*internal screaming*

Sukuna was pacing behind the drum kit now, shirt already off, tattoos on display, jaw clenched so tight it looked like his teeth might shatter. No one dared ask what exactly pissed him off this time — maybe the sound engineer fucked up the levels, maybe Gojo had made one too many jokes, or maybe Sukuna was just in one of those moods where his rage needed a place to land.

“Sukuna,” Suguru called, tone dry. “Just grab another stick, man.”

“Shut the fuck up, Geto.”

Choso glanced at you from across the room. You just raised your brows and kept sipping from your water bottle. You weren’t in the band, Sukuna had invited you over, yes... you're his girl.

Sukuna didn’t acknowledge your presence. Not yet.

He was ranting to no one now, pacing harder. “You think I’m gonna play when the fucking kick sounds like it's underwater? And Gojo’s off-key screeching over it? Don’t waste my fucking time.”

“Y’know I’m right here,” Gojo chirped.

Sukuna flipped him off without turning around.

“Sukuna,” Choso tried, gently. “Just—”

That was when it happened.

The smallest thing.

You stood up from your corner of the studio, walking slowly over to the drum kit. You didn’t say anything dramatic. No scolding. No begging him to chill. You just tilted your head slightly and said, voice low, even:

“Ryo.”

And like someone yanked the emergency brake on his whole body — Sukuna stopped.

Like muscle memory, his head whipped toward you. The look in his eyes changed instantly. From fire to smoke. From wreckage to warmth. His breath slowed. Jaw loosened. And for a solid three seconds, it was dead silent in the room, the tension flickering out like a blown fuse.

“...What?” he muttered, lower this time. The venom was gone.

You blinked innocently. “You done being dramatic?”

He didn’t answer. Just watched you.

Toji snorted behind you. “Holy shit.”

Gojo leaned into the mic, still holding his guitar. “That’s all it takes? One little ‘Ryo’ and suddenly he’s not breathing fire?”

“Shut up,” Sukuna grumbled, grabbing a fresh pair of sticks like nothing happened.

But he still glanced your way again. Like he needed to make sure you were still watching. Still there.

And you were. You always were.

The rest of the band took the cue. Suguru counted the beat. Toji gave a low hum of amusement. Gojo said something about getting a new nickname for himself (“What if I called you ‘Sato’? Will you behave then?”). Choso, bless him, just hit play on the metronome.

And Sukuna?

Sukuna played like nothing happened. But when he sat behind the kit again, he tapped the stick twice on the edge of the snare. A signal.

For you.

And then, to you—so quietly only you could hear, just before he sat back down and started warming up again—

“...Thanks, baby.”