✦ Starra ✦

Your skirt swishes against your boots as you take the long way back, hands tucked into your shawl. The street lamps are weak little things, more promise than light. The town is quieter than it should be, but that happens when men are off “handling land issues” and the women keep the doors latched, waiting for news that comes slow and ugly.

You’re almost at the last stretch of boardwalk when you hear it — something wet and wrong, a scrape, the sound of a man trying not to make noise while failing at it.

You stop.

Every lesson your father has drilled into you rises up at once.

keep walking. keep walking. keep walking. keep walking.

You don’t.

Behind the general store, where the alley narrows into shadow, there’s a shape slumped against the wall. He’s big enough that even collapsed he looks like he’s taking up too much space, like the night has to curve around him. Hat tipped low. Boots dusty. A dark coat hanging off one shoulder as if he doesn’t know how to wear it anymore.

You take one step closer and the man lifts his head.

Even half-dead, he looks angry about it.

Crimson eyes catch the weak light and hold it, sharp and alive in a face smeared with sweat and dirt. There’s blood on his side — dark, sticky, soaking through his shirt in a slow bloom.

His jaw tightens like he’s biting back a sound. When he breathes, it’s shallow, careful, like each inhale costs him something he doesn’t want to pay.

“Go.” he rasps.

It isn’t a plea. It’s an order. Like you’re one of his men and he’s not used to being ignored.

Your pulse thrums in your throat.

“You’re hurt.”

“No shit,” he spits, eyes narrowing. “So go.”

You can smell him from here, leather, gun oil, whiskey that’s baked into his skin. And underneath that, iron — blood, warm despite the cold.

Your feet hesitate anyway, stubborn in their own way.

You swallow hard.

“I know the sheriff.” you try, like that would somehow make this man trust you to know you can be of assistance.

It doesn’t land as you plan, though.

He gives a short, humorless laugh that turns into a wince.

“Yeah? Then he can come arrest me once I’m done not dying.”

You should be offended, frightened, or at least do the sensible thing and back away like this man is a rattlesnake in the road.

Instead, you crouch at a careful distance, keeping your hands where he can see them.

“Can you stand?”

His mouth curls like you’ve offered him a bedtime story.

“Lady, I can do a lot of things.”

Then he tries — and his body betrays him with a shudder that goes through his shoulders and down to his hands.

His palm presses harder to his side, and you see fresh blood glisten between his fingers.

You don’t think.

If you think, you’ll run.

You close the space between you and slide your arm under his, bracing your shoulder against his ribs.

The man jerks, muscle tensing like he’s about to throw you off.

The barrel of a pistol is suddenly there, angled down but close enough that your stomach flips.

“Touch my holster and I’ll put you down.” he growls, voice low and vicious.

Your breath catches.

“I’m not— I just— you can’t—” you falter and scramble for words but you keep holding him as you are.

“Don’t.” he warns, like that’s the most important word in the world. “Don’t get brave.”

Your hands hover away from his belt as if he’s fire.

“I won’t. I swear. Just… lean. Please.”

He stares at you like he’s deciding whether you’re stupid or dangerous.

Maybe both.

Then, with a sharp exhale through his nose, he shifts his weight onto you anyway, heavy and hot and real.

He smells like a man who sleeps outside when he can’t find a bed, and like a man who rarely has to ask.

You manage to get him out of the alley and onto the street without anyone seeing, because God, apparently, enjoys a scandal but not tonight.

The walk to your father’s house is the longest walk you’ve ever taken.

His boots drag sometimes. His breath turns harsh.

Once, his fingers dig into your shoulder hard enough to bruise and you almost gasp — but you bite it back, because you can’t give him that satisfaction.

By the time you reach your porch, your arms are trembling.

He looks up at your house like it’s a trap with a nice coat of paint.

“You live here?” he asks, and there’s something ugly in it — something like disbelief that a place can be warm and still belong to you.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Please. Just for the night. I’ll… I’ll fix you up.”

His eyes flick over you, slow and sharp.

“You should really know better, babe.” he grunts and it sounds like a warning and an advice at once, like you should think twice before attending to someone’s wounds.

Like you should have left him there to his own luck and God’s mercy.

The way he says babe makes it sound like an insult and a prayer both.

You blink.

“I don’t—”

“You do,” he cuts in. “You fuckin’ do.”

Still…

You fumble with the door and get it open.

The warmth spills out, lamplight turning the porch boards gold.

He pauses right at the threshold like the line matters. Like he can feel it. Like his body remembers things his mouth won’t admit.

“Why would you give me a hand,” he mutters, voice rough, his gaze locks on yours, his tone malicious. “honey, you’re making this easy.”

You don’t understand him.

As if he’s in any place to actually hurt you.

As if he could do anything to you in that terrible situation he found himself in.

You just tug him inside before your courage dies.

He moves like a predator forced into someone else’s den, shoulders tight, eyes scanning the room as if measuring angles for violence.

When you guide him to the couch, he lets you — barely.

When you reach for his coat, he catches your wrist.

His grip is iron.

Your skin goes hot under his fingers.

“Careful,” he murmurs, and the threat in it is almost lazy. “You don’t know what you’re inviting.”

Your mouth is dry.

“You’re bleeding on my father’s rug.”

That startles a sound out of him — half a laugh, half a breath.

“Yeah.”

He releases you like you’re beneath his attention.

You pull his coat off first, then his shirt — slow, careful, your fingers trembling every time they brush skin.

He’s built like he’s been carved out of hard work and bad choices.

Muscle cords under your palms. Scar tissue here and there, pale lines that catch the light. Sinews and muscles tightening when the pain bites.

And the tattoos — God.

They climb his throat and frame his jaw in black arcs, bold lines that make his face look even meaner.

They run down his chest in thick, intricate patterns, bands circling his biceps like cuffs.

There’s more on his shoulders, disappearing down his back.

The work is dark and deliberate, like someone marked him and he decided to keep the marks as a warning.

You don’t stare.

You try not to.

He watches you anyway, eyes hooded, mouth set in a hard line as if he’s waiting for you to flinch.

You don’t.

Not from the ink.

Not from the blood.

You clean the wound with shaking hands.

It’s on the side of his torso, ugly but not as deep as it could be.

A bullet graze, maybe. He’s lucky.

Or he’s the kind of man who makes his own luck by refusing to die.

When you wrap the bandage around his ribs, he hisses and his fingers clamp on the edge of the couch hard enough to make the wood creak.

“Hold still.” you whisper.

“Don’t tell me what to do in my fuckin’ misery,” he snaps, then sucks in a breath and forces himself to go still anyway.

You press the knot down, tight enough to hold.

Your hands linger for half a heartbeat too long.

Heat climbs up your throat, humiliating and fast.

You pull back like you’ve been burned.

He notices. Of course he does. His eyes didn’t leave you for a single second.

His mouth tilts, just slightly.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice thick with something you hate that you can’t name. “That’s it. Look at me like I’m a story you can keep.”

“I’m not,” you whisper, furious with yourself. “I’m just helping! You’re hurt.”

“Everyone’s hurt,” he groans like it’s obvious. “Some folks just get to hide it under lace and church hymns.”

You bring him water.

He drinks like he hasn’t had any in days, throat working, eyes never leaving you.

When you offer him a fever tonic, he grimaces like he’d rather swallow nails — but he takes it, because his body is shaking and his skin is too hot under your palm when you press a damp cloth to his forehead.

His lashes lower.

For the first time, his face softens — not into kindness, never that, but into something exhausted.

“You shouldn’t be this kind,” he mutters, feverish, almost like he’s hallucinating — the words slurring at the edges. “Jesus Christ… don’t be kind to me.”

“I’m not.” you lie softly because you want him to rest.

He gives a weak, ugly chuckle.

“That’s worse.”

His eyes drift shut.

You sit in the armchair near the couch, hands clasped in your lap so you don’t reach for him again.

The house creaks around you.

The lamp flickers.

Your eyes rarely leave him. His broad chest rises and falls with heavy breathes, then shallow, and then regular.

You don’t look at his holster again.

Outside, the wind scrapes at the window like fingers.

You watch him breathe until your own eyelids get heavy.

When you wake, it’s morning and your neck aches from sleeping crooked.

The lamp is burned down low.

The couch is empty.

His hat is gone.

His shirt is gone.

The bandage wrappers are folded neatly on the table as if he’s mocking you with manners.

The only proof he existed in your house at all is a dark smear on the rag you used to clean him and the faint, lingering scent of him — leather and smoke and something feral that doesn’t belong inside four walls.

You stand there for a long time, staring at nothing.

Relief and disappointment twist together in your ribs until you can’t tell them apart.

Days pass.

Your father returns, tired and grumbling, and you don’t tell him.

You don’t tell anyone.

It sits in you like a stone you keep turning over with your thumb when no one’s looking.

Then, one afternoon when your father rides out again and the town breathes like it’s been holding itself too tight, you bake.

Apple pie. Cinnamon heavy. Crust flaky, the way Utahime likes it.

You wrap it in cloth, tuck it in a tin, and tell yourself it’s not rebellion — it’s just kindness.

It’s just you being you.

Madam Mei Mei’s saloon sits at the edge of town, audacious, provocative.

Daring.

Music leaks out through the doors. Laughter. The sharp bite of whiskey and perfume and sweat. Men cluster outside like flies, hats tipped, eyes hungry.

You keep your chin up and walk right through them anyway.

Inside, it’s warmer than your father would approve of. Smokier. Louder. The piano player pounds out something rough and cheerful while women in bright dresses glide between tables carrying bottles and smiles that don’t reach their eyes.

Mei Mei sees you and her face breaks into genuine delight.

“Ah! Sheriff’s dove,” she calls, voice sharp and sweet. “You bring food?”

You smile despite yourself and hold up the tin.

“For you. For the girls!”

Utahime darts in from the side, hair pinned up, cheeks flushed from dancing. She hooks her arm through yours and squeezes.

“You’re an angel,” she whispers into your ear, then grins wickedly. “Or a fool. Possibly both.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re laughing when it happens.

A man you don’t recognize reaches out and grabs your arm.

Hard.

His fingers dig into your skin like you’re property he’s already paid for.

“Well, hello there,” he slurs, breath rancid with liquor. His eyes slide over you in a way that makes your stomach twist. “Didn’t know Mei Mei had fresh—”

You yank back, shocked.

“Let go.”

He tightens his grip.

“Don’t play coy—”

Your heart stutters.

You raise your free hand to shove him, to slap him, to do something — anything.

A hand closes over the man’s wrist.

Not gentle. Definitely not polite.

Just there, firm as law, mean as consequence.

The drunk’s face contorts in pain as his arm is peeled away from you like it doesn’t belong to him anymore.

He stumbles back — and then he’s shoved, hard, into the wall. Bottles clink. Someone laughs nervously. The piano falters for a beat and then keeps going like it’s learned better than to stop for violence.

The man pinning the drunk doesn’t even look winded.

The cowboy who does it is broad in the shoulders, all heat and hard lines under dust-stained clothes. Pale pink hair spills out from under his hat in unruly strands, a color that looks almost wrong on a man built like that. Tattoos run like blackwork scripture along his jaw, over his cheekbones, down his throat — bold, deliberate lines that make him look branded by something that never apologized. Like trouble carved into a man.

His eyes lift to the drunk.

Crimson. Bright. Cruel in a way that doesn’t bother dressing itself up

The same crimson you’ve been trying not to dream about.

Alive now.

Clear.

Dangerous.

He leans in just enough to make his point private, voice low and profane.

“If you grab another woman like that, I’ll take the hand you used and nail it to the goddamn door so you remember what it’s for.”

The drunk’s face drains.

He swallows, nods too fast, and slides away into the noise like the saloon swallowed him whole.

Sukuna releases him with a shove that sends him stumbling away.

The man doesn’t argue.

He disappears into the crowd like he knows he just got spared out of boredom.

Sukuna turns to you.

His gaze drags over you the way the drunk’s did — except with Sukuna, it feels like you’re being weighed, measured, unimpressed by your clean collar and your good posture, like those things are costumes.

Like he can see what’s under them anyway.

You feel claimed in some ugly private math you didn’t agree to.

“What the hell are you doin’ in a place like this?” he asks.

No courtesy. No softening. Like you owe him an explanation for standing on the same floorboards.

You rub your arm where the drunk grabbed you, more annoyed than shaken, even if your pulse is still jumping in your throat.

“Bringing a pie.”

He glances at the tin in your hands as if you’ve only just remembered you’re holding it.

His mouth tightens.

“Who for?” he asks, tone skeptical.

“For Mei Mei,” you say, then tilt the tin slightly. “And the girls. They like my baking.”

Something flickers behind his eyes.

Not gratitude — he really doesn’t look like a man who knows what to do with that — but interest, sharp and reluctant.

“And what does your father think about you handin’ out sweets to a saloon full of whores and outlaws?” he drawls.

You lift your chin.

“My father thinks a lot of things. He can’t arrest me for this, anyway.”

Sukuna’s brow arches, like he didn’t expect you to talk back.

“You’re the sheriff’s girl,” he remarks, and the way he says it makes girl sound like a loaded weapon.

“Yes,” you answer, steady. “And I’m still allowed to have friends.”

He scoffs, mouth curling.

“Friends.”

“Mei Mei’s been kinder to me than half the church women who smile and pray and talk about charity like it’s a prize,” you say. “So yes. Friends.”

You expect him to laugh, or sneer, or call you naive.

Instead, he watches you a long beat, eyes narrowed like you’re a riddle that’s irritating him.

Then he looks away first — like it costs him something to keep looking.

“Don’t get grabbed again,” he grouses.

It lands like an order. Like again you’re one of his men.

Like he’s decided, without asking, that your safety is now part of the room’s rules.

You don’t step back. Your fingers tighten around the tin.

“I handled it.”

He turns his head, slow, and those red eyes pin you.

“He handled you for a second.”

Your throat tightens. Heat crawls up your neck in a way you hate, because you refuse to be embarrassed by a stranger’s hands or a stranger’s attention.

You hold your ground anyway.

“And then you decided to show off.”

That gets a sound out of him — half a laugh, half a scoff — like you’ve amused him by accident.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Sure. That’s what it was.”

Utahime appears at your elbow then, slipping between you and the noise, arm looping through yours like she’s claiming you as hers.

“You alright?” she asks softly.

“I’m fine,” you say, eyes still on Sukuna. You hate that your voice softens when you say it. “You were going to die on my couch.”

His gaze flicks up, sharp. For a split second, something changes — so small you almost miss it.

Like he didn’t expect you to say it out loud.

Like he didn’t expect you to stand there and own it.

Then his expression hardens again, mean and familiar.

“Should’ve let me.”

He’s already turning away, drifting back toward a table where a few hard-faced men sit with cards spread and whiskey poured.

They look up when he returns, grin at whatever story his posture tells.

He doesn’t grin back, just drops into his chair like it belongs to him.

And still — before he reaches for his drink — his eyes cut back to you once.

Like he’s checking you’re still standing.

You deliver the pie to Mei Mei, accept her kisses on both cheeks, endure the teasing from the girls about how a man like that doesn’t step in unless something matters.

You laugh it off.

You tell them to mind their tongues.

You still feel his gaze like a scorching brand between your shoulders.

Utahime slips once again to your side, eyes bright with gossip and relief after a while.

“That’s Sukuna,” she whispers. “He’s been staying here with his men when they ride through. Takes big jobs. Land disputes. Escort work. The kind that ends bloody. He’s—” she grimaces. “He’s filthy. In every way. Mean too. But he pays on time and he doesn’t let men get grabby with the girls unless they want it.”

You swallow, watching Sukuna across the room.

Sukuna doesn’t laugh with the other men at the table as they gamble, drink, talk loudly.

He watches.

Every so often, his gaze cuts back to you like a tether you didn’t ask for.

You leave before sunset because you’re not stupid. You’ve been raised by a man who makes laws out of warnings.

It starts the way most bad ideas start — quietly, like it’s nothing.

You bring bread the next week. A whole loaf, warm from the oven, wrapped in cloth.

Mei Mei crows like you’ve brought her gold. The girls descend on it like they haven’t eaten real food in days, and you get scolded — gently — for not staying long enough to have a slice.

Sukuna and his men are there again.

They’re not always gambling. Sometimes they’re cleaning their weapons at the table, oiling steel with steady hands. Sometimes they’re eating like they’ve worked themselves hollow. Sometimes they’re talking low about ranch boundaries and cattle stolen and which men deserve to disappear into the scrub without anyone asking questions.

You’re not stupid.

You know what kind of work cowboys like that do.

And still — you bring food.

Not because of Sukuna.

Because Utahime’s cheeks have gotten thinner. Because Mei Mei’s hands crack in the cold. Because you’ve learned the church will pray for a woman starving and still cross the street to avoid her.

So you bring stew in a tin. Biscuits. Smoked sausage when you can get it. Pickled vegetables. Honey cake.

Whatever your father’s kitchen can spare when he’s gone and you can cook without him muttering that women who associate with saloons are asking for trouble.

Sometimes Sukuna ignores you.

Sometimes he looks up and says something crude just to see if it’ll make you flinch.

The first time he does it, you’re setting down a basket of cornbread and he’s leaning back in his chair with his boots hooked on the rung, eyes half-lidded like a bored predator.

“What’s next, sweetheart?” he drawls. “You gonna start spoon-feedin’ us like we’re a bunch of helpless bastards?”

You don’t cower at his mean ways.

You set the basket down with a soft thunk and look him dead in the eye.

“If you’re helpless, that’s between you and God.”

A couple of his men choke on laughter.

Sukuna’s mouth twitches — annoyed, amused, something in between.

He looks you up and down like he’s cataloguing the fact you won’t bow just because his voice is rough.

“You got a smart mouth.” he says.

“You keep talking to me like I’m stupid,” you reply, calm, “and you’ll keep finding out I’m not.”

His stare sharpens.

Your heart does that stupid little stumble it’s started doing around him, but you don’t let it show in your posture. You feel timid under his gaze because his gaze is too much — because he looks like sin made into a man and made comfortable in his own skin — but you’re not fragile.

You’re not a trembling church mouse.

You’re a sheriff’s daughter.

You’ve seen blood.

You’ve learn how to handle a carbine and shoot moving targets.

You’ve heard screams.

You’ve watched your father hang a man and then eat supper like his hands weren’t still stained.

Sukuna holds your eyes a long beat, then tips his chin once, like a concession he hates giving.

“Alright,” he mutters. “Fine.”

Then he reaches for the cornbread like you made it specially for him to eat.

Weeks turn into months.

His presence becomes a season in the saloon — like winter, harsh, inevitable, and making everyone move differently.

The girls notice before you do.

One night you bring a tray of meat pies — smaller than your father likes, spiced heavier, made for hands that eat fast and get back to work.

Utahime nudges you with her elbow while you’re unwrapping them.

“He’s in a better mood when you bring food,” she murmurs, eyes bright with the kind of gossip that keeps a girl alive.

You snort softly.

“He’s in a better mood when he’s chewing.”

“No,” she insists. “You’re not listenin’ doll. He’s… less mean.”

You glance over before you can stop yourself.

Sukuna’s at his table, same spot he always takes, back to the wall like he trusts no one behind him. He’s got a glass in hand, cards on the wood, his men laughing at something that should probably be criminal. Sukuna isn’t laughing — but his shoulders aren’t as tight. His jaw isn’t clenched. His eyes aren’t scanning the room like he’s waiting for a reason to break someone.

Then his gaze lifts and catches you.

Just like that, you feel it — heat and awareness, like he’s hooked something under your ribs and tugged.

Your breath sticks for a moment.

He doesn’t smile.

But his eyes soften a fraction, the way a storm does when it shifts direction instead of breaking.

Utahime hums smugly.

“Told you.”

You roll your eyes, cheeks warming.

“You’re ridiculous, girl.”

“I’m observant,” she corrects, then leans closer. “And he watches you when you leave.”

You pretend you don’t hear that part.

You bring the pies to Mei Mei’s counter, she insists you sit for a moment.

You do, because you like her and because you like the girls and because, deep down, you like the saloon’s honest warmth more than you like the church’s cold virtue.

That’s when Sukuna appears at your elbow like he’s decided you’re part of the room now and he’s gracing you with his closeness.

He doesn’t ask permission. He just stands there, close enough that you smell leather and smoke and the faint metallic edge of gun oil. His shadow falls over the counter.

Mei Mei’s eyes flick between you and him, sharp and amused.

She doesn’t say a word.

She just goes back to counting coins like she’s seen this play before.

Sukuna taps a knuckle against the counter.

“What’s that?”

“Pies.” you answer, because you refuse to act flustered.

“What kind?”

You tilt your head.

“Do you always interrogate women about baked goods?”

His mouth curls.

“Only the ones bringin’ ‘em.”

You lift the cloth, showing him.

“Meat pies. Spiced.”

His gaze drops to them, then lifts back to you.

“You make ‘em?”

“Yes.”

He leans in a fraction, voice lower.

“You make ‘em for us now?”

Your spine straightens.

“I make them for the girls.”

“Mm,” he murmurs, like he doesn’t believe in for the girls. “And if we eat ‘em?”

You look him right in the eye.

“Then I hope you choke.” your gaze sharpens a fraction and your lips curl a little up with the little dose of poison in your tone. It just slips out before you can polish it.

The room around you feels like it goes quiet for a heartbeat — like everyone heard. One of his men snorts into his drink. Utahime’s eyes go wide with delighted horror.

Sukuna stares at you, then lets out a rough laugh that sounds like it was dragged out of him against his will.

“Christ,” he mutters. “You’re fun.”

You refuse to smile. Your eyes give you away.

He reaches behind him, grabs a bottle off a passing tray without asking, and sets it on the counter in front of you.

“A beer for the Lady.” he says, like he’s tossing a bone.

You blink.

“I didn’t ask—”

“I know,” he cuts in. “That’s why it’s a gift, not a favor.”

You hesitate.

You’re not really into alcohol, you prefer tea, sweet cider, not tasting bitterness on your tongue.

But you’re not about to refuse on principle.

You wrap your fingers around the bottle. His hand brushes yours as he releases it — calloused, warm.

It’s nothing.

It’s everything.

“Thank you,” you say, quiet but firm.

His eyes narrow, like gratitude makes him uncomfortable.

“Don’t make it weird.” he mutters.

You lift the bottle.

“Too late.”

You take a drink. The beer is cold and bitter and it burns going down. You swallow anyway, because you’re stubborn and because Sukuna’s eyes are on your throat like he’s tracking the movement.

He looks away first, jaw flexing.

You don’t win often against men like him.

That feels like a win.

It becomes a pattern.

You stop by with food when your father rides out. You learn his schedule the way you learn weather — by watching, by listening, by understanding the rhythms that keep a household intact.

Sometimes Sukuna is there, fresh off work, dirt on his boots and blood on his knuckles like it’s just another kind of mud.

Sometimes he’s in the middle of a job negotiation with Mei Mei — she’s got her own kind of power, and men like him respect power even if they curse at it.

Sometimes he’s outside, leaning against a post with a cigarette between his fingers, watching the street like he’s bored enough to start trouble just to feel alive.

And you — smart as you are, brave as you are — start to notice the way he shifts when you arrive.

Not softened. Not made gentle.

Just oriented.

Like the warmth of your presence is a thing his body recognizes even when his mind resists it.

He helps you without calling it help.

You catch a tray before it falls, and he’s already there with a hand under it, steadying, grumbling,

“Watch your damn hands,” like you’re the careless one.

A drunk decides you’re fair game again, and Sukuna doesn’t even stand up — he just looks at the man and says something ugly and quiet that makes him pale and apologize like he’s seen God.

One afternoon Mei Mei asks you to carry a sack of flour into the back because her boy is out. You wrap your arms around it, lift, and nearly tip backward because you’re proud and the thing is heavier than you expected.

Sukuna’s hand closes on the sack. Effortless.

He takes it from you like you’re handing him a basket of feathers.

“You’re gonna break your back.” he says.

“I’m stronger than I look.”

He snorts.

“So am I.”

You tilt your head, eyes sliding over him on purpose this time — over the thickness of his shoulders, the corded muscle in his forearms, the way his shirt pulls tight across his chest.

You don’t gawk. You don’t drool. You just let him see you’re not blind.

“I’ve noticed.” you say.

The corner of his mouth twitches.

He carries the flour into the back, sets it down, then turns like he’s going to walk away without another word.

You follow him a step.

“Thank you.”

He pauses, shoulders going tight like you’ve pressed on a bruise.

“You keep sayin’ that,” he mutters without looking at you.

“Because you keep doing things that deserve it.”

He finally turns. His eyes pin you down, red and sharp.

“You gonna thank me right into a noose when your daddy finds out you’ve been playin’ house with outlaws?”

You don’t flinch. You lift your chin.

“I’m not playing house.”

His gaze drops to your mouth for half a second, then lifts back up.

“No?”

“No,” you say, voice steady even as your skin feels too hot. “I’m feeding people. There’s a difference.”

He takes a slow step closer.

Not enough to touch.

Enough that you feel him.

Like a storm edging toward your fence line.

“And what about me?” he asks, voice low.

You hold his gaze. Your heart pounds, but you don’t step back.

“What about you?”

His eyes narrow, and you see it — the irritation, the hunger, the disbelief.

He hates that you can talk to him like this.

He hates that he wants you to keep talking.

“You’re a kind woman,” he says, like it’s a charge.

“I’m a practical woman,” you correct.

He exhales through his nose, rough.

“Same damn thing.”

Then he turns and leaves you there with your hands clenched at your sides and your pulse too loud in your ears.

By the time spring comes, everyone in Mei Mei’s saloon knows you by name.

Some men try to charm you. Some try to buy you. Some try to scare you.

They learn quick that you belong to yourself.

And, whether you like it or not, they also learn there’s a cowboy in the corner with red eyes who doesn’t tolerate them thinking otherwise.

It isn’t romantic.

It isn’t even sweet.

It’s territorial in the ugly, honest way men like Sukuna are territorial — like if something warm exists near him long enough, he starts to act like the cold doesn’t have a right to take it.

Utahime tells you one night, half-laughing,

“He’s never been this tolerable.”

You raise a brow.

“That’s not a compliment.”

“It’s a miracle,” she insists. “And it’s you.”

You scoff.

“It’s the food.”

She bumps your shoulder.

“It’s you.”

You don’t argue. You can’t, not really, because you’ve started to notice it too — the way Sukuna’s gaze follows you like it’s tethered.

The way his mouth softens when you make Mei Mei laugh.

The way he looks downright murderous when someone calls you sweetheart like it’s a right.

He buys you a beer now and then when he’s feeling generous, sliding it across the counter without ceremony.

You drink it even when you don’t want it because refusing feels like breaking a strange, fragile truce.

You start to wonder — quietly, shamefully — what it would feel like to let him touch you on purpose.

Not the accidental brush of fingers. Not the steadying hand under a tray.

On purpose.

You don’t tell anyone that thought lives in you.

You don’t need them teasing you into sin.

You’re doing fine walking toward it on your own.

It’s late at night.

Your father’s been gone since afternoon, pulled out toward the edge of town by yet another dispute over fence lines and cattle and men who think law is something that happens to other people.

The house is quiet in the way it only gets when there’s no masculine presence filling it with rules.

You’re in your robe, hair loose, a book open in your lap you haven’t read the same page of in twenty minutes because your thoughts keep wandering to a pair of crimson eyes and the taste of bitter beer.

Then there’s a knock.

Measured. Certain.

You set the book down slowly, throat going tight. Your fingers curl around the edge of the table as you stand, bare feet whispering over the floorboards.

You don’t ask who it is.

You already know.

When you open the door, cold air sweeps in, and there he is — Sukuna on your porch like he’s been carved out of the night and decided your house is where he wants to stand.

Hat low. Coat open. Gun belt heavy on his hips. Tattoos cutting dark lines across a face that looks like trouble made handsome on purpose.

Your eyes do what they always do first, roam his body for wounds.

It’s instinct now, embarrassing and involuntary. You scan his side, his ribs, his hands.

He catches you doing it and scoffs.

“I’m not bleedin’.”

“You could be,” you shoot back, refusing to be shamed out of caring.

His brow lifts.

“You always check men for holes when they show up at your door?”

“Only the ones who have a habit of showing up half-dead,” you say, voice dry.

For a heartbeat, something like amusement crosses his face.

Then he steps forward.

He doesn’t ask to come in.

He crosses the threshold like it doesn’t exist.

It startles you — enough that you take a half-step back, eyes widening, a sharp inhale catching in your throat.

“The hell—” you begin.

He turns on you, fast, and you feel the switch flip in the air. His gaze pins you, heavy and dark.

“Don’t start talkin’ like you’re gonna pretend this is about manners.” he says, voice low.

Your pulse kicks. You force yourself to stand your ground, even as your body goes taut with the awareness of him in your space.

“This is my house.” you remind him.

He takes another step, closing distance like it’s his favorite habit.

“I know.” he smirks.

There’s something in his tone that makes heat bloom under your skin.

Your hand tightens on the edge of the door.

“You don’t get to—”

“I do,” he cuts in, then his hand is on your waist, fingers wrapping around you like he’s already memorized the shape of you. The touch is rough, calloused, warm enough to make your breath shake.

You make a sound — half a yelp, half a betrayed exhale — that you immediately hate yourself for.

Sukuna’s mouth curls like he’s pleased he got it out of you.

Then his other hand slides up, cups your jaw, tilts your face up with practiced certainty.

“You keep feedin’ people who’d never bleed for you,” he murmurs, voice thick with something ugly and hungry. “You keep lookin’ at me like I’m a man you can fix.”

“I don’t—”

He kisses you.

It’s hungry, like he’s been starving on purpose and decided he’s done being disciplined.

Your back hits the door, the wood solid against your shoulders. His body presses into yours — heat and muscle and the hard line of his belt. His mouth moves like he wants to take something from you, and when you open for him your whole spine lights up like you’ve been waiting for the permission you never asked for.

Your hands fist in his shirt, dragging him closer because you can’t help it — because you’re brave enough to want what you want.

His breath is rough against your cheek. He curses into your mouth, low and filthy, like the sound of your response offends him and thrills him at the same time.

You kiss him back.

You’re done pretending you’re above it.

It turns messy fast — breathing too close, mouths bruising, the world narrowing to the press of him and the way your pulse is sprinting. When his teeth scrape your lower lip, you gasp, and he makes a sound that might be satisfaction or restraint.

His mouth drops to your jaw, then to the tender skin just below your ear, and your knees threaten to give.

Your fingers dig into his shoulders and you’re pressing against him harder than you’d like to think you are.

“Sukuna—”

“Yeah,” he growls, hands tightening on your waist. “There you are.”

He lifts you like you weigh nothing.

Your breath catches, a scandalized little noise, and before your pride can recover your legs hook around his hips on pure instinct. Your arms slide around his neck, pulling him in because the heat of him is a drug and you’re not interested in sobriety.

His laugh is rough in your throat.

“Brave,” he murmurs, voice dark. “Still brave.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” you whisper, and it’s true in the strangest, most dangerous way.

His eyes flash, red and bright.

“You should be.”

You kiss him again instead of arguing.

He carries you like he’s done it a hundred times, moving through your house with an ease that makes your skin prickle — like he’s been imagining the layout, like he’s been mapping your life from the outside for months.

He doesn’t ask where your bedroom is.

He just finds it.

And you’re so tangled up in his mouth, in his hands, in the way his body pins you close without hurting you — just reminding you what he is — that you don’t stop him.

You don’t stop yourself.

He kicks the door shut behind him, and the sound echoes like a line crossed.

He sets you down at the edge of the bed, then stands over you, chest rising, eyes burning like you’re a sin he’s decided to commit sober.

You tilt your chin up, breath shaking, robe loosened at your throat, hair falling wild around your shoulders.

You should feel ashamed.

You don’t. Not even a tad.

His hand slides into your hair, fist closing gently — possessive without pulling, a claim without cruelty.

His other hand cups your cheek, thumb dragging over your mouth like he’s memorizing the shape. His pad presses into the plush of your lower lip.

“You’re gonna regret this,” he murmurs, voice low.

You swallow, eyes locked on his.

“Maybe.”

His mouth twists, something like approval flickering through the dark.

“Smart girl.”

You reach up, grip his shirt again, tug him down.

“Then shut up and kiss me.”

For a beat, he just stares — like he can’t decide if he wants to laugh or ruin you for every decent man you’ll ever meet.

Then he kisses you again, and the world narrows to heat and breath and the steady, relentless certainty of his hands.

And whatever comes after, what happens in the dark behind your closed door, feels like the kind of choice you’ll live with — fully awake, fully wanting — because you’re not feeding a stray dog anymore.

You’re letting a wolf into your bed.