ON HIATUS

It wasn’t that you didn’t care. You just didn’t see the point in forcing communication for the sake of it. When something actually happened, you'd tell him. You’d call. You’d text. If the world was ending, you’d let him know. Probably.

To you, that was how relationships worked. You didn’t love him any less just because you weren’t glued to your phone. If anything, you were doing him a favor by not flooding his notifications. You’d seen what some people did in relationships—24/7 access, reporting live from their kitchen. You’d rather not become that.

And besides, you knew yourself. You knew what happened when you got tired and overstimulated. You got snappy, said things like “Why are you breathing so loud?” and suddenly there’s a fight over a tone that didn’t exist. So no, you were doing the mature thing by keeping your distance. For everyone’s safety.

What you needed was someone who respected your space, but knew when to push—gently. Someone who didn’t take your quiet as coldness. Sukuna, for all his big talk and bigger ego, was starting to realize he might not be that someone… or worse, that he cared more than he thought.

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You and Sukuna first crossed paths at a loud, crowded bar during a group night out. He was there with his friends. You were with yours.

You didn’t say much—just smiled politely, laughed at a few jokes, sipped your drink, and left early without a trace. Quiet. Low-key. Unbothered.

And for some reason, that stuck with him.

It wasn’t even anything dramatic. You didn’t flirt, didn’t throw glances his way. Honestly, it felt like you barely noticed he was there. Like the noise of the bar, the people, even him—none of it seemed to register.

Your eyes were distant. Detached. Not cold, exactly, but...unreadable. Like you were tuned into a different frequency the rest of the room couldn’t access. And Sukuna—who was used to being the center of attention—had no idea why he noticed you so much, and why you didn’t seem to care that he existed.

He never asked for your number. Didn’t even speak to you that night. But after that? He started showing up at those same friend gatherings more often than he’d like to admit. Not for the drinks. Not for the people.

Just to see if you would be there.

Eventually, curiosity got the better of him. Halfway through one of those meetups, he casually brought your name up. Real smooth. “So... your friend. Y/N, right? She doesn’t come out often?”

One of your friends snorted, already a little tipsy. “Ahhh, Y/N? Yeah, she’s quiet. That time we were at the club together? Didn’t see her for like four months before.”

Another chimed in, laughing. “She’s hilarious though. I heard a bunch of guys tried to get her number, but she just... works from home and sleeps all day. Like, aggressively avoids being perceived.”

The first friend nodded. “Back in high school, there was this super popular guy who liked her. She ghosted him in real life. Just full-on ignored him and didn’t even realize he was crying until someone pointed it out.”

The whole group burst into laughter. Sukuna blinked. You've made a popular guy cry... by accident?

Sukuna leaned back on the worn-out couch, beer bottle in hand, watching your friends lose it over the story like it was some iconic tale of legend. Which, apparently, it was.

He didn’t even realize he’d zoned out until someone waved a hand in front of his face.

“You good?” one of the guys asked. “Yeah,” Sukuna muttered. “Just thinking.”

Which was a lie. He didn’t think. Not like this. Definitely not about some girl he’d only seen once. But here he was, piecing together your entire personality based off half-drunk friend chatter like he was a detective on a case no one assigned him.

She sleeps. She works. She ignores people into tears.

Sukuna tilted the bottle to his lips and stared blankly at the wall. Why the hell was that so attractive?

He’d been with needy girls. Loud girls. Girls who texted “???” if he didn’t reply in thirty minutes. Girls who demanded constant validation, presence, connection. He was used to being the one pulling away.

And now… He was the one showing up to events, hoping to catch a glimpse of you like some kind of side character.

It was humiliating.

He didn’t even know what your voice sounded like beyond a polite laugh. He didn’t know what your job was. Or your hobbies. Did you even have hobbies? Or were you one of those people who simply... existed?

And yet, he was in a group chat called “Friday Night Drinks 🍻” and actually replying to it. Voluntarily.

This was rock bottom.

“Y/N’s cool though,” one of your friends added, completely unaware of the identity crisis unfolding in his head. “She’s just hard to read. Not mean or anything, just... in her own world, you know?”

In her own world. Yeah. That sounded about right.

Sukuna smirked to himself. “Sounds like she needs someone to drag her out of it,” he muttered.

The group just laughed and kept drinking, not realizing that was the moment Sukuna decided he was going to make you notice him. And not in a subtle way.

He wasn’t desperate. He was just... curious. Painfully, violently curious. Which, in his case, might as well be the same thing.

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A week later, you showed up again.

Same group. Same vibe. Some random bar with dim lighting and overpriced drinks.

You walked in late, like someone who didn't owe the world punctuality. Your hair was half-up, half-down—pitch black and the outfit in question was just a long, tight, black dress. Nothing flashy. Just clean lines and fabric that fit too well. He had never seen something so normal be so sexy.

It didn’t make sense. Sukuna turned back to his drink and muttered, “Jesus Christ,” under his breath.

Across from him, one of your friends noticed. “Oh hey, Y/N’s here.”

You walked in, nodded at a few friends, and sat down like you hadn’t just months. You ordered a drink, checked your phone once, then stared off like the wall was playing a movie only you could see.

So, he did what any self-respecting man with dignity and a very fragile ego would do: he waited five full minutes before casually sliding into the seat next to you.

“Didn’t think you were real for a second,” he said.

You blinked. Slowly. Turned your head just slightly.

“Oh,” you said. Then a pause. “You’re... friends with Satoru and them?”

Not even fake recognition. Just stating facts like a very underpaid receptionist.

Sukuna smiled, the kind of smile that said, I’m confused but I want more of this suffering.

“Yeah.” “Cool.”

You turned back to your drink like he hadn’t just walked over here, full of unearned confidence and possibly cologne.

He’d once had a girl cry because he forgot to like her Instagram story, and now he was sitting next to a woman who couldn’t be bothered to pretend to know who he was.

“You’re hard to get a hold of,” he tried again.

You glanced sideways. “Not really. I just don’t answer if I don’t feel like it.” No shame. Just the emotional equivalent of a blank screen.

“That’s brutal.” “It’s honest.” “You ghost all your friends too?” “If I’m tired, yeah.” “That’s it?” “...Should there be more?”

You were so damn dry, it felt like talking to someone whose phone was stuck on Do Not Disturb—except it was you in real life.

“Right. So what do you do when you’re not ghosting humanity?” “Work. Sleep. Eat.” “Sounds thrilling.” “I’m living the dream.”

You said it so flatly that it nearly knocked the sarcasm out of him.

He leaned back, watching you sip your drink like he was studying a wild animal he wasn’t allowed to pet. He studied your face. Still unreadable.

Sukuna rubbed the back of his neck, and for the first time in a long time, didn’t know what to say next.

You turned back to your drink.

“...You’re not going to ask for my number, are you?” you asked casually.

He blinked. “Was thinking about it.”

You hummed. “Don’t bother if you’re expecting good morning texts.” “Oh, so you do give your number out.” “Occasionally. To people who can handle the silence.”

He exhaled through a laugh, suddenly unsure if he was flirting or being screened for a psychological experiment.

You looked over again, one brow raised. “Still want it?”

Sukuna grinned, absolutely down bad already.

“Yeah,” he said. “I really, really do.”

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Day 1 Sukuna waited two hours before texting you. Not because he was playing it cool—he actually just stared at your contact name for that long, wondering if “Y/N 😐” was appropriate or too accurate.

[ Sukuna | 8:42 PM ]

hey, it’s me from the bar. the tall one. tattoos.

He stared at the screen. Three dots appeared.

Then vanished.

He went through five stages of grief before your reply finally came.

[ Y/N | 8:47 PM ]

ok

That was it. Just ok.

You can kill him, and he’d say thank you.

Day 3 Sukuna, being bold (read: delusional), texted again.

[ Sukuna | 2:13 PM ]

you ever wanna get coffee or is texting already too much interaction for you

[ Y/N | 2:56 PM ]

depends do i have to sit and talk to you for a full hour or can i just get coffee and leave

He read it five times. Was she joking? Was this her flirting? Was this a cry for help??

[ Sukuna | 2:57 PM ]

that was cold i think i liked it

[ Y/N | 3:10 PM ]

ok then get coffee i don’t mind sitting i just don’t like people who chew loud

[ Sukuna | 3:11 PM ]

…do i look like a loud chewer to you??

[ Y/N | 3:13 PM ]

we’ll see

This was, by far, the most energy you’d given him, and he celebrated like he just won the lottery.

Date Day

You showed up exactly on time. Not early. Not fashionably late. Just… on time. Dressed in all black again, minimal effort but somehow looking like you were cast in an expensive indie film.

He opened the café door for you.

You nodded. “Thanks.” That was it.

You ordered a black coffee. No sugar, no milk. Just like your personality. He got some sweet sugary thing and decided not to comment out of fear you’d actually judge him out loud.

Ten minutes in, you said nothing.

Fifteen minutes in, still nothing.

Sukuna, finally: “Do you always just… sit in silence?” You sipped your coffee. “Only when there’s nothing important to say.” He blinked. “You don’t believe in small talk?” You made a face. “It’s like diet conversation. Empty calories.”

He nearly dropped his drink. “Jesus Christ.” You shrugged. “What?”

He leaned back and stared at you. “You’re either going to ruin my life or accidentally fix it.”

You stirred your coffee, unfazed. “50/50 chance. Either way, not my problem.”

Day 5

He sent a voice note.

Which was already wildly out of character, but he couldn’t help it—texting wasn’t working and the silence from you was making him feral.

He tried to sound casual. Cool. Unbothered.

But he played it back twelve times before hitting send.

[Voice Note – 0:07] “Hey. I saw this ugly painting today that reminded me of you. Thought that was romantic. Hope your coffee sucked without me.”

No response.

Then—

[ Y/N | 6:03 PM ] i didn’t get coffee today but if i did, it would’ve tasted fine you’re not the milk or the sugar

He laid down on the floor. Just. Flat. Face to the hardwood.

Day 6

He invited you to a small art exhibit.

You agreed.

Sort of.

[ Y/N | 1:32 PM ] only if you don’t talk through the whole thing

He kept his mouth shut the entire time.

Except once, when you stopped in front of a painting and tilted your head.

“Looks like something you’d like,” he said.

You glanced at him. “Because it’s moody and boring?”

“No. Because it’s sharp. Kind of brutal. But it still makes you stop and stare.”

You didn’t say anything.

But he saw your lip twitch like you were trying very hard not to smile.

Day 10

He didn’t text.

You didn’t either.

He paced.

Did pushups.

Almost posted a thirst trap but deleted it last second because what if you thought it was about you?

It was about you.

Everything is.

Day 18

He texts you at 2AM.

He’s been staring at the ceiling for hours, trying to figure out what your favorite color is like it’s a government secret.

[ Sukuna | 2:01 AM ] be honest. what color do you think you are?

You reply instantly.

[ Y/N | 2:02 AM ] dark green. like the kind that looks black until you shine a light on it.

He stares at that.

Then stares at the ceiling again.

Then texts back:

[ Sukuna | 2:04 AM ] yeah i think i’m completely fucked

You don’t reply.

Because you know.

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