And he didn’t breathe a word of it to you. It was the first time in four years since you had stumbled across a flyer for his fights and cornered him in the kitchen, that you hadn’t been ringside, yelling his name louder than the rest of the roaring crowd.

Sukuna knew you’d worry. He knew the kind of hell you’d put yourself through, biting your nails raw the entire time, replaying every worst-case scenario in your mind. So, he lied, saying it was just a light spar with an old training partner, nothing worth seeing and dragging you out of bed for.

The moment he steps into the apartment, he sees you curled up on the couch with a blanket pulled up to your chin. The glow from the muted TV flickers faintly in your red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes. You haven’t slept a wink, and right then, he knows he has fucked up big time. 

At first, you don’t say a single word. You just look him over, taking in his state and the full extent of the damage. As your eyes land on his split lip and the swelling on his cheekbone, your jaw clenches. It sets into that specific, rigid line he knows means you're absolutely furious, but also desperately trying not to burst into tears. That look always turns his own wins into crushing personal defeats.

He dumps his beat-up gym bag by the door, wincing when the sudden move makes his ribs flare up with a sharp, intense pain. He tries for the usual cocky grin that usually melts your anger, but it comes out weak and crooked because his already puffed-up and throbbing lip won’t cooperate.

“Relax, angel. Still prettier than the other guy,” he manages, the words tasting like copper.

You roll your eyes so hard he can practically hear it.

“You complete idiot,” you finally hiss, your voice a low, dangerous growl, trembling only slightly with the amount of emotion you’re holding back. “Hiding a fight from me? You seriously think I can’t handle watching you?”

He tries again, defaulting to the standard, arrogant smirk that usually follows a win. It pulls at the split lip, sending a fresh jolt of pain through his face, and ends up as an involuntary grimace. “Guy was bigger than me, angel. Didn’t want you seeing if, well, if I—”

You cut him off, closing the distance and jabbing a finger into the center of his chest hard enough to make his bruised ribs protest with a low groan.

“Don’t. Don’t you dare smirk at me right now, Ryomen.”

The use of his full last name, not the usual soft Kuna or even Ryo, hits him like a punch to the gut. His hand instinctively reaches for you; the need to pull you close and bury the apology in your neck is almost unbearable, but you slap it away hard, eyes blazing.

“No. You don’t get to touch me until I’m done.”

You spin around, grab the heavy first-aid kit from the hall shelf, and shove it into his chest with enough force to make him stumble, then point at the bathroom. “Go sit. Now.”

He lowers himself onto the closed toilet lid—two meters of battered muscle folding small because you told him to. The fight in him is completely gone, replaced by a hollow exhaustion.

You stand between his thighs to reach his face, clutching rubbing alcohol and cotton pads. Your fingers are shaking so badly the liquid sloshes around in the small bottle. He hates that they’re shaking and that he’s the reason they do.

You press the pad, soaked in stinging antiseptic, against the cut over his eye. It stings like hell, but he doesn’t flinch; he just watches you with his only good eye fixed entirely on your face. On the next cut, you press harder than necessary, and he hisses sharply.

“You think I care if you lose?” you whisper. “I care if you come home.”

Your voice cracks on the last two words, and it finally hits him, harder than any elbow he took tonight. He gently catches your wrists and pulls your hands down so he can look at you properly.

“It’s underground, Ryomen,” you whisper, angry and terrified at once. “No rules. No doctors. No nothing. One bad hit to the head, one choke held half a second too long, one dirty knee to the spine, and what? They would’ve just dragged you out back and dumped you somewhere. No one would’ve called me. No one would’ve even told me where to find you.”

The words hang raw and ugly between you. He feels them sink in, and he knows he can’t deny any of it. You’re right; that’s exactly how it works. And he kept you away from it, foolishly believing that shielding you would make it less real.

He lets go of your wrists and slides his hands to your waist instead, thumbs gently stroking under the tee’s hem. His voice comes out rough and raw from the fight and this.

“I know how it works, woman. Better than you do.” He rests his forehead against yours, careful to avoid the worst of the swelling. “That’s why I didn’t want you there tonight. Didn’t want you watching some giant try to kill me and not knowing if I’d actually make it out.”

You pull back just enough to glare at him, tears filling your eyes. “And you thought showing up like this—without me even knowing where you were—was going to be better?”

No, it wasn’t. He sees it now, clear as the blood on his face. He lets out a slow, rattling breath that seems to drain the last bit of adrenaline and anger.

“No. It was stupid. Won’t happen again.”

You’re shaking now. “I don’t sit ringside because I like the blood, you idiot. I sit there because if something goes sideways, I need to be the first one climbing that damn cage to drag you out myself. And you took that from me tonight. You left me here picturing the worst while you let some giant try to kill you for sport.”

You get back to cleaning his face, gentler now, carefully tracing every cut, bruise, and swollen spot, making a mental list of who to blame later—the fighter, the promoter, or the entire brutal, messed-up game.

His eyes drop to the blood on his sweats, and you snap, “Look at me.” He does, straight into your furious, terrified eyes. “You almost made sure I’d never know if you—” You stop yourself short, not wanting to even finish the thought.

A single tear slides down your cheek, and you wipe it away with a trembling hand, like it’s betrayed you.

“If you ever—ever—hide a fight from me again,” you mutter, but your voice is deadly, “I swear I’ll chain you to this fucking apartment myself.”

The words hang heavy and cold as you finish cleaning the last cut on his chin, your hands finally steadying after shaking for what felt like ages. And then you just… stop. You’re still breathing hard, ragged, staring at him as if you’re reminding yourself of every line of his face and every tattoo, making sure he’s real, alive, and he actually came home.

He reaches up, slower than before, wincing a little as the movement strains his sore ribs, and cradles your face with both hands, knuckles still bloody. 

“I fucked up, angel. Next time, you’ll be in your seat, screaming louder than anyone. I fight better when I know you’re there to drag my ass home afterward.”

Your own breath catches, a silent, painful sob that doesn’t quite break out, and you cup his jaw, careful of the swelling, pressing the gentlest kiss to the one spot on his face that isn’t ruined, bruised, or split. You drop your forehead to his, gripping the damp, blood-stained fabric of his shirt, and whisper against his busted lip, “You better. Because if you die out there without me, I’ll find you and kill you again myself.”

He manages the faintest, most painful chuckle, his ribs screaming, and he instantly stifles the sound, pulling you completely into his chest, his arms wrapped around you like he’s never letting go.

“Deal, brat.”

You take a long, shuddering breath, inhaling the smell of his skin, blood, and sweat—the smell of him safe, and force yourself to pull back to look him over.

“Shower, then bed,” you order quietly. “And you’re sleeping on your back so I can make sure you’re still breathing.”

Sukuna nods and lets you help him undress, slowly peeling the shirt off, careful not to snag it on any raw spots, revealing the full damage: deep purple and blue bruises blooming all over his torso and arms. Your eyes close for a second to collect yourself, and to remember again that this is the aftermath, that he’s here and he’s okay. With a long, shaky sigh, your hand reaches up to gently push the damp, matted hair back from his forehead.

“Need a hand?” you ask cautiously.

He gives a small, tired shake of his head and stands up, towering over you again despite the injuries, his height and bulk giving you a strange, reassuring feeling in the small space. He undoes the drawstring of his sweats and lets them drop along with his boxers.

Hot water hits his shoulders first, and Sukuna lets out a low hiss when his ribs complain, and the spray finds open cuts.

He glances at you in the doorway, still lingering because you can’t quite bring yourself to leave. Your eyes keep scanning the damage, the deep purple blooming across his chest, the splits on his knuckles, the slight hitch in his right side when he breathes too deep. You're close enough to grab him if he stumbles, but far enough to give him some space.

The water runs pink at first, swirling down the drain with old blood and sweat. He tips his head back, letting it pound over his hair, careful around the swollen eye. His hands brace on the tile wall for a second when a wave of dizziness hits, and you almost step forward, but you remind yourself it’s just an adrenaline crash finally catching up, same as after every other fight.

After he’s done and shuts the water off, it’s suddenly very quiet in the bathroom. He reaches for the towel after getting out, but you take a step, snatch it from him, and start slowly drying him yourself. The back of his neck, his arms, gentle over every bruise you spot.

When you're finished, you toss the towel onto the dryer and finally meet his gaze again. The anger in your voice softens into pure exhaustion when you say, “I’m still mad at you.” 

He leans down, forehead to yours again, water still dripping from his hair onto your skin. A moment later, he leads you to the bedroom, holding your hand, and as you walk down the hall, his mouth brushes your ear. “Love you too, angel.”

You squeeze his fingers once.

He slides into bed carefully, groans at the jolt of pain flaring through his ribs, and you immediately curl against his good side, resting your head right over his chest, listening to his heartbeat as proof he kept his promise.

“I love you, Kuna,” you mutter, finally feeling the relief that he’s okay. “I’m so glad you made it home.”

Sukuna stands a few steps away with his hands loosely in his pockets, already resigned to the fact that this is just who you are. You see a cat, and you stop functioning. 

He can’t help but watch you with a mix of exasperation and a bit of amusement that’s almost close to fondness, mostly because you look so stupidly happy, and that tends to completely override anything else he might think about your sudden, public abandonment of him.

You’re absolutely thrilled when the cat, after a moment of intense, green-eyed staring, allows you to gently extend a finger and touch it. You instantly start a non-stop, ridiculous stream of mushy nonsense, completely forgetting you're technically in public. When it headbutts your hand with surprising force, you burst out laughing, like this might be the best moment of your day. In fact, it probably is, judging by the bright smile on your face.

This is, of course, the exact moment when a stunning woman decides that today is her day, and Sukuna is the ultimate jackpot. Her eyes quickly scan his physique, the imposing height and the lines of his tattoos, like she’s already mentally rearranging her life to make him the centrepiece of it.

Clearly, she likes what she sees, and misinterpreting his relaxed, nonchalant posture as availability, she saunters up to him with a bold confidence that’s kinda admirable because it takes guts, but in this specific situation, it’s deeply, deeply misguided.

“Well, hello, handsome,” she practically purrs, tilting her head smoothly like she’s already got him. “You look far too interesting to be standing here by yourself.”

Sukuna doesn’t even glance at her, keeping his eyes glued to you crouching on the pavement, scratching a grumpy-looking stray cat behind the ear like it’s your actual job. Your shoulders shake when you start giggling again, and he just watches the curve of your cheek and the shape of your smile, not offering the woman even the slightest bit of his attention.

"Hey," she tries again, moving closer and smiling at him brightly, but it’s obvious she’s surprised by his silence. “You’re going to make me work for it, aren’t you?”

“Not interested,” he responds bluntly, sounding more bored than anything else. He wouldn’t have bothered answering at all if she hadn’t crossed that invisible line and stepped directly into his space.

Then, as her perfectly sculpted brows lift in offence, Sukuna finally grants her the smallest fraction of his attention. He gives her a brief and unimpressed glance, a look he usually reserves for minor inconveniences.

Instead of pointing or turning fully toward her, he merely tips his chin toward the space past her shoulder, as though even the effort of gesturing properly would be giving her too much.

“That one’s mine.” 

The woman turns, and what she finds is not what she was expecting.

Her eyes land on you, crouched in an oversized, slightly faded hoodie, with messy hair from the wind and your bag nearly dropping on the dirty pavement, completely oblivious to what’s happening. She watches you for a few seconds, and then she scoffs with open, patronising judgment.

“Really?” she asks in blatant disbelief. “You could do so much better.”

He lets out a slow, almost audibly patient breath, like he’s about to explain that fire is hot to a remarkably slow child.

“I already have.”

The woman stiffens, caught off guard by such a sudden, harsh, and frankly crushing rejection. She opens her mouth again, glancing back at you, and her lips tighten right before she’s about to make a biting comment about your clothes, your slightly awkward posture, or the foolishness of softly cooing at a stray cat without a care in the world.

“Careful,” Sukuna says in a deceptively light tone, slightly lowering his head, while his eyes are dead serious. Even with his hands still in his pockets, his posture signals that if she makes one more insulting remark about you, it won't end merely with her wounded pride. “You’re already leaving.”

That gets through. She mumbles something low and unintelligible under her breath, walking away quickly as her bruised dignity scrambles to catch up with her retreat.

Sukuna turns his full attention back to you, because as far as he’s concerned, the entire interaction is already finished and irrelevant.

You stand up a moment later, dusting off your hands as you hurry over to him, beaming like you have genuinely discovered the meaning of life.

“You saw that cat?!” you ask, full of excitement, grabbing his arm. “He let me pet him!”

“I noticed,” he replies in a tone notably softer than it had been a moment ago.

You look up at him, tilting your head, and your smile slowly turns suspicious. “You look smug.”

“I am,” he confirms effortlessly, and the corners of his mouth curve slightly into a smirk.

You narrow your eyes at him. “And why is that?”

“Because,” he answers, grabbing the sleeve of your hoodie and pulling you firmly against his side, “you’re busy befriending a stray, and the universe keeps trying to hit on me.”

You snort, and a joyful laugh breaks through as you slide your hand into his, lacing your fingers together.

“How rude of it,” you comment, leaning your head against his shoulder.

“Terribly.”

“So... got her name?” you ask playfully, knowing the answer already.

“No.” His voice drops to a low, husky rumble as he rolls his eyes at your teasing. “Didn’t care.”

“Good.”

You start walking, immediately launching into a detailed monologue about how the cat definitely needs a name, some warm milk, and maybe some basic medical check-up. Sukuna walks beside you, gently rubbing the back of your hand with his thumb and listening to your enthusiastic chatter as if it was the most fascinating thing he’s ever heard in his life.