rae🌻

The argument had started over nothing— the way most arguments do, but only the ones that cut the deepest. You had made an offhand comment about him cancelling dinner again, something light, something that was supposed to be a joke, and Reiner had gone very still. He was leaning against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed over his chest, his jaw set, his golden eyes fixed somewhere past your shoulder like he couldn't quite bring himself to look at you directly.

"I just forgot," he said flatly. "It won't happen again."

"It's not about forgetting," you told him. "It's the third time this month, Reiner. You've been so distant lately and I don't understand why."

"I'm not distant—"

"You barely talk to me anymore."

Something shifted in his expression at that— a brief, painful flicker that he smoothed over before you could name it. "I've just been busy."

"You haven't been busy." Your voice was quieter now, which was somehow worse than if you'd raised it. "You've been right here and it still feels like you're somewhere else. I live with you, I know you— I notice."

"Then maybe you should stop noticing so much." That landed wrong and he knew it the second it left his mouth— you saw it in the way his shoulders drew up, the way his throat worked. He didn't take it back, though— as Reiner never quite knew how to take things back gracefully.

"Is that what you want?" you asked. "You want me to stop noticing?"

"I want—" He cut himself off. "I don't know what I want."

"Then tell me what's wrong— just talk to me."

"There's nothing to talk about."

"Reiner—"

"I said there's nothing!" His voice came out sharper than he intended and he exhaled hard through his nose, looking away. The kitchen felt very small suddenly and the distance between you felt very large.

You watched him for a long moment— the rigid set of his back, the way he wouldn't look at you, the tension running through him like something tightly coiled. You knew this version of him. You'd seen it settle over him gradually over the past few weeks, like a tide coming in so slowly you hadn't noticed until the water was already at your knees.

"You've been pulling away from me," you whisper. "And I keep telling myself you need time, that I should give you space, but it's been weeks, Reiner, and it's getting worse not better." He didn't answer. "If I've done something, just tell me. If you're unhappy, tell me—"

"I'm not—" He stopped again, dragging a hand over his face. "I'm not unhappy."

"Then what are you?" The silence stretched long enough that you thought he wasn't going to answer. He was staring at the floor, his broad shoulders curved inward like he was trying to make himself smaller, which was almost absurd given the sheer size of him. Reiner had always taken up so much physical space— and watching him try to disappear into himself was like watching something quietly break. "Reiner," you said softly. "Please."

"I just think—" He stopped, taking a deep, controlled breath. "I keep thinking you're going to leave."

The words fell into the room like something heavy dropped from a great height. You went very still. "What?" 

He finally looked at you. His jaw was clenched tight and he looked, somehow, both completely certain of what he'd just said and absolutely terrified to have said it. "I keep thinking at some point you're going to realise this was a mistake," he said, and his voice was steady in the awful careful way of someone trying very hard to keep it that way. "That I was a mistake. And I think I've been trying to make it easier— for both of us— when you leave me. So it doesn't hurt as much when it happens."

You stared at him. "That's why you've been pulling away," you said slowly, the realisation hitting you. "You've been pulling away because you think I'm going to leave, so you're— what? Getting a head start?"

He looked away again. That was answer enough for you. "Reiner." You didn't know whether you wanted to cry or shake him. "Why would I leave?"

"Because you know what I did. You know who I am— who I was." He said it simply, quietly, like a fact being stated rather than a confession being made— and that was somehow the most painful part of it. He wasn't asking for absolution, he wasn't even asking you to argue with him. He had simply decided this was true and had been quietly building the distance between you as a kind of preemptive grief. "You know everything, you know all of it and you stay anyway and I don't— I can't make sense of that. I can't make sense of someone like you choosing someone like me, and the longer this goes on the more I think you must just not have realised how stupid it is yet."

He said it like it was nothing. Like it was just an ordinary sentence. And then something in his face cracked open and he pressed his mouth into a hard line, looking up at the ceiling and you realised with a slow, lurching jolt that he was trying not to cry.

You had barely ever seen Reiner cry, maybe the one time many years ago. But you had never seen his face do what it was doing now— that careful terrible effort of keeping himself together, his chin tilted up, his throat working, his eyes glassy in a way he clearly thought you couldn't see from across the room.

You crossed the kitchen in four steps.

He heard you coming and turned slightly away— a reflex, that old instinct toward self-protection— but he didn't move fast enough, or maybe some quieter part of him didn't want to. You slid your arms around him from behind, pressing your face between his shoulder blades, and felt the full-body flinch that moved through him, the sharp intake of breath.

"Don't leave me," he whispered, his voice strained. "Please," he added, quieter, and you felt it— the way his voice fractured on that single word, the way his ribs expanded with a breath that shook on the way out. His hands found your arms where they wrapped around him and he gripped them hard. Not pushing you away, but holding you there.

"I'm not going anywhere," you said into his back. You pressed closer to him, if that was even possible. “And I need you to listen to me, Reiner, because I need you to actually hear this and not just let it pass through you. You are not something I stumbled into by accident. You are not a mistake I haven't caught up with yet. I know what you did. I know all of it. I have known all of it for a long time and I am still here, and I am not here out of pity and I am not here because I haven't thought it through. I'm here because you are the person I want to be here with. You are the person I love."

His grip on your arms tightened. "I don't think I’ll ever understand that," he said roughly. 

"You don't have to understand it. You just have to believe it." You turned your face to press your cheek against his spine. You could feel the tension still running through him, but underneath it something had begun to ease— barely, incrementally, the way a fist slowly opens. "But when you pull away from me, Reiner, when you put all that distance between us— it doesn't protect me. It just….hurts. It just makes me feel like I'm already losing you."

He turned then, and you let him, loosening your hold enough to let him move. He turned to face you and he looked— exhausted, you thought, worn all the way through. Up close his eyes were wet and he wasn't quite looking at you, his gaze somewhere just below your face, his jaw working like he was searching for something to say and coming up empty.

You brought your hand up to his face. He closed his eyes, leaning into your touch. "You are allowed to be loved," you said quietly. "Even now. You are allowed to have this."

He made a sound that wasn't quite a word. Low and broken and pressed out from somewhere deep in his chest, like something that had been held there under pressure for a very long time finally finding a way out. His forehead dropped to yours and you felt the tremor that moved through him— not the shaking of a man falling apart, but of a man who has been holding himself entirely rigid for months and has forgotten that he doesn't always have to.

"I'm scared," he admitted, barely above a whisper. "Every day. I'm scared you'll wake up and— and you’ll see it. See the real me."

"I see the real you," you told him. "I see all of it. And I'm still here— and I will still be here tomorrow. I love you— I love you everyday, even the days you make it difficult, even the days you're somewhere I can't reach. I love you and I am not going anywhere."

Something in his expression cracked open, soft and unguarded, and he closed his eyes for just a moment. When he opened them again he was looking at you like you were the only solid thing in the room.

"I love you too," he whispered quietly. "I don't— I don't understand why you're still here with me, but I love you. More than I know what to do with."

You smiled at that, small and helpless, and he made a low sound and pulled you back up to him— one hand cradling the back of your head, tilting your face toward his— and kissed you slowly and carefully, the way he always did when he was trying to say something he didn't have words for. You felt his exhale against your mouth, felt his hand tighten gently in your hair. It wasn't desperate and it wasn't rushed; it was just him, quiet and certain, saying the only thing left to say.

There’s a popular novel in Paradis right now. Everyone is aware of it, including the Scouts. There’s also one thing they all know: Levi is a huge fan of a character from that book.

Not even the main character, just a side character.

Hange once asked him, “Why do you like that character so much? What if the author kills her next?”

Levi immediately glared at them. “Watch your mouth, Four-Eyes.” He doesn’t play around when it comes to you.

The series is still ongoing. A few characters have already died, and he will not let the author kill you too. He has the writer’s home address written down, just in case.

In Levi’s room, he has his tea collection on the left side and books and drawings of you on the right. He doesn’t know how to draw, so he secretly hired someone who does in order to see what you look like. Just as he had imagined, you’re perfect. He always looks at your face every night before going to sleep and every morning before leaving for work.

There was also a time when Levi read a scene in which a guy was trying to flirt with you. It annoyed him so much that he wanted to jump into the book so that he could take care of him. He felt a huge sense of relief when the guy died five chapters later.

In truth, you’re not really interested in romance or finding a partner. That’s a good thing because he’s free to imagine all kinds of scenarios in which he’s with you.

The author will release the new book in six months, so Levi has to wait in the meantime. He knows he isn’t the only one who likes your character, and that’s when he discovers something after catching Jean reading a book.

“Why are you smiling like an idiot?” he asked, which made Jean instantly put the book aside and stand up, looking at him.

“C-captain.”

“Training has already started, and you’re back here doing some shit.”

“Sorry, Captain. I’ll get going now!” Jean ran away before Levi could scold him any further. Now, he is left standing there with the book on the floor, which he picks up.

He opens it and starts reading the first part, surprised to see your name there. He checks the cover to see whether the author has released a new book, but it isn’t the same one; a different person wrote it. The story focuses more on romance, with you as the main character, while the love interest is not a named character but the reader, in this case, Levi. He has never read anything like this before, and he wants more of it.

He takes it with him to his room, unaware that Jean will later return to retrieve it, only to find that it's already gone.

Later that night, he properly reads the whole thing. When he reaches the scene in which the two of you kiss for the first time, his cheeks grow warm, and he has to close the book to calm himself down for a moment.

Levi absolutely loves it, and from that day on, he learns the word “fanfic.”

Ficlet Collection | Masterlist

Professor Hange had a system for pairing students that involved a jar, folded slips of paper, and what she described as the beautiful chaos of randomness— which was academic language for I couldn't be bothered assigning partners and everyone in the room knew it.

"The universe decides!" she announced, shaking the jar with the enthusiasm of someone who'd had too much coffee before a nine AM lecture, her goggles pushed up on her forehead from whatever she'd been doing before this. "Not me. Not who sits next to who. The universe!"

You were three rows from the front of Lab 104 with your notebook open to a blank page, because you were a psychology student doing a compulsory natural science elective and you'd been told bacteria growth was the simplest to understand, and so far Professor Hange had been talking for forty minutes and you still weren't entirely sure what the project was.

"Partners will be read out," Hange continued, fishing in the jar. "Four weeks you will have to work with your partner. Bacteria cultures— you grow them, you watch them, you log the data, you write it up. Simple and beautiful! Like life." She peered at the first slip. "Okay. First pair—"

You wrote bacteria cultures in your notebook and underlined it.

"Reiner Braun," Hange read, "and—" she squinted at the second slip and looked up, scanning the room, "—you. Third row."

You looked up. At the very back of the lecture theatre— where the university’s football team had apparently claimed the last two rows as their territory some years ago— a broad-shouldered blonde looked up from his notebook.

He wore the university's red and white varsity jacket over a dark shirt, and even sitting down the size of him was the first thing you registered, the kind of build that made the seat around him look like it had been shrunk. His eyes found yours for a fraction of a second. Then, almost immediately, he looked away. Not dismissively…..more like he'd realised he'd been caught looking.

You looked back down at your notebook. When Hange dismissed everyone to meet their partners, the room erupted into conversation.

You were pretending to reread your notes when someone stopped beside your desk. The chair next to yours scraped carefully against the floor, and you looked up.

Up close, Reiner Braun somehow seemed even bigger. His shoulders nearly brushed yours despite leaving what was probably more than enough space between the chairs. He lowered himself into the seat cautiously, almost testing whether it would survive his weight, before resting both hands on the desk.

There was something oddly gentle about the way he moved.

"Hey." His voice was lower than you'd expected. "I'm Reiner."

"I know." The words escaped before you thought about them. "Hange announced it to the entire room."

"...Right." His ears pinkened almost instantly as a tiny laugh escaped him through his nose. "I'm not—" He rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm not very good at meeting people."

That surprised you. Not because he seemed arrogant, but because you'd assumed someone who captained the university football team spent half their life talking to strangers. Instead he was looking determinedly somewhere around your shoulder, like making eye contact required conscious effort.

You found yourself studying him while he wasn't looking, to his strong jaw where a few day's worth of blond stubble catching the fluorescent light. You looked down to notice he had long fingers with calloused knuckles— and when he finally glanced over, his eyes caught yours so suddenly you forgot to look away.

"So..." you began. "You're the football captain?"

"...Yeah."

"How do you give motivational speeches if saying hello nearly killed you?"

For a second he simply stared, then one corner of his mouth twitched. "That's different."

"How?"

"I know them." His smile widened just enough to soften every sharp edge of his face. "It's easier when you already know people."

"You'll know me in four weeks," you said. "We're growing bacteria together…..that's pretty intimate."

Slowly and reluctantly a small smile appeared, and it rearranged his face so completely that you had to physically not react to it, then he laughed. Short and real and slightly surprised at itself. You exchanged numbers, and you told yourself it was just for the project.

You told Sasha about it that evening. Sasha was your roommate, your best friend, and possibly the most energetic person you’d ever met— which in a first year hall was a genuinely competitive category. She was cross-legged on her bed working through what appeared to be her fifth snack of the day when you came in and dropped your bag.

"How was the science thing?" she mumbled through a face full of cereal.

"I got paired with the football captain," you groaned.

She stopped chewing. "Reiner Braun?"

"You know him?"

"Everyone knows him," she said. "He's like, the only reason our college ever wins those stupid football tournaments. Was he huge up close?"

"I guess?" 

Sasha made a sound that communicated volumes, and then went back to eating. You lay on your bed and looked at the ceiling and told yourself that the fact that you'd thought about the way he'd smiled three distinct times since leaving the lecture hall was completely normal. Your phone suddenly buzzed next to you. 

Reiner: this is reiner from bio :) hange sent the project brief, did you get it?

You: hey, yeah I got it. also i assumed this was reiner from bio. I don't actually know any other reiners….

A minute passed before the typing bubble appeared.

Reiner: fair

A few seconds later:

Reiner: we need to get everything set up by thursday. you free wednesday afternoon?

You: lecture until 3. after that?

Reiner: practice finishes at 4. labs at 4:30?

You: Sounds good.

You: See you then, Braun.

His only reply was a thumbs-up, and for some reason, that made you smile.

"What are you smiling at on your phone?" Sasha calls from the other side of the room.

"Good night, Sasha."

The Wednesday lab session was meant to be an hour. It lasted three. You grabbed a table by the window that overlooked the courtyard, where the oak had gone deep red and was dropping leaves onto the stone path below. Reiner arrived four minutes after you, slightly out of breath, still in a training kit— dark joggers, a hoodie, and his hair damp at the temples. He sat down, said "sorry, overran" and looked like he meant it.

"You could have showered," you remind him.

"Didn't want to be late," he said, and opened the project brief. You then watched him read it, all of it. Every bullet point, every footnote, the supplementary guidance at the bottom that nobody else was going to read. He read it the way he apparently did everything— fully, without skimming, like he'd decided this was the task and so he was going to do the task. 

Not because the project was complicated— Hange had meant it when she said it was simple. Bacteria cultures on agar plates from the biology prep room, check them every two days, log the growth rate, write up the pattern. As Reiner read through the brief he said, very seriously: "So we're basically just watching things happen slowly and writing it down."

"That's also what therapy is," you tell him.

He looked up. "Are you going to make everything about psychology?" 

"It's what I'm paying twenty thousand a year to learn," you remind him. "So probably yes."

"Fair enough," he said, and went back to the brief with the heavy, methodical focus you'd already noticed. In the prep room he sanitised his hands without being asked, checked each label twice, followed every step in order with eased practice.

"You've done this before?" you questioned him.

He shook his head. "No."

You snorted slightly. "Well, you look like you have."

"My roommate Bertholdt's a biology major." Something about the way he said it made you smile. "I’ve seen him do things like this before. He gets annoyed when people cut corners."

"So you've absorbed his habits?"

"I guess….?" He shrugged, almost sheepishly. "I've always figured if someone knows more than me, I should probably pay attention."

It was such an uncomplicated answer that it caught you off guard. By the time the cultures had been sealed, labelled and tucked away in the storage fridge, the conversation had drifted somewhere beyond bacteria.

"So," you said as the two of you settled back down at one of the tables, "tell me about football."

He blinked. "You actually want to know?"

"I wouldn't have asked otherwise."

For a second he looked genuinely surprised. Then, almost cautiously, he started talking. At first it was the basics, The sort of explanation he'd probably given dozens of people who'd asked out of politeness.

But somewhere along the way, he forgot to keep it simple. "Every play's basically a hypothesis," he said, leaning forward so he was closer to you without seeming to realise he was doing it. "You think something's going to happen, then you've got maybe two seconds to figure out if you were wrong or not."

"So football's just……one big science experiment?"

"...Pretty much."

There was something different about him now. The hesitancy between you two had melted away without either of you noticing. His voice carried more confidence, his hands moved as he spoke, and every now and then he'd catch himself rambling, stop abruptly, apologise, and you'd immediately tell him to keep going. You found yourself liking this version of him— mainly because it felt like the version he only showed people once he'd decided they were worth talking to.

At some point the project notes were pushed aside. By the time you looked up again, the evening light beyond the windows had faded into darkness.

Reiner checked his watch and sighed. "I should….uh— probably go."

"What time you got practice tomorrow?"

"Six."

You stared at him. "In the morning?" He nodded as you scoffed. "That's inhumane."

"It's football."

"You all need help."

A laugh escaped him— soft, genuine, completely unforced, and you were beginning to realise it was your favourite sound.

The two of you left together, the cold evening air meeting you the moment the library doors slid open. Students wandered across campus in little groups, bundled up against the autumn chill, while the lamps lining the paths cast warm pools of light across the pavement. For a moment you both lingered at the top of the steps.

"This was..." Reiner rubbed the back of his neck, searching for the words. "...really nice." The slight surprise in his voice made you wonder how many study sessions he'd expected to spend sitting in awkward silence. 

"We should do it again next week," you smile at him. 

He nodded almost immediately. "Yeah." A pause. "I'd like that."

"So would I."

You split off in opposite directions, and you'd barely reached the end of the path before your phone vibrated.

Reiner: get home safe :) 

You looked down at the message longer than you probably should have.

You: You too, Braun.

The texts didn't stop. They started project-adjacent and became, without either of you addressing the transition, just talking about anything and everything. He sent you a photo of the campus at sunrise one morning— the athletics field, all mist and early light— captioned simply thought you'd like this :). You did like it. You told him so and didn't examine what it meant that he'd thought of you specifically at six AM standing on a foggy football field.

He was funnier over text, maybe even flirty sometimes. The shyness that showed up in person was mostly absent in messages, and what came through instead was dry and self-aware and occasionally sharp enough that you laughed out loud in your room or blush at things he said. He asked good questions. Not conversational-filler questions— real ones, the kind that meant he'd been listening and was curious about the answer.

You were, you admitted to yourself somewhere around the end of week two, starting to like him. Not just as a lab partner, not just as someone interesting to talk to— not even as a friend. It was that specific, inconvenient kind of liking where you caught yourself thinking about him in the gaps of your day and not minding that you were.

You hadn't done anything about it. You were biding your time, which was a thing you did— watching, waiting, making sure you had the full picture before you moved. What you had so far was a man who sent you sunrise photos and went pink when you complimented him and was building towards something he didn't quite have the words for yet.

The second lab session was quieter than the first.

He'd arrived looking like the week had been heavy on him— not visibly, not to most people, but you'd been paying attention long enough now to read the specific stillness of him when something was sitting on him versus the comfortable stillness of someone who was fine.

Halfway through logging the culture data he put his pen down.

You glance sideways at him. "......You alright?"

"Yeah," he sighed. Then: "No. Not really."

"Okay," you said carefully. “Well….what’s up?” 

He looked at the table. "I get these— periods," he said, carefully. "Where everything feels wrong even when nothing's technically wrong. Like I'm not good enough no matter what I do. How well we played, how well training went, what grades I got— it doesn't matter. I’m still the worst person in the room." He paused. "I've had depression since I was about sixteen. It's managed. I have a therapist. But sometimes it comes back around for a while and I can't— I can't make myself believe that I'm doing okay."

You didn't say anything for a moment. You let it settle. "Sorry, I didn't mean to bother you with my problems," he stampers. "I just—"

"Reiner," you interrupt him firmly. "It doesn't bother me." You looked at him steadily. "You just told me something you're struggling with. That's not a bother to me at all. That's just— being honest with someone."

Reiner exhaled. "I don't do that very often," he admits.

"I know," you said. "I've noticed."

"What else have you noticed?" he said, and it came out slightly differently than a casual question— like he actually wanted to know, like the answer mattered to him.

"That you hold yourself to a standard nobody set for you," you reply. "That you're the hardest person on yourself. That you're genuinely kind and you think it makes you look soft and it doesn't." You held his gaze. "And that you're funnier than you let most people see."

The silence, followed by a slight chuckle from Reiner. "I don't know what to do with you," he admits quietly. Not a complaint….but maybe something else.

"You don't have to do anything with me," you smile. "Just let me be your friend."

He looked at you for a long moment with the amber eyes soft and a little undone. "Yeah," he said. "Okay."

Hange gave you an A-minus on the project and wrote in the margin: excellent pattern recognition, strong analysis. 

P.S. you two should get coffee and I say that as a scientist who has observed compelling evidence…..

You showed Reiner the paper. He read the margin note and went pink immediately, which was by now one of your favourite things he did.

"She's extremely unprofessional," he groans.

"Hmm, but she's accurate.” 

He looked at you. "Yeah," he said. "She is."

"So," you said.

"So," he repeats.

"Coffee?"

The slow smile. The reluctant, real one. "Coffee," he said.

Coffee was at the small place on the edge of campus that had mismatched chairs and good pastries and was never too loud to talk. You sat across from him at a table by the window and he wrapped both hands around his mug the way large people did with small cups and you thought, not for the first time: he is genuinely very attractive and this is becoming a more pressing problem by the day.

"Can I ask you something?" you blurt out.

"You always ask before you ask things," he said. "Just ask."

"Do you like it?" you ask. "The captain thing. The whole—" you gestured, "—being the face of the team and basically the university as well."

He considered it honestly, the way he considered most things. "I like that it matters to them," he said. "I like that when I say something before a game it changes how they go out there. That part's real." He looked at the coffee. "The rest of it— the recognition, the social stuff, everyone knowing your name— I could live without that."

"What do you actually want?" you asked him. "After all this."

He looked up. "Something quiet," he said, simply. "I want something that's just mine. Not—" He paused. "Not performing for people all the time."

"Then build that.”

"It's not—"

"I know it's not simple," you admit. "But you're already describing a life you actually want. That's already the first step done.”

He looked at you with the expression he sometimes had— slightly undone, like you'd said the thing he'd been thinking and hadn't expected to hear from outside his own head. "How do you do that?" he asked quietly.

"Do what?"

"Say exactly the right thing.” 

"Psychology degree," you smile. "And I've been paying attention to you specifically."

The pink flush appeared across his cheeks. "Specifically?" He repeated.

He took another sip of his coffee, clearly deciding that was safer than looking at you. You smiled to yourself. There was something about watching Reiner get flustered that you'd discovered you enjoyed far too much.

The conversation moved on eventually, drifting through easier things. Classes. The ridiculous price of coffee on campus. Reiner told you about an upcoming practice, and you asked enough questions that he eventually started explaining the differences between the offensive and defensive formations again, drawing little diagrams on the paper napkin between you.

You pretended to understand……mostly. By the time you left the café, the afternoon had slipped towards evening. You walked together for a while, neither of you in any particular hurry to split off. There was something easy about being beside him now.

A month ago, he'd barely been able to introduce himself without looking like he wanted the floor to swallow him. You were starting to wonder when, exactly, you'd stopped thinking of him as your lab partner. You reached the path where you normally went separate ways.

"Hey," Reiner said.

You turned. "Yeah?"

He had his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold. For a moment he looked like he was debating whether or not to say whatever had just occurred to him.

Then he glanced at you.

"We've got a game Saturday." His gaze dropped briefly to the pavement. "It's a home game."

There was another pause. You waited. "And..." He cleared his throat. "If you're free, you could come."

You raised an eyebrow. "Could?"

He looked faintly embarrassed. "I mean— if you want to."

"Are you asking me to come?"

"Yeah." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I think I'm asking."

You smiled. "Then yes."

His head lifted. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I'd like to see you play."

The smile that appeared on his face was immediate, but not the shy little smile he'd been giving you since you'd met. This one was broad and almost boyish, lighting up his whole face before he seemed to realise how obvious his reaction was. "Okay."

"You sound surprised?"

"I'm not." He laughed quietly. "I just wasn't sure you'd actually want to come."

"Why wouldn't I?"

"I don't know." He shrugged. "You don't exactly strike me as a ‘football’ person."

"I'm not…"

"Then why come?"

You looked at him. "Because you asked me."

That stopped him— and for a second, he simply stared at you, the colour returning to his cheeks. "Oh."

You smiled as you turned to start walking away. "See you Saturday, Braun."

"Yeah." He watched you walk away for several seconds before finally turning in the opposite direction.You didn't make it more than halfway across campus before your phone buzzed, and you pulled it out to see who it was. 

Reiner: btw

Reiner: the game starts at 1 :)

You smiled.

You: I'll remember.

Three dots appeared.

Reiner: wear something warm

You: Is that your professional football advice?

Reiner: yes

You: very helpful.

You spent the rest of the week looking forward to Saturday far more than you were willing to admit. You'd told yourself all week that you were only going because Reiner had asked you to. It wasn't a date— It wasn't anything. It was a home game, and you were going to sit in the stands, watch your friend play, and then go home.

That was the sensible interpretation, but it was also becoming increasingly difficult to believe. You forced Sasha to come with you, the two of you joining the stream of students making their way through the gates. The entire campus seemed to have turned red and white for the afternoon. Flags hung from the railings, people wore Warriors jerseys over their coats, and music thumped through the speakers above the entrance as the crowd filtered into the stands. You found seats roughly halfway up, with a good view of the field, and you were still taking your coat off when the teams came out. Your eyes found Reiner straight away, and for a moment, you forgot that you'd seen him before.

You'd spent the last month sitting across from him in labs and cafés, watching him push his blonde hair back when he was concentrating, watching his hands move over pages of notes, watching that reluctant smile appear whenever you managed to make him laugh.

You'd seen him in hoodies, his varsity jacket— you'd seen him looking tired and half-asleep at eight in the morning, but none of those things had prepared you for him in a football uniform.

The red Warriors jersey stretched across his shoulders and chest, the white number standing out against the fabric. His arms were bare from the elbows down, thick with muscle, and dark athletic tape wrapped around his wrists. The uniform trousers only made the size of his legs more obvious, built from years of training rather than anything remotely subtle. His helmet was tucked beneath one arm as he jogged onto the field, and his expression had already changed.

He looked serious, focused and completely at ease, and you stared straight at him. Beside you, Sasha settled into her seat and followed your line of sight and let out a small giggle, but you didn't look at her. Your attention was already fixed on Reiner.

He jogged towards the rest of the team, exchanging a few words with one of the other players before putting his helmet on. He adjusted the chin strap, rolled his shoulders once, then pulled his gloves tighter around his hands. You'd spent weeks getting to know him as the quiet guy who sometimes struggled to meet your eyes, and now you were sitting in a crowded stadium watching that same man prepare to play football in front of hundreds of people. And, unfortunately, he looked incredibly fucking hot doing it. The whistle blew, and the game began.

You'd listened to enough of Reiner's explanations that you could actually follow what was happening now. You understood the formations and the basics, but understanding the game didn't make watching him any less distracting. If anything, it made it worse.

Because now you understood what you were looking at.

Reiner wasn't simply big, but he was powerful. The first time he collided with an opposing player, the sound carried through the stadium, and he drove forward with enough force to send the other player stumbling backwards, arms wrapping around him as Reiner forced him off his line before throwing him aside. You actually leaned forward, your eyes following him.

He was fast, too, that was the part you hadn't expected. For someone built like him, he moved with startling speed, covering the field in long, powerful strides. His jersey sleeves pulled tight around his upper arms whenever he moved, the muscles in his forearms flexing beneath the gloves and tape. Sweat had already begun to darken the hair at his temples despite the cold, and every time he pulled his helmet off during a break, his blonde hair was flattened messily against his forehead.

You were beginning to understand why people came to these games, as It probably wasn't entirely about the sport....at least, it wasn't for you anymore. By the end of the first quarter, you were invested enough to understand why the crowd kept reacting before you did. A cheer would go up and you'd immediately look for Reiner, following him through the mass of red jerseys until you found him again.

At one point, he came off the field and pulled his helmet off. His hair was damp and messy, pushed back with one hand as he bent forward, resting his palms against his thighs while he caught his breath. His chest rose and fell beneath the jersey, and his jaw was tight with concentration. You had to consciously remind yourself to look somewhere else, but you failed.

The game became more physical as the second quarter progressed. Tackles came harder. Players collided in violent bursts, helmets knocking together, bodies crashing into the turf. Reiner seemed almost impossible to move.

Then, halfway through the second quarter, Reiner looked up and your eyes met briefly. He was still wearing his helmet, so you couldn't see all of his expression, but you saw his eyes soften, and the corner of his mouth lifted. You smiled before you could stop yourself. 

The stadium erupted when the Warriors won the game, and you were standing before you realised it. Your hands were clapping with everyone else's, your heart pounding, your eyes fixed on Reiner as he pushed himself upright after the final touchdown. You stood with the rest of the crowd, applauding as Reiner was surrounded by his teammates, laughing now, helmet tucked beneath his arm.

He looked happy, really happy, and you couldn't stop smiling. You stayed until the crowd began to thin, eventually making your way towards the exit with Sasha beside you, and you'd barely stepped outside when your phone buzzed.

You already knew who it was.

Reiner: you still here?

You smiled.

You: yeah, but just leaving now

Reiner: oh okay

Reiner: i wanted to say thank you

You: for what?

Reiner: coming

You looked back towards the stadium behind you.

You: you played really well, Braun.

Reiner: you actually watched?

You: I was there, wasn't I?

You: I even understand what a touchdown is now.

Reiner: wow

Reiner: i'm impressed

You smiled at the screen.

You: seriously, though. You were really good.

The typing bubble appeared almost immediately.

Reiner: that means a lot coming from you :)

You tucked your phone into your coat pocket, but before you could put it away, Sasha spoke beside you. "I'm going out with Mikasa tonight." 

You looked over. "Oh?"

"Yeah. We're grabbing food and then probably going back to her place." She shrugged. "You coming?"

You thought about it for a second. "I think I'll stay in."

Sasha gave you a look but didn't comment, already turning her attention back to her phone as your own phone buzzed again.

Reiner: what you doing tonight?

You looked at the message for a moment.

You: actually, my roommate's going out with a friend

You: so I'll have the room to myself

Three dots appeared. Disappeared, then appeared again.

Reiner: oh

You: I was thinking...

You hesitated before typing the next message.

You: If you don't have anything planned, you could come over?

The reply came so quickly you almost laughed.

Reiner: yes

Reiner: i'd like that

You: you don't have to say yes just because I asked lol

Reiner: i'm not

You: You have a winning game to celebrate thou

Reiner: i know

You: and your teammates will probably be going out

Reiner: probably

You: ......

You: so you're sure you'd rather come to my dorm?

Reiner: yes

Reiner: definitely

You smiled.

You: You don't want to go celebrate with everyone?

Reiner: i already celebrated

Reiner: we won

Reiner: now i want to see you

You stared at the screen and your heart gave an annoyingly enthusiastic little beat.

You: you just saw me lol

Reiner: i know

Reiner: but that was like

Reiner: across a stadium

Reiner: doesn't count

You laughed softly.

You: You're needy huh

Reiner: maybe

Reiner: is that bad?

You smiled.

You: No :)

Reiner: good

Reiner: because i'd rather hang out with you

You read that twice.

You: okay then, Braun. come over

Reiner: okay :)

Reiner: what are we doing?

You: I don't know. Watching a movie?

Reiner: your choice

You smiled down at the screen.

You: What time?

Reiner: whenever you want

You: Seven?

Reiner: seven works

A second later:

Reiner: see you at seven?

You smiled.

You: See you at seven.

Reiner: okay

Reiner: looking forward to it

You locked your phone and slipped it into your pocket, trying unsuccessfully to hide the smile that had settled across your face.

He showed up a little after seven in the red varsity jacket he'd worn to the game, thrown over a dark shirt, his hair still slightly damp from the shower he'd taken after the final whistle. When you opened the door, you had to remind yourself that this was supposed to be a normal evening between two friends and not an opportunity to stand there staring at him like you'd forgotten how people worked.

"Hi," he said, giving you that small, slightly shy smile you'd become embarrassingly fond of.

"Hi. Come in."

He stepped inside, glancing around your dorm room before looking back at you. "You weren't joking about the movie?"

"I never joke,” you try to say in your most serious tone. 

"You absolutely do."

"Okay, sometimes."

He laughed under his breath as he took off his jacket, and you caught yourself watching the movement of his shoulders beneath his shirt before forcing your attention elsewhere. "I brought snacks," he said, holding up a bag.

You frown at him. "You didn't have to."

"I wanted to."

You smiled. "Well, that's very thoughtful."

"I can be thoughtful."

"I've noticed."

He gave you a look at that, the faint pink already appearing at the back of his neck. "Are you going to make me regret coming?"

"Hm, not yet."

You settled on the floor in front of your bed with a pile of snacks between you, your laptop balanced against a couple of books so you could both see the screen. Reiner seemed perfectly content sitting on the floor, his back resting against the side of your bed, long legs stretched out in front of him. You selected a film neither of you had seen before, and for the first twenty minutes you actually watched it...mostly.

You were increasingly aware of the fact that Reiner was sitting close enough that your knees occasionally brushed when either of you moved. Every time it happened, you told yourself not to make anything of it, and eventually he reached into the popcorn bowl at the exact same time you did. Your fingers bumped.

"Sorry," he murmured.

"You don't have to apologise every time you touch me," you tell him.

He paused. His expression had gone slightly blank, as though his brain had suddenly stopped processing the film entirely. "I—" He cleared his throat. "Right."

You smiled and took a piece of popcorn. Outside the window the campus was doing its Saturday evening thing— voices from somewhere, music from another building, the ordinary ambient noise of a university that didn't stop. In here it was warm and still and you were aware, in the specific way you'd been aware for weeks now, of exactly how close he was sitting.

He looked up at that— caught somewhere between embarrassed and something warmer— and you smiled at him and watched the pink happen and thought: I really do like him, even though it is extremely inconvenient….but I don't care—

"Can I say something?" he said suddenly, making you jump. 

"You can always say something," you said.

He looked at his hands. Then at the wall. Then, because there was nowhere else to look, at you. "When I told you," he said, carefully. "About the depression, you know the not-feeling-good-enough thing." He exhaled. "I don't tell people that. I've told Bertholdt, my therapist, and that's basically it." He paused. "I told you after knowing you for three weeks."

"I remember," you nod.

"I've been thinking about why," he said. "And I think it's because you made me feel—" He searched for the right word. "Safe. You just said okay and waited and it didn't push me for an answer. You didn't look at me differently afterward." He looked at you steadily. "Nobody does that. People either make it weird or they get uncomfortable or they tell me I seem fine, which is the worst one." He shook his head slightly. "You just— you just kept talking to me the same way, and gave me a new perspective." He was quiet for a moment. "I think that was when I knew."

"Knew what?" you asked gently.

He looked at you with the amber eyes direct and warm and not managing anything, nothing held back. "That I liked you," he said. "Properly. Not just— not just she's interesting or she's hot or whatever…..not that you're not hot— obviously you are......Anyway, what I'm trying to say is.....I actually like you— a lot. In the way that's been getting harder to ignore for about three weeks."

The room was very quiet. You looked at him. You'd been waiting for this— had known it was coming, had felt it building in every text and every time you met up and every time his eyes found yours across a room— and now that it was here you felt not the anxiety of a situation unresolved but the simple, warm certainty of one that had been decided for a while and was only now being said out loud.

"Reiner," you whisper. "I like you too."

Something shifted in his face. "And then you told me about your depression and struggles," you said, "That only made me feel it more. I thought— that's someone who is trying very hard even though it scares him. And I think that's one of the bravest things a person can do." You held his gaze. The pink was everywhere now. He looked like he was working out whether the thing he wanted to do was allowed— so you saved him waiting and leaned across the space between you and kissed him.

One second of stillness— the specific stillness of someone whose brain had caught up faster than his body— and then his hand came to your face, warm and careful, and he kissed you back slowly and deliberately, the way he did most things when they mattered to him, like he was paying full attention, like he wanted to get it right. When you pulled back his hand stayed where it was, his thumb against your cheekbone, his eyes still closed for a moment. Then they opened— golden, warm and slightly dazed.

"Was that okay?" you said, your voice slightly strained. 

The smile came— all at once, the real unguarded one that changed everything about his face, and he laughed, short and disbelieving. "Yeah," he said. "That was— yeah." His hand moved from your cheek to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, and the gentleness of it, the specific care of it, made you understand that this was just how he was going to be with you. Careful and attentive….the same way he was careful with everything that mattered to him. "You know….you could do that again," Reiner said quietly, almost careful— like he was testing whether the offer would hold. "If you wanted to..."

So you did.

You kissed him again, harder this time, and the sound he made against your mouth— a low, punched-out thing, barely audible— sent a jolt through you that landed low in your stomach. His hands found your waist, and the size of them registered now, the span of his fingers across your sides, the way his thumbs pressed into the curve above your hips as he pulled you closer. You let yourself be pulled and the shift in position put you half in his lap, one knee on either side of his thigh, and the new angle changed everything— the kiss turning messy, hungry, open-mouthed, four weeks of stolen glances in lab and deliberate seat-choices finally breaking loose.

He was so responsive. Every noise you made, every shift of your hips, he matched it, met it, gave back more. His mouth was warm and insistent against yours, his stubble rough on your chin, and when you nipped his lower lip he groaned— not loud, not performative, just a raw sound dragged up from somewhere deep in his chest, and his hands tightened on your waist. You could feel the tension in his arms, the way his biceps flexed under the sleeves where your forearms rested. His hands roamed your back, your sides, gripping the fabric of your oversized t-shirt in fistfuls, pulling it taut against you like he was afraid you'd disappear.

You ground yourself down against him. Not deliberately— not at first. Just the instinct of your body seeking friction, the way your hips had started moving on their own, chasing the pressure between your legs. But the moment you did it, the moment the seam of your leggings dragged against the hardness straining against his jeans, he gasped, and the kiss broke. His forehead dropped to yours, and his breathing went ragged— short, sharp pulls of air through his mouth, his chest heaving against yours.

"You have no idea," Reiner breathed, and his voice was wrecked already, low and scraped raw. "What you do to me—"

"Then show me," you said, and rolled your hips again. “Show me what I do—”

The friction you were causing was devastating. You could feel him— hot and rigid through the layers of denim and cotton, the length of him pressing against your core, and the angle was just right, just enough pressure on your clit to make sparks shoot up your spine. You rocked against him, slow and deliberate, and his hands flew to your thighs, gripping hard enough that you knew there'd be marks tomorrow. His head tipped back, throat exposed, and you watched the muscles in his neck work as he swallowed, as he tried to hold himself together.

"Fuck," he said it reverently like a prayer as you kissed down his neck. The skin there was hot, salty on your tongue, and you could smell him properly now— not just the soap but the musk underneath, the warm skin scent that was uniquely his. You dragged your teeth along the tendon running from his ear to his shoulder, and his hips bucked up into yours, grinding his cock against you through the layers, and the friction made you gasp against his throat.

Reiner kissed down your neck, mouth hot and open on your skin, and you arched into him, rocking, grinding, the heat building between your legs until your head swam with it. The wetness had soaked through your leggings, you could feel it, the fabric clinging to you— and every roll of your hips spread it slicker, made the friction smoother and hotter and more maddening.

"Reiner," you moaned, and his eyes snapped up to yours— blown wide, the amber darkened to something almost brown, the gold flecks swallowed by the expanded black of his pupils. His lips were parted, wet from your kisses, and his chest was heaving under his shirt the fabric stretched tight across his pecs. "I want you to fuck me."

He stilled. His hands stopped moving on your thighs. His whole body went rigid underneath you— not pulling away, not exactly, but freezing in that way he did when something mattered too much, when the stakes were too high for him to trust himself to move correctly. His throat bobbed. His eyes searched yours, and you watched him cycle through something— want and fear and something softer underneath, something that looked a lot like devotion.

"Are you— are you sure?" he said, and his voice cracked on the last word. The hesitation, the care in his voice even now, even with his cock straining against his jeans and your wetness soaking through both your layers, undid something in you. This was just who he was— the captain of the football team, the guy who could bench three hundred pounds, asking if you were sure. Like your certainty mattered more than his need, like he needed permission to want what he so obviously wanted.

So you answered him. You sat back on his thighs and pulled your shirt over your head in one clean motion, letting the fabric drop somewhere behind you, and your breasts fell free in front of his face.

He went completely silent. Not a word, not even a breath. His gaze dropped— immediate, involuntary, the kind of reflexive response that couldn't be faked— and fixed on your chest. His mouth stayed open, lips still parted from the kiss, and you watched his throat work as he swallowed hard— his hands had been resting on your thighs, and they lifted now, hovering in the air between you, trembling slightly. Not shaking— trembling. A fine, barely-visible vibration in his thick fingers, like the rest of him was holding so still that the suppressed energy had nowhere to go but into his hands.

He touched you like he was afraid to break something. Fingertips first, barely grazing, the pads of his thumbs tracing the curve of the underside of your breast so lightly it raised goosebumps across your skin. His breath came out in a shaky rush, and his eyes flicked up to yours— checking, still checking, even now— and you nodded, and that was all he needed.

The sound that came out of him was deep and guttural, something from the base of his chest, and his hands came up fully, cupping both of your breasts, and the shock of it— the warmth and pressure of his wide palms against your skin, the way his fingers splayed and squeezed— punched a moan out of you. His thumbs brushed over your nipples, back and forth, and the friction of his calluses against the sensitive peaks sent sparks straight down your stomach, straight between your legs, and you grabbed his shoulders to steady yourself.

"Fuck" he muttered, and his voice sounded nothing like it usually did— nothing like the steady, measured tone he usually had This was raw, wrecked, and then he leaned in, and his mouth found your skin.

He was all need. His mouth was hot and wet on your breast, tongue circling your nipple before his lips closed around it and sucked, and your head fell back, your spine arching, pushing yourself into his mouth. His other hand squeezed and kneaded your other breast, thumb rolling the nipple, and the dual sensation— his mouth on one side, his hand on the other— made your hips grind down into him involuntarily, chasing the friction, the pressure, anything.

He groaned against your skin, the vibration traveling through your chest, and his free hand slid to your lower back, pressing you down against him, and you felt how hard he was— fully, impossibly hard, the thick length of his cock straining against his jeans and pressing into the junction of your thighs. You rocked against him, the seam of your leggings and the denim of his jeans both soaked through with the evidence of how badly you both wanted this, and the friction on your clit was maddening— almost enough, not quite enough, building and building without cresting.

"Reiner," you said again, and your voice came out wrecked too, breathy and uneven. "I need—"

"I know," he said against your breast, and his voice was shaking. "I know, I just— let me—"

His hands moved to your leggings, fingers hooking into the waistband, and you lifted your hips so he could pull them down. He peeled them off you with a reverence that was almost absurd— sliding the fabric down your thighs like he was unwrapping something precious, bending down so he could press his lips to the inside of your knee as it was revealed, and the tenderness of it made your chest ache.

You reached down and unbuttoned his jeans, and his breath hitched as your fingers brushed the waistband of his boxers, as you hooked your thumbs into both and pulled them down over his hips. His cock sprang free— thick, flushed, the head slick with precum— and you wrapped your hand around him, just to feel the weight of him in your palm, and his hips jerked up, a strangled sound leaving his throat.

"Wait, wait—" His hand closed around your wrist, gentle but firm. "If you do that, I'm gonna—"

You let go and smiled at him. The look on his face— flushed, wild-eyed, fighting for control— was the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen. "Lie back on the bed," you instructed him, and you got up to push him gently back onto the bed, and he went swiftly. His back hit the mattress, his head settling on your pillow, and he looked up at you with those golden eyes, dark and wanting, as you swung one leg over him and settled your thighs on either side of his hips. His cock pressed against your stomach, hot and hard, and you could feel the wetness between your legs, slick and ready.

You reached down and positioned him, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and you watched his face as you sank down. Slowly, you took him, and the stretch of him was intense— thick and insistent, filling you gradually, and you had to pause halfway, adjusting, breathing through the fullness. His hands flew to your hips, gripping hard, but not guiding— just holding. Like he didn't trust himself to do anything else, like if he moved, if he thrust up into you the way his body clearly wanted to, he'd lose whatever fragile control he was clinging to.

His head fell back against the pillow, and a low, shaky moan escaped him— the sound of a man being undone. His jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck standing out in sharp relief, and his fingers dug into your hips hard enough that you knew there'd be bruises tomorrow.

"Oh god," he breathed, and his voice cracked. "You feel— you feel so—"

You sank the rest of the way down, taking him fully, and you both moaned at the same time— your voices tangling together in the dorm room, mixing with the background noise of the film still playing on your laptop and the distant sound of someone's music two floors down. You rocked. Slow at first, just small movements of your hips, grinding your clit against his pelvis on each downstroke, feeling the way he filled you, the way his cock pressed against every nerve ending inside you. His hands slid from your hips to your thighs, then up your sides, then back down, like he couldn't decide where to put them, like he wanted to touch all of you at once. His thumbs traced the curve of your waist, the line of your ribs, the underside of your breasts where they swayed with each movement of your hips.

"Reiner," you moaned, and you didn't even know what you wanted to say— just his name, just the sound of it, just the way it felt in your mouth.

"I'm here," he said, and his voice was strangled, desperate. "I'm right here." His hands settled on your hips again, steadying you, and you picked up the pace.

You rode him harder, faster, lifting your hips and dropping back down, and the sound of it— the wet slap of skin on skin, the creak of the dorm bed, the desperate noises spilling from both your mouth — filled the small room. His hips started meeting yours, thrusting up into you each time you sank down, and the added force drove him deeper, hitting something inside you that made your vision blur.

He was whining. There was no other word for it— the sounds coming out of him were high and broken and desperate, nothing like the controlled, confident voice he used everywhere else. Each time you dropped your hips, he gasped. Each time you ground down against him, he moaned. Each time you clenched around him, he whined— a thin, reedy sound that cracked in the middle, that made something possessive flare up in your chest.

"You sound so good," you told him, breathless, and his face twisted— something between pleasure and overwhelm, his eyes squeezing shut, his mouth falling open. you rolled your hips, slow and deliberate, clenching around him, and the sound that came out of him was almost a sob.

"Please," he said, and his voice was wrecked, barely above a whisper. "Please, I'm— I'm not gonna last, you feel too good, I—"

You leaned down and kissed him, swallowing his sounds, and his arms wrapped around you, pulling you flush against his chest. The new angle pressed your clit against his pelvis, and you ground against him as you rode, chasing the friction, the coil tightening in your stomach. His mouth was everywhere— your lips, your jaw, your neck, your shoulder— pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses to whatever skin he could reach, murmuring things that were barely words anymore, just sounds, just need.

"Come for me," you said against his ear, and you felt him shudder underneath you, his whole body going taut.

His hands gripped your hips, hard, holding you down against him as his hips snapped up— once, twice — and he came with a broken groan of your name, his cock pulsing inside you, hot and thick. The feeling of him filling you, the knowledge that you'd undone him this completely, pushed you over the edge— your orgasm crashing through you in waves, clenching around him, and you were loud, you knew you were loud, but you couldn't bring yourself to care.

The dorm room was quiet afterward except for the sound of your breathing— ragged, slowing, syncing up. His arms stayed around you, loose now, his hands tracing lazy patterns on your back. His cock softened inside you, and when you finally shifted to lift yourself off him, he made a small sound of protest, his arms tightening briefly before letting go.

You collapsed beside him on the narrow bed, and he immediately turned toward you, one large hand coming up to brush the hair from your face. His eyes were that familiar amber again— the gold flecks returned, the dark blown-pupil look fading— and the smile on his face was the unguarded one, the real one.

His thumb traced your cheekbone. "That was—"

"Yeah," you mumbled. "Yeah, it was."

He laughed, the same short, disbelieving laugh from before, and pulled you closer against his chest. You could feel his heartbeat under your cheek, still racing, and the warmth of him, the solid weight of his arm across your waist, the way his chin settled on top of your head— it all felt like something settling into place. Something that had been waiting to fit.

"Stay," you tell him, which was not a question.

His arms tightened around you. "Yeah," he said, quiet, certain. "I'm not going anywhere."

Neither of you seemed particularly interested anymore in remembering that the movie was still playing on your laptop. 

Sukuna doesn’t bother to look at him. His gaze stays glued to you, watching you laugh with Shoko, and a small, proud tilt curls at the corner of his mouth.

"Hard not to," Sukuna rumbles. "She looks way too damn good for a place like this."

"Right?" the stranger says, taking another slow sip of his drink, clearly taking that agreement as an invitation to keep talking. His gaze drags over Sukuna’s massive build, the plain shirt, joggers, and face tattoos, and a cocky smirk appears on his face, like he’s already decided he’s got the upper hand. “Hottest woman in here, hands down. Gorgeous, carries herself well, and that smile… I was just about to head over, buy her a drink, see where the night takes us.”

Sukuna finally turns his head, sizing the man up with calm, almost lazy interest. He’s objectively handsome—tall, impeccably groomed, his shirt tailored tight over a sharp, well-built frame. He looks like the type who’s used to getting whatever he wants and moves through the world with the confidence that says he’s never had to fight for attention.

"Yeah?" Sukuna rasps, amusement flickering in his eyes as the man keeps embarrassing himself.

"I mean, c'mon, look at her," the stranger continues, sipping his drink. "She looks like she’s got real standards. Probably has a great job, drinks the good stuff. She needs a guy who knows how to keep up with her and actually treat her right."

Leaning back against the bar, Sukuna crosses his massive arms over his chest, thoroughly entertained by the sheer audacity of it all. Listening to a complete stranger explain what kind of man his wife needs is absurd enough that he's more than happy to let him keep digging his own grave.

"Yeah, she’s something else alright," Sukuna drawls. "You really think she'd go for you?"

"Oh, I know she would," the man replies, adjusting his cuff with a smug grin. "I've got the job, the car, the looks. Women like her know a good thing when they see it."

A deep, amused huff rumbles out of Sukuna. If this idiot so much as crossed a real line, he’d snap his neck without a second thought. For now, though, watching this polished suit walk himself straight into a wall is way too funny to interrupt.

"You've got it all figured out, huh?"

"Hey, confidence gets results," the stranger says, grinning. “Tell you what—friendly wager.” He reaches into his pocket, pulls out his leather wallet, fishes out a crisp, high-value bill, and slides it across the bar between them. "This says I'll have her number and a kiss before the night's out."

Sukuna tilts his head, a wicked smirk slowly spreading across his face.

"Alright,” he says. “Mind if I go first?"

The stranger gives Sukuna one last once-over, lingering on the intimidating ink on his face, the back of his neck, and the lines wrapping around his wrists and biceps. To him, Sukuna looks like someone who got lost on his way home from the gym, or maybe a prison, though he’s a little too well-kept for that. He lets out a dismissive chuckle, already certain there's no way a woman like you would give a brute in joggers the time of day.

"Go right ahead, man," the guy says, waving him on. "Show me how it's done. No chance in hell you're pulling her."

"Watch," Sukuna says simply, pushing off the bar and walking across the floor, his massive frame cutting right through the crowded room.

Over by the bar, you're mid-sentence when a broad, warm palm gently taps your shoulder. You turn around, and the moment your eyes land on your husband, your whole face lights up.

"Hey," you breathe, the sight of him instantly making your cheeks flush warm. He looks stupid hot tonight, towering over everyone around him.

Sukuna steps in so close that your back presses into the edge of the bar, his body boxing you in until there's nowhere else to go. He pulls his phone from his pocket, unlocks it, and hands it to you, leaning down until his mouth hovers right at your ear.

"Can you look up that Korean place we went to, like, two months ago?" he rumbles, his voice low and soft against your ear, his warm breath sending a shiver racing down your spine. "I can't remember the name."

"Oh, so now you need me?" you tease, but your fingers are already flying over the screen. "Yeah, hang on…"

Across the room, the man at the bar narrows his eyes, watching you take Sukuna's phone without a hint of hesitation and immediately start tapping away. He smirks, swirling the melting ice in his glass, already convinced he's seen this play before. Classic move, he thinks, assuming you're just typing in a fake number to get the giant out of your personal space. He's already rehearsing his opening line for when Sukuna walks away empty-handed.

You hand the phone back to Sukuna, a triumphant little smile tugging at your lips. "Found it."

“Thanks, baby,” Sukuna murmurs, sliding the phone into his pocket.

His palm reaches up, fingers gently catching your chin, and he tilts your face up to his. Leaning down, he presses a soft kiss to your lips, sweet, unhurried, and so deliberate it makes your heart skip a beat. When he pulls back just a breath, his crimson eyes catch yours, gleaming with smug, mischievous heat. A knowing smirk tugs at his mouth as he shifts his weight, about to step away.

Across the bar, the guy rolls his eyes, muttering, “A polite peck? That doesn't count for shit—"

He doesn’t even get to finish the thought. The second Sukuna starts to pull away, your hands fly up, and your fingers twist tight into the front of his shirt. You yank him back down, but even then, you still have to rise onto your toes, stretching just to reach him. Your mouth crashes into his in a kiss that’s deep, intense, and filthy enough to strip away any composure he might have had left.

A low, surprised rumble vibrates against your lips before Sukuna's arm snaps around your waist and his other hand finds the nape of your neck, pulling you flush against his chest. He only deepens the kiss, his thumb digging into your hip while you cling to his shirt just to keep him close.

The stranger hasn’t moved at all, his jaw practically welded to the floor. His eyes are wide, blown out in pure shock, watching as the gorgeous woman he’d been so sure about just yanked a terrifying brute down for a kiss that leaves nothing to the imagination.

"What the fuck..." he mutters, staring in disbelief. "No way he actually pulled that off..."

Toji passes by on his way to the bathroom and hears the words. Without even slowing his pace, he just glances at the man’s stunned expression, lets out a dry, wheezing chuckle, and deadpans over his shoulder, “That's his wife, moron."

By the time your grip loosens and you drop back onto your heels, your breath is ragged, lips flushed and tingling, and you’re staring up at your husband with nothing but shameless, unfiltered adoration.

Sukuna’s thumb drags slowly across your lower lip, tugging it just a little, while a broad, utterly satisfied grin stretches across his face.

“Good girl,” he rasps, lowering his voice, and the praise sends a jolt right between your legs.

"Every fucking time," Shoko groans from the side. "One drink and you're attached to him again."

"You say that like I'm complaining," Sukuna chuckles.

"I fail to see the problem either," you chirp with a shameless grin.

Shoko shakes her head at you, then looks at your husband. "You know, I used to have a lot less patience for you. It's annoying how much harder you've become to stay mad at."

Sukuna just snorts at that.

"Anyway," he says, giving your waist one last squeeze before glancing at the rest of the group. "You girls joining us at the booth?"

"Yeah, yeah, we'll be there in a minute. Now shoo," Yuki says, waving him away. "We've got gossip to catch up on first."

Sukuna just lifts his hands in mock surrender, huffing an amused laugh as he turns on his heel and heads back toward the stranger waiting at the end of the bar.

“Easiest money I've made all week,” he drawls, picking up the bill. He gives the stunned man a small nod and walks toward his friends at the booth.