back with minimal effort, his own amusement clear as he enjoyed the rare opportunity to restrain his usually unstoppable friend. 

"You guys are impossible," you laughed, finding the scene before you—Geto holding back a mock-glaring Sukuna, and Gojo's continued teasing—genuinely funny. It was these moments of absurdity that made anything else feel temporary. 

"Alright, alright, I'm done. If only for her sake” Gojo said, finally backing off a bit as he jutted his thumb in your direction, though his grin suggested he was quite pleased with himself for stirring things up. 

"You’re so hilarious," Sukuna admitted grudgingly, the corner of his mouth twitching in a reluctant smile as Geto released his arm, giving him a friendly pat on the shoulder as a peace offering. 

Even though Sukuna was less than pleased, you found yourself content to watch the three men continue to chastise each other for the rest of the night.  

- 

Sukuna had invited you on a proper date, a gesture that both excited and unnerved you given the complex layers of your relationship. He’d promised a surprise, a fancy evening out, which was quite the departure from the usual casual hangouts at the shop. 

As you prepared for the evening, Mai was at your side, bubbling with enthusiasm and a touch of mischief. She had brought over a slew of dress options, each more daring than the last, her excitement palpable in every enthusiastic gesture. 

“Ooh, try this one!” Mai exclaimed, pulling out a particularly bold, red dress that was a bit too revealing for the occasion. “Sukuna won’t be able to take his eyes off you all night in this!” 

You chuckled, taking the dress from her and holding it up for inspection. While the dress was undoubtedly stunning, it was more suited for a nightclub than a sophisticated evening out. “Mai, I think this screams 'party' more than 'elegant dinner.' Sukuna might fall off his chair!” 

Mai pouted playfully, “But that’s the point, isn’t it?” Yet, seeing your hesitation, she relented with a dramatic sigh. “Alright, alright. Let’s find something that’s sexy but not ‘falling-out-of-it’ sexy.” 

You both laughed as she dug back into the assortment of clothing, finally settling on the sleek, navy-blue dress you had eyed earlier.  

“Fine, we’ll go with sophisticated-sexy, not club-sexy,” Mai conceded as she helped you into the dress.  

As Mai moved on to your makeup, she kept the look soft and enhancing, focusing on accentuating your features rather than transforming them. “We’re aiming for ‘captivating’, not ‘captured’, right?” she quipped, applying a warm, subtle eyeshadow that made your eyes pop. 

“Exactly,” you agreed, laughing as she expertly applied mascara and a touch of eyeliner.  The final look was exactly what you had hoped for—classy, a bit seductive, but entirely appropriate for a romantic evening out. Mai stepped back to admire her work, nodding in approval. 

“You look incredible,” she affirmed. “Sexy, but like, ‘I’m-an-adult-who-knows-what-I’m-doing’ sexy.” 

“All thanks to you.” You shot a playful wink her way, making her roll her eyes in fake-disgust. 

Mai, seeing you fully dressed and almost ready to go, couldn't help herself and launched into one last pep talk. With her hands on your shoulders, she looked into your eyes through your mirror with an impish grin. 

"Okay, listen," she started, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "tonight is your night. You look absolutely amazing, and Sukuna is going to be floored. Just remember, whatever happens, keep the mystery alive." 

Her advice started off genuinely supportive, but then her playful side began to show through, edging toward more daring suggestions. "You know, if the date goes really well, maybe you could try this trick with your tongue—" 

Just as Mai was about to delve into specifics that were decidedly more provocative than you were aiming for, a knock at the door interrupted her. You both froze, her mouth still hanging open in a paused giggle from her unfinished scandalous advice. 

"That must be Sukuna," you said, a blush creeping onto your cheeks, thankful for the interruption that spared you from the rest of Mai's boundary-pushing tips. 

Mai winked at you, quickly switching back to her supportive friend mode. "Go get him, tiger. And remember, you’re the sexiest thing of all." 

You walked over to the door, taking a deep breath to calm the fluttering in your stomach, and opened it to find Sukuna standing there. The moment he saw you, his eyes lit up, a genuine smile spreading across his face. It was clear he was as taken with your appearance as Mai had predicted. 

"Wow, you look incredible," Sukuna said, his gaze appreciative and warm. His compliment was sincere, making you feel all the more confident. 

"Thank you," you responded, feeling a rush of excitement for the night's plans. "You look pretty great yourself." 

With a chuckle, Sukuna offered his arm. "Of course I do. Shall we?" 

As you stepped out into the crisp evening air, Sukuna led you towards a sleek, black car parked just outside your building. You paused, a playful smile spreading across your face. "What's this? No bike tonight? I almost didn't recognize our transportation without the usual roar." 

Sukuna grinned, catching the tease in your tone. "Thought I'd switch it up and go for something a bit less... breezy tonight. Plus, this way, I get to enjoy not having to yell over the engine to talk to you." 

"You mean you don't enjoy our shouting conversations?" you quipped, laughing as you followed him to the car. "I was starting to think you preferred them, given how often we end up on that bike of yours." 

He opened the passenger door for you, his response delivered with a mock-serious nod. "Well, I figured it was time to show you I can be a gentleman with four wheels, not just two. But don't worry, the bike's not going anywhere. We can go back to our high-speed chats anytime you miss them." 

As you settled into the comfortable leather seat, you couldn't help but appreciate the change. "This is nice, though. I admit, it’s kind of a relief not to have to worry about helmet hair tonight." 

Sukuna laughed as he started the car. "See? I’m always thinking ahead. Just trying to keep things interesting for us." 

Once Sukuna pulled up to the elegantly lit entrance of the restaurant, he got out and quickly walked around to open your door, offering his hand with a charming smile. 

"You know, this chivalry thing suits you quite well," you teased as you accepted his hand to step out of the car. 

Sukuna chuckled, leading you toward the restaurant's grand entrance. "I'll make a note of it. Only the best for you tonight," he replied, his voice warm. 

The host greeted you both immediately, his professional smile widening as he looked from Sukuna to you. "Welcome, a table for two?" 

"Yes, please," Sukuna confirmed, his hand lightly resting on the small of your back as you followed the host inside. His touch warmed your skin, even down to your bones.  

Once seated at a private table with a perfect view of the restaurant’s garden, the host handed you menus and wished you a pleasant meal. Sukuna handed you your menu with a flourish, mimicking a waiter’s bow, which made you giggle. 

"Will you be ordering for both of us, Monsieur?" you played along, opening the menu with an exaggerated sense of importance. 

"Only if you trust my culinary choices," he winked. "But tonight, I think you should lead. After all, we wouldn’t want to end the evening with any culinary mishaps." 

As you both perused your menus, the playful mood continued. "What looks good to you?" you asked, scanning the options. 

"I’m thinking the seared scallops to start," Sukuna suggested, his eyes not leaving the menu. "For the main course, how does the duck confit sound?" 

"Decadent," you agreed, impressed with his selections. "Let’s do it. And maybe we can share a dessert if we have room." 

"Perfect. We’ll go all out tonight—start with the scallops, move on to the duck, and end with something sweet," he summarized, closing his menu and signaling a waiter. 

As the waiter approached, Sukuna confidently placed the order exactly as discussed. Once the waiter had departed, you leaned in with a raised eyebrow, a playful smirk forming. "To be honest, I thought we were just joking about the scallops and duck." 

Sukuna feigned a hurt expression, his lower lip jutting out slightly in a pout. "I have finer tastes than pizza and beer, you know," he responded, his tone mock-offended but his eyes twinkling with humor. 

You chuckled, enjoying the light-hearted banter. "Oh, really? I was under the impression that those were your gourmet staples." 

"Well, I like to surprise people," Sukuna retorted, leaning back in his chair with a smug look. "Besides, I can be sophisticated when the occasion calls for it. Tonight seemed like a good night to pull out all the stops." 

"Consider me thoroughly impressed, Mr. Sophistication," you teased, sipping your water. "I'll have to revise my Sukuna dossier when I get home." 

Sukuna laughed, his usual confidence mingling with a genuine warmth that made the evening feel even more special. "Make sure you update it to include 'charming dinner companion' and 'excellent taste in food,'" he suggested, raising his glass toward you. 

"And what should I list under 'hobbies'?" you asked, playing along. "Motorcycle racing? Gourmet cooking? Candlelit dinners?" 

"Definitely add 'making my date laugh,'" he shot back, clinking his glass against yours. "And maybe 'romantic at heart.'" 

As the conversation flowed and you both eagerly anticipated the next course, the atmosphere suddenly shifted when a new waiter appeared at your table, plates in hand. The unexpected presence was jarring as he delivered the dishes with a grin that you never wanted to see again. 

"Well, look who we have here," Toji said, setting down the food with unnecessary flourish. His gaze lingered on both of you, sparking an immediate tension in the air. 

Surprised and annoyed, Sukuna's demeanor changed instantly, his welcoming expression turning sharp. "What the fuck are you doing here?" he asked, his voice tight with controlled irritation. 

"Oh, just helping out tonight. Thought I’d personally ensure our special guests are taken care of," Toji replied nonchalantly, his eyes darting between you and Sukuna, clearly enjoying the discomfort he was causing. 

His reply did little to hide his true intent, which seemed to be more about provocation than hospitality. Toji took his time straightening up after setting the plates, his movements slow and deliberate as if to prolong his intrusion into your evening. 

"I see you're branching out into new ventures," Sukuna commented dryly, trying to maintain composure despite the unwelcome interruption. 

Toji chuckled, a sound that seemed more mocking than merry. "You know me, always exploring new opportunities. Plus, I couldn’t pass up the chance to see how you two are enjoying your romantic dinner." His tone was taunting, and he paused to give a pointed look that made his insinuations all too clear. 

Feeling the need to defuse the situation, you interjected with a firm politeness, "Thank you for delivering our meal. We appreciate it, but we’d also appreciate some privacy now." 

Toji held your gaze a moment longer, going so far as to scan lower, his smirk lingering as if to savor the disruption he’d caused. Finally, he straightened up and gave a shallow bow, mockingly formal. "Of course, enjoy your dinner," he said, before slowly turning to leave, his steps leisurely as he glanced back one last time, ensuring his presence was felt just a bit longer. 

“What the hell?” Sukuna muttered under his breath, his hands tightening into fists on the table. The annoyance was palpable in his voice, reflecting your own feelings.  

Despite Toji's departure from your immediate vicinity, the uneasy feeling that he was still watching hung heavily over you. Sukuna noticed your discomfort and took a deep breath, trying to compose himself for both your sakes. 

“Let’s not let him ruin our night,” Sukuna said, reaching across the table to gently place his hand over yours, offering a reassuring squeeze. “We’re here to have a good time, remember?” 

You nodded, appreciating Sukuna’s efforts to redirect the evening back to something more pleasant. “You’re right,” you agreed, forcing a smile and squeezing his hand back. “Let’s enjoy our meal.” 

And yet, even though you felt comforted by Sukuna’s presence in that moment, you still knew that somewhere... a pair of eyes were still settled on you. 

⊹. ݁˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁₊

to say you were sore going to work on Monday was the understatement of the century. your entire body felt like you’d be thrown around like a ragdoll – which granted, you were – and you had to wear a lightweight scarf to cover some less than appropriate marks on your neck.  

it seemed Sukuna had taken pleasure in showing just how much he missed you—and you weren't complaining. if anything, he had been gentler than usual. memories of the weekend kept flashing through your mind: his soft caress of your cheek, the way he pulled you in closer as you both drifted off to sleep, and how tenderly he ran his fingers through your hair. it was like a whole new Sukuna had emerged – but even with this new attitude, you knew that his usual self was lying in wait. 

you were trying desperately to keep your head down at the office, particularly to avoid Mai and her inevitable nosiness. the thought of what she would do if your scarf slipped or if she noticed the slight limp in your walk made your head start to ache with anticipation of her teasing. 

but alas, speak of the devil and she may appear. 

“so, lover girl, how was your weekend?” Mai asked, raising an eyebrow slyly as she leaned against your desk. “I certainly hope you weren’t stressing about getting that article done and instead thinking about a certain rugged man?” 

her tone was playful, but you knew she was fishing for details. you forced a smile, adjusting your scarf subtly. 

“oh, you know, the usual—just a quiet weekend at home,” you responded, hoping your casual tone would deflect her curiosity. 

Mai, however, wasn’t easily fooled. she eyed you skeptically, her gaze drifting to the scarf around your neck. “really? that seems a bit too tame for you, especially lately,” she teased, poking gently at your defenses. “come on, spill it. I can tell when you’re hiding something good!” 

you sighed, knowing full well that keeping secrets from Mai was nearly impossible. she had a knack for sniffing out gossip, and her persistent, albeit affectionate, prying made it hard to keep anything from her for long. 

“let’s just say it was a weekend well spent,” you conceded with a small laugh, hoping that would satisfy her without giving away too much.  

“fine, fine—bore me with no details why don’t you,” Mai waved her hand nonchalantly, her lips curving into a sarcastic pout. “as if my day hasn’t already been boring enough.” 

“didn’t you have family coming to visit this weekend? how was that?” you quickly asked, eager to steer the conversation away from your own eventful weekend. 

“oh, it was a delight,” Mai replied, her tone dripping with sarcasm as her face contorted into an expression that clearly conveyed her actual feelings about the event. “just your typical Zenin family reunion. the only highlight was that my cousin came by, drunk as crap, and caused a scene. almost made Naoya blow a gasket.” you couldn’t help but laugh at the visual, imagining the chaos that must have ensued. 

Mai's face softened into a genuine smile at your laughter, seemingly grateful for the chance to share her ordeal. "seriously, it's like watching a poorly scripted reality show when they get together. makes me grateful for the quiet moments at work, you know?" 

“that sounds... intense. but hey, at least it wasn’t dull, right?” you offered, trying to find a silver lining for her. 

“yeah, you could say that. it’s entertainment, but at a high emotional cost,” Mai quipped, her eyes rolling expressively. “anyway, enough about my dysfunctional family drama. how about you and I get a drink after work? then you can spill all the juicy details about that guy – even the ones that aren’t work appropriate.” 

you chuckled, caught a bit off guard by her directness but appreciating the diversion. “that sounds like a plan. I could use a drink or two after today.” 

“great! it’s a date then,” Mai said with a grin, clearly pleased with your agreement. “we’ll hit up that new bar down the street. I hear they have a great happy hour.” 

the rest of the workday passed in a blur of activity. when the clock finally signaled the end of the day, you packed up your things and met Mai at the office exit. 

“ready to go?” Mai asked, her energy levels seeming to spike with the prospect of the evening ahead. 

“absolutely,” you replied, feeling the fatigue of the day begin to lift as you stepped out of the office building and into the cool evening air. 

the bar Mai had mentioned was bustling with the after-work crowd, its warm lights and the sound of lively chatter welcoming you as you entered. you found a spot at the bar, and soon you were both sipping on cocktails, the day’s stress melting away with each sip. 

“so,” Mai began, her tone teasing yet expectant, “tell me everything. start from the beginning, and don’t leave out any of the good parts.” 

you laughed, shaking your head slightly at her eagerness. as you recounted the events of the weekend, Mai listened intently, her reactions ranging from wide-eyed surprise to bursts of laughter. 

after a few drinks, you started to feel like someone’s eyes were on you—not just watching, but intensely focusing. “hey, can you look behind me to see if someone’s staring me down? I swear I just got this feeling,” you whispered to Mai, trying not to make it obvious. 

Mai nodded, her expression turning serious for a moment as she casually glanced over her shoulder. her subtle scan was followed by a low groan, confirming your suspicions. “just ignore it—it looks like my idiot cousin hasn’t left town yet after all.” 

“which one?” you inquired, curiosity piqued. 

“Toji,” Mai gritted her teeth as she spoke his name, clearly annoyed by his presence. 

suddenly, you became acutely aware of his presence as he approached your table. Toji Fushiguro had a reputation that preceded him, and his arrival was usually the harbinger of chaos or charm, depending on his mood. of course, this was all based-on Mai’s opinions. 

without waiting for an invitation, Toji pulled up a chair and sat down beside you, his smile charming yet predatory. “I couldn’t help but notice two beautiful ladies spending their evening without the delightful company of yours truly,” he said, his voice smooth, his gaze fixating on you with an intensity that was both unsettling and flattering. 

Mai rolled her eyes, clearly unimpressed. “Toji, don’t start. we’re just trying to have a quiet drink.” 

ignoring Mai’s dismissal, Toji turned his full attention to you, leaning in slightly. “and what about you? do you mind a little company, or should I take my cousin’s hint and disappear?” 

his directness caught you off guard, his confidence bordering on arrogance. you couldn't help but think about how Sukuna would react seeing Toji in this position—leaning in so close that you could feel his breath on your shoulder, his gaze intense enough to unsettle anyone not used to such attention. 

"only if you can guess what I want to order," you responded with a quip, a playful challenge in your tone as you glanced at your empty glass. it was a genuine challenge, and a way to keep the interaction light and under your control. "if you can't, then perhaps you should try your luck with other... ahem... easier targets." 

Toji's eyebrows shot up, a mix of surprise and amusement flickering across his face. clearly, he wasn't used to being challenged in this way, but he accepted the gauntlet you'd thrown down with a smirk. "challenge accepted," he declared, his eyes scanning the bar as if the answer might be written somewhere on the walls. 

after a moment of thought, he turned back to you with a confident smile. "you strike me as someone who appreciates something classic yet bold. how about a whiskey?" 

“oh come on! you totally saw her drinking that earlier.” Mai rolled her eyes at the exchange, but said nothing else as she sipped her drink. 

you couldn't help but laugh softly—his guess was surprisingly accurate. "a deal is a deal," you admitted, nodding for him to continue with the order. Toji signaled the bartender with a flourish, ordering the drink he had just named. 

as he settled back into his chair, waiting for the bartender to prepare your drink, the atmosphere seemed to shift slightly. his earlier overconfidence tempered by your playful challenge, toji appeared more relaxed, more genuine in his demeanor. 

"looks like I get to stay a bit longer," he remarked with a grin, clearly pleased with himself for getting the order right. 

"you do," you conceded, allowing yourself to enjoy the banter now that you had set some boundaries. "but let's not get too cocky, shall we?" 

Toji nodded, accepting your terms with a playful salute. "as the lady wishes." 

“just so you know, she’s already taken, Toji. and I'm almost positive he could kill you with just one look,” Mai interjected, her tone smug as she leaned back in her chair, watching Toji's reaction closely. 

“is that so?” Toji smirked, his gaze shifting back to you with renewed interest. his smile didn't waver, but you could see the slight tightening around his eyes as he processed Mai's words. Toji leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a more playful, conspiratorial tone. "well, I've never been one to back down from a little competition.” 

undeterred, you met his gaze squarely, your tone laced with a mix of humor and defiance. "yeah, and I don't need anyone fighting my battles, thanks. I can handle myself just fine," you quipped, giving Toji a look that matched his own in intensity. 

Toji raised his eyebrows. "I like that," he said, his voice rich with approval. "a woman who speaks her mind. very refreshing." 

you didn’t miss a beat, ready to keep the banter light but firm. "well, don’t get too excited. it doesn’t mean I’m not off limits," you added, leaning back in your seat to signal your lack of interest in his flirtations. 

Toji chuckled, nodding in acknowledgment of your boundaries. "fair enough. just a friendly drink then," he conceded, holding up his hands in a gesture of peace. 

"just a drink," you agreed, giving him a nod and a small smile that made it clear you weren’t there for anything more. 

the conversation then took a lighter turn, with you and Mai steering the topics towards less personal matters like recent movies and local events. Toji played along, his responses thoughtful and engaging, showing a side of him that was unexpectedly pleasant – even if he did slip some flirtatious comments in there. 

finally, it was time to leave after more drinks than you’d like to admit. as you stepped out into the cool night air you pulled out your phone to call Sukuna, hoping he wasn’t with a client and could come pick you up. it wasn’t a far walk home, but definitely not the best idea to do alone. 

“is your ride on his way?” Mai asked, peering out from the halfway-open taxi door. 

“not yet, but don’t worry. just get home safe!” you replied, fidgeting with your phone as you tried to appear more at ease than you felt. 

once Mai’s taxi pulled away, you attempted to call Sukuna for the third time, but still no answer. your frustration was mounting when you heard Toji’s voice again. 

“hey, want me to walk you home?” he offered, leaning casually against the side of the building with a cigarette dangling between his fingers. 

the idea of walking alone with Toji wasn’t particularly appealing — you really didn’t want to encourage him or send the wrong signal. however, considering Sukuna’s unexpected unavailability and your growing unease at being alone so late, you reconsidered the situation. 

“actually, do you know the way to Cursed Ink from here?” you asked, thinking it might be a safer destination. you knew Sukuna was likely still there, his tattoo session having possibly run longer than expected. 

“ah, yeah! I’ve gotten some work done there a few times. it’s not too far,” Toji replied with an easy grin, extinguishing his cigarette and stepping away from the wall to lead the way. 

throughout the walk, Toji kept up his flirtatious chatter, leaning in occasionally under the pretense of pointing out various landmarks or pieces of street art. you maintained polite but short responses, steering the conversation toward neutral topics. despite your efforts to keep things light, Toji often circled back with personal questions, probing subtly about your life. 

as you approached Cursed Ink, the neon sign glowing invitingly in the night, you felt a mix of relief and anticipation. however, as you reached the entrance, another figure appeared, causing a brief moment of tension. 

Gojo stepped out from the shadows by the door, his presence unexpectedly shifting the mood. the recognition between him and Toji was immediate and clearly strained. 

“Fushiguro? what are you doing here?” Gojo asked, his voice cool and cautious. 

you turned to Toji, surprised. “you two know each other?” 

Toji gave a tight smile, his usual ease slightly faltering. “yeah, you could say that. Gojo and I have crossed paths a few times.” his tone suggested there was more to the story, none of it pleasant. 

“and Sukuna, too, I take it?” you added, piecing together their reactions and remembering Mai’s earlier comments about Toji. 

“indeed,” Toji replied, his smirk returning as he looked Gojo up and down. “shit, don’t tell me this guy’s your loser boyfriend.” 

“that would be me.” a low and stern voice came from the door of the shop, and Sukuna’s expression was none too friendly as he recognized Toji. 

“c’mon, that’s even worse.” Toji remarked sarcastically as he glanced over at you. which, in Sukuna’s eyes, was the wrong place to look. “I was just showing her the way here. thought I might look into getting some work done while I'm at it.” 

Gojo, clearly not buying it, stepped a little closer to you. “is that so? because it looked more like you were following her here.” 

Toji chuckled, shaking his head. “always so suspicious, Gojo. can’t a guy walk a friend to a tattoo shop without an ulterior motive?” 

Sukuna, stepping up to the doorway next to Gojo, didn’t look convinced. “friend, huh? let’s keep it professional then. if you’re here for ink, fine. otherwise, I'm sure there are plenty of other places you’d rather be – plenty of friends you’d rather be around other than my girlfriend.” 

caught off guard by the complicated web of relationships, you felt a sudden need for clarity. “wait, how do all of you know each other? and what’s going on here really?” 

Sukuna and Gojo exchanged a look before Gojo answered, “let’s just say our paths have crossed under less than friendly circumstances in the past. and Toji here isn’t exactly known for his straightforward dealings.” 

as Toji leaned back against the wall, the smirk on his face took on an unsettling quality as he looked you over. “everyone enjoys a villain, right? makes life interesting, especially with such fine scenery to appreciate,” he remarked, his gaze lingering on you in a way that was overtly inappropriate. 

the comment immediately heightened the tension. Sukuna’s demeanor shifted visibly, his stance becoming protective as he moved to position himself between you and Toji. his voice was low but sharp with warning. “that’s enough, Toji. watch how you talk about her.” 

Toji laughed, seemingly unfazed by Sukuna’s threat. “oh, come on, Sukuna, I'm just making an observation. can’t a man appreciate the curves of a beautiful woman when he sees one?” 

you felt a surge of anger at his words, but you kept your composure. “the only thing you’re observing is how fast you can get your ass kicked. keep it up, and you’ll find out.” 

Sukuna’s eyes flickered with approval at your retort, but Toji only seemed amused by the challenge. “feisty, I like that. it’s a compliment, sweetheart. you should take it as one.” 

“compliments are respectful, Toji. what you’re throwing around is nothing short of harassment. don’t confuse the two,” Sukuna snapped back, his tone growing more menacing. “leave. I’m not going to warn you again.” 

Toji squared his shoulders, his smirk persisting as he glanced at Sukuna and then back at you. “harassment? that’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?” 

before Sukuna could respond, you stepped forward, not willing to let Toji’s comments slide. “dramatic would be me slapping the shit out of you. which I'm still considering,” you quipped sharply, meeting his gaze with a defiant glare.  

but Toji seemed to relish the confrontation. “what’s wrong? afraid I’ll say something you might actually enjoy hearing? aw, is Sukuna not giving you enough attention?” 

Gojo, who had been watching the exchange with increasing concern, finally stepped forward, his usual playfulness replaced by a serious, commanding presence. “that’s enough, Toji. you’re clearly here to provoke, not to socialize. it’s time for you to go.” 

instead of heeding Gojo’s warning, Toji pushed off from the wall, stepping closer into Sukuna’s space, his voice laced with mockery. “make me,” he taunted, squaring his shoulders as if bracing for a physical reaction. 

Sukuna looked ready to oblige, his fists tightening, his body tensed for a fight. however, Gojo placed a restraining hand on Sukuna's shoulder, a silent plea for restraint. 

“you don’t want to do this here,” Gojo murmured to Sukuna. aloud to Toji, he said, “this isn’t the place to settle whatever scores you have. walk away, Toji, while you can still use your fucking legs.” 

Toji assessed the situation, his eyes darting between your stern face and the two men ready to back up their words with action. with a huff, he finally conceded, stepping back. “you guys are no fun anymore. this isn’t over – but you three make quite the team,” he taunted, before turning to leave. 

Sukuna remained silent for a few moments, watching Toji disappear into the night, ensuring he was truly gone. “are you okay?” he asked, his voice softening. 

“yeah, I’m fine. god, I pegged him for an asshole but didn’t realize he was that bad,” you responded, managing a small smile. 

“how did you end up walking with him anyways?” Gojo questioned, still glancing in the direction Toji walked to make sure he wasn’t coming back. 

“I went to drinks with Mai, apparently they’re cousins. I knew he wasn’t harmless but damn.” you grimaced, thinking about your horrible judge of character. if you’d know how he’d react around Gojo and Sukuna, you wouldn’t have taken him up on his company. 

as you stepped back into the shop, it was quiet, the usual late-night calm settling back over the space now that most of the day's appointments were complete. 

Sukuna immediately turned to you, his demeanor still charged from the encounter with Toji. "Are you sure you’re alright?" he asked, his eyes scanning your face for any sign of distress. his protectiveness was palpable, a stark reminder of the events that had just unfolded. 

"yeah, I'm fine," you reassured him, managing a small smile despite the residual tension. "thanks for stepping in when you did. that was... he was way out of line." 

Sukuna’s jaw clenched, his hands forming into fists at his sides. "he's been a problem before," Sukuna muttered, his voice low and filled with barely controlled anger. "I should've thrown him out the minute he started talking." 

Gojo, who had been quietly observing, sank further into a plush chair. "we handled it, and she’s safe. that’s what matters. but yeah, we might need to keep an eye out if he tries to show up again." 

Sukuna glanced between you and Gojo, a stormy expression on his face. "if he ever comes near you again, I swear I'll—" 

"it’s okay, Sukuna," you interjected, gently cutting him off. "I don’t think he’ll try anything again, not after tonight. and I’ll tell Mai what happened, and she’ll hopefully keep him away." despite your words, you were secretly relieved to hear the protective fervor in his voice. 

Sukuna paced a few steps away, his thoughts clearly racing as he contemplated tracking down Toji to ensure this wouldn’t happen again. after a moment, he stopped and turned back to you. "if you're sure you're alright... just, let me know if you need anything, or if he bothers you again. I’ll kill him before he lays a finger on you." 

you chuckled softly at his intensity, but you were still comforted by his concern. "I will, thank you, Sukuna. if I need a guard dog, I’ll call you." 

“hey! I’d make a good guard dog too!” Gojo interjected, almost looking offended that you hadn’t considered him. “don't you want to see how good I look in a collar?” Sukuna chucked a notebook at his head in response. 

the rest of the evening passed quietly. Sukuna seemed to wrestle with his own frustration, occasionally glancing at the door as if half-expecting Toji to return. Gojo tried to lighten the mood with a few jokes and stories, gradually coaxing some laughter from you and annoyance from Sukuna. 

finally, it was time to leave. Sukuna walked with you to his bike, his demeanor alert as he scanned the area – like a true guard dog – before you both got on. the drive was quiet, the streets dimly lit and mostly deserted. Sukuna focused on the road, but his protective presence was comforting. 

as he pulled up to your apartment, Sukuna turned to you one last time. breaking the silence, he spoke up. "I mean it, you know. if you ever feel unsafe or need anything, just call me. no one messes with you as long as I’m around" he said, his voice firm but reassuring. 

"I’m sure you enjoy the idea of kicking someone’s ass," you responded, feeling genuinely secure knowing you could rely on him. 

"what I don’t enjoy is the idea that it would take someone hurting you," he said, a hint of a smile breaking through his earlier sternness. "goodnight, and text me when you get into bed, okay?" 

"will do," you promised, placing a soft kiss to his lips before heading up to your door. as you walked to your door, you looked back to see Sukuna waiting, watching to make sure you got inside safely. once you had shut the door behind you, the rumble of the engine disappeared. 

Sukuna's mind raced as he sat there, hidden just around the corner, his knuckles white as he clenched the handles. he replayed the evening's events, Toji's words echoing in his head, each one adding fuel to the fire of his anger. despite knowing you were safe now, the idea of Toji lurking around, possibly planning another encounter, was unbearable. 

driven by a mix of protective instinct and personal disdain, Sukuna made a decision. he started his bike again, the engine's growl barely masking his determined breaths. he knew where Toji liked to hang out—a local bar known for its rough crowd and late hours. if Toji was going to be anywhere tonight, it would be there. 

navigating the quiet streets, Sukuna’s thoughts darkened with each turn. this wasn’t just about protecting you anymore; it was also about setting a precedent. people like Toji needed to know the consequences of crossing lines. 

arriving at the bar, Sukuna spotted Toji immediately. he was outside, laughing loudly, cigarette hanging from his lips, with a group of equally questionable-looking friends. Sukuna parked his bike and approached, his presence commanding, eyes locked on Toji. 

Toji noticed Sukuna and his laughter stopped abruptly, a sneer taking its place. “look who it is. come to lecture me some more, Sukuna?” he taunted, stepping away from his group towards Sukuna. 

Sukuna didn’t hesitate. “you’re going to stay away from her, Toji. this is your only warning.” his voice was low and menacing, promising retaliation if not heeded. 

Toji scoffed, stepping closer into Sukuna’s space. “or what? you’ll play the hero? don’t make me laugh, we both know the kind of person you really are.” 

the taunt was the last – the only – straw. Sukuna’s response was swift—a right hook that caught Toji off-guard, sending him staggering back. the fight escalated quickly, both men exchanging blows, driven by old grudges and fresh anger. it wasn’t just about you anymore, Toji had been a thorn in his side for ages. running in the same crowds for a while would do that to a man. 

the scuffle drew attention, and soon some of Toji's friends moved to intervene. but Sukuna was a formidable opponent, his physique and street-smart instincts were great, but his anger was giving him an edge. none of the other men wanted to risk a broken nose or jaw. the brawl ended with Toji on the ground, nursing a bloody nose, as his friends hesitated to engage further. 

panting, Sukuna stood over Toji, his expression hard. “stay away from her, from all of us. next time, it won’t just be a warning. look at her again and you’re a dead man.” he said through gritted teeth. 

leaving Toji and his bruised ego behind, Sukuna walked back to his bike, his anger slowly subsiding into a cold resolve. as he drove home, the adrenaline began to fade and the pain in his knuckles started to grow. while part of him regretted the violence, another part knew it might have been necessary. 

to protect you. 

when he finally got home, Sukuna sat in the quiet of his living room, replaying the night. he knew he’d have to explain his actions to you, perhaps even face some repercussions but he doubted that Toji would try and settle the score. deep down, he felt justified. 

the night had taken a toll, and as Sukuna headed to bed, the events weighed heavily on him. the fight with Toji wasn’t just a physical altercation; it was a stark reminder of the lengths he was willing to go to keep his friends safe.  

to keep you safe. 

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