#fushita

He looked up, scandalized. “Wanty can pastry.”

“That was not the mission, lil guy.”

He thought this over seriously, then nodded. “Okay. We go to Mango’s tree.”

“Yuji, baby, Mango doesn’t live in a tree. He lives in a house made of wood.”

“Yes. Tree house. House tree. Same.”

You bit back a laugh. Yuji wasn’t good at language yet, let alone English, but ever since you moved here, he had been trying to learn from Sukuna, who utilized the time to spread misinformation. But Yuji didn’t mind; he thought you were the coolest person ever. Only after his “mango,” of course.

He’d combed his hair with a Doraemon-themed comb before leaving.

However, it no longer suggested any such thing. Every soft spike stood straight up near the crown of his head. You tried to flatten it. He ducked under your hand with the smug little shoulder roll he’d definitely learned from Choso.

That morning the Itadori house had quieted the moment you volunteered to take Yuji on his playdate.

Eso and Kechizu had flown back abroad last night for university after a month of spring break. Choso and Sukuna had left for work before sunrise as usual. Wasuke had been dressed in a huge gardening sunscreen cap and slacks, grumbling he had “club matters,” which apparently meant old men arguing over gateball and municipal complaints. Kaori and Jin had barely finished breakfast before their phones went off together. Being cops, they had been called in together on some petty theft case.

That left one five-year-old with the sad energy of an oil spill.

Yuji stayed at the table with jam on his cheek, sadly swinging his feet under the chair.

“I can take him,” you had said before Jin could start rearranging the day. “Their house is close. I know the way.”

Everyone had accepted quickly.

Yuji had looked up. “You know Mango?”

You’d grinned adventurously, wiggling your eyebrows and wiping jam off his face with a paper napkin. “I know where Mango lives.”

He gasped softly, as if you had revealed that you knew Gudetama himself.

Which had led to Yuji walking beside you now, narrating the whole journey in thick, Japanese-coated little English, determined to keep practicing. You suspected it was because Sukuna had told him he would steal his nose earlier.

“Mangomama make candy star one. Pink one. Togepi one. Also lemon one. Lemon one made face hurt. Also melty one. Mangopapa say no before dinner but he steal too.”

“Mango’s dad steals candy?”

Yuji gasped, realizing he’d revealed a state secret. “No tell.”

“I live with Sukuna.”

He considered this, grimaced. “...Still no tell.”

Then, confidentially: “Mangopapa funny. Big liar face.”

“What’s liar face?”

Yuji demonstrated by squinting his eyes and putting on an old man expression so salty it became art.

You surprise laughed but it came out as a snort.

Yuji brightened with pride. “And Mangofamily Zeh-neen,” he continued, mangling Zenin with confidence. “Very fancy. But Mangopapa no like.”

“That sounds political.”

He didn’t know the word but liked the sound of it. “Po-li-ti-cal.”

You reached a two-story machiya with a tidy front step, herb boxes under the window, and a toddler's bicycle leaned against the wall.

Yuji was already on his tippy toes, stretching for the bell with both hands.

The door was opened by another five-year-old in dinosaur socks and a t-shirt that said QUIETLY PLOTTING.

His eyes brightened when he saw his friend. “Yuji.”

Yuji launched himself forward, hugging him and yelling directly into his ear. “Mango!”

The other boy screamed and grabbed two fistfuls of Yuji’s hair, trying to pry him off. “My name is not Mango.”

You nearly lost the fight against a very undignified sound. He talked like Esmeralda.

They knocked chest-first into each other like tiny wrestlers before you got a hand between them. "Where's your mom, Megumi?"

“Cake sa-tor,” (store) Megumi answered, stiff with the effort of English.

His mother ran a well-known handmade wagashi shop, while his father ran an evening Yakiniku place nearby. However, Megumi’s English was mostly decorative, with most of his knowledge coming from morning anime, and you had already made the fatal mistake of squashing his cheeks once after he tried to say bae-kaa-ree in his small, offended voice.

“Your papa?”

“Went konbini.”

“You’re alone?”

He looked offended. “I’m with Kon.”

You stared at him.

Megumi stepped aside. “Come in.”

The boys vanished toward the living room before you got your shoes off.

A large tuxedo dog padded into view, sat beside Megumi, and stared at you with the grave judgment of an accountant.

“Well, that counts.”

Still, you texted Kaori and decided to wait until Toji returned.

Inside smelled like sugar, stock, and fresh laundry. Your gaze landed on a tray of wrapped candies cooling beside labeled bakery boxes, resting near an expensive knife block. Some school papers were held to the fridge by magnets shaped like vegetables.

The Switch was already docked, controllers lined up with seriousness.

“Tadamochi!” Yuji shouted, almost vibrating out of his socks.

“It’s Tomodachi Life,” Megumi said, climbing onto the rug.

“Tatamochi.”

Megumi looked at him for one long second, then gave up and opened his island.

For the next ten minutes, they took turns showing you tiny people with enormous heads doing tiny-people nonsense. Yuji had made Sukuna and given him maracas that he would not stop shaking. Megumi had made Toji’s Mii follow a white-haired man everywhere he went. Every time one of the Miis walked into an apartment, both boys leaned closer to the screen like they were spying through a real window.

Then Megumi got up and vanished into the kitchen without warning.

Yuji didn’t look away from the screen. “He get snack.”

Megumi returned with a bowl of crunchy shrimp chips held in both hands, three pairs of bear-decorated training chopsticks and two cans of peach soda tucked under his arm. He set everything down with the care of a host receiving foreign diplomats. Which you assumed you technically were even if he’d neglected to give you the soda.

You reached for a chip.

The two children went still.

Yuji’s mouth fell open.

Megumi looked genuinely pained.

“With fingers?” he asked softly, as if asking why someone would kick a swan.

“It’s a chip.”

“Oily,” Yuji said, holding up his hands in warning. “Mama say no.”

“Mama says many things,” you muttered. “You don’t seem to follow all of them.”

Megumi handed you the third pair of chopsticks.

You knew how to hold them in theory.

Theory, however, had never met your fingers.

You positioned them carefully. Lifted one chip.

It somersaulted back into the bowl.

Yuji laughed, the sound bright and warm.

Second attempt. You gripped too hard. The chip snapped.

Megumi inhaled through his nose. “Relax hand.”

“I am relaxed.”

“You have angry eyebrows.”

You tried again. The chip slid sideways and launched onto the rug.

Yuji fell over laughing.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You both are five and mean.”

"Yes." He nodded happily.

Then both boys crawled close on either side of you, smelling like shampoo and baby powder.

Megumi touched your fingers, adjusting them with solemn precision. “This one still.”

Yuji pressed your wrist. “No chase chip.”

“I’m not chasing it.”

“You scare it.”

You laughed despite yourself.

Tried again.

This time the chip lifted, trembling between the tips.

The boys leaned in as if witnessing important surgery.

You brought it to your mouth. Ate it before it wobbled off.

Success.

Yuji screamed like his team had won a championship. Megumi picked up his own chip, trying to act above it and failing.

By the time the front door opened, you had eaten four chips and developed a hand cramp.

Toji arrived carrying heavy plastic bags that strained against his knuckles, his frame tall enough to make the entryway seem smaller. His dark hair was slightly longer and was tied back loosely, a few strands escaping toward his jaw, and his jacket smelled faintly of charcoal and high-grade fat.

“The hell?” he said, pausing at the sight of the three of you in a semicircle around the chips.

“Cultural exchange,” you answered.

He sighed and kicked the door shut with the heel of his shoe. “Oi, Bōzu, move.” 

The boys swarmed him instantly, Yuji nearly tackling his knees while Megumi went for the bag handles.

“Nope. Milk first. Then the apples. Then the bribery snacks I bought because the cashiers wouldn't stop talking,” he grumbled, though he let them lean against him before moving to the kitchen.

He dropped the bags on the counter with a heavy thud. Inside were the essentials—milk cartons and a mesh bag of bruised Gala apples—topped with the 'bribery': a couple of crinkle-cut seaweed snacks and a carton of strawberry milk boxes with the straws taped to the side.

“You lot don't get the sugar until the fridge is stocked,” he instructed, ruffling Megumi’s hair with one hand.

“Gojo and Geto again?” you asked.

“Those lanky idiots couldn’t find rice in a grocery store.”

Megumi immediately interrupted his father, “Papa, language.”

Toji looked at him. “Rice.”

Megumi glared.

You covered your mouth.

He glanced at you, then at the quiet street through the window. “You heading back?”

“Yeah.”

“Stay here. They’re all probably still stuck at work, yeah?”

You looked over.

He was already putting the groceries in the fridge.

That was Toji’s way of doing anything kind. He left the door open and pretended he had only noticed the weather.

So you flexed your tired toes under the kotatsu, accepted the extra Dora cake he slid across the table, and stayed. Yuji and Megumi ate four.

Then you all started playing Monopoly, which turned ugly before the first round made it past Go.

Megumi bought every property he landed on with the silent discipline of a little guy building an empire under wartime rationing. Yuji counted his money with his whole mouth open, lost track after four hundreds, and began tucking bills under his thigh for “safe.” Toji stole from the bank while looking you directly in the eye.

“That’s illegal,” you yelled, laughing.

“That’s business.”

“You took five thousand."

“Investment.”

Megumi looked up from arranging his properties by color. “Papa!”

Toji put the bill back with a samurai’s dignity, then stole two hundreds while Megumi wasn’t looking.

That was how you became a banker, not because of trust but because everyone trusted each other even less.

Root beer came out in frosted glasses, the kind Toji had clearly bought for guests and then used for children because Yuji liked the cold smoke of them on the table. The boys drank too fast and came up with foam on their upper lips. Yuji pointed at Megumi and laughed so hard he hiccupped. Megumi wiped his mouth, saw Toji watching, and went still.

Toji lifted his own glass, took a long drink, and left the white foam sitting there like a mustache.

Yuji collapsed sideways against your knee.

Megumi stared for three seconds, betrayed by his own face, then softly laughed into his glass.

By the time you finally stood to leave, Yuji had gone boneless against your side, one sock half off, his little hand still closed around some Monopoly money. His cheek burned warm against your neck when you lifted him, his breath dampening the collar of your shirt in slow, heavy puffs.

You thanked Toji at the gate.

“Tell Jin the kids have baseball practice this week.”

“I will.” You said, handing him the chocolates Yuji had brought to give Megumi but forgotten.

Toji took them and placed them next to Megumi, where he had fallen asleep under the kotatsu.

The streets were just starting to get dark now. One streetlight flickered, while the next was dead entirely.

Yuji’s weight rested warmly in your arms as you adjusted him higher. His breath feathered against your collarbone, one loose fist trapped between your shirt and his cheek.

Then headlights flooded the lane behind you. So bright they bleached the walls white.

You turned your face away, blinking hard against the spots burning across your vision.

The car started to slow down behind you.

You turned a corner.

But the car turned in the same direction.

Your pulse climbed.

So you walked faster, one hand braced behind Yuji’s head, his body tucked so tightly against yours that his knees pressed into your ribs.

The engine slowly and deliberately started to match your speed. Close enough that the light threw your shadow long and broken over the road ahead. All the stalking cases came rushing to your mind.

You thought about turning to catch the plate, the model, or anything you could send Sukuna, but the lane was dark beyond the glare, and you were half sure your eyes would cook in your skull if you looked back properly.

Jolted by your faster movements, Yuji stirred against your neck.

“Mango,” he mumbled in sleep.

“Hush,” you whispered, though your own hand had already started fumbling for your phone.

The house was still a few minutes away. None of the streetlights were working tonight, and the next alley was narrow enough that the car wouldn’t be able to follow if you ducked inside.

So you shifted Yuji higher, thumb sliding over your phone screen, ready to call Sukuna before you ran.

The car—a black Toyota GR86—stopped behind you.

The beams dropped from blinding high to low.

Then the driver’s window lowered. “Why are you running?”

You stopped dead with your phone half raised.

He was already out, leaning an elbow on the roof, white shirt open at the throat, cuffs rolled above his forearms, hair slightly mussed. His expression flat, eyes between your face and Yuji's, then to your hand locked around the phone. “Back door. His seat’s already in.”

You marched to the rear door. “You absolute bastard.”

“Don’t wake him.”

“How dare you!”

“The streetlights are out.”

“I thought Yuji and I were about to end up on the news.”

“Then you should have called earlier.”

“You have my location.”

“You forgot what my car looks like?”

“I couldn’t see anything because your headlights were going Final Destination on my retinas.”

That got the corner of his mouth to move, even if barely.

He walked around the car before you could wrestle the door open, taking Yuji and the backpack from your arms with the easy habit of someone who had carried the boy half-asleep countless times already.

Yuji made a small angry sound, grabbed at the man’s collar, then sank straight back under as the older man settled him into the child seat. The backpack went beside the car seat.

He double-checked the strap across Yuji’s chest, then the buckle.

You stopped at the open passenger door, one hand on the frame, heart still running too hard for you to sit.

He shut the rear door softly.

“You scared me,” you whispered.

“I saw.”

Deflection by default.

He came around and stopped close enough that the passenger door pressed behind your hip. “You were heading for the alley.”

“Yes, because a car was following me in the dark.”

“Your reaction time is too slow.”

“I was carrying your nephew.”

Yuji shifted behind the glass and made a small sound in his sleep because your voice had come out too high at the edges.

The man looked past you to the back seat, then back at your face. “Get in.”

You stared at him.

His jaw worked once, like it caused him physical pain to say it. “Please.”

That was new enough to move you.

You got into the passenger seat and pulled the belt across your chest, nails slipping against the buckle twice before it caught.

He watched from the driver’s side, one hand on the roof, then got in.

The car smelled of cedar and the clove cigars he kept pretending were occasional.

You turned toward the window.

He started the engine.

For a while there was only the road, Yuji’s breathing, and the turn signal ticking too loudly at the first corner.

Then, “Choso and I got back around seven. The house was empty.”

You kept your eyes on the houses outside so you wouldn’t accidentally let yourself hope for more than he ever gave you. “So you came looking?”

“I took off the coat and changed shoes first.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Choso’s black-and-white sneakers under his black trousers. “That was your emergency response?”

Then came his petulant rebuttal. “You know the leather shoes annoy me.”

“So you followed me with high beams?”

“Oh my god, woman. I wanted anyone else on that road to know you weren’t alone.”

Your mouth closed around the next thing.

He glanced at you once, quick enough to miss if you had blinked. “You should have called when you left Zenin’s.”

All you had energy for was a whisper, “I was eight minutes away.”

But of course he wouldn’t back down. “Tonight it was twelve.”

You turned to him. “You timed it?”

“I know the road.” He took the corner harder than he needed to, then eased off the accelerator because Yuji’s boot knocked against his seat.

“What did you do there?” he asked.

You looked back out the window. “Played Monopoly.”

“Toji cheated?”

“Yes.”

He let out a huff of a laugh. “Predictable bastard.”

Usually, you would have laughed.

Tonight, your face stayed still in the window.

His hand shifted on the wheel. “And the kids?”

“They ate too much sugar.”

“That’s normal.”

“Megumi taught me how to eat chips with chopsticks.”

“Let me guess, Yuji heckled?”

“Yes.”

The conversation ran out there.

He waited, giving you room to fill it the way you usually did, with complaints about children, Toji’s crimes, Megumi’s judgmental dog that you were pretty sure wasn't a dog, the price of imported snacks, and the stupid little ceramic gardens you kept photographing because you said people here made even their herbs look pretty.

You gave him nothing.

At the next red light, he looked at you fully. “What?”

“I want to fly back home,” you answered plainly.

His eyes narrowed a little, then cleared into logistics. “When?”

You swallowed. “Soon.”

“Your parents called?”

“No.”

“Is somebody sick?”

“No.”

“We can fly out Thursday night. Friday, if Choso can’t take over for me. How long?”

You sighed. “Sukuna.”

He stopped talking.

The signal changed, and someone immediately honked behind him, so he started driving while muttering curses under his breath at the car behind them.

You folded your hands in your lap so he would not see them shake again. “I want to go alone.”

Yuji breathed heavily through his nose in the back seat.

He said nothing for two streets' worth.

You sat there dissociating in silence.

But when he did speak, his voice had lost its edge. “Because I scared you?”

You watched someone pull their store’s shutters down as you passed. “Because you scared me, and then you acted as if I was the problem for being scared.”

His fingers tightened once around the wheel. “You were walking in the dark.”

“I know.”

He shut his mouth.

The house came up too soon; outside, Jin was watering the garden later than usual.

Kaori opened the door before Sukuna had finished parking. She was out of uniform, phone tucked between her shoulder and ear, the house’s warm light behind her. “Oh, thank god. We were about to order since no one was home to cook on time. Would you like KFC?”

“That’s fine,” you answered with a small smile.

Sukuna got Yuji out of the back. The boy sagged against his shoulder, one yellow boot hanging loose from his foot. Jin reached for him, then stopped when he saw your face.

Then Kaori’s smile changed.

“I’m going to shower first,” you answered. “You can order for me.”

“Okay,” she said carefully. “Spicy or original?”

“Original.”

You took Yuji’s backpack from Sukuna’s hand without looking at him and went inside.

The house had that after-work tiredness to it. Jin’s shoes were kicked crooked near the step. Choso was at the dining table with his sleeves rolled up, sorting takeout coupons beside Wasuke, who was pretending he did not care and circling the cheapest combo with a pencil.

Both of them looked up.

You politely handed Yuji’s bag to Choso and asked him to throw out any melted candies inside, then left to shower.

Nobody spoke until the bedroom door closed upstairs.

Sukuna stood in the entryway with Yuji asleep against him.

Jin finally took Yuji from his arms. “What did you do?”

“Drove home.”

Wasuke grunted and swiped to another menu page on his tablet.

Choso looked at him with flat, exhausted disappointment. “Sukuna.”

“I know.”

“You sure?”

Sukuna’s POV

Sukuna looked toward the stairs.

Then he sighed and took the stairs two at a time.

The bedroom was empty, and the shower was running behind the adjoining door, steam already threading under the frame. Her change of clothes was folded on the chair because even angry, even frightened, she still put things where they belonged in a house that was hers by marriage and still foreign in all the ways that mattered when she wanted to leave it.

That made his throat work.

He locked the bedroom door.

The washing machine started before he reached the bathroom door.

Sukuna stopped with one hand on the frame.

The new unit near the balcony began its full-body tantrum, water rushing into the drum, pipes knocking once through the wall. She had chosen the loud cycle for obvious reasons. She knew exactly which button made the new machine sound as if it had swallowed coins and several family secrets.

He stared at the bathroom door. “Cute.”

The shower kept running.

He leaned his shoulder against the frame and crossed his arms. “You want to hear about my day, then?”

The machine thumped.

So he started speaking louder. “Fine. I’ll tell you through the washing machine since you’ve invited it into the marriage.”

Steam gathered along the bottom of the bathroom door while Sukuna kept going.

“Tamura called at ten to say the sample lids were warping again. Same batch the factory swore passed heat testing. Choso got murdery face again, which meant I had to talk to the man because apparently when he says ‘your product has structural failure,’ people think he means they should die.”

A bottle clicked inside the shower.

“You know those black containers I said looked cheap? They’re cheap. Turns out cheap plastic melts if some café idiot puts curry in it and leaves it under a heat lamp. Our supplier sent me a chart. A chart. As if numbers would make the soup stay inside the box.”

The water hit tile harder, which meant she had turned away from the door.

Sukuna looked down at the line of steam near his feet.

“Then the printer sent mock-ups with the logo crooked on every sleeve. I asked for matte kraft paper, and that fossil sent glossy brown, which makes the whole thing look as if we’re selling diet dog food to divorced men.”

The machine rattled hard enough to shake the laundry basket set on top of it.

“You’re enjoying this, woman. I can tell.”

Nothing from inside.

He let his head tip back against the wall.

“The marketing consultant called after that. A grown man with a ring light telling me our brand voice needed warmth—more emotions. I said leaking ramen is also an emotional experience, and that’s why I hired him to make restaurants buy the boxes before the food goes anywhere.”

The shower did stop shifting for half a second that time.

Sukuna caught it.

His mouth moved, but the humor did nothing useful in his chest.

“Choso spent the afternoon comparing per-unit cost against bulk order minimums, and now he wants to switch to a factory in Osaka. Osaka wants twenty percent upfront and delivery dates written by a corporate lawyer. On top of that, the bank wanted revised projections. I spent two hours explaining to the bank official that yes, restaurants still put food in containers, which felt humiliating for everyone involved.”

Water. Drum. Pipes. Then more of her silence.

He rubbed the heel of his palm against one eye.

“When I came home, the house was empty. Everyone’s shoes were gone. Only the old man in the dining room with coupons he’d won at his stupid club. Choso immediately opened the supplier spreadsheet on the kitchen table and started interrogating me.”

A faint scrape came from inside, maybe a shampoo bottle against the shelf.

He lowered his voice.

“Yuji’s little yellow boots were gone.”

The washing machine shifted into a louder grind.

“You know half those lanes turn into identical walls once the streetlights go out. You still get that one corner wrong near the bicycle repair shop. You even pretend you know it because Yuji points with his entire body and calls it navigation.”

He waited.

“I checked your location and changed because the coat was annoying, and so were the shoes, because leather soles are useless if I had to chase someone down in case I had to fight someone for harassing you. Then I drove the route because eight minutes had already turned into twelve.”

A wet shoulder hit tile somewhere inside.

“Then I saw you carrying him, walking fast, shoulders up like a cornered lizard.”

His fingers flexed once against the frame—the machine had gotten louder.

“And I thought you’d recognize the car.”

The washing machine knocked through another spin.

“I thought you’d turn around, cuss at me, get in, and complain until the house.”

Still nothing.

His jaw set.

“Open the door.”

The shower kept running.

“I’m talking to you.”

The washing machine answered for her with another hard rattle.

Sukuna reached for the handle.

It turned.

He opened the door and stepped into steam.

The bathroom was all tile, wet heat, and the metallic smell of hot water through the old pipes. Her outline stood behind the fogged glass partition, hair full of shampoo, arms lifted, elbows bent, her back turned to him.

“I know you heard me.”

She reached out blindly toward the shelf and found the conditioner bottle.

Sukuna shut the door behind him. “You started the washer to drown me out?”

She squeezed too much conditioner into her palm.

“Real mature.”

Her head turned a fraction. Shampoo slid along her temple. “Get out.”

“Why? You haven’t kicked me out before.”

“Get out, Sukuna.”

“You can ignore me downstairs, fine. You can ignore me in the car, fine. In our room, after telling me you want to fly back alone? No.”

She rinsed one hand under the shower. “You do realize you sound deranged.”

“I have paperwork and witnesses.”

“I made one mistake in a courthouse, and now you think you have visitation rights during shampoo?”

“You’re angry.”

“Brilliant detective work. Tell Kaori she will promote you.”

He looked offended. “You’re angry and doing that thing where you make your face blank because you think it helps you win.”

“I’m washing my hair.”

“You turned the machine on.”

“I had laundry.”

“You put one pair of leather shoes in for maximum noise.”

“They were dirty.”

“You hate that cycle.”

“I hate your voice more right now.”

His expression changed by a millimeter, which was all he gave away before irritation filled the gap. “You should have called when you left Toji’s.”

She turned then, fast and furious, forgetting the shampoo.

Her eyes were closed, with white shampoo suds covering her forehead, her cheek, and the bridge of her nose. She raised one hand out toward where his voice had been, just to push him out. “Sukuna, I swear to—”

Her palm hit his face directly over both eyes.

Shampoo and water smeared across his lashes.

He swore so violently the washing machine sounded polite.

She snatched her hand back. “Why were you standing there?”

“I had eyes a second ago.”

“You walked into my shower time.”

“So you clawed soap into my skull, you crazy woman?” he yelled back while trying to find the water.

“I can’t see, moron!”

He sounded like he was going to cry. “I’m blind!”

Sukuna tried to reach for the wall and found nothing but wet air.

And through silent karmic justice, his foot slid on the bath mat.

She reached out at the same time, caught his shirt, and pulled on instinct, and his shirt buttons strained.

He grabbed for balance, found her waist, missed, caught the glass partition, and dragged both of them sideways. The metal bar screamed.

“Let go of the glass, idiot.”

“I can’t see the glass.”

His foot slipped again.

This time he went down hard on the shower floor, his shoulder hitting the wall, one hand clamped over his eyes, the other catching her hip before she lost her footing.

The impact from his giant ass sent a bottle bouncing off the shelf and into the tub.

She froze, one hand against the wet tile, the shower still hitting her shoulder.

For half a second, only water moved.

Then she started laughing—an ugly, disbelieving sound through her nose, then another, cut off because she was still mad and shampoo was sliding toward her brow again.

Sukuna sat where he’d fallen, blinded, wet shirt clinging to his chest. “Glad my suffering gives you household entertainment.”

“You look stupid.”

“I’m aware.” He dragged the heel of his palm under one eye and immediately regretted it. “Fuck.”

“Don’t rub. You’ll make it worse.”

“I will remove the eye.”

He reached for the sink and missed it by several inches.

She made a small sound, annoyed by the inconvenience of his existence, then took the detachable shower head from its hook. “Tilt back.”

“I’m fine.”

“You are crying shampoo.”

“It’s chemical injury.”

“Tilt or I waterboard you.”

He tilted his head back.

Water ran over his forehead, into his dark magenta hair, and down the side of his face. His hands were rubbing the shampoo off his face.

She rinsed with the efficiency of someone hosing mud off a stubborn animal. “You scared me.”

His mouth parted, then shut.

The water kept running over his eyes.

“You scared me on the road. Then you expected me to explain why being scared made sense. Then you brought me home, and everyone looked at me, and I had to stand there choosing chicken flavor while trying to keep my hands from shaking.”

He swallowed.

She shut off the spray once his face seemed cleared.

“Then you talked about your day like that’s better.”

“Yes.”

She moved his hair away from his forehead. “At least you admit it.”

“I wanted your mouth moving. When you talk, you’re still here.”

Her hand stilled in his hair.

Steam wafted between them.

“You don’t get to use me talking to prove you fixed what you did.”

“I know.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because I know several things at once, apparently.”

She moved to pick up the shower head again before he batted her hand away.

Sukuna blinked then, eyes red, lashes wet. He could see her now in pieces: shoulder, wet hair, foam caught near her ear, and mouth pressed into a line she used when she had already decided he was guilty.

He looked away first.

“I thought it would make you curse at me. The lights. The… the pulling up slowly. I thought you’d turn around and realize it was just a joke.”

Her face flattened.

Sukuna lifted one wet hand before she spoke. “Bad call.”

She squinted, fighting a twitch of her lips. “Try worse.”

“Worse call.”

“You thought scaring your foreign wife in a dark lane while she was carrying your sleeping nephew would be funny.”

His jaw worked. “I thought you knew it was me.”

“I knew a car was behind me.”

“I thought—”

“You thought from inside the car. I was outside it. I was experiencing what you were inflicting."

That shut him up.

She put the shower head back in place and turned under the water to rinse the shampoo from her hair. He stayed seated on the floor, wet shirt dripping onto the floor mat.

For once, he managed silence, only because her ass was directly at eye level with him.

Shampoo slid down her spine as she took her time because he had already ruined her mood and because making him sit there soaked and useless had its own practical value.

After a while, he said, “I should have called before.”

She squeezed water from her hair.

“I should have lowered the beams before I got near you.”

She reached for the body wash.

“I should have stayed by the car instead of boxing you between the door and me.”

The cap clicked open.

“I shouldn’t have yelled.”

Her fingers slowed.

“And I should have said all that before you had to tell me you wanted to go back to your parents' house, alone.”

She worked the body wash through her arms and torso. “That almost sounded adult.”

“I’m trying. Appreciate the labor, woman.”

“I’ll appreciate it when the labor produces goods.”

He leaned back against the glass and pressed the towel she threw at him to his eyes. “You’re very cruel when you have the moral advantage.”

“You hate it because I’m good at it.”

“I hate it because you’re bathing while I’m dying.”

“You chose the battlefield.”

“I chose my bathroom.”

“My shower.”

“Our water bill.”

She snorted, then cleared her throat to hide it.

But Sukuna had heard it over the spray.

The sound loosened something under his ribs, but he kept still because reaching too fast had caused half the evening’s damage. “Your parents.”

She hummed, massaging soap on her breasts. “What about them?”

Sukuna controlled his fingers from twitching. “When do you want to visit them?”

She rinsed her face. “I haven’t picked dates.”

“I’ll handle the tickets.”

“I can book my own flight.”

“I know.” He lowered the towel, eyes still red. “I mean I’ll pay.”

She looked at him over her shoulder.

“Can I come?" he asked.

Sukuna never asked for anything, not even her hand in marriage. He’d just shown up at her parents' house one day.

Her mouth thinned again.

He caught it. “Not to supervise.”

“Convincing.”

“To carry luggage, sit beside you, get glared at by your father, eat whatever your mother puts in front of me, and keep my mouth shut.”

“You are physically unable to keep your mouth shut.”

“I do it at meetings.”

“You called a client soup mafia last month.”

“He was putting hot broth in cold dessert cups.”

She turned off the shower.

The sudden quiet had too much weight, with even the washing machine shut off now.

She took the towel from the hook and wrapped it around herself.

Instead of snatching the towel away and grabbing her ass, he kept his gaze on her face. Another tiny improvement.

She noticed it along with the wet ruin of his shirt and trousers. “Why are you still sitting there?”

“My eyes burn.”

“Your pride too?”

“That’s been dead since the fall.”

She stepped out onto the mat, hair dripping, towel tucked under one arm. He reached for her without getting up, slower this time, hand landing at her hip.

She looked down at him. “Sukuna.”

“Come here.”

“You just finished a speech about keeping your hands to yourself.”

“I can keep them somewhere agreed upon.”

“You are unbelievable.”

“Married.”

“That is your answer to everything.”

“It has legal range.”

She stood there another second, then moved closer because the bathroom was small and because he looked like a wet cat, irritated, half-blind, and hers in the most criminal way.

His hand slid to the back of her thigh, then higher, fingers closing over the curve of her ass with the careless accuracy of a man who knew her body better than he knew how to discuss a feeling.

She caught his wrist.

His mouth twitched. “Eyes still compromised.”

“Your hands seem blessed with vision.”

“They attended university.”

“You did one marketing module abroad and made it everyone’s problem here.”

He pulled lightly. “Sit.”

“You have shampoo in your soul.”

“We’ll shower again.”

She should have stayed standing, had several excellent reasons, like pride, dignity, and the fact that he had behaved badly enough downstairs for three adults and one elderly grump to look at him as a unit.

Instead, she sat sideways across his lap, heels pressed against the glass wall, one arm around his shoulders because the bathroom had limited architecture and he had chosen a stupid location for reconciliation.

His wet shirt chilled her thigh. “Disgusting.”

He held her close dispite the protest.

She wiped a damp thumb under his eye, and he flinched. “Still hurts?”

“No.” He huffed, arms moving back to hold her tighter around the waist.

For a few seconds, neither of them moved. Somebody downstairs, likely Choso, was yelling about extra fries. Yuji’s voice answered, awake and offended by something.

Her eyes went toward the door.

Sukuna’s arm tightened before he made himself loosen it.

"I’ll try."

She looked back.

His face had gone plain, with no smirk.

“I’ll call before I come after you. I’ll tell you where I am. I’ll stop being a fool.” His thumb pressed once into the towel at her waist. “And I’ll quit being an asshole to the only woman with terrible enough taste to want me.”

She stared at him. “That last part was almost charming.”

“It was accurate.”

She shook her head, but her mouth moved. “You forgot emotionally stunted.”

He saw it. She saw him see it.

“Don’t look proud,” she said.

“I survived.”

“You were one slippery tile away from being found dead with your trousers wet.”

“Then you’d have to explain that to Kaori.”

“She would believe me.”

“Everyone downstairs would believe you; that’s the issue.”

This time she laughed properly, small and tired, into the side of his damp neck.

His hand pressed flat against her back.

“I still want to visit home,” she whispered.

“I know.”

“You can come.”

He went still under her.

“But if you act strange there, I’m leaving you with my father and coming home alone.”

“I can handle your father.”

“You’ll try?”

“I’ll try.”

She studied him. “And tonight?”

Sukuna answered by kissing her.

His mouth caught hers before she could decide whether she wanted to make him work harder for it. He tasted faintly of tap water and the clove cigar he had lied about having earlier. His shirt was drenched against her, his hair wet at the temples, and his eyes redder from the shampoo.

Her fingers slid into his hair.

Sukuna took that for permission because Sukuna took most things for permission once she gave him an inch. His hand came to the back of her neck, his other thumb pressed under her jaw, and he deepened the kiss until her breath had to leave through her nose. Then his tongue pressed past her lips, slow at first, testing whether she would bite him.

She did.

He made a sound into her mouth, low in his chest, half insulted and half pleased.

"Behave,” she murmured against him.

His hand moved to the knot of her towel. “Wrong husband.”

She caught his wrist.

He stilled.

Her thumb moved over the bone at his wrist, still holding him there. His pulse beat steadily under her fingers, arrogant even in his arteries.

“I… apologize."

Her grip tightened.

He swallowed whatever else he had been about to say.

She watched his face for the smirk, the dodge, or the turn that made every hard thing smaller before it could touch him properly.

After staring him down long enough for the shower drops to tick against the tile, she smiled and nodded.

His wrist shifted in her hand, slow enough for her to stop him again.

She didn’t.

He loosened the towel, waiting at the knot until her hand dropped from his wrist.

He discarded the towel.

Sukuna looked down once, eyes tracking water at her collarbone, the swell of her breasts, and the place where the towel had creased her thighs. Then he looked back at her face with a kind of effort she appreciated because it cost him.

She leaned in and kissed him again.

One hand covered her breast while the other slid between her thighs, touching with a heat that made her spine pull straight.

His thumb worked over her nipple, firm, then gentler when her breath caught in his mouth. The other hand dragged along her thigh, found the soft flesh behind her knee, and pulled her closer across his lap.

Her skin met his wet shirt, she hissed, “Cold.”

“Take it off me.”

“You have hands.”

“Occupied.”

He proved it by sliding his fingers between her thighs.

Her complaint died in her throat.

Sukuna watched her face, the bastard. Watched the first scrunch cross her brows when he touched her, watched her lashes dip when his fingers dragged through the slick heat he had drawn out of her despite the fight, the car, the whole rotten evening.

“Still mad?” he asked.

“Yes.”

His thumb circled her clit.

Her hand tightened in his hair. “Deeply.”

He added a second finger, and almost immediately her back arched, heels pressing against the glass wall, mouth opening on a breath that had nowhere useful to go.

She gripped his shoulder. “S-Slow down, Lord Glutton.”

“Do you really want slow?” Sukuna’s finger curled steadily where he knew it would get a reaction out of her.

“Wearing short skirts and roaming around in the dark. Carrying my nephew home because you refuse to ask for help. Waiting for me to come find you.” He smiled against her mouth, kissing her jaw and slowly raking his teeth over her neck.

She didn’t answer because if she did, she’d end up moaning his name.

His fingers moved with memory, slow enough to make her hips chase him, cruel enough to keep her from getting what she wanted right away. He stroked through wetness, pressed at the entrance, withdrew, and circled her clit again until her stomach pulled tight.

She was wet around his fingers, thighs opening because her body had poor loyalty when Sukuna gave it attention. He knew it, because his gaze had dropped and come back up, heated and pleased.

He stopped.

She stared at him. “Sukuna!”

His fingers slipped free. “Don’t come yet.”

Her thighs clenched from the loss.

He brought them to his mouth, sucked them clean with his eyes on hers, then used that same wet hand to shove at his trousers. “I want you on my mara.”

The wet fabric clung to him badly. He lifted his hips, cursed under his breath, shoved the waistband down, got caught at his hips, and cursed again.

She had the terrible instinct to laugh.

His eyes bore into her soul. “Help or shut up.”

She laughed openly then, a small cruel thing, and reached down to free him from his own clothing. His cock sprang heavy against his stomach, flushed and hard, and his expression changed when her fingers wrapped around him.

He stopped breathing for a second.

She stroked him once.

His hand closed around her wrist.

“Don’t.”

“Sensitive?”

“Strategic.”

“Pitiful.”

“Sit.”

She rose over him, one hand on his shoulder, the other guiding him to her. The head of his cock pressed against her opening. He held her hips because he liked control and because his bathroom choices had left very little room for dignity.

She sank down slowly.

Her mouth opened. His did too, though he tried to hide it by pressing his face against her shoulder.

The stretch took her breath because he filled her in a way that made every argument in her body pause to make room for him. Her arms circled his neck once she was seated fully, her forehead resting beside his ear.

For several seconds both stayed there.

Water dripped from her hair onto his collar.

His hands spread over her back, then slid lower to her hips, squeezing her into grinding once because he needed to feel it, her weight pressed against his, her warmth around him.

Still, he held her with less greed than before.

She turned her face toward his ear. “Can we do that thing?”

He went still under her.

“The collage thing,” she whispered softer.

His eyes lifted to hers, darker now, the redness at the rims making him look more wrecked than dangerous. “Anything you want, my akuma.”

The words came out against her mouth.

He reached past her with one arm, stretching toward the shower head. The movement shifted him inside her, and she gripped his shoulder hard.

“Careful.”

“I have you.”

He turned the water on low, and a warm spray spilled from the shower head into the tub first. He tested it against his wrist, adjusted the heat, then angled it down between them.

The first touch of the water jet hit her clit.

She jerked so hard she nearly lifted off him.

Sukuna’s arm locked around her waist. “Breathe.”

“I hate you.”

“You’re sitting on me.”

“And suffering.”

He lowered the pressure a fraction.

Her forehead fell against his neck, arms locking around his back. The spray held steady between her thighs, warm and direct, while he kept himself buried inside her, let the water do the work, let her body pulse around him while she fought for breath against his shoulder.

Her teeth found the muscle near his neck.

He exhaled hard.

She bit down on his neck.

His other arm tightened around her waist.

The pressure increased by one turn.

Her nails dug into his shoulder, hips twitching, a small grind against the spray, against him, and Sukuna’s control thinned fast. He braced his legs, thrust into her once, shallow, then again, enough to make her breath catch.

“Don’t rush,” she said, voice muffled against his skin.

“You asked for the collage thing.”

“You lasted longer then.”

“I had fewer financial projections and fewer relatives downstairs.”

She laughed into his neck, then gasped when the water caught the exact place again.

The laugh broke apart.

He knew the change in her body: her twitching arm closing hard at his shoulder, her thighs going unsteady, and the small helpless sounds she tried to bury against his skin because the house was full and Yuji had ears that worked only when adults wanted privacy.

Sukuna held her tighter.

“Come,” he said against her hair.

She let out a muffled noise, already past bargaining.

He thrust into her again, deeper this time, and kept the jet fixed where she needed it.

Her body clamped hard around him, mouth opening against his neck, sound caught between her teeth and his skin as she came strong enough that her legs jolted around his hips.

Sukuna followed with a rough breath, his mara being squeezed in ecstasy through her convulsing walls, face buried in her wet hair, hips pressed up into her as he spilled inside.

For a while, the bathroom had only water and their combined heavy breathing.

His hand moved over her back in short passes.

Her body stayed heavy against him, one cheek on his shoulder, fingers slack in his hair now.

He kissed her temple, then her wet hair, then the side of her neck.

She flinched hard.

Sukuna frowned, then looked down.

The shower head was still aimed between them.

“Shit.”

He turned it off and tossed it into the tub which made a loud metallic clatter.

She lifted her head, dazed and irritated. “That was an attempted exorcism.”

Sukuna huffed a laugh. “You came.”

She made a face. “You’re vulgar.”

“You married vulgar.”

She pressed a hand over his mouth.

He kissed her palm.

Her eyes narrowed. The anger had changed shape, but it still existed—had bills, roots, receipts, and a car in a dark lane with her hands shaking at his father’s door.

However, it also had Sukuna half-dressed under her, wet and red-eyed, trying to learn the shape of repair in a bathroom that smelled of her shampoo and fried chicken drifting up from downstairs.

She moved her hand from his mouth. “Soo?”

He glanced toward the door.

From below, Yuji’s voice rose through the floor, thick with sleep and outrage. “No spicy! Yuji original!”

Kaori answered, “Shush baby, inside voices. We heard you.”

Wasuke barked something about dipping sauce.

Sukuna’s mouth curved against her shoulder. “Let’s clean up and go downstairs before the old man eats all the skin off the chicken.”

She closed her eyes. “Romance lives.”

“In this economy?”

She climbed off him carefully, his hand steady at her waist until her feet found the mat. He cleaned them both quickly in the shower because he had caused enough trouble to deserve the practical work.

Then she dressed in soft house clothes while he changed into black sweats and a worn university t-shirt he kept pretending held zero sentimental value.

His eyes were still very red.

She caught him looking at the suitcase by the wardrobe.

“I already said you can come.”

His hands stopped at the hem of his t-shirt.

She pointed a finger at him. “To carry luggage, sit beside me, and behave in front of my parents.”

He considered that. “I’ll bring sweets.”

“Bring humility.”

“Where do they even sell that?”

She threw the towel at his face.

He caught it before it hit his eyes and looked far too pleased with himself.

Downstairs smelled of chicken, warm biscuits, and too many sauces opened at once. Yuji sat at the toddler chair in his pajama shirt, hair flattened on one side, one sock inside out. He had chicken nuggets in both hands and sauce on his chin.

The second he saw her, he lifted a nugget. “Yuji wake up.”

“I can see that lil guy,” she said, sitting beside him.

“Mango sleep?”

“Yes, Megumi did fell asleep next to you.”

Yuji absorbed the tragedy, then turned to Sukuna. “Uncle eyes red.”

“Sustained injury.”

Yuji didn’t understand the word, “Sach-tain.”

She reached for a napkin. “He lost a fight with shampoo.”

Yuji gasped. “Auntie win?”

Kaori slid a plate toward her without looking up from the sauce packets. “Auntie usually wins.”

Wasuke grunted from the head of the table. “Good. Somebody should win against the demon.”

Sukuna punched Jin under the table before he could start laughing. Jin winced.

“Uncle and Auntie both wet,” Yuji said, looking between their hair. “You shower together?”

Kaori choked on her drink.

Choso, without lifting his eyes from the sauce packets, said, “Adult homework.”

Jin coughed into his fist hard enough to turn away.

Yuji questioned further. “In shower?”

“Japan has many systems,” Jin said, and Kaori kicked him under the table.

Choso placed a plate in front of Sukuna with a wing, a biscuit, and a Coke float.

Sukuna stared at it. “What is this?”

“Your dinner,” Choso deadpanned.

“Where’s my bucket?”

“You created household tension.”

“I pay for half this household.”

Wasuke took a piece of chicken skin from the bucket. “Then pay the tax.”

Yuji pushed half a nugget toward Sukuna with sticky fingers. “Uncle can have. Little.”

Sukuna looked at the kid-spit-covered nugget

His wife reached across the table, took the bucket Kaori handed her, and started eating.

He stared at her.

She lifted her brows.

Yuji laughed so hard his sauce cup tipped sideways.

Jin caught it, and Choso cleaned it up quickly with napkins.

Wasuke complained that modern children wasted food.

Under the table, Sukuna’s leg bumped against hers.

She put a large piece of chicken on his plate.

A/N: This was supposed to be a small domestic crack/fluff piece, and then Sukuna fell down and I lost the plot. I will not take child support responsibility if this gave you baby fever.