Light spilled through the windows in pale ribbons, landing on the hardwood like quiet blessings. The air smelled like coffee and laundry soap, sometimes like rain if the weather changed its mind overnight. Sumire liked to open the curtains early, humming to herself as if she could coax the day into behaving.

You were thankful—deeply, privately thankful—for the English classes you’d taken online back in grade school.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough.

Enough to understand the cashier when you bought fruit. Enough to nod and answer when the neighbor waved. Enough to read signs, to follow directions, to call for help if you ever had to. You and Sumire practiced together at the kitchen table, turning it into a game when your confidence dipped—flashcards, silly phrases, slow pronunciation, her laughter bright and sharp like a coin flicked into a fountain.

Hiro, of course, corrected both of you like it was his sacred duty. He worked from home, laptop open, headphones on—always half in your world, half in another. Sometimes you’d catch him watching you from across the room, expression thoughtful and guarded, as if he still couldn’t decide if this peace was real or only borrowed.

Sukuna had found work in construction.

The first week he came home bone-tired, boots scuffed, hands rougher than they already were—dust clinging to his forearms like a second skin. But he had looked steady in a way that made your throat ache. Like he’d put his life into a straight line and dared it to stay there.

He had gotten insurance. 

You remembered the way he slapped the paperwork down on the counter like it was a trophy, jaw tight, eyes sharp—like the world had tried to keep you both unclaimed and unprotected, and he’d stolen a little safety back anyway.

And then—finally—he had taken you to a doctor in America.

Not the kind of office that smelled like bleach and restraint. Not fluorescent corridors and keyed doors. This was different: soft chairs, calm voices, a receptionist who smiled at your belly before she even looked at your face.

Sukuna handed over your medical records with a grim sort of pride, like he was placing evidence on a table.

Here. This is her history. This is what she survived. This is what we’re doing now.

He did the same for himself, too—because for all his teeth and temper, for all his stubbornness, he’d been taking his medication like it mattered. Like it was a promise.

The refill for yours had been the part that scared you.

Not because you didn’t want help—but because the word schizophrenia had always felt like a stamp pressed into your skin by people who only wanted you quiet. People who talked about your mind like it was a broken object, something to be managed, not understood.

But this doctor had asked you questions like you were human.

Not “What did you do?” but “How do you feel?” Not “Are you dangerous?” but “Are you safe?”

The medications didn’t erase you. They didn’t scrub you clean into someone else. They just dulled the sharp edges—the places where panic turned your thoughts into a storm, the places where the voices used to crowd too close.

Some days they still murmured.

But they weren’t knives anymore.

They were softer. Distant. Easier to live beside.

And your baby—your baby was growing perfectly.

That truth became your anchor.

Every appointment, every measured heartbeat, every quiet confirmation that life was continuing inside you exactly as it should. The day you learned the gender, Sukuna came home early and didn’t tell you until you were already in the car.

You sat in the passenger seat with your hands folded over your belly, watching the scenery pass—trees, houses, sky—feeling like the world had been painted for someone else’s life, and you were just beginning to step into it.

Sukuna drove with one hand, the other resting on your thigh as if he needed the physical reminder that you were here.

Real.

Breathing.

His.

At the clinic, the ultrasound room was dim, and the screen glowed like a small moon. You lay back with your shirt lifted, skin cool under the gel, breath caught in your throat as the technician moved the wand and the image shifted—flickering into clarity.

There he was.

A small shape. A spine like a delicate string of pearls. Tiny limbs that made your eyes sting with disbelief. Your baby moved, and your heart did something strange—like it cracked and opened at the same time.

The technician smiled. “There we go. And… yes. You’re having a boy.”

For a second you didn’t understand the words.

Then it hit you like a wave.

A sound burst out of you—half squeal, half sob—and your hands flew to your mouth before you could stop them. Tears spilled instantly, hot and relentless, and you laughed through them, shaking your head like you couldn’t believe the universe had chosen to be kind. “A boy,” you whispered. “My little boy—my sweet boy…” Your palm slid down to your belly, fingertips trembling like you were trying to touch him through skin and muscle and miracle.

Sukuna went still beside you.

He didn’t speak at first.

His crimson eyes were fixed on the screen, unblinking, jaw clenched so tight it looked painful. But his hand—his big, rough hand—found yours where it rested on your stomach and covered it slowly, carefully.

Like he was afraid of pressing too hard.

Like he was reverent in a way he didn’t know how to name.

When he finally spoke, his voice came out low and raw.

“A son,” he murmured, as if the word tasted like something sacred. Then, quieter: “We made a son.” You turned your head just enough to look at him, and the expression on his face made you cry harder.

Sukuna Itadori—sharp-tongued, cruel-mouthed, impossible man—looked shaken.

Not by fear.

By love.

By awe.

By the terrifying weight of having something precious to protect. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your hairline, then another to your temple, his touch careful, almost shaky. His thumb wiped a tear from your cheek like he didn’t want any mark of sadness to stay on you too long. “Don’t cry,” he muttered, but it wasn’t a command. It was a plea. “Not like that.”

“I’m happy,” you whispered, voice broken. “I’m just… I’m happy.” Sukuna’s gaze dropped to your belly again, and something in him tightened—visible even in the dim light. Possessive, yes. Protective, yes. But also… soft, in that new way you’d learned to recognize.

On the ride home, he spoke more than usual.

Not long speeches—Sukuna didn’t do those—but clipped questions, one after another, as if he could build a fortress out of information.

“What do you need to eat more of?”

“How much water are you drinking?”

“Are you sleeping enough?”

“Any pain?”

“Any dizziness?”

“Are you taking the vitamins like you’re supposed to?”

You answered each one gently, even when your cheeks warmed—because the way he asked wasn’t cold. It was devoted. Like he was trying to keep you safe by paying attention. That night, after dinner, when you were curled on the couch with a pillow under your back and your feet tucked up, Sukuna sat beside you and watched you for a long time without speaking.

You glanced at him, blinking slowly. “What?” He hesitated—actually hesitated—then cleared his throat like he hated the vulnerability of it.

“I want you to wait until I’m off work,” he said, voice controlled. “If you want to go anywhere.” Your stomach fluttered with that familiar mix—comfort and caution braided together. Sukuna caught your hand and pressed his thumb into your knuckles, grounding you. “America can be…” He searched for the word like it annoyed him. “Overwhelming. I don’t want you out there alone.” You swallowed. “I’ve been okay.”

“I know,” he said, immediately, like he didn’t want you to mistake him. “You’re smart. You’re fine. But—” His eyes flicked to your belly, then back to your face. “You’re carrying my son.” The way he said it made heat rise in your chest—warm and heavy. “And I’m not losing either of you,” he added, quieter, like it was the truest thing he’d ever confessed.

You rested your hand over your belly and felt him shift beneath your palm—your little boy, turning as if he’d heard.

Your throat tightened.

Part of you wanted to argue.

Part of you wanted to say you weren’t made of glass, that you didn’t want to shrink your life again, not after finally touching freedom with your fingertips. But another part of you—the part that still remembered locked doors and hands pulling too hard—felt relieved at the idea of being guarded by someone who actually saw you.

So you nodded, slowly.

“Okay,” you whispered. “But… you have to promise it’s because you love me. Not because you want to keep me.” Sukuna’s eyes narrowed, but not with anger—with something sharp and honest. He leaned in and kissed your forehead, lingering there as if he was imprinting the promise into your skin. “I love you,” he said, voice low. “I’m trying to learn the difference.”

And you sat there in the quiet after, one hand in his and one hand on your belly, feeling your son move like a small tide—while the world outside kept turning, unaware of how hard-won this softness was.

Sukuna got home with the dusk still clinging to him.

Work followed Sukuna into the doorway in little, invisible pieces—sawdust in his hairline, tension in his shoulders, that tight set to his jaw like the world had tried to test him all day and he’d answered with grit instead of blood. The front door shut behind him with a soft, final click, and for a moment he just stood there, breathing, eyes sweeping the room until they found you.

Only then did his shoulders loosen.

Only then did the air in the house feel like it remembered how to be calm.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice rough from holding it in all day, you smiled from where you sat, one hand absentmindedly resting on your belly like you could keep your baby boy from wandering too far inside you. “Hi.” Sukuna crossed the room and leaned down—careful, always careful now—and pressed a kiss to your forehead. Not hungry. Not demanding. Just… there. A quiet claim. A quiet comfort.

“How’s he been?” he asked, palm flattening over the curve of your stomach for a beat, feeling for movement like it was a ritual. You watched his face soften as if the baby could change him with a single kick. “Wiggly,” you whispered, amused. “He’s been… bossy today.” Sukuna scoffed like he wasn’t secretly proud. “My kid.”

You giggled, and that sound—small and bright—seemed to loosen something deeper in him. He exhaled through his nose and looked down at you like he wanted to memorize the shape of you in this light.

“I’m going to shower,” he said, already half turning. “Don’t move.” You rolled your eyes playfully. “I’m not a lamp.” He paused, glancing back, mouth twitching. “You’re worse. Lamps behave.”

“Says the man who paces like a haunted wolf when I’m in another room.” He stared for a long second, then muttered, “Smart mouth,” and disappeared into the bathroom. The shower turned on—steady, rushing water—filling the apartment with that clean, familiar sound. You listened to it like it was proof he was here. Proof the day hadn’t taken him from you.

When he finally stepped back into the bedroom, the air seemed to change with him.

Shirtless. Damp hair. Grey sweats hanging low on his hips.

That kind of domestic that still felt unreal sometimes—like you were watching a scene from someone else’s life, and yet the warmth in your chest told you it was yours.

He sat on the edge of the bed with a low exhale, forearms resting on his thighs, looking tired in that quiet way he never admitted out loud. His shoulders were broad and tense, skin still faintly warm from the shower, droplets trailing down the line of his neck.

You watched him for a moment, your gaze drifting—unapologetic now, because he’d taught you how to want without shrinking. Then you crawled behind him, slow and careful with your belly, and looped your arms around his shoulders from behind like a soft trap. Your cheek pressed to his, and you kissed him—first on the cheek, then at the corner of his jaw.

Sukuna’s eyes closed immediately, a sound leaving him that was half sigh, half surrender. “You’re clingy,” he muttered, but his hand came up to hold your wrist anyway, thumb rubbing circles like he’d missed you too much to pretend.

You kissed him again, lingering. “You like it.” He huffed. “I tolerate it.”

“Liar.”

His mouth twitched—almost a smile, genuine and rare—and he tilted his head just enough to look at you over his shoulder. “How are you feeling?” he asked softly, tone shifting into that careful gentleness he didn’t give the world.

You smiled sweetly. Innocent.

Too innocent.

And that’s exactly why it worked.

“I’m okay,” you murmured, nuzzling closer. “Just… needy.” Sukuna’s brows lifted slightly. “Needy.” You nodded, solemn like it was medical. “Very.” He stared at you for a beat, then shook his head as if you were a problem he didn’t mind solving. “You’re spoiled.” You kissed the side of his face again, and then—because you were brave enough now to tease—you leaned close to his ear and whispered, soft as a confession:

“I’m horny.” Sukuna went still. Then a low, offended groan rolled out of him like you’d struck a match inside his chest. “You’re evil,” he muttered, voice rough, head dipping forward like he was trying not to laugh and failing. Your smile turned wicked in the sweetest way. “I’m pregnant.”

“That’s not a crime.”

“It’s an explanation,” you insisted, squeezing him tighter. “The baby makes me.” He scoffed, but you could feel it—how his body reacted anyway. How his shoulders tightened, how his breathing shifted just slightly, like he was trying to stay calm and failing. “The baby,” he repeated dryly. “Yes,” you whispered, feigning seriousness. “I’m hungry.” Sukuna turned his head, eyes narrowing. “For what.” You kissed his cheek again. “You.”

Another groan—this one deeper, more strained—like he hated how fast you could undo him.

“You talk too much,” he muttered, but his hand slid back, catching your thigh gently, anchoring you closer. “You love when I talk,” you said, voice airy and smug. “I love when you shut up.” You gasped softly, scandalized, then immediately leaned in and murmured, “Make me.”

Sukuna froze again—like you’d just tested the edge of his restraint on purpose.

His jaw flexed.

He glanced at you over his shoulder, eyes dark and sharp, but there was warmth underneath it now—something fond, something almost disbelieving. “Do you know what you do to me,” he said quietly, not a question, not an accusation—just truth. You smiled, softening a little, your arms tightening around him like a promise. “Yes.”

He exhaled, long and slow, like he was trying to decide whether to scold you or worship you, and you, menace that you were, kissed him again—gentle, relentless—right on the cheek, right below his eye, sweet as honey and just as dangerous.

“I missed you,” you whispered, breath warm against his skin.

Sukuna’s expression flickered—tired, softened, undone.

“I’m here,” he murmured. “I’m right here.”

“And I want you,” you added, because you’d learned how to ask for what you wanted without shame. Sukuna let out one more quiet, defeated sound—half laugh, half growl—and finally shifted, turning toward you fully.

“Come here,” he said, voice low.

Not harsh. Not controlling.

Just… hungry, warm, and certain.

And the way he looked at you—like you were trouble he’d choose every time—made your pulse flutter with a familiar, dangerous joy.

Sukuna's hands found your waist—careful, always careful now—and he guided you around until you were facing him properly, straddling his lap with your knees pressed into the mattress on either side of his thighs. Your belly sat between you like a gentle reminder, and his palms slid up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts through your shirt.

You shivered.

"You're so fucking needy," he murmured, but there was no bite to it. Only heat. Only want. His eyes dragged down your body like he was cataloging every change, every curve that had softened or swelled in the months since you'd started carrying his son. "I told you," you whispered, breathless already. "The baby—"

"Don't blame the baby," he cut in, smirking. "You've always been like this with me." Your cheeks burned, but you didn't deny it. Sukuna's hands moved again—slow, deliberate—sliding under the hem of your shirt and lifting it up and over your head in one smooth motion. The air kissed your skin, cool and startling, and you instinctively moved to cover yourself.

He caught your wrists.

"Don't," he said, voice dropping lower. "Let me look at you." You hesitated, heart hammering, but his grip was firm and his gaze was steady—hungry, yes, but also reverent in that way that made your throat tighten.

So you let your hands fall.

Sukuna's eyes darkened as they swept over you—over the swell of your belly, the fullness of your breasts, the way your body had changed to make room for the life you were growing. His jaw clenched, and for a moment he just stared, like he was trying to memorize you.

Then his hands moved.

He cupped your breasts carefully, thumbs brushing over your nipples through the fabric of your bra, and you gasped—sharp and startled—because they were so sensitive now. Everything was more. Every touch felt like lightning.

Sukuna noticed immediately.

His eyes flicked up to yours, sharp and knowing. "Sensitive?" You nodded, biting your lip. "Good," he murmured, and then he did it again—deliberately this time, circling his thumbs over the peaks until you whimpered and squirmed in his lap. "Sukuna—"

"Shh," he said, almost soothing. "I've got you." He reached around and unhooked your bra with practiced ease, sliding it off and tossing it aside. The moment your breasts were bare, he groaned—low and rough—and his hands came back to cup them, weighing them in his palms like they were something precious.

"Fuck," he breathed. "Look at you." You felt exposed. Vulnerable. But the way he looked at you—like you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen—made the vulnerability feel less like weakness and more like trust.

Sukuna leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the curve of your breast, then another, trailing his mouth lower until he reached your nipple. He paused there, breath hot against your skin, and then he took it into his mouth.

You cried out—louder than you meant to—and your hands flew to his hair, fingers tangling in the damp strands as pleasure shot through you like a live wire. He sucked gently at first, testing, and when you whimpered and arched into him, he did it again—harder this time, tongue flicking over the sensitive peak until you were trembling.

"Sukuna—please—"

"Please what?" he murmured against your skin, switching to the other breast and giving it the same attention. "Tell me what you want."

"I don't know," you gasped, because you didn't. You just knew you needed more. Needed him. Needed something to ease the ache that had been building in you all day. Sukuna pulled back just enough to look at you, and the sight of you—flushed, panting, eyes glassy with need—made something feral flicker in his gaze.

"Lie down properly,” he said, voice rough.

You blinked, dazed. "What?"

"Lie down," he repeated, already shifting you off his lap and onto the bed. "On your back. Careful." You did as he said, moving slowly, mindful of your belly. The mattress dipped under your weight, and you settled against the pillows, heart racing as Sukuna knelt between your legs.

He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your pants and underwear and pulled them down in one smooth motion, leaving you bare and exposed beneath him.

For a moment, he just looked.

His gaze was heavy, possessive, and it made your skin prickle with heat. "Spread your legs," he said quietly.

You hesitated—not because you didn't want to, but because the vulnerability of it made your breath catch. Sukuna's hands slid up your thighs, warm and grounding. "Come on, baby," he murmured, softer now. "Let me see you."

So you did.

You let your knees fall open, and Sukuna's eyes darkened as he took in the sight of you—slick and swollen and already so ready for him.

"Fuck," he breathed. "Look at you. So fucking wet for me already." Your cheeks burned, but you couldn't look away from him. Sukuna leaned down, pressing a kiss to the inside of your thigh, then another, trailing his mouth higher and higher until you were trembling with anticipation.

"Sukuna—"

"Shh," he said again, and then his mouth was on you.

The first touch of his tongue made you cry out—sharp and desperate—and your hands flew to his hair, gripping tight as pleasure flooded through you. Sukuna groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your core, and then he was devouring you—licking, sucking, his tongue moving in slow, deliberate strokes that made your thighs shake.

"Taste so fucking good," he muttered against you, voice muffled and rough. "My pussy. Mine." You whimpered, hips bucking involuntarily, and Sukuna's hands came up to hold you still—one palm pressed flat against your lower belly, the other gripping your thigh.

"Stay still," he ordered, but there was no real command in it. Just focus. Just hunger. He worked you with his mouth—tongue circling your clit, then dipping lower to taste you fully, then back up again in a rhythm that made your head spin. Every nerve in your body felt like it was on fire, and you couldn't stop the sounds spilling from your lips—whimpers, gasps, broken pleas.

"Sukuna—please—more—"

"More?" he murmured, pulling back just enough to look up at you. His mouth was wet, his eyes dark and wicked. "You want more?" You nodded frantically, tears already gathering at the corners of your eyes because it felt so good and it still wasn't enough.

Sukuna smirked—just a little—and then he slid two fingers inside you.

You cried out, back arching off the bed, and Sukuna groaned at the way you clenched around him. "Fuck, you're tight," he muttered, curling his fingers and finding that spot inside you that made you see stars. "So fucking perfect."

He worked you with his fingers and his mouth together, and the combination was overwhelming—too much and not enough all at once. You were shaking, crying, begging, and Sukuna just kept going, relentless and focused and so fucking good at this. "Sukuna—I'm—I'm gonna—"

"Come for me," he said against you, voice rough and commanding. "Come on my tongue."

The orgasm hit you like a wave—sudden and all-consuming—and you cried out his name as pleasure crashed through you, leaving you trembling and gasping and completely undone.

Sukuna didn't stop until you were whimpering from oversensitivity, and even then he pressed one last kiss to your clit before pulling back.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes locked on yours, and the look on his face—satisfied, possessive, hungry for more—made your pulse stutter. "Good girl," he murmured, crawling up your body and pressing a kiss to your belly, then your sternum, then your mouth.

You tasted yourself on his lips, and it made you shiver. "Sukuna," you whispered, hands sliding up his chest. "I want you."

"You have me," he said, but you shook your head. "No. I want you inside me." Sukuna's jaw clenched, and for a moment he looked torn—like he wanted nothing more but was afraid of hurting you. "Baby—"

"Please," you whispered, eyes filling with tears again. "Please, Sukuna. I need you." He exhaled shakily, then nodded. "Okay," he said quietly. "Okay. But we're doing this my way." He shifted, positioning himself between your legs, and you watched as he pushed his sweats down just enough to free himself. He was hard—achingly so—and the sight of him made your mouth go dry.

Sukuna gripped himself, stroking once, twice, and then he was lining himself up with your entrance. "Tell me if it hurts," he said, voice tight. "Tell me and I'll stop." You nodded, breathless.

He pushed in slowly—so slowly—just the tip at first, and even that made you gasp. He was big, and your body had to adjust, had to stretch to accommodate him. Sukuna groaned, head dropping forward, and his hands gripped your hips like he was trying to hold himself back.

"Fuck," he muttered. "You feel so good." He pushed in a little more—just a little—and then stopped, you whimpered, hips shifting, trying to take more of him. "Sukuna—"

"No," he said firmly. "Not yet. Have to be careful."

"I don't care," you gasped, tears spilling over. "Please—I need more—"

"Baby—"

"Please," you begged, voice breaking. "Please, Sukuna. I need all of you." He looked down at you—at your flushed face, your tear-streaked cheeks, the desperation in your eyes—and something in him cracked. "Fuck," he breathed, and then he pushed in deeper.

Not all the way. Not yet. But deeper than before, and it made you cry out—half pleasure, half relief. Sukuna's hands slid up your sides, one coming to rest on your belly, the other cupping your breast. He moved slowly, carefully, each thrust measured and controlled.

But you wanted more.

You tried to push back against him, tried to take him deeper, and Sukuna groaned—low and strained. "Stop," he muttered. "You're gonna hurt yourself."

"I won't," you whimpered. "Please, Sukuna. Please." He looked at you for a long moment, jaw clenched, and then he exhaled shakily. "Okay," he said quietly. "Okay. But you tell me if it's too much." You nodded frantically, and Sukuna adjusted his grip—one hand on your hip, the other still on your belly—and then he pushed in deeper.

All the way.

You cried out—loud and broken—and Sukuna groaned, forehead dropping to yours as he stilled inside you. "Fuck," he breathed. "You okay?" You nodded, tears streaming down your face, and Sukuna wiped them away with his thumb. "Don't cry," he murmured. "Don't cry, baby."

"I'm okay," you whispered. "I'm okay. Just—move. Please." Sukuna kissed you—soft and lingering—and then he started to move. Slow at first. Careful. Each thrust deep and deliberate, and it felt so good you couldn't stop the sounds spilling from your lips. "Sukuna—"

"I know," he muttered, voice rough. "I know, baby. I've got you." He picked up the pace—just a little—and his hand slid down to circle your clit, and the combination made you sob with pleasure. "You're so fucking beautiful," he murmured, eyes locked on yours. "So perfect. Mine."

"Yours," you gasped. "Yours, Sukuna." He groaned, thrusts becoming harder, deeper, and you could feel yourself climbing again—higher and higher until you were teetering on the edge. "Come for me," Sukuna said, voice rough and commanding. "Come on my cock."

And you did.

The orgasm tore through you—harder than the first—and you cried out his name as your body clenched around him, pulling him deeper.

Sukuna groaned—low and guttural—and then he was coming too, spilling inside you with a shudder and a broken curse.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

You just lay there, tangled together, breathing hard, hearts racing.

Then Sukuna shifted carefully, pulling out and rolling onto his side. He pulled you against him, one hand resting on your belly, the other stroking your hair.

"You okay?" he murmured.

You nodded, eyes heavy, body sated and warm.

"I'm okay," you whispered.

Sukuna pressed a kiss to your forehead, then another to your temple and then—beneath his palm—your baby kicked.

Sukuna froze.

You felt it too, and you laughed—soft and breathless—and covered his hand with yours. "He's saying hi," you whispered, Sukuna's eyes were wet when he looked at you, and his voice was rough when he spoke. "Hi, kid," he murmured, and the tenderness in his voice made your heart ache.

You fell asleep like that—wrapped in his arms, his hand on your belly, your son moving gently between you.

Safe.

Loved.

Whole.

3 a.m. came like a thin blade of light under the door—quiet, pale, unforgiving.

Your body woke you before your mind did.

You slid out from under the comforter carefully, moving slow in that way you had learned lately—like everything inside you had weight now, like your bones remembered you weren’t alone in your skin. The room was cold against your bare thighs, your feet padding softly on the floor as you waddled to the bathroom, one hand bracing your belly out of instinct, out of tenderness.

The house was asleep.

Even the air felt hushed—like it didn’t want to disturb you.

When you came back, the bedroom was the same gentle darkness, Sukuna still sprawled on the bed the way he always did when he was finally, truly exhausted—one arm flung out, the other curled near his chest, his mouth parted just slightly. He looked younger like that. Less like the man who could split the world open with his hands, more like someone who’d been holding himself together all day and finally let the pieces rest.

You crawled back onto the mattress and didn’t lay down right away.

You sat with your knees tucked, naked and small above him, your hair spilling forward, your chest rising with quiet breaths you couldn’t seem to steady. You stared at him like you were trying to memorize the exact shape of peace. Like if you looked long enough, you could store it somewhere safe inside you for the days that weren’t so soft.

Your eyes burned.

Not because you were scared.

Because you weren’t.

Because you touched your belly and felt the warmth of it, the life of it, and then you looked at Sukuna again and all that love—heavy, sweet, frightening—rose in your throat like tidewater and then your parents came into your mind, uninvited.

Your father’s face the last time you saw him—guilt sitting on his shoulders like a coat he couldn’t take off. Your mother’s voice, always the same sentence dressed in different clothes:

We were just trying to protect you.

You swallowed, blinking hard.

Because sitting here, watching Sukuna sleep, it was suddenly difficult—almost impossible—to find the places where you had needed saving from him. You knew there had been darkness. You knew there had been wrong. You knew the beginning had been a storm of unmedicated edges and sharp fear.

But this version of him—the one who took his pills like prayer, who rubbed your feet without being asked, who pressed water into your hands like it was sacred, who checked the baby’s movements with a palm that trembled with reverence—

This version felt like home.

Your lip quivered.

You leaned down and pressed a kiss to his cheek, soft as breath. Your hand settled on his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath your palm. Alive. Here. With you.

Another kiss—his jaw this time. Then the corner of his mouth.

You let yourself down beside him, curling on your side, your belly pressing gently into the warmth of his ribs. You nuzzled close like you belonged there—like you’d always belonged there—and you kissed him again, small and lingering, leaving little stitches of affection along his skin.

Sukuna stirred.

A low sound left him, half-grunt, half-sigh, like he’d been pulled from something deep. His arm moved—heavy, searching—and found you automatically, drawing you closer until your cheek was against his shoulder, until your breath warmed the skin at his throat.

He blinked into the dark, eyes still fogged with sleep, voice rough and quiet. “…You still needy?” The words were lazy, drowsy—more habit than heat, the kind of teasing that had softened on his tongue these past months. You shook your head against him, a small, earnest movement. “No,” you whispered. “I just—”

Your voice cracked, and you hated that it did. You tried again, softer.

“I just love you so much.”

Sukuna went still.

Like those words landed somewhere tender he didn’t know how to guard in the dark.

You lifted your face, kissed his jaw again, then his lips—gentle, unhurried, like you were blessing him awake instead of taking from him. “I wanted you to wake up feeling loved,” you murmured. “So you don’t forget.” His hand slid up your back, broad palm settling between your shoulder blades, holding you like he needed the contact to breathe. His other hand drifted down—instinctive, careful—and rested over your belly, fingers spreading wide as if he could shelter the baby with sheer will.

For a moment, he didn’t speak.

Then his forehead tipped toward yours, his nose brushing your hairline.

His voice, when it came, was quieter than the night.

“I don’t forget,” he said. “I try not to.” He swallowed, and you felt the vibration of it against your cheek. “I don’t deserve you,” he added, like it hurt to admit. Like it was the most honest thing he could offer at 3 a.m.

You shifted closer, your arm slinging over him the way your body always did—claiming warmth, claiming steadiness. Your fingers traced his shoulder in slow, sleepy circles. “Yes you do,” you whispered, because you meant it in the only way you knew how: not as a fact, but as a vow.

Sukuna exhaled, long and shaky, and his mouth found your forehead—one kiss, then another, lingering like apology and gratitude braided together. “Sleep,” he murmured, voice thick. “Come here.” You melted into him immediately, your belly nestled against his side, his hand still splayed over it like a promise.

And as you closed your eyes again, you felt the baby shift—small, insistent—right under Sukuna’s palm.

Sukuna stilled once more, as if even half-asleep, he could hear it.

His thumb brushed the curve of you, reverent.

“Yeah,” he breathed, barely audible. “I know.” Then he held you tighter, and the dark finally stopped feeling like something you had to survive.

The next day moved slow—like honey sliding down the rim of a cup. Sukuna had already left for work, boots thudding once down the stairs, the door shutting with that familiar finality that always made the house feel wider. Sumire had gone out too, grocery list in hand, humming to herself like she could charm the world into staying soft.

So it was just you and Hiro.

Sunlight pooled in the kitchen, pale and gentle, catching on the edges of the kettle, the glass jars, the faint dust motes drifting like quiet prayers. You stood there in your socks, swaying while the water heated, one hand cupping your belly as if you could cradle your son from the outside.

He kicked—hard, sudden—right beneath your ribs.

You hissed softly, then laughed under your breath, more fond than annoyed. “Hey,” you murmured, eyes narrowing like you were scolding a mischievous child. “You have to be kind. Don’t kick my ribs. I’m your mama, not your punching bag.”

Another kick, like he was answering you.

You sighed, smiling, rubbing slow circles over the roundness of your belly. “Sweet boy,” you whispered. “Too strong already.”

Then you heard it.

Hiro’s voice—sharp, raised, cutting through the calm.

You froze.

The kettle began to whistle, thin and urgent, but you reached out and turned it off before it could climb into a scream. You listened—heart ticking fast, not with fear, but with that old familiar tension that always arrived when voices turned hard.

Hiro was in his office.

The door wasn’t fully closed, and his words slipped through the crack like smoke.

“No—listen to me. You don’t get to do this again.” A pause. Then, angrier: “You don’t get to act like you’re the victims. You took her life away for years. Years.” You walked slowly, carefully, one palm still on your belly. The house felt suddenly too quiet around his anger, like even the walls were holding their breath.

You stopped at the office doorway.

Hiro was pacing with the phone pressed to his ear, jaw clenched, eyes bright with fury and something raw underneath it. “You don’t need to know where she is,” he snapped. “And you don’t need to know where I am either. Worry about your own guilt, because I’m done carrying it for you.”

Your throat tightened.

You stepped forward.

Hiro didn’t notice you at first—he was too deep in it, too locked into the fight. His voice cracked on the next line. “She’s happy. She’s healthy. She’s finally living. And you—” His breath shook. “You don’t get a say anymore.”

You reached out gently and touched his arm.

He startled, eyes snapping to you.

Your gaze was soft. Calm.

Not because it didn’t hurt, but because you weren’t going to let it swallow you whole.

You held out your hand.

“Hiro,” you whispered.

He swallowed hard, and without a word, he let you take the phone.

You lifted it to your ear.

There was breathing on the other end—your mother’s, tight and shaky, and then your father’s voice, quieter, careful like he was walking on glass.

“Y/n…” he said, as if your name was something fragile.

You closed your eyes for a moment.

Then you opened them again and smiled—not bright, not forgiving in some easy way, but soft. Steady. A smile that said: I’m still here. I survived you. I’m still gentle anyway.

“Hi, Dad,” you said, voice low. “Hi, Mom.”

A pause.

Your mother inhaled sharply, like she was trying not to cry.

“We—” she started, and your father spoke over her, too quick: “Are you okay? Are you safe? We— we’ve been—” You interrupted, gentle as a hand on a fevered forehead. “I’m safe,” you said. “I’m healthy. My son is healthy too.” Your mother made a sound—half sob, half prayer.

“Y-your son…” she whispered. “Yes,” you said softly. “My son.” You let that hang there a second, not as punishment, but as truth. As boundary.

Then, carefully, you continued.

“I know you thought you were protecting me. I know you believed that. But I need you to hear me—really hear me—because this is my life.”

Your father’s breath hitched.

You kept your voice calm, even as your chest ached.

“I’m not in the ward. I’m not chained to a schedule of pills you used like locks. I’m not a room you can close the door on. I’m a person.” Silence, heavy and stunned. “I love you,” you said, and you meant it in the complicated way love sometimes comes—tangled, painful, real. “But love doesn’t mean ownership. And it doesn’t mean you get to decide what my peace looks like.” Your mother’s voice trembled. “We were scared.”

“I know,” you whispered. “But being scared doesn’t make it right.”

Another pause.

Then your father, voice breaking: “We just… we didn’t know how to help you.”

Your eyes burned.

You looked down at your belly, the curve of it beneath your palm, the place where a new life was unfolding—untouched by Japan, untouched by old rules, untouched by their fear. “I’m learning how to help myself now,” you said quietly. “I’m taking my medicine because I want to. I go to appointments because I want to. I rest when I’m tired. I eat when I’m hungry. I have my family. I have people who don’t treat me like I’m going to break if they blink wrong.”

Hiro’s breathing behind you turned uneven.

You swallowed.

“I’m not telling you where I am,” you added softly. “Not because I hate you. But because I need to protect what I’m building.” Your mother began to cry openly then, you could hear it—her voice wobbling, unraveling. “Please,” she whispered. “We just want to see you.” Your chest tightened, and for a second, you almost folded.

But you stayed steady.

“I’ll call you,” you said. “When I’m ready. And if you can respect my boundaries. If you can speak to me like your daughter—not like your project.”

Silence.

Then your father’s voice, small: “Okay.” And your mother, through tears: “Okay.” You exhaled slowly, like you’d been holding your breath your whole life. “I love you,” you repeated, softer now. “But you don’t get to chase me anymore. Not in any country. Not in any language. Not ever again.” You ended the call before your resolve could shake.

The screen went dark.

The house stayed bright.

You stood there for a moment, phone still warm in your hand, then you set it down gently on Hiro’s desk like it was something holy and finished.

You turned toward your brother.

Hiro looked like he’d been carved open.

Tears clung to his lashes, and his jaw trembled with the effort of staying upright. You reached up and tapped his cheek with two fingers, fond and soft—like you were smoothing a wrinkle from him. “It’s okay,” you murmured. “Everything is okay.” He shook his head once, fast, as if he couldn’t believe it.

You smiled anyway.

“We’re safe,” you said. “And Sukuna promised… everything will be okay now.”

That did it.

Hiro’s face crumpled—not loud, not dramatic, just a quiet collapse of all the years he’d carried guilt like a second spine. He leaned down and hugged you carefully, arms wrapping around you like he was afraid you’d vanish if he loosened his grip.

His tears dropped onto your shoulder—warm, relentless.

They didn’t stop.

You rubbed his back slowly, in circles, the same way Sukuna soothed you. “It’s okay,” you whispered again. “I know it’s been hard. For you too.” His breath hitched against your hair.

You held him tighter, feeling your baby shift, like even he could sense the emotion in the room.

“But it’s better now,” you murmured. “We’ll always have each other. Always.” Hiro nodded against you, wet and shaking. “And Sumire…” you added softly, smile returning. “She’s loyal. She’ll stand beside us.”

Another nod.

“And Sukuna…” Your voice softened further, almost reverent despite everything you knew. “He loves me a lot. And he’s going to protect me and the baby. The right way.” Hiro’s arms tightened around you for a moment—an acceptance that still hurt, but was trying.

You kept rubbing his back, steady as a heartbeat.

Outside, the day went on.

Inside, for the first time, it felt like the past had finally loosened its hands around your throat.

Sumire came in like a storm that had learned how to carry groceries. The front door swung open, cold air curling in behind her, and the first thing she saw wasn’t the living room, or the stairs, or the little domestic peace she’d been building with her own hands—

It was Hiro’s face.

Wet. Red. Open in a way he didn’t let the world see.

The grocery bags slipped from her fingers and hit the floor with dull little thumps—an orange rolling free, a carton of eggs wobbling in its paper cradle, greens spilling like something torn open.

“Hey—” Sumire breathed, and her voice lost all its edge. It went soft immediately, frantic in the way love can be when it’s afraid. “Hiro?” She crossed the space in two steps and cupped his face with both hands like she was trying to keep him from shattering. Her thumbs brushed the tear tracks on his cheeks, tender and meticulous.

“Baby, what happened?” she whispered, and then she leaned up and kissed him—once, twice, three times in a row—quick, trembling kisses like she was counting him back into the room. “Are you okay? Are you hurt? Talk to me.” Hiro tried to shake his head like he was fine, like he could swallow it down and be the steady one.

But the next breath betrayed him.

A tear slipped again, slow and heavy.

“I—” he started, voice cracking, and he pressed his forehead to hers for a moment like he didn’t know where else to put the feeling. “I’m okay. I’m just—” Sumire’s hands slid to the back of his neck, holding him there. “You’re crying,” she said softly, like it was a fact she could carry for him. “So no, you’re not okay. Tell me.”

Hiro swallowed, throat bobbing, and his eyes flicked to you—like he needed permission to be soft in front of you, like he still carried old rules in his bones.

You nodded gently.

“It’s our parents,” Hiro finally admitted, and the words seemed to scrape on the way out. “They called. They— they won’t stop. They still think they can—” Hiro went on to tell her what had happened and Sumire’s face changed.

Not into cruelty—she was never cruel, not really—but into that particular kind of protective fury that lived right under her tenderness like a blade hidden beneath lace.

She grumbled, low and vicious.

“Oh, I’ll fight them,” she muttered. “I’ll fight them in the street if they even breathe in your direction. I don’t care if they’re old. I don’t care if they’re your parents. I don’t care—”

“Sumire,” you said softly, and she looked at you immediately, her expression melting in a heartbeat because she loved you too—loved you like a sister you’d bled beside.

She exhaled through her nose, still shaking with anger.

“I’m serious,” she whispered, voice rough. “They try to come close, I’m going to—” The front door opened again before she could finish.

Sukuna stepped inside, shoulders broad, hair still damp at the nape like he’d washed his hands too many times at work. The moment his eyes dropped to the grocery bags scattered on the floor, his brows pulled together. “Why are the groceries—” he started, confused, and then his gaze lifted.

He saw Hiro’s face.

He saw Sumire hovering around him like a shield.

He saw you, quiet and steady in the middle of it all.

The air shifted.

Sukuna’s body went still.

Predator-still.

“What happened,” he said, voice low—not a question as much as a command dressed up in words. Sumire bristled automatically, standing a little straighter like she could block Sukuna with her spine if she had to. “Hiro and Y/n’s parents called,” she snapped, sharp as flint. “They talked to her.” Sukuna’s head turned to you so fast it felt like a whip crack.

His eyes narrowed—not with curiosity, but with something hotter.

Alert.

Immediate.

Dangerously awake.

“You did what,” he said, and his voice wasn’t loud, but it had weight to it—the kind that made rooms shrink.

You lifted your chin, even as your heart stuttered.

“I answered,” you said quietly.

Sukuna took one step toward you.

Then another.

His gaze dragged over you—your belly, your face, your mouth—like he was searching for bruises he couldn’t see, like he was looking for proof of harm that could travel through phone lines. “Why the hell would you do that,” he said, jaw tightening. “They don’t need to speak to you. Ever.”

“I handled it,” you murmured, trying to keep your voice calm. “Everything is fine.” His nostrils flared. “No,” he said flatly. “Absolutely not.” The words fell like a door slamming. You saw the vein in his neck pulse once, then again, thick with contained rage.

He scoffed, sharp and bitter.

“You and I are going to have a conversation,” he said, and his voice dropped lower, like he was trying not to scare the baby with it. “In the bedroom. Right now.” Your throat tightened.

You glanced at Sumire and Hiro—Hiro’s eyes still wet, Sumire still half-ready to throw herself in front of a bullet for him.

Sumire’s gaze flicked to Sukuna’s face, then back to you, her mouth tightening with worry.

You swallowed.

Then you nodded.

“Okay,” you whispered.

Sukuna turned and walked down the hall without waiting, like the decision had already been made for both of you. You followed behind him, your steps slower, careful—seven months pregnant, your body heavy with life and emotion.

You could feel it—the electricity in him.

The way his anger filled the air like a storm cloud pressing down on the roof.

When the bedroom door shut, the click sounded too loud.

Too final.

Sukuna stood near the foot of the bed with his back to you for a moment, shoulders rising as he drew in a long breath.

Then another.

He was trying.

You could tell.

Trying not to explode.

Trying not to become the version of himself he hated.

When he turned, his eyes were bright—too bright, like something wild was trapped behind them.

He didn’t shout.

That was the first mercy.

But his voice shook with restraint.

“Did you forget,” he said slowly, each word sharpened on purpose, “that your parents kidnapped you.”

You flinched anyway.

Not because he moved toward you—but because the memory did.

Hands on your arms. The betrayal. The uniforms. The alley. The baby kicking while you ran.

Sukuna’s jaw worked as if he was chewing through glass.

“Did you forget they tried to ship you back to Japan,” he continued, voice low, “where our son would be taken the moment he takes his first breath and you’d be locked up again like—like you’re not a person?” Your eyes burned.

You shook your head, but it wasn’t a denial. It was grief. It was exhaustion. “No,” you whispered. “I didn’t forget.”

“Then why,” he hissed, and the sound was harsh with fear dressed as anger, “would you hand them your voice again like it’s theirs to hold?”

Your breath caught.

Your throat tightened so fast it felt like you were choking.

“I didn’t hand them anything,” you said, but your voice trembled. “I told them no. I told them—” You swallowed, pressing a hand to your belly like you could anchor yourself. “I told them they don’t get to chase me anymore.” Sukuna stared at you, and for a second his expression flickered—confusion crossing with fury, fear crossing with pride.

But the fear won.

It always did, with him.

He took a step closer.

“Why would you even open the door,” he demanded quietly. “Why would you give them the chance to twist your head again?” You felt your eyes fill, hot and immediate, because pregnancy made everything closer—every feeling a live wire. “I needed to,” you whispered.

Sukuna’s brows pulled together.

“Needed to,” he repeated, like the concept offended him. “Yes,” you said, voice breaking. “I needed to tell them I’m alive. I needed to tell them I’m not their prisoner. I needed to tell them I’m not a child in a room with screws in the windows and locks on the door.” Your tears spilled then—silent at first, sliding down your cheeks without permission.

Sukuna’s eyes widened slightly.

Not from pity.

From panic.

He hated your tears. Hated them because he caused them before. Hated them because he never knew how to hold them without getting angry at the world.

“You’re crying,” he said, voice rough.

You laughed once, wet and small, the sound fractured. “I’m pregnant,” you whispered. “I cry when I breathe wrong.” Sukuna’s jaw tightened again, and he dragged a hand down his face like he was trying to wipe the storm off his skin. “This isn’t funny,” he said. “I’m not laughing,” you whispered. “I’m… I’m trying not to drown.”

He stared at you.

And you stared back, wiping your cheeks with the heel of your hand, cheeks already blotchy, throat aching. “I told them I won’t tell them where we are,” you said softly. “I didn’t say anything that could hurt us. I didn’t— I didn’t betray you.”

Sukuna’s eyes flashed.

“This isn’t about betrayal,” he snapped, and the edge of his voice made you flinch again. He noticed immediately—his mouth tightening, his shoulders lifting like regret tried to crawl up his spine.

He swallowed hard.

Then, lower, like he was trying to steady himself:

“It’s about risk.” You shook your head, tears still falling. “I’m allowed to speak,” you said, and your voice was quiet but stubborn. “I’m allowed to talk to my parents even if they hurt me. I’m allowed to choose what closure looks like for me.” Sukuna’s hands clenched at his sides. “Closure,” he repeated, bitter. “They don’t deserve closure.”

“That’s not why I did it,” you whispered. “Then why.”

Because you wanted them to see you.

Because you wanted them to know they failed.

Because you wanted to believe, for one foolish second, that love could be untangled from control.

You took a shaky breath.

“Because I still love them,” you admitted, the words tasting like ash. “And I hate that I do.” Sukuna’s gaze softened for half a heartbeat.

Then hardened again.

“Love doesn’t mean you let them back in,” he said, voice trembling with anger and fear intertwined. “Love doesn’t mean you pick up the phone and hand them a rope.”

“I didn’t hand them a rope,” you whispered again, tears dripping to your chin. “I cut it.” Sukuna stared at you like he was trying to decide whether to believe you or be afraid anyway. “I can’t—” he started, then stopped. His chest rose and fell too fast. “I can’t do this again.”

Your stomach dropped.

“What,” you whispered. “I can’t lose you,” he said, and the words were rawer than everything else he’d said so far. Not a threat. Not a command. A confession ripped out by fear. “I can’t— I can’t go back to you being gone. I can’t go back to you screaming on a phone in an alley while I—” His voice broke.

He turned his face away quickly, like he could hide it.

But you saw it anyway.

The terror.

The way his hands trembled just slightly when he tried to unclench them.

You cried harder then, because it pierced you—how his love was both shelter and wildfire. “I’m not gone,” you whispered. “I’m right here.”

“But you could be,” he snapped, turning back too sharply. “Because you think you’re stronger than them. You think you can control them by saying the right words—”

“I didn’t say the right words,” you interrupted, voice breaking, frustration finally rising through the tears. “I said my words. For once.”

Sukuna froze.

Your chest heaved.

Your baby shifted, as if he could feel the tremor in you.

You pressed a hand to your belly, breathing through it.

“I spent my whole life being spoken over,” you whispered, voice trembling. “Spoken for. Decided for. And I love you, Sukuna, I do—” Your voice cracked on his name. “But I cannot become a quiet thing again. Not even for you.” Sukuna’s eyes widened.

He looked like you’d slapped him.

Not because you were cruel.

Because you were true.

“You think I want you quiet,” he said, voice low and furious.

You looked up at him through tears.

“I think you want me safe,” you whispered. “But sometimes you confuse safe with… owned.”

The silence that followed was heavy and terrible.

Sukuna’s mouth opened, then closed.

His throat worked as he swallowed down whatever sharp thing tried to rise.

He stared at you like he was standing at the edge of something and didn’t know if he’d fall.

Then, finally, his voice softened—not gentle, but quieter.

“What did they say to you.” You blinked.

The question knocked you off balance.

“They—” You swallowed, wiping your face again. “They begged. They apologized in circles. They wanted to see me. I told them no. I told them I’ll call when I’m ready and only if they respect boundaries.” Sukuna’s eyes narrowed. “And they agreed?”

“Yes.” He scoffed. “They’ll lie,” he muttered. “Maybe,” you whispered. “But I needed to say it anyway.” Sukuna’s jaw clenched again.

He stepped closer, stopping just in front of you, not touching you—like he didn’t trust his hands when his emotions were this loud.

His voice came out strained.

“You’re carrying our son,” he said, and the words trembled with reverence and fear. “You can’t run. You can’t fight. You can’t—”

“I did run,” you whispered. “In China. I ran while pregnant.” His eyes flashed, pained. “And it almost killed me,” you continued, voice shaking. “It almost killed you too, because you were so angry you could barely see. I don’t want that again. I don’t want to live like every phone call is a gun.” Sukuna’s lips parted.

His eyes softened, then sharpened again like he couldn’t decide which emotion deserved to win.

“You should have told me,” he said finally.

You let out a shaky breath.

“I knew you’d react like this.”

“So you hid it.”

“I didn’t hide it,” you whispered, desperate now, tears still falling. “You weren’t home. I handled it. I protected us.” Sukuna’s nostrils flared. “You don’t get to decide what protecting us looks like alone,” he said, voice dark. “And you don’t get to decide it alone either,” you whispered back.

His expression flickered—surprise, anger, something like reluctant respect.

Then his gaze dropped to your belly again.

His voice broke, just slightly.

“I’m scared,” he admitted, and it sounded like it hurt him to say it. “I’m scared they’ll take you. I’m scared I’ll come home and you’ll be gone and I’ll—” He stopped himself, breathing hard.

You cried quieter then, the anger draining out of you like water leaving a cracked cup. “I’m scared too,” you whispered.

Sukuna’s eyes lifted to yours.

“Of them,” you continued. “Of you sometimes. Of myself. Of being a mother. Of doing it wrong.”

Sukuna’s throat bobbed.

You took a shaky step closer, testing the air between you.

He didn’t move.

So you kept going.

“I answered because… because I wanted to take my life back in a small way,” you whispered. “I wanted to say: you don’t own me anymore. And I needed to believe it. Out loud.”

Sukuna stared at you.

Then his shoulders sagged—just a fraction.

A long breath left him, slow and tired.

He looked away, jaw clenched.

“You don’t do it again without telling me,” he said, voice rough.

You swallowed. “I can’t promise I’ll never speak to them,” you whispered. “But I can promise I won’t hide it.” Sukuna’s eyes narrowed, then softened. “You’re still too trusting,” he muttered.

You gave a small, broken smile through tears.

“And you’re still too afraid.” That earned you a look—sharp, offended, wounded.

But you didn’t flinch this time.

You just stood there, crying softly, belly heavy, heart heavier.

Finally, Sukuna exhaled again and reached out—slowly, deliberately—and touched your arm.

Not gripping.

Not pulling.

Just resting his hand there like he was reminding himself you were real.

“You’re not leaving,” he said, voice low, almost pleading beneath the roughness.

You nodded, tears slipping.

“I’m not leaving,” you whispered.

His hand slid to your belly, palm flattening there, reverent in spite of himself.

The baby kicked under his touch.

Sukuna froze, breath catching, eyes flicking down.

For a second, his anger broke apart completely—revealing the soft, terrified boy underneath.

He swallowed hard.

Then he leaned his forehead lightly against yours, careful with your belly between you. “You can’t scare me like that,” he whispered.

You let out a shaky breath, closing your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured. “I didn’t mean to.” He stayed there a moment, breathing against you, grounding himself.

Then, quietly:

“I’m going to make dinner,” he said, voice hoarse. “And you’re going to sit down and drink water. And if you cry, you’re going to hydrate.” A faint laugh escaped you through tears—soft, involuntary.

Sukuna’s mouth twitched like he almost smiled, but he didn’t let himself.

He pulled back, looked at you one last time—checking, cataloging, making sure you were still his.

Then he opened the bedroom door.

Out in the living room, Sumire and Hiro looked up immediately—Sumire still bristling, Hiro still tender-eyed.

Sukuna’s gaze swept over them, then back to you.

“We’re fine,” you said softly before anyone could speak.

Sumire’s shoulders loosened a fraction.

Hiro’s face softened with relief.

Sukuna didn’t say anything else.

He just walked to the kitchen, picked up the grocery bags off the floor like he could restore order by putting things back where they belonged, and you stood there in the doorway a moment longer—one hand on your belly, the other wiping tears—

wondering how love could feel like comfort and danger in the same breath,

and promising yourself, quietly, that you would not become a quiet thing again.

You had always been soft-spoken. Even before you understood yourself, your voice carried a quiet, feminine sweetness that made strangers occasionally hesitate over how to address you. Your face had remained smooth and gentle as you grew older, with wide eyes, soft cheeks, and lips your mother sometimes accused you of pouting when you were only sitting silently.

Your father hated all of it.

He hated the way you preferred drawing to sports. He hated the way you sat with your knees together. He hated that you did not laugh at the same jokes he did or look at girls with the hunger he insisted every teenage boy should have.

When you were eleven, he threw away a sketchbook filled with dresses because he said it was embarrassing.

When you were fourteen, he cut your hair himself after he found you growing it past your ears.

When you were seventeen, he found a pink shirt hidden beneath your mattress and asked whether he had failed to raise a son.

You never answered him.

You learned silence was safer.

But silence did not erase who you were.

By nineteen, you knew.

You had known for years, perhaps, but now you had words for it. Quiet words spoken only inside your own mind. Words read late at night on the glow of your phone beneath your blankets.

Girl.

Woman.

Transgender.

You had been assigned a life that never fit correctly, like clothing stitched for someone else and forced over your body anyway. Every morning, you woke and performed the version of yourself your parents demanded. You put on the loose shirts your father approved of. You lowered your voice when you remembered. You allowed him to call you his son while something inside you folded smaller and smaller.

But in private, you let yourself breathe.

You wore soft panties instead of boxers, ordered discreetly and hidden beneath ordinary clothes in the bottom of your dresser. You wore pink tank tops under your shirts, small slips of color pressed close to your skin where no one could see them.

You kept your hair in a short pixie cut. It was longer and softer than your father preferred, but short enough that he could still pretend it was masculine. You styled it carefully when you were alone, sweeping the fringe over your forehead and imagining how it might look brushing your shoulders one day.

And every week, behind a locked bedroom door, you gave yourself the hormone injection that felt like both terror and hope.

No one knew.

Not your parents.

Not the boys at school.

Not your roommate.

Especially not your roommate.

Your father had chosen the college for you.

An all-boys technical university.

According to him, it would “straighten you out.” The words had made your stomach twist when he said them over dinner, one hand wrapped around a glass of beer as if he were announcing a generous gift. “You need to be around men,” he said. “Real men. Enough of this art nonsense.” You had stared at the food on your plate. “I wanted to apply to an art program.”

“Art doesn’t pay.”

“I could—”

“You’ll study engineering.” You had looked toward your mother.

She kept eating.

Your father leaned back in his chair. “You need structure. Discipline. Something that’ll make a man out of you.” The cruelest part was not that you disliked engineering.

It was that you loved art.

You loved color. Shape. The way a pencil could turn a blank page into a face, a landscape, a dress, a world. You loved creating things that did not have to support weight or withstand pressure or prove their usefulness through numbers. Art had always been the one place you did not have to be useful. But your father had filled out the applications. Chosen the major. Paid the deposit. He reminded you frequently that you should be grateful.

So you went.

The apartment was the only mercy.

The university offered shared student housing, but your father decided the dorms would be too distracting. He arranged for you to split a two-bedroom apartment a few blocks from campus with another engineering student whose family knew someone connected to the school.

Ryomen Sukuna.

The first time you met him, you considered calling your father and begging for a dorm room.

Sukuna was enormous.

He stood six foot five, broad through the shoulders and chest, with the body of someone who spent almost as much time lifting weights as he did attending lectures. His pale pink hair was buzzed close to his head, making the sharp structure of his face even more striking. He had red eyes, dark brows, and a permanent expression that suggested he found most of the world mildly irritating.

He looked exactly like the sort of man your father wished you would become.

Loud without raising his voice.

Confident without effort.

Masculine in a way that seemed carved directly into his body.

You disliked him immediately.

Not because he did anything.

Because you were terrified of him.

On moving day, you stood in the apartment’s narrow living room with your arms wrapped around a box of art supplies you had lied and called school materials.

Sukuna looked at you once.

Then again.

His gaze moved over your small frame, your soft face, your short hair, and the oversized gray sweatshirt hiding the pink tank beneath it. “You the roommate?” he asked, you nodded. “Yeah.” Your voice came out too soft.

You waited for his expression to change.

For the smirk.

For the question.

Why do you sound like that?

Instead, he jerked his chin toward the hallway. “Room on the left is taken.”

“Oh.” You shifted the box in your arms. “Okay.”

“The closet in yours is bigger.” You looked at him in surprise.

He shrugged. “I don’t have much shit.” That had been your introduction.

For the first few weeks, the two of you moved around each other cautiously.

Or rather, you moved cautiously around Sukuna.

Sukuna did whatever he wanted.

He walked through the apartment shirtless after the gym. He left enormous containers of protein powder on the kitchen counter and complained whenever you moved them. He played music too loudly while studying and cooked portions large enough to feed four people, then stared at you like you were unreasonable when you declined a plate. “You need to eat,” he said one evening.

You sat at the small dining table with a textbook open in front of you, though your sketchbook was hidden beneath it.

“I ate earlier.”

“What?”

“A sandwich.”

“That’s not food.”

“It is literally food.”

“It’s bread pretending to be a meal.” You looked toward the stove, where he was stirring something in a pan. “I’m not very hungry.”

“You’re built like a paperclip.” You frowned.

He pointed the wooden spoon at you. “Eat.” You should have been offended.

You were, a little.

But ten minutes later, there was a bowl in front of you.

It was good.

You hated that too.

Despite his appearance, Sukuna was not quite what you expected.

He was rude, certainly.

Blunt.

Loud when he was irritated and entirely unconcerned with whether his opinions hurt someone’s feelings.

But he was not cruel.

There was a difference.

He did not mock your voice.

He did not tell you to stand differently or sit differently. He did not complain that you took too long in the bathroom or that the soaps you bought smelled like roses and vanilla.

He complained about the price instead.

“You spent twelve dollars on soap?”

“It lasts a long time.”

“It’s soap.”

“It smells nice.”

“It smells like a garden threw up.”

Yet three days later, you noticed him using it.

You did not mention it.

Sukuna also noticed things.

Too many things.

You had realized that within the first month. He noticed you never changed clothes with your bedroom door open, not even when he walked around in his underwear without shame.

He noticed you did laundry late at night.

He noticed you had more packages delivered than someone who claimed not to shop often. He noticed you always wore an undershirt, even when it was warm. He noticed that sometimes, when you thought he was not looking, you stared at girls’ clothes in store windows not with desire, but longing.

He did not know what any of it meant.

But he knew there was something.

One night, while the two of you sat on opposite ends of the couch, Sukuna talked casually about a girl he had slept with after a party.

You tried not to look uncomfortable. “She wouldn’t stop talking afterward,” he said, scrolling through his phone. “Kept asking if I wanted to go get breakfast.” You looked down at the engineering assignment on your lap. “Maybe she liked you.”

“Bad judgment.” You smiled faintly.

He glanced at you. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You ever been with a girl?” Your stomach dropped.

You turned a page, though you had not read the first one. “A couple.” The lie came out weakly.

Sukuna studied you.

You could feel it. “What were they like?” he asked.

You scrambled for an answer.

“Pretty.”

“That’s descriptive.” You shrugged, trying to look uninterested. “I don’t know.” He kept staring. You hated how easily his gaze seemed to strip the lies from you. “You like blondes?” he asked. “Sure.”

“Brunettes?”

“Yeah.”

“Redheads?”

“Also fine.” His mouth twitched. “You don’t give a shit about women.” Your eyes widened. “What?”

“I said you’re bad at talking about them.”

“I like girls.”

He lifted one eyebrow.

You forced yourself to meet his eyes.

The room felt too warm.

Then Sukuna looked back at his phone. “Whatever.” He never brought it up again.

But after that, you caught him observing you more often.

Not maliciously.

Curiously.

Like you were an equation with missing information.

You became even more careful.

Your hormones stayed hidden in a small insulated pouch behind a stack of old textbooks in your closet. You disposed of the needles away from the apartment. You wore loose shirts around the house even as subtle changes began shaping your body.

Your skin became softer.

The angles of your face gentled.

Your chest had begun to develop, only slightly—a small fullness that could still be hidden beneath layered clothing but was impossible to ignore when you stood undressed before the mirror.

You loved it.

You feared it.

Every change brought a warmth so intense it almost made you cry, followed immediately by panic over who might notice.

Sukuna noticed.

You knew he did.

Sometimes his eyes paused at your chest before moving away, his brow furrowing as if trying to remember whether you had always looked that way.

He never asked.

Not until the night he walked into your bedroom.

It was late, a little after eleven.

You had finished showering and were preparing for bed. Your bedroom door was shut but not locked, something you usually never forgot.

That evening, exhaustion made you careless. You stood near the foot of your bed wearing purple panties and a pink tank top. The fabric clung gently to your body, revealing the small curve of your chest. Your hair was slightly damp from the shower, the pixie cut falling softly around your face.

For once, you felt comfortable.

Not disguised.

Not hidden.

Just you.

You were folding the shirt you had worn that day when the door opened. “Did you take my—” Sukuna stopped.

Your entire body went cold.

He stood in the doorway wearing a black shirt and gray sweatpants, one hand still curled around the doorknob.

His red eyes moved over you once.

Not slowly.

Not hungrily.

Simply taking in the truth of what he saw.

Your purple panties.

The pink tank top.

Your bare legs.

The small but unmistakable swell beneath the fabric over your chest.

Your eyes widened.

For a heartbeat, neither of you spoke.

Then Sukuna looked away. “My bad,” he said. “Should’ve knocked.” He began to pull the door closed. “Wait.” The word escaped before you could stop it.

Sukuna paused.

You grabbed the nearest blanket from the bed and held it awkwardly in front of yourself, humiliation burning across your face and down your neck. “It’s not what it looks like.” He turned his head back toward you.

His expression was strangely blank. “You’re in panties and a tank top.” Your stomach twisted.

He nodded toward you. “It’s exactly what it looks like.” You could not breathe, your fingers tightened around the blanket. Sukuna leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, still keeping his gaze mostly on your face. “And it’s fine.” You blinked. “What?”

“I don’t care.” You stared at him, certain you had misunderstood.

He gestured vaguely toward your clothes. “It suits you.” Heat rushed violently into your cheeks.

You looked down.

The room seemed to tilt under the weight of relief, embarrassment, and fear colliding inside you. “You don’t think it’s weird?” Sukuna frowned. “Why would I?”

“Because…” Your voice faltered. “Because I’m supposed to be a boy.”

The last word felt ugly in your mouth.

Incorrect.

A label stuck to the wrong thing.

Sukuna watched you for a long moment.

Then his gaze shifted toward the bed. “You gonna stand there holding that blanket all night?” You looked behind yourself, then sat down slowly on the edge of the mattress.

The blanket remained gathered against your lap.

Sukuna stayed in the doorway.

For the first time since you had met him, he looked almost uncertain.

Not disgusted.

Not angry.

Just careful.

“You trans or something?” he asked.

The question was blunt.

Very Sukuna.

But there was no cruelty in it.

Your heart pounded so loudly you wondered if he could hear it.

You stared at your hands.

There were two choices.

Lie, as you always did.

Or trust him.

You did not know why the second option felt possible. Perhaps it was the fact that he had looked away when he entered. Perhaps it was the casual way he said it suited you, as though the sight of you in feminine clothes required no justification. Perhaps you were simply exhausted from holding yourself alone.

You nodded.

The motion was tiny. “Yes,” you whispered.

Sukuna remained still.

You forced yourself to continue before fear could close your throat. “I feel like a girl. I mean…” You swallowed. “I am one. I think I’ve always been one. I just didn’t know how to say it.” He nodded slowly. “My parents don’t know,” you added quickly. “They can’t know.”

“Why?”

“They’re homophobic. Transphobic too, probably. My dad already hates how I am.” Sukuna’s jaw tightened. You looked down at the purple fabric covering your thighs. “He put me here because he thinks being around men will fix me. He forced me into engineering too. I wanted to study art, but he said it was useless.” Sukuna’s face changed.

Only slightly.

But something dark moved through his eyes. “That’s fucked up.” A fragile laugh left you, though nothing was funny. “Yeah.” He crossed his arms. “So what are you doing to transition?” You looked up quickly.

The question surprised you.

Not because of what he asked.

Because he made it sound so ordinary.

As though transitioning was simply a process you were engaged in, something practical that could be discussed without shame.

“You mean medically?”

“Yeah.” You hesitated. “I take hormone shots.” Sukuna’s eyebrows lifted. “You do?” You nodded. “How long?”

"Secretly... since I was 16.” His eyes moved over you again, and this time you understood the look. He was connecting details. Your softer skin. The subtle changes in your face. The small swell beneath the pink tank top.

His gaze paused briefly at your chest.

You instinctively pulled the blanket higher.

He looked back at your face immediately. “That explains it,” he said.

Your cheeks burned.

“Explains what?”

“You’ve been changing.” Panic flickered through you. “Is it obvious?”

“To me.” Your stomach dropped, Sukuna must have seen the fear on your face, because he uncrossed his arms. “Not like that,” he said. “I live with you. I notice shit.”

“Oh.”

“No one else probably knows.” You let out a breath.

Silence settled between you.

Then Sukuna nodded toward your hair.

“You should grow it out.” Your fingers lifted unconsciously, brushing the short strands near your ear. “You think so?”

“Yeah.” He studied your face with the same blunt concentration he gave nearly everything. “You’d be a really pretty girl.” The words struck you so softly they hurt.

You stared at him.

Your lips parted, but nothing came out.

No one had ever said that to you before.

Not as a joke.

Not as an insult.

Not as a distant possibility.

A girl.

A pretty girl.

He said it like you were already halfway there. Like he could see her standing in front of him beneath the short hair and frightened eyes.

Your vision blurred.

You looked down quickly, blinking hard. “Thanks,” you whispered.

Sukuna shifted awkwardly in the doorway.

He was clearly unprepared for tears.

“Don’t cry.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m trying not to.” He sighed and walked into the room at last, closing the door behind him.

You tensed automatically.

He noticed. “Relax,” he said. “I’m not gonna do anything.”

“I know.” He stopped a few feet away, then leaned back against the wall rather than coming closer. You appreciated that more than he could know. “You don’t have to hide it from me,” he said.

You looked up.

Sukuna shrugged one shoulder.

“Wear whatever you want in the apartment. I don’t give a shit.”

“My parents could visit.”

“Then you hide it when they visit.”

“They might call.”

“They can’t see through the phone.” You smiled faintly.

His expression softened by a fraction. “And I’m not telling anyone,” he added. “So don’t worry about that.”

“You swear?” His eyes narrowed, offended. “I said I wouldn’t.” That, apparently, was stronger than swearing.

You nodded. “Okay.” He pushed away from the wall. “I’ve got your back.” There was no grand speech.

No dramatic promise.

Just those four words in Sukuna’s rough, matter-of-fact voice.

But they settled over you like warmth.

For years, you had imagined telling someone.

In those imaginings, people shouted. They cried. They demanded explanations. They asked how you could be sure or whether someone had influenced you or why you could not simply remain the person everyone believed you were.

You had never imagined this.

Sukuna walking into your room, seeing everything, and deciding within minutes that protecting you was the obvious next step.

Your fingers loosened around the blanket. “Thank you.” He nodded.

Then his eyes moved toward the floor. “My charger in here?” You blinked. “What?”

“My phone charger. That’s why I came in.” You looked toward your desk.

A black cable sat beside your laptop. “Oh. Yeah.” Sukuna crossed the room and picked it up.

You watched him, still dazed.

At the doorway, he paused.

Then he looked back at you. “What name do you want me to use?” Your breath caught. You had not expected that. “I…” You glanced down. “I haven’t picked one.”

“Then figure it out.” His tone was impatient, but his eyes were not. “You don’t want me calling you some name you hate forever.” A shy smile touched your lips. “Okay.”

“And pronouns?”

“She,” you whispered.

Sukuna nodded once.

“She.”

Your chest tightened.

He said it easily.

No hesitation.

No confusion.

Just she.

Then he opened the door.

“Sukuna?”

He looked back.

You held the blanket close, though now it felt less like armor. “Do you really think the tank top suits me?” His eyes moved briefly over the pink fabric. “Yeah.”

“And the panties?” His mouth tilted into the beginning of a smirk. “Purple’s a good color on you.” Your face burned bright red. Sukuna gave a quiet laugh, stepping into the hallway. “Go to sleep, princess.” The door closed behind him.

You remained sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the place where he had been.

Princess.

You lifted one hand to your chest, feeling your heart race beneath your palm.

For the first time since arriving at that school, the apartment did not feel like another place where you had to hide.

It felt, just slightly, like home.

The first week after Sukuna learned your secret, nothing changed.

And somehow, everything did.

He did not suddenly become gentle. Sukuna was still Sukuna. He still complained when you left mugs in the sink instead of rinsing them. He still stole the remote and insisted the movies you chose were too slow. He still called your homework “embarrassing” when you asked for help, then sat beside you for two hours correcting every equation until you understood it.

But there were small differences now.

He knocked before entering your room.

Every time.

Even when the door was already open, he tapped his knuckles against the frame and waited until you looked up. Sometimes you told him he could come in, and sometimes you said you were busy, and he accepted either answer without complaint. He never mentioned the pink tank top or the purple panties again, though once, while the two of you were putting away groceries, he pulled a bottle of strawberry-scented lotion from one of the bags and tossed it toward you.

You caught it clumsily against your chest.

“What’s this?”

“You were out.” Your eyes widened. “How did you know?”

“The bottle in the bathroom was empty.” You stared at him. Sukuna put a carton of eggs into the refrigerator. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I didn’t ask you to buy it.”

“I was already at the store.”

“You usually say it smells like candy.”

“It does.”

“And you hate it.”

“I hate hearing you complain about dry hands more.” You had smiled down at the bottle until your cheeks hurt.

He noticed when you wore a little gloss around the apartment too. At least, you thought he did. His eyes occasionally lingered on your mouth for half a second longer than usual, his expression narrowing as if he were trying to determine whether something had changed. But he never asked, and you never explained.

The word princess remained between you as well.

He did not use it constantly. That would have made it feel like teasing. Instead, Sukuna used it sparingly, usually when you were anxious or when he wanted to make you blush. He said it with a careless ease that made your heart skip, as though the name belonged to you naturally.

You still had not chosen another name.

You had written possibilities in your sketchbook, tucked between studies of faces and clothing designs, but none felt entirely yours yet. For now, hearing him call you she was enough. Hearing him say princess was more than enough.

It was Friday night when your father called.

You and Sukuna had both survived a long week of classes, assignments, and cafeteria food that even Sukuna refused to eat. The two of you were stretched out on opposite ends of the couch with a bowl of popcorn between you, watching some terrible action movie he had chosen.

The main character had already survived three explosions, a car crash, and being thrown through a second-story window.

You sat with your legs folded beneath you, wearing soft gray pajama pants and an oversized sweatshirt. Beneath it was a pale pink camisole you had bought online and hidden from everyone except Sukuna. Your short hair had been freshly washed, and you had brushed a little clear gloss over your lips without thinking much about it.

Sukuna sprawled across the other end of the couch, one arm resting along the back cushions. He wore a black T-shirt and sweatpants, his pale pink buzzed hair catching the flickering light from the television. A bowl of popcorn rested on his stomach, though he kept eating the pieces you took rather than the ones he had brought for himself.

On the screen, the hero leapt from the roof of one moving car onto another.

You frowned. “He would’ve broken both legs.” Sukuna tossed popcorn into his mouth. “At least.”

“And probably his spine.”

“Definitely.”

“Then why are we watching this?”

“Because it’s funny.”

“It isn’t supposed to be funny.”

“That makes it better.” You reached for the popcorn and found the bowl empty. “You ate all of it.”

“You were too slow.”

“It was between us.”

“And yet.” You gave him an offended look, Sukuna lifted one eyebrow. “You want more?”

“No.”

“That means yes.” Before he could stand, your phone began vibrating on the coffee table.

The sound was soft.

Ordinary.

But the moment you saw the name glowing on the screen, your entire body went rigid.

Dad.

Sukuna noticed immediately.

His gaze shifted from the television to your face. “You gonna answer?” You swallowed.

The phone continued buzzing.

Your father rarely called simply to talk. His conversations were inspections disguised as concern. How were your grades? Were you making friends? Were you exercising? Were your classes difficult enough? Had college helped you “toughen up” yet?

You reached for the phone, but your fingers hesitated over it. “I have to.” Sukuna muted the television. “You don’t have to do shit.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you don’t.”

“If I ignore him, he’ll keep calling. Then he’ll call the school, or the landlord, or drive here.” Sukuna’s expression darkened. You picked up the phone before it could stop ringing and pressed it to your ear. “Hello?” Your voice changed automatically.

It happened so quickly you hardly noticed anymore. You lowered it slightly. Straightened your back. Smoothed the softness from your tone. Every part of you pulled inward, hidden beneath the version of yourself your father expected to hear.

Sukuna noticed that too. “Finally,” your father said. “What took you so long?”

“Sorry. I was studying.”

The lie came easily.

Your father grunted. “On a Friday night?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s good. Better than wasting time.” You looked down at your lap. Sukuna sat still beside you, his gaze fixed on your face. The bowl had been set aside. The movie remained paused behind you, frozen on the image of an exploding vehicle. “How are your classes?” your father asked. “They’re okay.”

“Just okay?”

“They’re going well.”

“You keeping up?”

“Yes.”

“You need to do more than keep up. I didn’t send you there to be average.”

“I know.”

The words left you quietly.

Small.

Sukuna’s jaw tightened.

Your father continued talking, complaining about tuition and the cost of textbooks, reminding you that engineering would give you a respectable career if you stopped daydreaming and applied yourself. You listened with your eyes lowered, agreeing whenever he paused.

Every sentence felt like another layer of clothing pulled over your real skin.

Your father did not know about the hormone injections hidden in your closet. He did not know about the camisole beneath your sweatshirt or the gloss shining faintly on your lips. He did not know Sukuna called you she when the apartment door was locked.

He did not know his son was slowly disappearing because his daughter had finally begun to breathe.

You had been thinking about changing your major for weeks.

Not to art. You knew that battle would end before it began. Your father would laugh, then shout, then threaten to stop paying tuition. You had considered it anyway, staring at the art program’s website late at night until the photographs of paint-splattered studios blurred through tears.

Architecture had seemed like a compromise.

It was not the same as fine arts, but it was closer to the things you loved. It combined structure with shape, mathematics with imagination. You could sketch. Design. Think about light, form, color, and the way people moved through space. There was engineering in it, enough that perhaps your father would not dismiss it immediately, but there was beauty too.

You had rehearsed the question for days.

Each time, your courage had failed.

That night, with Sukuna sitting beside you and your father’s voice filling your ear, you decided you were tired of waiting for bravery to arrive before speaking.

You took a slow breath.

“Dad?”

“What?”

“I wanted to ask you something.”

The words trembled slightly.

Sukuna looked at you.

You pressed one hand against your knee to stop it from shaking. “Once I finish my main classes, could I switch majors?”

Silence.

The wrong kind.

Your father’s voice changed when he answered. “Switch to what?”

“Architecture.”

“Architecture?”

“Yes.” A sharp laugh came through the phone. “Don’t be foolish.” Your stomach tightened. “It still uses engineering and mathematics,” you said quickly. “A lot of the classes overlap, and I’ve looked at the requirements. I wouldn’t be wasting what I’ve already taken.”

“You’ve been there for one semester and already want to quit?”

“I’m not quitting.”

“That’s exactly what it sounds like.”

“No, I just think architecture would suit me better.”

“Suit you better?” Your father scoffed. “That’s the problem with you. Everything has to feel good. You think life is about doing whatever suits you?” You stared down at your hands. “No.”

“Engineering is stable. It’s serious. You don’t need to start chasing some childish dream because the classes are difficult.”

“It isn’t because they’re difficult.”

“Then what is it?”

Because I hate it.

Because every time I sit in class, I feel like I am living the life you designed instead of my own.

Because I am tired of being forced into shapes that hurt.

Your throat closed around every honest answer. “I’m interested in design,” you said instead. “I’ve always been good at drawing. Architecture would let me use that while still having a practical career.” Your father made an irritated sound. “Here we go with the drawing again. I thought that school would finally get that art shit out of your head.” Your cheeks burned.

Across the couch, Sukuna’s face went cold.

You shook your head quickly, though your father could not see you. “It isn’t like that.”

“It sounds exactly like that.”

“I wouldn’t be studying fine art.”

“Architecture is just drawing buildings for people who couldn’t handle real engineering.” Sukuna shifted.

Your eyes darted toward him.

He was no longer lounging. He sat forward now, elbows resting on his knees, his expression sharpened by irritation.

You looked away and tried to keep your voice steady. “I’ve done research. It is a serious career.”

“You’ve always been too easily distracted,” your father said. “Someone probably put this idea in your head. Was it that roommate of yours?” You glanced at Sukuna again.

“No.”

“What’s his name? Ryomen?”

“Yes.”

“At least he seems focused. You should take a lesson from him instead of looking for an easier path.” Sukuna’s eyebrows rose.

You wanted to disappear.

Your father continued. “You’re going to finish engineering. I’m not paying for you to spend four years doodling houses.” Your eyes stung.

You blinked rapidly, refusing to cry while he was still on the phone. “Okay,” you whispered.

Sukuna looked at you.

Something in his face changed when he heard the surrender in your voice.

He leaned closer. “That’s actually a really cool career choice,” he said.

His voice was not especially loud.

It did not need to be.

Sukuna’s voice carried naturally, deep and confident, and your father went silent on the other end of the line.

You stared at him with wide eyes.

Sukuna looked toward the phone in your hand and continued as if he had been invited into the conversation. “Architecture’s hard as hell. More design work, but still technical. Some of the best engineers I know couldn’t do it.” Your mouth parted.

Your father remained quiet.

Sukuna leaned back against the couch, entirely at ease now that he had inserted himself into the discussion. “And architects make good money if they know what they’re doing,” he added. “She—” He stopped.

Your heart nearly stopped with him.

For the smallest fraction of a second, panic flashed through your body.

Sukuna did not react.

He corrected himself so smoothly that the pause might have meant nothing. “He’s good at design,” Sukuna said. “I’ve seen his work. Makes more sense than forcing him into something he doesn’t want.” You stared down at your lap, your pulse thundering.

Your father cleared his throat. “You think architecture is respectable?” Sukuna’s expression turned incredulous. “Obviously.” Another pause. You could almost hear your father reconsidering. Not because your argument had changed. Not because you had explained yourself poorly. He simply valued Sukuna’s opinion in a way he did not value yours.

The realization hurt.

But hope rose through the hurt anyway.

Your father exhaled. “Well.” You held your breath. “As long as you’re not doing that art shit,” he said, “I don’t care. If architecture still gives you a real career, then fine. You can switch after your main classes.” You looked up so quickly your neck hurt.

Sukuna’s mouth tilted faintly. “Really?” you asked. “Don’t make me regret it.”

“I won’t.”

“And don’t fall behind.”

“I won’t.”

“You’ll need to talk to an advisor.”

“I know.” Your father sighed as though granting permission had exhausted him. “Fine. We’ll talk about it later. Your mother wants the phone.” Your mother spoke with you for less than two minutes. She asked whether you were eating enough and told you the weather had been cold back home. You answered politely, still half in shock, and promised to call again the following week.

When the conversation finally ended, you lowered the phone slowly.

For a moment, you simply stared at the dark screen.

The apartment was silent.

The movie remained paused.

Sukuna watched you from the other end of the couch.

Then your face broke open.

A smile spread across it, wide and bright and impossible to contain. It was not the small, careful smile you usually allowed yourself. It lifted your cheeks and softened your entire face, relief spilling through every inch of you. “I can switch,” you said.

Sukuna nodded. “Yeah.”

“I can actually switch.”

“You heard him.” You turned toward Sukuna fully. “I thought he was going to say no.”

“He did say no.”

“You changed his mind.”

“I said one sentence.”

“You made him listen.” Sukuna shrugged, though he looked pleased with himself. “Your dad’s an idiot.” A startled laugh left you. “He only agreed because you said it was respectable.”

“Still agreed.” You looked down at your phone, then back at him. “Architecture.”

The word felt different now.

Not like a secret possibility.

Like a door.

You could already imagine yourself standing over a drafting table, sketching windows and archways, thinking about color and space instead of only formulas. It was not the art program you had once dreamed about, but it belonged to you in a way engineering never had.

Your smile widened again.

Sukuna stared at you.

His eyes moved over your face, then settled briefly on your mouth.

You noticed.

“What?” He narrowed his eyes slightly. “You wearing something?” Your hand lifted to your lips. “What do you mean?”

“They’re shiny.” Heat touched your cheeks. “It’s just lip gloss.”

“Lip gloss.” You nodded, suddenly shy. Sukuna continued looking at your mouth as if he had discovered a new detail and needed time to process it. “You don’t like it?” you asked.

His gaze lifted to yours. “Didn’t say that.”

“Oh.”

“It looks good.” Your heart fluttered. “Thanks.” He nodded once, then reached for the remote as though the conversation had ended.

You watched him for another second.

He had defended your choice without hesitation. He had nearly called you she in front of your father and managed to protect you without drawing suspicion. He had looked at you and spoken with such certainty that your father, who never listened to you, had finally paused.

Gratitude swelled too quickly to remain contained.

Before you could think better of it, you moved across the couch and wrapped your arms around Sukuna.

His entire body went rigid.

You hugged him tightly, pressing your cheek against his chest. “Thank you so much.” Sukuna sat frozen beneath you. One of his hands still held the remote. The other hovered awkwardly in the air beside your back, as though he had forgotten what arms were designed to do.

You realized, belatedly, that you had never hugged him before.

Sukuna did not seem like someone people hugged.

He looked more like someone people moved out of the way for.

Embarrassment rushed over you, and you began to pull back. “Sorry. I just—” His free arm came around you.

The motion was stiff at first.

Careful.

His hand settled between your shoulder blades and patted twice in an awkward rhythm.

You almost laughed.

Sukuna clearly had no idea how to return affection, but he was trying. “No problem, princess,” he said.

Your eyes burned.

You tightened your arms around him again.

This time, his hand stopped patting and rested properly against your back.

For a few quiet seconds, neither of you moved.

You could hear his heartbeat beneath your ear, steady and strong. His body was warm through the thin fabric of his shirt. He smelled faintly of soap and the spicy cologne he used too heavily because he claimed subtle scents were pointless.

Sukuna glanced down.

From where you rested against him, your short hair brushed his chin. Your lip gloss had left the faintest sheen against his black shirt, though neither of you noticed yet. “You good?” he asked.

You nodded against his chest.

“Yeah.”

“You’re crying.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re getting my shirt wet.”

“I’m really happy.”

He was quiet for a moment.

Then his hand moved once along your back, gentler now. “Good.” You swallowed. “I hated engineering.”

“I know.” Your head lifted. “You knew?”

“You stare at your assignments like they killed your dog.” A laugh broke through the tears gathering in your eyes, Sukuna’s mouth twitched. “And your sketches are better than your calculations,” he added. “You should do something you’re actually good at.”

“That almost sounded nice.”

“It was an observation.”

“You could just say you think I’m talented.”

“I could.”

You waited.

Sukuna stared at you.

You stared back.

He sighed. “You’re talented.”

Your smile returned immediately.

He shook his head as though disgusted with himself. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late.” You finally released him, though you remained closer than before, your knee touching his thigh on the couch.

Sukuna looked down at the spot where your lip gloss had marked his shirt.

He rubbed it with his thumb.

You gasped. “Oh no. I’m sorry.”

He looked at the faint pink sheen on his thumb.

“It’ll wash out,” you said quickly. “I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine.”

“Are you sure?”

He glanced at your lips again.

The look lasted only a second, but something warm and strange passed through the space between you.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m sure.”

You looked away, cheeks burning.

Sukuna picked up the remote and restarted the movie.

The action hero was immediately thrown through another window.

Neither of you had any idea what was happening anymore.

You settled back into your corner of the couch, but not as far away as before. Sukuna did not mention it. A few minutes later, he set the popcorn bowl between you again, though it remained empty.

You looked inside.

“There’s no popcorn.”

“I know.”

“Then why did you put it back?”

He stared at the television. “Habit.”

You smiled.

After another moment, your shoulder leaned lightly against his arm.

Sukuna went still.

You almost moved away.

Then he shifted, not enough to make a show of it, only enough that your shoulder rested more comfortably against him.

The two of you watched the rest of the terrible movie that way.

You did not understand the plot.

Sukuna insulted every structural collapse on screen.

And beneath your sweatshirt, hidden against your skin, the pale pink camisole no longer felt quite so much like a secret.

Not with him beside you.

Not with the word architecture opening softly in your future.

Not with the lingering warmth of his awkward embrace still wrapped around your ribs.

For the first time in a long while, you let yourself imagine a life that belonged to you.

A studio table covered in drawings. Long hair brushing your shoulders. Dresses hanging openly in a closet instead of hidden beneath masculine clothes. Your father’s voice growing distant enough that it could no longer shape every decision.

You did not know what name you would choose.

You did not know how you would tell anyone.

You did not know how difficult the road ahead might become.

But Sukuna had looked at you in a pink tank top and purple panties and seen a girl.

He had heard your dream dismissed and called it cool.

He had made room for you without demanding that you explain every part of yourself first.

For now, that was enough.

More than enough.

Beside you, Sukuna glanced down at your small smile.

“What?”

You shook your head. “Nothing.”

“You’ve been smiling for ten minutes.”

“I’m allowed to smile.”

“It’s suspicious.” You laughed softly and leaned a little more firmly against him. “Thank you again.” He rolled his eyes, but he did not move away. “Go back to watching the movie, princess.”

You did.

Still smiling.

Then his collarbone.

Then lower.

His breath hitched when your lips brushed his chest, trailing down the defined lines of his abdomen. Your fingers traced the path your mouth would follow, feeling the way his muscles tensed beneath your touch.

"You're supposed to be working on your presentation today," he said, voice already roughening.

"I'm taking a break today."

"It's eight in the morning."

"Perfect time for a break."

You kissed just above his hip, feeling him shift beneath you. His hand moved to your hair, fingers threading through the curls as you settled between his thighs. He was already half-hard, and you wrapped your hand around him, stroking slowly while you looked up at him through your lashes.

His jaw tightened.

"You're trouble."

"You love it."

You leaned forward and licked a slow stripe up his length, base to tip, feeling him throb against your tongue. His fingers tightened in your hair, not forcing, just holding—grounding himself as you took him into your mouth.

The groan that left him was deep and unrestrained.

You hollowed your cheeks and took him deeper, relaxing your throat the way you'd learned he liked. His hips jerked slightly, and his other hand came to rest on the back of your head, guiding you down further.

"Fuck," he breathed. "Just like that." You hummed around him, the vibration making him curse again. Your hand moved to cup his balls, rolling them gently while you worked him with your mouth—sucking, licking, taking him as deep as you could manage before pulling back to catch your breath.

His eyes were dark when you glanced up at him, pupils blown wide with arousal. "You're so fucking good at this," he muttered, almost to himself. "Best I've ever had. You know that?" You pulled off him with an obscene pop, stroking him with your hand while you caught your breath. "You've mentioned it."

"Because it's true." You grinned and took him back into your mouth, deeper this time, until you felt him hit the back of your throat. His groan was louder now, less controlled. You loved reducing him to this—the man who was always composed, always in control, falling apart because of your mouth.

You pulled back and licked around the head, teasing the sensitive underside with your tongue before taking him deep again. Your other hand braced against his thigh, feeling the tension coiled in his muscles.

"Christ," he hissed. "You're nasty when you do this." You hummed in agreement, the sound muffled around his cock. His hand pushed your head down further, holding you there for a moment before letting you pull back. You gasped for air, spit connecting your lips to his tip, and dove back down immediately—eager, messy, exactly how he liked it. "Dirty girl," he groaned. "My dirty fucking girl." You moaned around him, the praise sending heat straight between your legs. You shifted your thighs together, seeking friction, and he noticed immediately.

"You getting wet from sucking my cock?"

You pulled off him long enough to answer.

"Yes."

"Fuck."

You took him back into your mouth, deeper, faster, your hand working what you couldn't fit. You felt him swell against your tongue, getting closer, and you doubled your efforts—sucking harder, taking him deeper, using your hand to stroke his balls.

His breathing was ragged now, his grip on your hair almost painful.

"You're going to make me come down that pretty throat if you keep—"

You pulled off him abruptly, and he cursed at the loss of your mouth. But then you straddled his hips, leaning down to kiss him hard. He tasted himself on your tongue and groaned into your mouth, his hands immediately going to your waist.

When you pulled back, there was a small drop of precum on your bottom lip.

He wiped it away with his thumb and brought it to your mouth. "Drink it all," he commanded, voice rough. You licked his thumb clean, then bit down lightly on the pad of it, making him hiss. His other hand came up to grip your jaw. "Nasty little thing," he muttered. "Sexy. My personal little whore." You grinned against his palm.

"No one else can have you," he continued, his voice dropping lower. "You understand that? I'll snap every man's neck before they get close enough to touch you." You giggled—actually giggled—at the possessive declaration, and his eyes narrowed. "Something funny?"

"What if I became a lesbian?" He scoffed, his hands sliding down to grip your ass. "Your only sexuality is Sukuna-sexual." You burst out laughing, the sound bright and genuine, and leaned down to kiss him again. He smiled against your mouth—a real smile, rare and unguarded—and you felt your chest tighten with affection. "You're ridiculous," you murmured. "You love it."

"I do." His expression softened for just a moment before the heat returned to his eyes. His hand slid between your legs, finding you soaked through your underwear. "Fuck, you're drenched."

"Told you." He pushed the fabric aside and slid two fingers into you easily, making you gasp and rock forward against his hand. His thumb found your clit, circling it slowly while his fingers curled inside you.

"Ride them," he ordered.

You did, rolling your hips and grinding down on his hand while he watched you with dark, hungry eyes. His other hand stroked his cock lazily, keeping himself hard while you fucked yourself on his fingers.

"That's it," he murmured. "Use me. Take what you need." You whimpered, your thighs trembling as you rode his hand faster. He added a third finger, stretching you, and you cried out at the fullness.

"Sukuna—"

"I know. I can feel you squeezing my fingers. You going to come already?"

"Not yet," you gasped. "Want you inside me." He groaned at that, his hand speeding up on his cock. "Greedy girl."

"Your greedy girl."

"Damn right." But then he pulled his fingers out of you, making you whine at the loss. He brought them to his mouth and sucked them clean, his eyes never leaving yours. "Sit on my face," he said.

Your breath caught. "What?"

"You heard me. Sit on my face. I want to taste you properly." Heat flooded through you as you moved up his body, positioning yourself over his face. His hands gripped your thighs, pulling you down until your pussy was pressed against his mouth.

The first stroke of his tongue made you cry out.

He licked into you hungrily, his tongue fucking into your entrance before dragging up to circle your clit. You rolled your hips against his face, grinding down, and he groaned beneath you—the vibration making your thighs shake.

"Fuck, Sukuna—" His hands tightened on your thighs, holding you in place while he devoured you. He was messy about it, all tongue and lips and the occasional scrape of teeth that made you jerk against him. You could feel his stubble scratching your inner thighs, could hear the obscene wet sounds of his mouth on you.

You looked down and saw him watching you, his eyes dark and intense even as his tongue worked you over. One of his hands left your thigh to stroke his cock again, and the sight of him touching himself while eating you out nearly sent you over the edge.

"Oh god—" He sucked your clit into his mouth, hard, and you cried out. Your hands flew to his hair, gripping tight as you rode his face shamelessly. He didn't seem to mind—if anything, he pulled you down harder, his tongue never stopping its relentless assault.

You could feel your orgasm building, coiling tight in your belly, but you didn't want to come yet. Not like this. "Sukuna, wait—" He pulled back just enough to speak, his lips shining with your arousal. "What?"

"Want you inside me when I come." He cursed and released you, letting you move back down his body. His cock was fully hard again, thick and flushed and leaking at the tip. You positioned yourself over him and sank down in one smooth motion, taking him to the hilt.

Both of you groaned at the sensation. "Fuck," he hissed. "You're so tight." You braced your hands on his chest and started moving, lifting yourself up and slamming back down. The angle was perfect, hitting that spot inside you that made your vision blur. You rode him hard and fast, bouncing on his cock with abandon.

His hands gripped your hips, guiding your movements but letting you set the pace. You could already feel your arousal coating him, slicking the way, making obscene wet sounds with every thrust. "Look at you," he groaned. "Fucking yourself on my cock like you can't get enough."

"I can't," you gasped. "Never enough." You reached down between your legs, your fingers finding your clit. You rubbed tight circles while you continued riding him, and his eyes locked onto where you were touching yourself. "That's it," he encouraged. "Play with that pretty pussy while you ride me." You moaned, your movements becoming more erratic as pleasure built inside you. He started thrusting up into you, meeting your downward motions, and the force of it made you cry out.

"Lean back," he commanded. "Let me see." You shifted your weight, leaning back and bracing one hand on his thigh. The new angle let him see everything—your fingers on your clit, his cock disappearing into your pussy, the ring of your cum already forming around his base.

"Fuck," he breathed. "Look at that. Look at how well you take me." You whimpered, your fingers moving faster. He gripped your hips harder and fucked up into you with purpose, his hips snapping up to meet yours. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mixed with your moans and his grunts.

"You're so fucking beautiful like this," he said, his voice strained. "Taking my cock, playing with yourself, making a mess all over me."

"Sukuna—"

"I know, baby. I can feel you getting tighter. You goin' to come for me?"

"Yes—fuck—yes—"

"Then come. Come on my cock. Let me feel it." Your orgasm hit you like a wave, crashing over you and making you cry out his name. Your pussy clenched around him rhythmically, and you felt him throb inside you as your walls squeezed him. "That's it," he groaned. "Fuck, that's it. Keep coming. Keep squeezing me just like that." You collapsed forward onto his chest, trembling and gasping, but he wasn't done. He wrapped his arms around you and started fucking up into you harder, chasing his own release.

"Where do you want it?" he asked, his voice rough. "Inside," you gasped. "Want you to fill me up." He cursed and thrust into you a few more times before he came with a groan, his cock pulsing as he emptied himself inside you. You felt the warmth of it, felt him twitch as he rode out his orgasm, and you pressed your face into his neck.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Just breathing.

Just feeling.

His hand came up to stroke your hair, gentle now, all the intensity from moments ago fading into something softer. "You okay?" he asked quietly.

You nodded against his neck. "More than okay."

"Good." You lifted your head to look at him, finding his expression relaxed and satisfied. You kissed him slowly, tasting yourself on his lips, and he hummed contentedly. "Your presentation—"

"Can wait," you finished. "This was more important." His mouth curved.

"Priorities."

"Exactly." You stayed like that for a while longer, his cock still inside you, his arms wrapped around you, the morning sun warming the room. Eventually you'd have to get up, shower, face the work waiting for both of you.

But not yet.

Not when you were exactly where you wanted to be.

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.