There.

A small movement.

A flutter, a roll.

His shoulders would finally loosen, relief invisible to everyone but you.

Then the call button.

Sukuna pressed it like he owned it.

Water. More water. Crackers. Fruit. Ginger ale. Another blanket because the cabin got cold. A different pillow because this one was “flat as hell.” Even when you whispered that you were fine, he’d still do it—because fine wasn’t a guarantee, and he hated uncertainty more than he hated being judged.

It got to the point where the attendant started appearing before Sukuna even touched the button—already holding a cup of ice and a snack pack like she’d been trained specifically for him.

She smiled, sweet and brittle.

The kind of smile that said: If you press that thing again, I’m going to start crying in the galley.

Hiro noticed.

You could feel it in the way he exhaled through his nose, the way his jaw tightened when Sukuna asked for “another water” like you were crossing a desert instead of an ocean.

But Hiro didn’t say anything—not out loud. Not while you were awake.

You dozed in and out through the dimmed cabin light, the plane a low, constant hush of breathing and engine noise. Sleep came in thin slices at first. Then, sometime in the deep hours of night, it finally caught you fully.

Your head fell against Sukuna’s arm.

Your breathing evened.

And the world narrowed to a single, quiet point.

That was when they spoke.

Not because they wanted to. Because they had nowhere to run from the truth with you sleeping between them like something precious neither of them could afford to drop.

Hiro stared straight ahead for a long moment, eyes reflecting the faint glow of the seatback screens. His voice, when it came, was low—careful, like he was afraid his own words might wake you.

“I always felt guilty,” he said.

Sukuna didn’t look at him. His hand stayed on your blanket, fingers curled lightly near your knee.

“Not my problem,” Sukuna muttered, but it lacked teeth.

Hiro’s mouth tightened. “It should be.” Sukuna finally turned his head, crimson eyes cold in the dim.

Hiro didn’t flinch.

He swallowed, then continued anyway, because some truths didn’t care about intimidation. “My first girlfriend cheated on me,” Hiro said. “I ended it. Clean. Done. I thought it was over.” His hands were clasped in his lap, knuckles white. “She followed me home,” he went on. “Screaming. Hitting me. Saying it was my fault she cheated because I wasn’t… enough, or whatever the hell people say when they want to justify being cruel.” He glanced at you—your soft face slack with sleep, eyelashes resting against your cheeks—and his eyes shimmered.

“She came into our house like she belonged there,” he whispered. “And Y/n heard it.” Sukuna’s gaze shifted to you too, something tightening in his expression—possession, protectiveness, hunger, all braided together. Hiro’s voice strained. “I remember turning and seeing Y/n standing there. Small. Shaking. Looking like a rabbit cornered in a kitchen.”

His throat bobbed.

“And then… it was like something switched.” He breathed out, shaky. “The way Y/n moved… I’d never seen it before. Like Y/n wasn’t there anymore. Like something else had taken the wheel.”

Sukuna’s fingers flexed on the blanket.

Hiro’s stare dropped to his own hands as if he could still feel the moment. “I tried to pull Y/n back. I tried to stop it. But I couldn’t. And when it was over—” His voice broke on a harsh exhale. “—she was alive. But she was blind. And Y/n was covered in blood and crying like a child who didn’t understand why everyone was screaming.”

Sukuna’s jaw clenched.

Hiro looked over at him then, gaze sharp, pained. “I knew Y/n struggled,” he said. “We all did. But I didn’t understand how deep it went. And I didn’t understand how much worse it got because of my parents.” Sukuna’s eyes narrowed. “Careful.” Hiro didn’t back down. “They coddled Y/n. Locked everything away. Watched every breath. Controlled every decision. Called it love.” He swallowed hard, anger beginning to seep into his tone like ink.

“They kept Y/n in a glass box. No dating. No cooking. No going out. No space to be a person. They treated Y/n like fragile porcelain… and then acted shocked when the pressure finally cracked.”

Sukuna stared at him, expression unreadable.

Hiro’s voice dropped, quieter, heavier. “I think they made Y/n sicker.”

That landed.

Even through the engine’s constant roar, it landed.

Sukuna’s nostrils flared. His hand drifted—slow, almost unconscious—to your belly again, palm flattening there like he could shield you from the past by sheer force.

Hiro watched the motion.

Then he said, very carefully, “I don’t like you.” Sukuna’s mouth twitched. “I don’t care.”

“I know you don’t.” Hiro’s gaze stayed on him. “But I’m saying it anyway.” Sukuna’s eyes sharpened, dangerous and bright. “You want to pick a fight on a plane?” Hiro’s voice didn’t rise. That was the difference between them—Hiro’s anger was a controlled thing, a fire contained in a lantern. “No,” Hiro said. “I want you to listen.” Sukuna leaned back, the smallest fraction, but his shoulders remained tense. “Talk.”

Hiro nodded once, as if steadying himself.

“I watched Y/n come alive in China,” he said. “Not all at once. But… little things. Choosing what to eat. Going to classes. Making friends. Smiling without flinching first. Laughing and not looking around like laughter was illegal.” Hiro’s eyes flicked to you again, softening. “And I know you’re not the reason Y/n is better. I’m not giving you credit like you’re some savior.”

Sukuna’s eyes flashed.

Hiro held his ground. “But you did something my parents never did.” Sukuna’s voice was low, skeptical. “What.”

“You treated Y/n like a person,” Hiro said. “Not a diagnosis. Not a disaster waiting to happen. A person.” Sukuna’s throat worked. He looked down at you—your cheek against his arm, your lips parted slightly in sleep. His voice came out rougher than before. “Y/n is mine.” Hiro’s expression hardened. “That’s the part I don’t trust.”

Sukuna’s eyes snapped to him.

Hiro didn’t blink. “Because you don’t say it like love. You say it like ownership.” For a moment, it looked like Sukuna might lunge across the sleeping space between you. The tension in him went taut, like a wire pulled too tight.

But then his gaze dropped again—to your belly, to the slow rise and fall of your breathing—and something in him held back.

He exhaled through his nose, sharp. “I protect what’s mine.”

“And you have to learn the difference,” Hiro said quietly, “between protecting someone and keeping them.” Sukuna’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle jumped. Hiro continued anyway, voice deepening with quiet intensity. “I’m asking you—no. I’m telling you—keep giving Y/n room. Room to breathe. Room to decide. Room to be scared and still choose. Room to be angry and still be loved.”

Sukuna stared at him, eyes like embers.

Hiro’s gaze softened just a fraction. “Y/n has spent a lifetime being handled. Managed. Controlled. If you turn into another pair of hands around her throat—” Sukuna’s voice cut in, sharp as broken glass. “I would never.” Hiro held his stare. “You already did. Not literally. But you know what I mean.”

Silence.

The plane hummed.

Your breathing stayed steady, unaware of the storm being argued around you. Sukuna’s fingers curled into the blanket again, then loosened. His voice, when it came, was lower—rawer. “I don’t know how to love gently,” he admitted, and it sounded like it hurt him to say it. “I didn’t learn it.” Hiro’s mouth tightened with something like understanding. “Then learn now.”

Sukuna’s eyes flicked toward the aisle, toward the dim cabin, like the world was listening.

Then back to Hiro.

“I’m not letting Y/n go,” Sukuna said, Hiro nodded slowly. “I’m not asking you to.” Sukuna’s hand pressed more firmly to your belly, protective, reverent. Hiro’s voice softened, but the steel stayed underneath it. “I’m asking you to let Y/n stay because Y/n chooses you. Not because there’s nowhere else to go. Not because Y/n is scared. Not because you made the world too small.” Sukuna stared at you like he was trying to memorize the shape of choice on your sleeping face.

For a long time, he didn’t speak.

Then, finally—barely above a whisper—he said, “I’ll try.” Hiro exhaled, slow and shaky, like he’d been holding his breath for years. He leaned back in his seat, eyes closing for a second— and between them—between two men stitched together by the same fragile, fierce love—you slept on, carried across the sky, unaware that for the first time in a long time, the people who loved you were finally learning how to love you without breaking you.

You woke like something surfacing through thick water—slow, disoriented, the world softened at the edges by dim cabin lights and the hush of strangers breathing in unison. Your mouth felt dry. Your limbs felt heavy. And low in your belly, life shifted—small, insistent movements, as if the baby had decided now was the perfect time to remind you that you weren’t alone in your body anymore.

Your eyes blinked open.

Sukuna was there immediately, as if he’d been waiting in that exact second between your sleep and your waking. His arm was still beneath your head, his shoulders angled toward you protectively even in a cramped airplane seat. He looked tired, too—eyes a little shadowed, jaw tight—but the moment he saw your lashes flutter, his expression softened.

“Need something?” he murmured, voice low so he wouldn’t wake anyone. You swallowed, throat aching with dryness, and nodded weakly. “I… I have to pee,” you whispered, embarrassed even though you shouldn’t have been. Your cheeks warmed. “And the baby’s moving a lot.”

Sukuna’s gaze dropped to your belly like it was a magnet, like it pulled his attention without asking permission. His hand hovered there for a second, then he caught himself—like he was remembering to be gentle, remembering not to take.

“Okay,” he said, calm and steady. “I’ve got you.” He unbuckled his belt, then yours, movements careful and efficient. He stood immediately—too tall for the space, shoulders brushing close to the overhead bins—then reached down and offered you his hands. You took them, fingers trembling with fatigue, and he lifted you up slowly, supporting your waist.

You swayed the second your feet met the floor.

Sukuna’s grip tightened—firm, not painful—his palm braced at your lower back as if he could hold your whole spine together with one hand.

“Easy,” he murmured. “Lean on me.”

You did.

The aisle was narrow, the plane still half-asleep, but Sukuna moved like he owned the air around you—guiding you forward, body angled between you and anyone who might bump into your belly. Your head felt floaty; your eyes wanted to close again. The baby fluttered low and restless, making you clench your thighs instinctively.

And then—just as you reached the bathroom door—

A man shoved past.

He didn’t even look. Just cut in front of you like your body wasn’t there, like your need didn’t exist. He slipped into the bathroom and shut the door.

You froze, breath catching with frustration and exhaustion.

A small, helpless sound left your throat.

Sukuna’s entire body changed.

It was subtle—but it wasn’t.

His shoulders went rigid. His jaw tightened so hard you could see the tendon flex along his neck. His eyes—still crimson even in the dim light—turned sharp and cold, the kind of look that belonged to someone who’d always known how to become violence quickly.

You felt it in the air between his teeth.

He stepped forward, hand twitching like he wanted to knock on the door with his fist. You clung to his sleeve softly, panicked, not wanting a scene, not wanting him to turn into the version of himself that made attendants press buttons and people stare.

“Sukuna…” you whispered.

His gaze flicked to you, and something in him stopped—like you were the only leash that mattered.

He exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled.

Then he leaned down to your ear, voice tight but gentle.

“Come on,” he said. “Other bathroom. I’m sorry.”

“I’m okay,” you lied, because you were tired and you didn’t want anyone to look at you. But your face pinched as another wave of urgency hit, and Sukuna saw it. He didn’t argue.

He guided you down the aisle again, moving faster now, his hand steady at your back, murmuring quiet apologies that weren’t even yours to accept. When you reached the second bathroom, it was empty. Sukuna opened the door and helped you inside, keeping his body angled so no one could see you too clearly, like privacy was something he could physically create.

You sat down, a little too heavily, and your eyes immediately started to close.

Your forehead drooped forward. Your temple pressed against the cool wall. You could have fallen asleep right there, mid-breath, mid-body, mid-everything.

Sukuna let out a long, quiet sigh. Not irritated—just… worn. Protective. The kind of sound a person made when they were holding a lot and refusing to drop any of it. “Stay awake,” he murmured, softer than a scold. “Just a little.”

Your lips parted. No words came.

You blinked slowly. Slowly. Slower.

Sukuna’s hand hovered near your shoulder as if he was debating whether to touch you. Then—carefully, respectfully, like he was trying to honor you even in this—he steadied you, keeping you from tipping. When you slumped a little too far, he adjusted his stance, making sure you wouldn’t fall. He reached for toilet paper with that same controlled efficiency he used when he was afraid. He spoke under his breath—half to you, half to himself—like an anchor.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured again. “You’re okay.” You barely registered the rest. You were drifting, drifting, drifting— And then you felt him helping you up, gentle hands guiding you, pulling your underwear and leggings back into place with care that was strangely tender for someone who had once only known how to take.

Your skin prickled with embarrassment, but you were too tired to fight it. Too tired to do anything but let him. He washed his hands. You heard the water run. You heard the paper towel tear. Then his arms slid beneath you and lifted you as if you weighed nothing.

Your cheek fell against his shoulder.

You were already asleep again before he even made it halfway down the aisle.

Back at your seat, Sukuna lowered you carefully, settling you into the blanket like he was tucking in something fragile and priceless. He buckled your belt himself, adjusting it over your belly with a gentleness that said he understood—finally—that your body wasn’t just his to hold. It was yours. And it was the baby’s. And he was simply lucky enough to be near it.

Across the aisle, Hiro stirred, blinking awake with a sleepy frown that softened as he took in the scene. He looked at Sukuna, then at you—dead asleep, mouth parted slightly, body limp with exhaustion—and a quiet laugh escaped him.

“What happened?” Hiro whispered, amused despite himself. Sukuna sat back down slowly, still tense, still protective, his gaze flicking once to your face as if checking your breathing. “Some asshole cut in line,” he muttered. “She almost fell asleep on the toilet.” Hiro’s shoulders shook with a silent chuckle. He rubbed a hand over his face, then looked at you again—at the curve of your belly beneath the blanket, at how peaceful you looked when you weren’t being pulled in ten different directions.

“Her and that baby are going to be so spoiled,” Hiro murmured, half-teasing, half-ache. Like he could already see it—how Sukuna’s harshness softened in the presence of you, how all that sharpness got rerouted into care.

Sukuna didn’t deny it.

He just glanced at you again—longer this time—his eyes dimming into something quieter.

“Good,” he said, voice low. “They deserve it.” And the plane kept flying—through darkness, through clouds, through the long stretch of miles—while you slept against him. 

Landing felt like being returned to your body.

The wheels kissed the runway with a rough, dragging thrum, and the whole plane shuddered as if it, too, was relieved to stop holding itself up. Your ears popped. Your stomach rolled. Your baby fluttered like it was protesting the sudden change, and you blinked through the fog—sore, swollen, exhausted in a way that felt bone-deep.

Sukuna’s hand found your knee immediately, steadying you without even thinking. His thumb rubbed a slow circle, grounding. You leaned into him instinctively, cheek brushing his shoulder, and he murmured something low—half comfort, half promise.

When the seatbelt sign finally chimed off, people surged into motion around you, bodies and bags and impatience. Sukuna stood first, towering, positioning himself between you and the aisle like a living wall. Hiro grabbed the duffle and the carry-on. Someone bumped a seat. Someone cursed. Someone laughed too loudly.

You breathed through it, fingers on your belly, whispering to yourself that it was over, it was over, it was—

New York.

Even the airport felt different. Bigger. Brighter. The air tasted like coffee and metal and faraway places. The announcements were louder, the signs sharper, everything humming with movement. Hiro walked a little ahead, phone in hand, shoulders tense with purpose. “I ordered an Uber,” he said, glancing back at you. “We’ll wait near the pickup area.”

Sukuna didn’t argue. He kept you close, always half a step behind you, always scanning. Still protective—still himself—but softer at the edges these days, like the medication had sanded down the most jagged parts without taking away his spine.

While you waited, Sukuna disappeared for exactly long enough to make your anxiety twitch, then came back with a small bag of food like it was contraband.

You smiled when you saw it.

“Food?” you asked, voice soft, almost amused. “Food,” he confirmed, as if it was a solution to everything. He handed you a breakfast sandwich first, then a bottle of water. “Eat.” You took it obediently, unwrapped it carefully, and the smell alone made your stomach wake up like a starving animal. You bit into it and sighed—eyes fluttering, shoulders relaxing as warmth spread through your chest.

Sukuna watched you with that look he got lately—half relief, half fixation, like seeing you eat meant you were still here.

You lifted the sandwich toward him.

He leaned back slightly. “I’m fine.”

You frowned gently, as if his refusal was the silliest thing you’d ever heard. “You need to eat too.”

“I said I’m fine.” You tilted your head, the sweetness in your face doing what it always did—softening him by force. “Sukuna,” you said quietly. “Please.” His jaw flexed. He sighed, like you’d won an argument he hadn’t meant to lose, and before he could protest again, you held the sandwich closer.

He took a bite—grudging at first, then slower, chewing like he was remembering what it felt like to take care of his own body.

You smiled, pleased.

“That wasn’t hard,” you murmured.

He shot you a look that was all dry attitude and soft surrender. “You’re insufferable.” You giggled quietly, and it startled you—how natural it sounded. How it felt like something you’d almost forgotten you could do.

Sukuna rolled his eyes, then pulled his phone out and ordered more food like he was annoyed at himself for being hungry. When it arrived, he took a few bites—still stubborn, still pretending it didn’t matter—until you started staring at his food with the most obvious hunger on your face.

He caught you.

His eyes narrowed. “What.” You blinked innocently. “Nothing.”

“You’re looking.”

“It smells good.” He stared at you for a long moment, then scoffed and lifted the food toward you. “Open your mouth.” Your cheeks warmed. You obeyed, taking the bite he offered, and the taste made you hum softly. You swallowed and immediately blamed the baby, as if that could absolve you. “The baby makes me hungry.”

Sukuna’s mouth twitched.

Then—rare as sunlight in winter—he chuckled. It was low, rough, surprised by itself, like it had to climb over old habits to get out.

Your heart squeezed.

You leaned forward from your chair and kissed his lips—soft, quick, a little shy, but real.

His eyes widened slightly, then softened.

When you pulled back, you whispered, “When we get to the house… can I take a nap?” Sukuna’s hand slid to your waist, thumb rubbing the curve of you like a promise. “Of course,” he murmured. “You can nap as much as you want.”

That gentleness made your throat sting.

You blinked fast, refusing tears in the middle of an airport.

Hiro returned a few minutes later, waving his phone. “Uber’s here.” You stood slowly, Sukuna’s hand steady at your elbow. The three of you made your way outside, the air colder than you expected, biting your cheeks awake. Cars rolled and honked, people shouted, luggage wheels rattled over pavement.

The Uber driver checked the name, nodded, popped the trunk.

Sukuna loaded the bags with the same silent efficiency he did everything with. Hiro slid in first. Sukuna helped you into the backseat carefully, making sure the seatbelt sat correctly over your belly. Then he climbed in beside you, body angled toward you automatically.

The car pulled away.

At first, the city pressed in around you—buildings like cliffs, signs like neon scars, traffic thick and impatient. You watched it through the window, quiet, your fingers tracing slow circles on your belly.

Then, gradually, the skyline thinned.

Concrete gave way to distance.

The buildings grew shorter. The roads stretched. Trees began to multiply like a secret being revealed. The grass widened, open and rolling. The air looked cleaner. Softer. Like the world had room to breathe out here.

Your chest loosened with it.

“It’s… beautiful,” you whispered.

Sukuna’s gaze flicked to you. He didn’t say much—he never did when he felt something too real—but his hand found yours and squeezed once, firm and steady.

Forty-five minutes later, the Uber turned down a quieter road.

And there it was.

A cottage-style house, two stories, sweet in a way that felt almost unreal. A yard. A porch. Trees framing the land like arms. Neighbors not close enough to hear you breathe, but close enough that you wouldn’t feel like the only living thing in the world.

You stared at it, stunned.

Hiro exhaled softly, like he’d been holding his breath for weeks.

The Uber stopped. The driver helped with the trunk. Hiro paid, thanked him, and then you were standing there—two fugitives and a concerned brother on a quiet patch of American earth—looking at a house that felt like something no one had ever meant to give you.

Sukuna scooped you up like it was nothing. “Hey—” you protested weakly, cheeks burning. He ignored it, adjusting you against his chest, carrying you and two bags like his arms were built for exactly this.

Hiro grabbed his own bag, following behind.

You watched the front door as Sukuna approached it, your pulse strange and fluttering.

The door opened.

And your whole body jolted.

Sumire stood there.

Your eyes widened so fast it almost hurt.

“Sumire?” Your voice cracked with disbelief, relief, confusion all braided together. You slid out of Sukuna’s arms before he could stop you—waddling the last steps quickly, hands shaking as you reached for her. She smiled like she’d been waiting for you, like she’d known exactly what you’d look like when you saw her.

Then she kissed your cheek.

Soft. Familiar.

“I couldn’t let my ward buddy go to America without me,” she said simply, as if this was normal. As if people didn’t disappear across oceans and start new lives like turning a page. You laughed and cried at the same time, holding her arms, searching her face. “But—China—what—how—” Sumire’s eyes flicked past you.

To Hiro.

Hiro stood there with his duffle bag, looking suddenly like someone who didn’t know what to do with his hands. He cleared his throat, cheeks coloring faintly and that was when the truth started knitting itself together.

You looked back at Sumire, confused. “What are you doing here?” Sumire’s smile widened. “Well,” she said, voice light, almost teasing, “your brother did some… investigating.” Hiro made a sound like a warning. “Sumire.”

She ignored him.

“He wanted to make sure Sukuna was safe for you to be around,” she continued, eyes bright with amusement. “One thing led to another.” You stared at them—your sweet, stiff brother, and this fierce, unhinged, loyal woman you’d once played cards with while the world burned outside the ward walls.

Your mouth parted.

“No,” you whispered.

Hiro’s ears turned red.

Sumire leaned in like she was sharing a secret. “Yes.” Your gaze snapped to Hiro. “Hiro…?” He looked away, jaw flexing, then finally—finally—met your eyes again. “I wasn’t going to leave you alone,” he said quietly. And there was something raw beneath it, something that sounded like years of guilt turned into action. “Not again.” Sumire’s hand slid into Hiro’s like it belonged there.

And the sight of it made something in your chest loosen—something you didn’t realize had been locked for a long time.

You covered your mouth with trembling fingers.

“You… you two—” Sumire shrugged, like falling in love during an escape plan was just another Tuesday. “He’s annoying,” she said. “But he’s loyal.” Hiro muttered, “You’re insane.” Sumire beamed. “He says that like it’s a flaw.” You laughed through tears, and the sound echoed off the porch, off the quiet yard, off the soft American air—like the world was letting you have something that didn’t hurt.

Behind you, Sukuna stood with the bags still in his hands, watching.

His expression was unreadable at first—those crimson eyes always hard to decipher—until his gaze moved to you.

To the tears on your cheeks.

To the way you were smiling like you’d been starving for a safe moment.

Something softened in him.

Just a fraction.

Just enough.

“Inside,” he said gruffly, voice pretending it was only practical. “She needs to lie down.” You nodded, wiping your cheeks with the back of your hand, and as you stepped over the threshold—into a house that smelled like clean air and new beginnings—you felt your heart ache with the weight of it.

Not because it was perfect.

But because, for the first time in so long, it felt possible.

Sumire didn’t rush you. She moved the way she always had—quiet competence, soft hands guiding without making you feel like you were made of glass. The house welcomed you with a hush that didn’t feel empty, just… held. Like the walls had already decided they wouldn’t echo the worst parts of you back at yourself.

“Okay,” Sumire said gently, stepping aside so you and Sukuna could actually breathe. “Shoes wherever. I’ll show you around.” Hiro lingered by the entryway like he didn’t know if he should be proud or sick with nerves, eyes flicking to the windows, to the locks, to the corners—still Japanese in his caution, still your brother in his worry.

Sumire started with the obvious—kitchen, living room, the little dining space that looked like someone had tried to make it feel warm on purpose. There were already dishes in the cabinets. A kettle on the stove. A blanket folded neatly over the back of the couch as if it had been waiting for you to get cold.

You hovered, stunned, fingers curling around the hem of your sweater. “It’s… furnished,” you whispered, like saying it too loud would make it disappear.

Sumire smiled. “Yes. Because you’re pregnant and exhausted and I’m not letting you sleep on the floor like we’re back there.” Her eyes flicked to Sukuna. “And he would’ve lost his mind.” Sukuna gave a low scoff that wasn’t really disagreement. Sumire led you to the stairs next, one hand hovering near the railing like she’d catch you if you swayed. “Upstairs,” she said, “is yours.” You blinked. “Mine?”

“Yours,” she repeated, like it was simple. “Three rooms up there. Two bathrooms. And there’s a little loft area at the top—like an open space. You could put a couch up there, a TV… whatever you want. A reading nook. Something soft.” Your chest tightened at the word soft.

Sumire continued, keeping it natural, like she wasn’t handing you a life you’d never been allowed to picture. “Downstairs bedroom is mine and Hiro’s,” she added, glancing over her shoulder. “We’ll stay out of your way. And you’ll have space.” Sukuna’s hand settled at the small of your back—possessive, yes, but also steadying. His gaze traveled up the stairs like he was measuring every step for threats. Even here. Even now.

You reached the top, and the loft was right there—an airy open pocket of the second floor with light spilling in, the kind of space that begged you to exhale. Past it, doors. Bedrooms. A hallway. Bathrooms that didn’t smell like bleach and panic.

Sumire opened the first room. Empty for now, but clean—just waiting. “This can be the baby’s room,” she said, voice lowered like she was speaking in a church. “Or not. You can decide later.” She opened the second. “This one’s just… extra. For whatever you need.”

Then she opened the third door and stepped aside and you knew—instinctively—that this was meant to be yours. A bed already made with pale sheets. Curtains drawn halfway. A lamp on the nightstand. The quiet kind of room that didn’t demand anything from you.

Sukuna’s posture shifted immediately. The tension in him sharpened into something singular: rest.

“That’s it,” he said, tone leaving no room for argument. “You’re done for the day.” You started to protest out of habit—out of that old training that said you had to earn rest—but the exhaustion hit you like a tide, and your body betrayed you with a slow sway.

Sukuna caught you.

His hands slid to your waist, firm, and his voice dropped into something that was almost gentle. “Your body is too tired.” His eyes flicked to your belly. “And you were attacked three days ago. Enough.” You nodded because you couldn’t fight him and also because… he was right. You were so tired you felt hollow.

He guided you to the bed like he was guiding something sacred, helping you sit, then easing you back. He pulled the blanket up over you with a care that almost hurt. Sumire lingered in the doorway, watching the way Sukuna watched you—like his eyes were a lock and you were the thing he couldn’t afford to lose.

Your eyelids drooped. Your limbs sank heavy into the mattress.

Sukuna sat at the edge of the bed for a moment, his palm resting over your sweater where your belly rounded beneath it. Not pressing. Just there. Present.

You sighed softly.

Then you felt it—small, unmistakable.

A kick.

A flutter.

A reminder.

Your hand drifted down to cover Sukuna’s, and relief cracked through you so suddenly it made your throat sting. “He’s moving,” you whispered, voice sleepy. Sukuna’s breath caught. His eyes softened just a fraction, and he watched your belly like he could see the life beneath your skin. “Yeah,” he murmured, quieter than usual. “I felt it.”

Your fingers relaxed.

The world blurred at the edges.

Sukuna stayed until your breathing evened out, until your hand slid away from his and your face smoothed into sleep. He watched you like he was standing guard over peace itself—like if he stared hard enough, nothing bad could ever reach you again.

Only when you were fully asleep did he stand. He stepped out, pulling the door nearly closed behind him, leaving it cracked just enough to hear you breathe. Downstairs, the house felt different without your voice in it—still quiet, but now the quiet had weight.

Hiro was in the living room, setting his duffle by the couch like he couldn’t trust himself to relax yet. Sumire had taken off her coat, hair falling loose, already making the space feel lived-in. Sukuna walked down the stairs slowly, exhaustion written into the set of his shoulders. When he reached the living room, he didn’t bother with small talk.

He looked at them both—Sumire first, then Hiro—eyes sharp. “What’s the plan,” he asked. Not a question laced with doubt. A demand for reality. Hiro swallowed, then answered like he’d rehearsed it. “We start a life here.” He lifted his phone slightly, as if it was proof. “I transferred to my job’s New York location. Still remote. Tech work. Same pay.” Sumire nodded. “And I’m staying here,” she added, simple and certain. “She’s having the baby in four months. She won’t be alone.”

Sukuna exhaled through his nose, a sound that was half relief and half stress he didn’t know how to put down. He rubbed a hand over his face. “I need work,” he muttered. Practical. Immediate. The way he always had to anchor himself to something he could control. “Money. Insurance. Doctors.” His gaze flicked to the stairs again—toward the room where you slept. His shoulders tightened like even the distance between floors made him uneasy.

Then he sat down on the couch like his body finally remembered it was allowed to be tired.

For a moment, he just stared at the floor—hands clasped, knuckles pale. The veins in his forearms stood out. His jaw worked like he was chewing through a thought. Sumire sat beside him without asking, bumping her shoulder lightly into his like she’d done it in the ward when words were too sharp.

“What,” she said, soft but blunt. “What’s eating you.” Sukuna didn’t answer right away. His eyes stayed fixed somewhere unseen, like he was watching the last few years play out on a wall no one else could see. Sumire poked his arm—harder this time. “We’re ward buddies. Stop trying to filter yourself like a polite man.”

That earned a humorless huff from him.

Then he finally let out a breath—long, ragged—like he’d been holding it since China. “She’s had it so hard,” he said, voice lower, rougher. “Since she was a kid. Sick in the head and nobody taught her how to live with it—just how to be controlled by it.” Hiro’s posture stiffened immediately, but he didn’t interrupt.

Sukuna’s gaze lifted, burning. “Her parents treated her like a glass doll and a weapon at the same time. Locked her away. Smothered her. Didn’t teach her anything real—didn’t teach her how to be an adult, how to choose, how to breathe.” His mouth twisted with contempt. “And then that… girl—” He scoffed, the word ugly on his tongue. “Hiro’s ex. That stupid bitch.” Hiro flinched, jaw clenching, but Sukuna kept going, relentless.

“She followed him home. Harassed him. Pressed and pressed and pressed until your sister’s head snapped like a wire pulled too tight.” Sukuna’s hand flexed on his knee. “And you all looked at her like she was a monster instead of a person who finally broke.” He swallowed hard, and for a second his voice cracked—not loud enough to be obvious, but enough to matter.

“Solitary for three years,” he said, staring at his hands. “Three years of nothing but walls and her own mind tearing her apart. And when she finally came out… it didn’t get better. It just spiraled.” His eyes slid toward the stairs again, softer now—haunted. “She hasn’t had one calm moment in her whole life,” he murmured. “Not one. And I—” His throat bobbed. “I need her to finally be at peace.”

Sumire’s face softened in a way that didn’t happen often.

Sukuna’s jaw tightened, anger rising again like a tide. “This is all her parents’ fault,” he said, voice sharpening. “They made her sicker. They called it love. They called it protection. But it was a cage.” He leaned back, eyes dark, exhausted, furious in a quiet way. “And now,” he said, voice lower, almost broken in its intensity, “she’s finally got a chance at something gentle—and they still tried to take it away.”

His hands curled into fists again, then slowly—slowly—unclenched, as if he was forcing himself to stay in this room, in this house, in this new life. Sumire stared at him for a long moment, then reached over and pressed her palm to his forearm—grounding, steady. “We’ll keep her safe,” she said simply.

Hiro, after a beat, nodded once. “Yeah,” he said, voice tight. “We will.” And Sukuna didn’t say thank you. He just sat there, staring toward the stairs, listening—listening as if he could hear your breathing through the ceiling, as if the sound of you sleeping was the only thing keeping the worst parts of him from waking up again.

Sukuna sat there a while longer, the living room dim and breathing—Hiro’s quiet shifting, Sumire’s steady presence, the faint hum of a house learning its new occupants. His anger had nowhere to go now that the danger was behind you, and without a target it only curdled into exhaustion.

Finally, he exhaled—long and heavy—like his body was surrendering. “I’m tired,” he muttered, voice rough with it. “Didn’t sleep on the flight.”

Sumire’s eyes softened. Hiro didn’t say anything—just nodded like he understood that kind of tired. The kind that lived in your bones, not your eyelids.

Sukuna pushed himself up from the couch, rolling his shoulders once like he could shake the last twenty-four hours off. He didn’t look at either of them when he headed for the stairs—only glanced upward, toward where you were.

Like the rest of the world could wait.

Upstairs, the hall was quiet as snow. He moved carefully, deliberately, opening the bedroom door with the gentleness of someone trying not to wake a miracle. The room smelled faintly of clean linen and you—warm skin, soft breath, the sweetness of sleep. You were curled on your side, one hand resting on your belly as if you were guarding the baby even in dreams.

Sukuna’s chest tightened.

He slipped his shoes off, toed them aside, and eased himself into the bed. The comforter lifted and settled again like a slow tide— and the moment his body touched the mattress—you found him.

Sleep didn’t make you helpless; it made you honest.

You shifted without opening your eyes, drifting straight into the heat of him like it was instinct. Your five-month belly pressed against his ribs, soft and round and alive, and your head settled onto his shoulder with a trust so effortless it nearly broke him.

Your arm slung over his chest, loose and claiming.

Sukuna froze for a heartbeat, breath caught—like he didn’t deserve how easily you chose him.

Then you mumbled, voice barely more than air, gentle as a prayer.

“I love you, Suku…”

The words hit him low and deep.

His eyes stung immediately—hot, sharp, sudden. He stared at your face in the dark, lashes resting on your cheeks, mouth soft in sleep, and the tears burned behind his eyes like shame and gratitude tangled together. He turned his head slowly, careful not to jostle you, and pressed a kiss to your forehead—longer than necessary, like he was trying to seal the world out.

“I love you too,” he whispered back, voice rough but tender. “I love you.” His arm curled around you, firm at your back, palm spreading over you like an anchor. Not trapping. Holding.

You sighed in your sleep and melted closer.

Sukuna kept his mouth against your hair for another quiet second—breathing you in, letting the steady rise and fall of your body calm the violent parts of his mind. Then, still holding you like he’d been waiting his whole life to do it right, he finally let his eyes close.

And he fell asleep.

He had been married once in his early twenties, back when he still believed love was something two people could build correctly if they followed the proper plans. The marriage ended before he turned thirty. No dramatic betrayal. No overturned furniture or screaming in the street. Just two people slowly realizing that affection could not always survive the weight of everything they wanted the other person to become.

After the divorce, Sukuna stopped trying.

He dated occasionally.

Rarely more than once.

He disliked small talk, hated crowded bars, and had no patience for pretending he was interested in another person’s hobbies simply because their face was attractive. Women called him handsome, difficult, arrogant, emotionally unavailable.

All of those things were true.

He did not care.

Then he met you.

You were twenty.

Too young, though he had not known that immediately.

Beautiful enough that he noticed you before he noticed anything else in the room.

The company dinner had been held inside the ballroom of an expensive hotel, the kind of event Sukuna attended only because his name appeared on several of the projects being celebrated. Long tables were dressed in black linen. Champagne glasses caught the light. Executives laughed too loudly at one another’s jokes while architects pretended not to resent the contractors.

Sukuna had been there for less than twenty minutes when you approached with a tray of whiskey.

Your long brown curls fell in heavy ringlets down your back, half pinned away from your face. The black uniform hugged your soft waist and fuller hips, and the little name tag pinned over your chest sat slightly crooked.

You stopped beside him. “Whiskey?” Sukuna looked at the tray.

Then at you. “What kind?” Your brows lifted slightly. “The kind they gave me.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have.”

His mouth twitched.

You noticed.

That had been the beginning.

He took one glass.

Then another when you passed again.

By the third, you stopped beside him and glanced at the mostly untouched drink already in his hand. “You know, you’re supposed to finish the first one.”

“I know.”

“You keep taking them.”

“I know.”

“Why?” His eyes moved over your face. “Maybe I like the service.” You smiled.

Not shyly.

Not nervously.

Slowly.

Like you knew exactly what he meant and had decided to reward him for saying it.

“You tip well?”

“I don’t reward mediocrity.” Your smile widened. “Then I suppose I’ll have to impress you.” You walked away before he could answer.

Sukuna watched you go.

He should have left it there.

He knew that.

You were working. He was old enough to understand when attention could become pressure, and Sukuna had never needed to chase anyone who did not clearly want to be caught.

But you kept returning.

You brought him another whiskey without being asked.

You leaned closer when he spoke, though the music was not loud enough to require it. When he asked how long you had been waitressing, you admitted it was temporary, just something you did for extra money while attending college.

“What are you studying?” he asked. “Literature and communications.”

“You want to be a writer?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“I want to work in publishing. Or teach. Or write. I haven’t decided.”

“That’s expensive indecision.” You gave him a flat look. “You’re an architect at a company dinner. I’m sure you had your life perfectly planned at twenty.”

“I did.”

“Of course you did.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I was hoping you had at least one interesting flaw.” He lifted his glass. “I have several.” You glanced at him over your shoulder as someone at another table called for you. “I’ll believe that when I see them.”

By the end of the night, Sukuna had taken enough whiskey from your tray that one of your coworkers noticed.

She whispered something when you returned to the service station.

You glanced at him.

Sukuna looked away before you caught him watching.

He was forty-three then.

You were twenty.

He learned your age near the end of the evening, when the tables had begun to empty and the executives were leaving in expensive cars.

The discovery should have ended everything.

Instead, he found you waiting near the hotel entrance after your shift, curls loosened from their pins, coat folded over one arm. “You need a ride?” he asked.

You looked toward the dark windows beyond the doors.

“My friend was supposed to get me.”

“And?”

“She forgot.” Sukuna took out his keys. “I’ll drive.” You looked at him carefully. “You do this for all the waitresses?”

“No.”

“Just the ones who keep bringing you whiskey?”

“Just the ones who flirt with me all night and then pretend they weren’t.” Your cheeks warmed. “I wasn’t pretending.” That answer followed both of you into the parking garage.

What happened in his car was not romantic.

Not at first.

It was heat and impatience, the tension from the ballroom snapping beneath the dim light of the garage. Your hands tangled in his shirt. His mouth found your neck. You kissed him like you had already decided there would be no morning after, no awkward conversation, no expectation of anything beyond one reckless night.

Afterward, you adjusted your clothes in the passenger seat, avoiding his eyes.

Sukuna watched you smooth your curls.

“You regret it?”

“No.”

“Then stop looking guilty.”

“I don’t look guilty.”

“You look like you’re about to apologize.” You turned toward him. “I mean, isn't this a one-time thing?” He looked at you for a moment.

Then he took your phone from where it sat between the seats.

“What are you doing?”

“Giving you my number.”

“You could ask.”

“You would say yes.”

“That’s arrogant.”

“It’s accurate.”

He entered his name and handed the phone back.

You looked at the new contact.

Sukuna.

Nothing else.

No last name.

No explanation.

“Call me,” he said. “For what?” His gaze moved over your mouth. “To do it again.” You laughed softly. “One more night?”

“One more.”

There were many more.

At first, that was what the two of you called them.

One more night.

You met after your classes, after his work, after dinners neither of you attended together. Sometimes he picked you up near campus. Sometimes you arrived at his house by an Uber and left before morning. You told yourself it was casual because the alternative felt absurd.

Sukuna was more than twice your age.

He had a divorce behind him, a successful career, a large house, investments, routines, expensive tastes, and a personality sharpened by decades of knowing exactly what he wanted.

You were twenty, working events on weekends and surviving on instant noodles during finals.

There was no sensible shape for the two of you.

So you kept it shapeless.

Until one night, you stayed.

Not just until morning.

Through it.

You wore one of his shirts because yours had fallen somewhere beneath the bed. You sat curled into the corner of his couch, bare legs tucked beneath you, watching an old movie he claimed was good.

“It’s boring,” you said. “It’s been on for twelve minutes.”

“Nothing has happened.”

“People are talking.”

“That is not a plot.”

Sukuna looked at you.

You looked back.

Then, without thinking, you moved closer and rested your head against his shoulder.

He went still.

You noticed immediately. “Sorry.” You began to lift your head, Sukuna’s arm moved around you. “Stay.” You did.

By the middle of your twentieth year, one more night had turned into whole weekends.

You left clothes at his house.

A toothbrush appeared beside his in the bathroom. Your favorite tea began showing up in his kitchen despite the fact that he called it “perfumed water.” Sukuna started asking about your assignments.

Not politely.

“Did you finish the paper?”

“I’m working on it.”

“You’ve been saying that for three days.”

“I have a process.”

“You procrastinate.”

“That is my process.” He would complain, then sit beside you with his laptop while you wrote. If you got distracted, he tapped the table.

If you became overwhelmed, he ordered food.

If you fell asleep on the couch, he carried you to bed while muttering about how little common sense college students possessed.

You began dating without either of you formally announcing it.

The conversation happened after Sukuna canceled dinner with a woman he had known professionally for years because you had asked if he wanted to watch a movie.

You had not known it was a date.

When you found out, you stared at him from the kitchen doorway.

“You canceled for me?”

“She was irritating.”

“You hadn’t seen her yet.”

“I remembered.”

“Sukuna.”

“What?”

“Are you really not seeing other people?” He looked up from the cabinet where he was searching for popcorn. “No.” Your stomach fluttered. “Since when?”

“Months.” You hesitated. “I haven’t either.”

“I know.”

“How?”

“You’re here constantly, and you told me how you felt.” Your eyes narrowed. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means you don’t have time for anyone but me.” You crossed your arms. “You’re impossible.” Sukuna set the popcorn on the counter.

Then he looked at you. “Do you want to date me?” The bluntness made you blink. “Are you asking?”

“Yes.”

“Like actually date?”

“What other kind is there?”

“We already sleep together.”

“That isn’t dating.”

“We eat together.”

“That’s dinner.”

“I leave my clothes here.”

“That’s poor organization.” You laughed.

Sukuna stepped closer. “I want you here.” The humor faded from your face.

He touched your waist. “Not just when we’re in bed.” Your chest tightened. “What about the age difference?”

“What about it?”

“People will talk.”

“People talk when they have nothing worth saying.”

“That sounds like you don’t care.”

“I don’t.”

He did, though.

Not then, perhaps.

Not fully.

But he would.

You said yes.

By twenty-one, you lived with him.

The decision happened gradually enough that neither of you could identify the exact day you moved in. Your textbooks took over one shelf in his office. Your clothes filled half of his closet. Your skincare crowded the bathroom counter until Sukuna bought organizers and complained while arranging everything by height.

When your apartment lease ended, you did not renew it.

Sukuna cleared out one of the spare rooms and turned it into a study for you, though most nights you still worked at the dining table because he was nearby.

No one knew you were together.

Not your classmates.

Not his colleagues.

Not beyond a handful of people you trusted.

The secrecy was partly yours.

Partly his.

At twenty-one, you were old enough to make your own decisions, but the world had opinions about women your age and men like Sukuna. Some people looked at you as though you were being manipulated. Others looked at him as though he had chosen you only because younger women were easier to control.

Neither was true.

But truth rarely stopped strangers from enjoying themselves.

Once, at a restaurant, a couple seated behind you whispered loudly enough to be heard. “Unbecoming,” the woman said. “An older man taking out someone that young.” Sukuna’s hand stopped around his glass.

You watched his expression flatten.

Normally, he would have turned around.

Normally, he would have said something sharp enough to ruin their evening.

Instead, he placed the glass down and asked whether you wanted dessert.

You knew then that he cared.

Not about them.

About what their judgment could do to you.

You were building a reputation at school. Applying for internships. Earning recommendations. Sukuna understood that people were crueler to young women than they were to established men. He knew any rumor would cling to you more stubbornly than it would to him.

After that, you ate at home more often.

And you loved it.

Sukuna cooked while you sat on the counter and stole ingredients. You watched films with your legs across his lap. You studied while he drew revisions beside you. You spent long mornings tangled in bed and quiet evenings curled beneath blankets, the rest of the world safely outside the walls.

It did not feel like hiding.

Not most of the time.

It felt like protecting something tender.

Your father changed that.

Sukuna met your parents when you were twenty-one.

Your mother was polite.

Your father was not.

The dinner began badly and deteriorated quickly.

Your father was fifty.

Only five years older than Sukuna.

The realization sat visibly between them from the moment Sukuna introduced himself. Your father stared at him, then at you, then back again. “How old are you?” he asked.

Sukuna answered without embarrassment.

Your father gave a short, humorless laugh. “You’re practically my age.” Sukuna took a sip of water. “You look older.” You closed your eyes.

Your mother coughed into her napkin.

Your father’s face darkened.

The rest of the meal became an interrogation.

How did you meet?

Why was a man in his forties attending a dinner where college students worked?

How long had you been together?

Were you living with him?

Was he paying your bills?

Did you understand how this looked?

You answered calmly until your father accused Sukuna of using money to control you.

Then Sukuna spoke. “She moved in because she wanted to.” Your father leaned across the table. “And you let her.”

“She’s an adult.”

“She’s my daughter.”

“And?” The single word nearly ended the dinner.

Your father turned toward you. “If you continue this, I’m not paying another cent toward that school.” Your mother whispered his name.

He ignored her.

You went quiet.

Sukuna did not. “That’s your choice.” Your eyes snapped toward him. Your father scoffed. “Easy for you to say.” Sukuna’s face became still. “I said it’s your choice.” The two men stared at each other.

You knew then the evening was over.

The drive home was silent.

Rain streaked the windows. Streetlights passed in long gold lines over the windshield. Sukuna drove with both hands on the wheel, jaw set.

You stared out the passenger window.

Your father had already sent a message confirming he had removed his payment information from the university portal.

The semester bill was due in three weeks.

You had some savings.

Not enough.

Your throat felt tight, but you refused to cry in the car.

Sukuna glanced toward you twice.

He said nothing until you reached home.

The moment the front door closed, you took off your shoes and walked toward the bedroom without speaking. Sukuna followed.

You climbed into bed still wearing your clothes and curled onto your side, facing the wall.

The mattress dipped behind you.

Sukuna moved close, slid one hand beneath your cheek, and gently turned your face toward him.

Your eyes were wet.

His expression softened.

“Don’t worry about school.”

You swallowed.

“I’ll figure something out.”

“I already did.”

“What?”

“I’m paying for it.”

Your eyes widened.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Sukuna.”

“No.”

“You can’t pay my tuition.”

“I can.”

“I won’t let you.”

“You don’t control my bank account.”

“That’s so much money.”

“I have more.”

“That isn’t the point.”

“It is to me.”

You pushed yourself up slightly.

“Sukuna, I have senior year next year, and then two years for my master’s.”

“I know.”

“That is not a small amount.”

“I know.”

“You already pay for the house, groceries, everything.”

“And?”

You stared at him.

He reached up and brushed one curl away from your face.

“I’ve saved more than enough.”

“For retirement.”

“I’m not retiring tomorrow.”

“For emergencies.”

“This is an emergency.”

“It is not.”

“You were just threatened out of school by someone who was supposed to help you.” Your face crumpled, Sukuna’s thumb brushed beneath your eye. “I adore you,” he said.

The bluntness of it broke something open.

“You don’t have to—”

“I know.” His voice softened. “I’m not having children. I don’t want them.” You blinked through tears. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I have money. You have a future.” Your lips parted. “I’d rather put it into your career than watch it sit in an account until I die.”

“That’s morbid.”

“It’s practical.”

“You could change your mind about kids.”

“I won’t.”

“You could regret paying.”

“I won’t.”

“You don’t know that.” Sukuna’s eyes narrowed. “I know myself.” You looked away. He touched your chin and turned you back. “I’m not buying you.”

“I know.”

“I’m not asking you to owe me.”

“I know.”

“You finish school. You get your master’s. You do whatever you planned before your father decided money was a leash.” Your tears finally spilled.

Sukuna sighed.

Then he pulled you against him.

You pressed your face into his chest, crying quietly while his hand moved through your curls. No one had ever offered you something so large without using it to demand something in return. Your father had paid for school because he believed paying gave him authority.

Sukuna paid because he wanted your life to remain yours.

That night, gratitude blurred into love so intense it frightened you.

You kissed him first.

Not with urgency.

With tenderness.

You touched his face and told him you loved him even though the two of you rarely said it aloud then. Sukuna looked at you like the words had struck him somewhere unprotected.

Then he kissed you back.

You made love slowly, passionately, with none of the impatience of your first night in his car. Sukuna held you like he understood exactly what you were giving him. Every touch carried care. Every kiss lingered.

He loved how responsive you were.

How your breath caught when he touched you gently.

How your curls spread across his pillows.

How you said his name like it belonged only to you in those moments.

Afterward, he held you against his chest and reminded you twice that tuition would be paid before the deadline.

It was.

Now you were twenty-two.

A senior completing the final year of your bachelor’s degree, though graduation would not truly be the end. Two more years waited afterward for your master’s program, already mapped across notes and application deadlines pinned above your desk.

You had been with Sukuna for two years.

You had lived in his house for one.

The house no longer felt like his.

It was yours too.

Your books filled the shelves. Your shoes sat beside his at the door. Your mugs occupied half the kitchen cabinet, though Sukuna insisted three of them were “structurally useless.” Your shampoo filled the bathroom with the scent of flowers. A framed photograph of the two of you sat discreetly in his office, turned slightly away from the window.

Your private social media account held the only visible pieces of your relationship.

A picture of two coffee cups on his drafting table.

His hand resting over your knee in the passenger seat.

Your curls spread across his chest.

The profile photograph showed the two of you together, though your face was partly hidden against his shoulder and his was turned toward you. Anyone from your family could have scrolled past without realizing it was you.

Sukuna pretended not to care about social media.

Then he asked why one picture of him had fewer likes than another.

“You said likes were meaningless,” you reminded him.

“They are.”

“Then why are you counting?”

“I’m observing.”

“You’re jealous of your own picture.”

“That one was better.”

“You were frowning.”

“I look good when I frown.”

“You always frown.”

“Exactly.”

That evening, you sat at the kitchen island with your laptop open, surrounded by textbooks and highlighted articles. Sukuna worked in the adjoining office, visible through the glass doors he kept open whenever you were home.

You had a presentation due Monday.

He had a hospital design review at eight the next morning.

Neither of you was doing the work you were supposed to be doing.

You kept watching him.

Sukuna sat at his large drafting desk wearing dark trousers and a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Reading glasses rested low on his nose, something he hated enough that you had been sworn to secrecy about them.

They made him look devastatingly handsome.

Older.

Sharper.

Distinguished in a way he would have mocked if you said it aloud.

You stared too long.

Without looking up, Sukuna said, “Stop.”

You blinked.

“Stop what?”

“Staring.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

“How would you know?”

“I know when you’re looking at me.”

“That sounds narcissistic.”

“It’s experience.”

You smiled and returned to your laptop.

Thirty seconds passed. “Come here,” he said.

You looked up.

Sukuna had removed the glasses. “I’m working.”

“No, you’re reading the same paragraph again.”

“You were watching me?”

“I know when you’re not working.”

“That sounds narcissistic too.”

“Come here.” You closed the laptop halfway. “I have a presentation.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Monday.”

“It’s Friday.”

“I like being prepared.” Sukuna leaned back in his chair.

“You’re lying.”

“I do.”

“You started the slides this morning.”

“I was busy.”

“With what?”

You hesitated.

He lifted one eyebrow.

“Laundry.”

“I did the laundry.”

“Reading.”

“You fell asleep.”

“I was resting my eyes.”

“On my chest.” You smiled. “That sounds productive.” Sukuna stared at you.

Then held out one hand.

You knew better than to reward him.

You stood anyway.

The moment you entered the office, Sukuna pulled you between his knees and wrapped both arms around your waist.

You rested your hands on his shoulders. “You’re supposed to be working.”

“So are you.”

“You called me in here.”

“You came.”

“You’re impossible.” His face settled against your stomach.

You looked down at the top of his pink hair.

For someone who had spent two decades alone, Sukuna had become remarkably attached to having you nearby.

He did not admit this.

He demonstrated it constantly.

If you studied in the bedroom, he eventually moved his laptop there. If you sat on the couch, he appeared within ten minutes and stretched out with his head in your lap. If you went to make tea, he followed as though the kitchen had suddenly become architecturally significant.

“You miss me?” you asked. “You’re ten feet away.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

His arms tightened.

“No.”

You smiled.

“Liar.”

Sukuna lifted his head.

His eyes moved over your face.

“Did you eat?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“A granola bar.”

“That’s not food.”

“It is literally food.”

“It’s compressed crumbs.”

You laughed.

He stood, still holding your waist, and guided you toward the kitchen.

“My presentation—”

“You’re eating.”

“You have a review tomorrow.”

“I’ll finish.”

“So will I.”

“After dinner.”

You watched him open the refrigerator.

There it was.

The shape of your life together.

Sukuna pretending orders were not affection.

You pretending you did not love being taken care of.

The age difference remained.

Twenty-three years could not be erased by affection. It existed in the music you did not recognize from his childhood, the technology he complained had changed unnecessarily, the gray beginning to thread subtly near his temples.

It existed in the way strangers sometimes looked at you.

The way your father spoke his name with disgust.

The way Sukuna checked your academic calendar more carefully than you did because he refused to let anyone claim your relationship had distracted you from school.

But it also existed in the patience he had learned before meeting you.

In the stability he could offer without using it to trap you.

In the quiet certainty with which he loved you.

You crossed the kitchen and wrapped your arms around him from behind.

Sukuna paused with one hand on the refrigerator door.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why are you attached to me?”

“You attach yourself to me all the time.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“I’m older.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It is authority.”

You laughed against his back.

Sukuna turned in your arms.

His hands settled at your waist.

“You’re in a mood.”

“I love you.”

The teasing left his face.

It always did when you said it unexpectedly.

His eyes softened.

“Yeah?”

You nodded.

“Even with the glasses.”

His expression darkened.

“I knew this was a mistake.”

You smiled brightly.

“You look very handsome in them.”

“You tell anyone, I’ll deny it.”

“Your secret is safe.”

He leaned down and kissed you.

Slowly.

Warmly.

His thumb brushed the curve of your waist beneath your shirt.

For a moment, deadlines and family and gossip disappeared.

There was only his mouth against yours.

The house around you.

The future waiting beyond Monday’s presentation.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“You’re finishing school,” he said.

You smiled faintly.

“I know.”

“All of it.”

“I know.”

“No matter what your father says.” Your expression softened. “I know.” Sukuna kissed your forehead.

Then he turned back toward the refrigerator. “Now eat.” You sighed dramatically. “Romance is dead.”

“It’s in the pan.” You laughed and leaned against the counter while he began cooking. Two years earlier, you had thought he would become one more night you remembered too clearly.

Instead, he became breakfast.

Tuition receipts.

Movies on the couch.

His reading glasses left beside your textbooks.

A quiet house slowly filling with two lives instead of one.

And for the first time in decades, Sukuna no longer mistook solitude for peace.

Not when peace sounded like your laughter drifting through the room beside him.

You were twenty-four, with a fresh degree and a very unglamorous, entry-level book editing job at a small press that paid you mostly in stress and free advance copies. Sukuna was twenty-five, working as an electrician—certified, licensed, and very smug about the fact that he could fix literally anything with wires.

“I went to war and came back a light switch therapist,” he liked to grumble, tightening something in the breaker box. “This socket has seen some things.”

You had a cat named Mochi—a round, opinionated tuxedo who strutted through your one-bedroom kingdom like she paid the rent. She slept on Sukuna’s chest and ignored you unless you happened to be eating chicken.

You wore a thin gold ring on your finger with a small marquise diamond that flashed every time you reached for the kettle or turned a page. It still made your heart flutter when you caught it in the light.

“Fiancée,” Sukuna would say sometimes, testing the word like it was heavy. “Still weird.”

“You proposed,” you’d remind him.

“Yeah, I do a lot of dumb things,” he’d say, then kiss you like it was the smartest thing he’d ever done.

You hadn’t planned a wedding.

Not really. You had a shared Pinterest board and a notebook with ideas—dates circled, venues bookmarked, dress screenshots saved in your phone. But there had always been something else in the way: your classes, his training, your last semester, his overtime, your first job.

“We’re engaged,” you’d say, half apologetic, when people asked. “We’re just… taking our time.”

“Why rush?” Sukuna would shrug. “You’re stuck with me already.”

You lived like you were already married anyway.

He was still vulgar. Still a furnace you leaned into on every cold night.

You were still shy, still blushing when he leaned down to murmur something in your ear while you washed dishes or studied on the couch.

“Come sit with me,” he’d grumble from his spot, sprawled in the corner like a huge, sulking cat, remote in hand.

“I’m working,” you’d say, red pen poised over a manuscript.

“You can work right here.” He would pat his thigh.

When you ignored him, he got louder, not in volume but in mood—sighing more dramatically, shifting so the couch creaked, nudging your calf with his foot.

He was all long limbs and tattooed skin now, stronger than ever from hauling ladders and equipment up and down stairs all day. There was always a faint smell of metal and dust on his clothes when he came home, under the warm scent that was just him.

“You’re ridiculous,” you’d mutter, closing your laptop.

“You love me,” he’d say.

Unfortunately, you did.

You’d cross the room and settle onto his lap, his hands immediately bracketing your waist, fingers curling in the hem of your shirt like he was making sure you wouldn’t vanish. His mouth would find yours, and the rest of the world would drop away—the ticking clock, the unpaid bill on the fridge, the half-edited chapter waiting for you.

You’d learned each other slowly and all at once after he came home at twenty. Learned how you fit together in the dark, how to talk and laugh and stumble through firsts without shame. Learned that you could be both shy and sure, nervous and wanting.

By twenty-four and twenty-five, you had a rhythm: busy days, cramped space, shared mugs, shared bed, the soft, steady intimacy of knowing someone down to their sighs.

You were good at talking.

You’d argued and made up about money, about schedules, about whose turn it was to scoop the litter box. You’d had hard conversations about holidays, about family, about future kids and if you wanted them. You knew how to say “I’m sorry” and “that hurt me” and “I’m scared” without the world ending.

Except in one place.

He could not talk about the war.

It slipped out in small details at first.

He’d flinch when fireworks went off too close to the apartment building.

Once, the power went out unexpectedly, and he went absolutely still, every muscle wired, eyes sharp in the dim, until the lights flickered back on and he could pretend he’d just been annoyed.

He always sat with his back to the wall in restaurants.

When you watched a movie and a scene came on with a convoy or a desert or too many uniforms, he would reach for the remote. “This is boring,” he’d say, tone light but eyes flat.

You didn’t push. Not at first.

You knew there were places inside him lined with sharp edges, things he’d seen that had carved out their own territory. You knew he’d spent nights under a sky you’d never seen, in a heat you’d never felt, hearing sounds you couldn’t understand.

Sometimes you woke up to find him sitting on the edge of the bed in the dark, elbows on his knees, breathing slow like he was forcing it.

“Nightmare?” you’d ask softly.

He’d shrug. “Just… noise.”

You scooted closer, pressing your cheek to the warm plane of his back, arms wrapping around his middle. He’d cover your hands with his and let out a breath that sounded less like a sigh and more like surrender.

“Go back to sleep,” he’d murmur. “Work tomorrow.”

You never told him you stayed awake longer, listening to his heartbeat under your ear.

It came to a head on a Tuesday.

You’d had a long day at work—three manuscripts behind schedule, your boss in a mood, your eyes sore from staring at tiny comments in the margins. You trudged up the stairs to your apartment, grocery bag bumping against your leg, mentally running through what you could make for dinner that wouldn’t set off the smoke alarm.

When you opened the door, the first thing you noticed was the quiet.

The TV was off. No music. The lamp in the corner was on, casting warm light over the room. Mochi perched on the arm of the couch, tail swishing, ears tilted back in that way that said something was weird.

“Suku?” you called, toeing your shoes off. “I brought—”

“Kitchen,” he muttered.

You found him at the counter, half in his work clothes, half out. His boots were off, but his shirt was still on, sleeves rolled up, forearms tense. His hands rested on the edge of the counter, fingers digging into the laminate so hard his knuckles were white.

A little pile of mail sat unopened next to him. Beside it, his phone lay facedown.

Your heart tugged. “Hey,” you said gently. “Rough day?”

He let out a humorless breath. “You could say that.”

You set the groceries down carefully. “What happened?”

He didn’t answer right away. His jaw worked, eyes fixed on the countertop.

“Job site?” you prompted. “Boss being an idiot? Clients not understanding how electricity works again?”

He huffed, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Those are normal levels of stupid. I can handle those.”

You stepped closer, instinct pulling you into his orbit.

“Suku,” you murmured. “Talk to me.”

He shuffled a fraction away, and the distance hurt more than you expected.

“Got an email,” he said eventually. “From one of the guys. Unit chat. Someone sent pictures.”

You waited, chest tight.

“Family they’re helping,” he said. “Over there. Still.” He swallowed. “Little kids. House torn up. Dad missing. Mom… trying to hold it together.”

His voice dulled on the word “mom.” The light in his eyes shuttered a little more.

Your throat thickened. “Oh,” you whispered.

“Yeah,” he said. He still wasn’t looking at you. “I know it’s supposed to be… inspiring. ‘Look, we’re still making a difference,’ or whatever. And they are. Those guys are good. But all I could think about was—”

He cut himself off so sharply it was almost a physical sound. His fingers tightened on the counter.

You took another step, close enough that your shoulder almost brushed his arm.

“Sukuna,” you said softly. “You can say it.”

His jaw clenched. “No,” he muttered. “I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because once I start,” he snapped, finally looking at you, eyes bright and furious and hurting, “I’m not gonna stop. And I don’t want to dump all that on you.”

You met his gaze steadily, even though it made your chest ache.

“That’s not dumping.” You shook your head. “That’s sharing a weight you’ve been carrying by yourself for years.”

He scoffed, but it wavered. “You already carry enough. Work. Suki. Your parents. Me. You don’t need—”

“I want you,” you cut in quietly. “All of you. Even the parts that scare you. Especially those.”

He looked at you like he wanted to argue. Like he had a speech prepared about how he was protecting you. Like he was building a wall in his head as he spoke.

Then something in his expression cracked.

“I saw so much,” he said, the words flat and distant, like they were coming from a long way off. “Stuff you only hear about in briefings or see in movies. Except it wasn’t a movie. No safe distance. No cut scenes. Just… there.” He gestured vaguely, like he could point to the place in the air where everything still existed. “People screaming. People not screaming anymore. Houses that used to have life in them and now just… holes. Dust. I kept thinking, ‘Okay, this is the worst thing I’ll ever see.’ And then the next day would prove me wrong.”

You didn’t speak. You just reached out and laid your hand over his on the counter, your fingers small over his tense knuckles.

He stared at your hands like they were a strange, fragile animal.

“There was this one village,” he said, voice turning rougher. “We were supposed to just… check in. Routine. Whatever. And then we turned a corner and… the whole street looked wrong. Like someone had taken a giant hand and scraped it down the middle. Houses on one side untouched. Houses on the other…” He exhaled, the air leaving him like a punctured tire. “Gone. Or almost. Crushed. Pieces. There were toys in the rubble. Clothes. A crib.”

Your heart tightened painfully. You squeezed his hand.

“We had to keep moving,” he said. “We had orders. Clear this area, check that route, make sure nobody’s about to blow us up. I get that. We’ve got our job, they’ve got theirs.” His mouth twisted. “But I kept thinking about that crib. About how someone probably set it up and argued about which wall it should go against. How proud they were when they finished. How they must’ve had to stand there and watch it all get crushed.”

His voice cracked on “watch.”

You stepped closer, your other hand coming up to touch his arm.

“Suku,” you whispered.

He shook his head, like he was trying to clear it. “And then the pictures today. Different family, same story. And I’m here, you know?” He finally turned fully to you, and the look in his eyes almost knocked the breath out of you. “I’m here in a one-bedroom with a cat and a fiancée and a job where if I screw up, somebody can’t charge their phone for a few hours. And I’m glad. I’m so glad. But I also feel… wrong. Like I stepped out of a fire and everyone expects me to just… be normal now.”

Tears blurred your vision. “No one who loves you expects that.”

He laughed, a short, broken sound. “You’re gonna tell me you don’t want normal? A boyfriend who doesn’t wake up at 3 A.M. because a truck backfired three blocks over? A future husband who doesn’t check exits like he’s still on patrol? Someone who doesn’t go quiet when the news shows anything with sand in it?”

“I want you,” you said again, fierce now. “All of it. The loud, the quiet. The parts that make you check the exits and the parts that make you cry when a kid on a bus gives up their seat to an old lady.”

“I did not cry,” he muttered. “You sniffled very suspiciously,” you corrected.

His mouth twitched.

The tiny crack of humor only made the tears in his eyes stand out more.

“I feel like if I say it all out loud,” he admitted, voice dropping to a whisper, “it’ll make it real again. I’ll be back there instead of here.”

You stepped into his space fully now, pressing your chest to his, tilting your head back to meet his gaze.

“Then let it be real,” you said. “For a little while. With me. So it doesn’t have to be real when you’re alone.”

His throat worked. His hands left the counter, hovering awkwardly for a second, like he wasn’t sure where to put them. Then they settled on your hips, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt like a lifeline.

“Y/n,” he murmured. “I don’t want you to think I’m weak.”

The words punched right through you.

You reached up and framed his face with both hands, thumbs resting at the sharp edges of his jaw.

“Look at me,” you said softly.

He did.

“There is nothing weak,” you said, steady, “about surviving something like that and still choosing to love people. To have a life. To come home and learn how to fix someone’s ancient wiring without setting the building on fire. To let yourself care. That’s the opposite of weak.”

His eyes shone. “I see them,” he whispered. “Sometimes when I close my eyes. The guys we lost. The kids. The families. I see their faces and I think, ‘Why am I here and they’re not?’”

You swallowed hard. “That’s not a question you can answer alone.”

“I don’t know how to answer it at all,” he said, desperation threading through his voice now. “It just sits in my chest like a live wire. Buzzing. Waiting to fry something.”

You did the only thing that made sense.

You pulled him down into your arms.

He came willingly, folding over you like he’d been waiting for permission to collapse. His forehead found the crook of your neck, breath hot and uneven against your skin. His arms wrapped around your waist, crushing you to him, fingers digging into your back hard enough to almost hurt.

You held on just as tightly.

For a heartbeat, he was silent.

Then he broke.

It wasn’t loud at first. Just a shuddering inhale, the tremor running from his shoulders into your chest. His fingers tightened, his whole body shaking. A wet sound escaped him, half-choked, like he was trying to swallow it down and failing.

You slid one hand up, weaving your fingers into the short hair at the back of his head, the other splayed between his shoulder blades. Your shirt dampened where his face pressed into your neck.

“Hey,” you whispered. “I’ve got you.”

He made a noise that might’ve been your name or a curse or both. His breath hitched, and suddenly the dam truly gave way—harsh, broken sobs tearing out of him, his chest heaving against yours.

You’d never seen him cry like this. Not when he left for basic. Not when he came home. Not when he’d called after a bad day.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t try to shush him or tell him it would be okay when you didn’t know what “okay” would ever look like, exactly.

You just held him.

“You’re here,” you murmured into his hair. “You’re here. You came home. You built a life. You’re working. You’re loving. You’re allowed to feel all of it. You’re allowed to be sad and angry and scared and still be strong.”

“I shouldn’t have left them,” he choked out into your skin. “I shouldn’t have… why am I here?”

“Because you made it,” you whispered, tears sliding down your own cheeks now. “Because you took ten thousand steps you were ordered to take. Because you made a hundred choices and some of them were yours and some of them weren’t. None of that makes you less worthy of being here.”

He shook his head against you, but he didn’t pull away.

You stayed like that for a long time—long enough for Mochi to hop up on the counter, meow once, then decide this was above her pay grade and leave. Long enough for your legs to start to ache, but you didn’t loosen your hold.

Eventually, his breathing slowed.

The sobs quieted to hiccups, then to deep, shuddering breaths. His arms loosened enough that you could lean back slightly and see his face.

His eyes were red, lashes clumped, nose a little pink. There was a rawness there that scared you and made you want to kiss every piece of it.

“Well,” he croaked, voice wrecked. “That was disgusting.”

You laughed wetly. “You’re beautiful.”

“You need better standards,” he muttered, sniffling.

You cupped his cheeks gently, thumbs brushing away the lingering wetness. “Does it… feel any different?” you asked. “Saying it out loud, I mean.”

He thought for a moment, then nodded once, tiny but real.

“Lighter,” he admitted. “And heavier. But in a way that… makes more sense? Like… like it wasn’t supposed to just be in my head this whole time.”

You smiled through your tears. “That’s because your head isn’t meant to be the whole world.”

He snorted softly. “Try telling it that.”

You rose on your toes and pressed your forehead to his.

“You are not weak for this,” you said again, firm. “You are stronger for it. For letting me in. For letting me see you. I know that’s hard for you. Letting anyone see you when you don’t have your armor on.”

He huffed. “I don’t wear armor.”

“You wear sarcasm,” you countered. “Same thing.”

He gave the tiniest smile, fragile around the edges, but it was there.

“You sure you still want to marry me?” he asked quietly. “All this fine print in the contract.”

You let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Sukuna, I said yes when you were nineteen and covered in dust and crying in my mom’s backyard. I said yes when we couldn’t afford anything but gas station coffee and frozen dumplings. I’ll say yes with your nightmares, with your bad days, with your mail, with your ugly crying. I’ll keep saying it until we’re eighty and your back hurts and Mochi’s reincarnated three times.”

He stared at you like you’d just handed him something he’d forgotten he’d lost.

“I don’t deserve you,” he said softly.

“That’s not how this works,” you replied. “We chose each other. That’s it. That’s the math.”

He exhaled, a shaky, disbelieving laugh. “You and your math.”

You leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn’t about distraction. Not about turning pain into something else. It was slow, steady, your lips moving against his with the same quiet insistence as your words. His hands came up to frame your face now, thumbs rubbing absent circles at your jaw, almost apologetic.

You parted, foreheads resting together.

“Talk to me again,” you said. “When it comes back. When the pictures show up. When the nightmares happen. I can’t make it go away. But I can keep it from eating you alone.”

He nodded, eyes closing briefly. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll… try.”

“That’s all I’m asking,” you said.

Later, you made dinner together—simple stir fry, chopping vegetables side by side. He bumped your hip with his as you reached for the soy sauce. You flicked a piece of pepper at him. He pretended to be offended.

You watched a movie, his head tilted back against the couch, your feet in his lap. Mochi kneaded his thigh and then curled into a loaf, purring like nothing had ever been wrong in the world.

When you went to bed, he pulled you close, his chest pressed to your back, one arm tucked under your head, the other wrapped firmly around your waist, fingers brushing your ring where it glinted in the dark.

“Hey,” he murmured into your hair, voice low and rough, but steadier than earlier. “Thank you. For… all that.”

You smiled into the pillow. “Anytime.”

“Even if I’m gross again,” he said.

“Especially then,” you answered.

He chuckled quietly, the sound vibrating against your spine. Then his breathing evened out, slower, deeper. You felt the tension in his body ease in tiny increments, like someone turning a dimmer switch down.

You stared at the faint outline of the curtains against the window, at the city lights pulsing beyond, and thought about how strange and beautiful it was that lives could be rebuilt in one-bedroom apartments with thin walls and imperfect wiring.

He had seen things you never would.

You could never fully understand the weight he carried from those years.

But you could sit with him in the kitchen when it got heavy. You could be the person who didn’t flinch when he sobbed into your neck. You could be the one who held his shaking hands and told him he was still whole.

You could keep choosing each other, over and over, in a tiny apartment that smelled like stir fry and laundry detergents and cat food.

You didn’t have a wedding date yet.

But when you closed your eyes, his arm around you and his breathing steady in your ear, the gold band warm against your skin, it didn’t feel like waiting.

It felt like living the promise already, one day at a time.