nothing in nature blooms all year long

Your eyes roll back down.

“Mhm.”

"And it was such a good question.”

You turn a page. "Really?”

“Yup.” He’s draped over the corner of your desk now, like gravity has wronged him, whining. “It was such a thoughtful… personal… deeply relevant… extremely genius level getting-to-know-you tier question that—”

You scowl. "—Satoru, enough. Just do your job."

It lands harder than expected. The sigh he lets out is deeply, theatrically offended. And when you glance up again, he’s sprawled over that same corner of your desk you made the mistake of clearing for him on day one because you’d thought, foolishly, that giving him a designated surface might contain him.

It had not.

Nothing about Satoru had ever suggested he could be contained.

Snowy white hair falls against his brow, sleeves rolled to his elbows; looking far too expensive and far too comfortable for someone whose official title is intern. His coffee is sweating beside your open planner — the one with a date next week circled in red: WEDDING, scrawled across the margin in your own handwriting. The condensation trails towards a stack of vendor invoices and—

…

Wait.

Are those the same vendor invoices you asked him to file yesterday?

Fucking great.

“Oh, c’monnn,” he grumbles, blinking at you over the rim of those absurdly expensive sunglasses he insists on wearing indoors. “One question. Just a tiiiiny one. It’s completely harmless. Humor me, yeah?”

You narrow your eyes.

“Satoru, you’ve been trying to ask one question for the last four months.”

“Yeah,” he says. “And you’ve been dodging it for four months. Imagine that.”

Technically… four months and four days. But who’s counting?

With an exhausted groan, your eyes fall shut, pinching the bridge of your nose. Noise drifts in from the hall — the elevator, the printer, a phone trilling somewhere nearby.  But when you look up again, it all seems to fall away.

He’s gone strangely still. The smug grin hasn’t disappeared, but it’s softened at the edges, hooked at one corner with his head tilted slightly. And those eyes…

Oh.

That’s — no. You’ve seen his eyes before. Obviously. Four months of them. But right now, with the morning light doing something cruel and unhelpful behind him, they catch in a way that makes you forget you were mid-thought. The kind of blue that doesn’t ask if you’re looking. It already knows.

Which means of course, you look away first. “Fine.” Your hand drops as you mutter. “One question. But if it’s stupid, I’m sending you back to HR.”

It’s not much of a threat. It’s his last day, after all, and for reasons you still don’t fully understand, Satoru has always seemed oddly immune to consequences — which, frankly, feels statistically improbable given the amount of shit he’s managed to pull in the few months of being here.

“One question?” his grin sharpens. You point your pen at him. “Don’t make me regret this.” Yet his pleased chuckle is already making you. “Awhh… look at you. Finally yielding.” His pen twirls between his fingers, nodding with false solemnity. “Okay. So, here’s the thing… throughout these four months working beside you, I’ve seen a lot—"

“—that’s not a question.” You deadpan.

But ignoring you, he reclines back in the chair, hands clasped behind his head.

“Liiiike… I’ve seen the exact face you make when Mei-Mei emails you,” he smirks. “Even noticed you work through lunch more than you should. And I’ve noticed that little line right here—” he gestures vaguely between his own brows “—every time the budget goes sideways.”

Lips parting, you blink.

…why is he so observant?!

For someone who acts like he doesn’t give a shit, he’s strangely attentive.

You clear your throat, huffing. “Okay… what’s your point?” Your hands straighten a stack of papers that doesn’t need straightening. “Is there a question in here somewhere, or are you just reciting my habits back to me for fun?”

His grin is far too pleased. “Relax. I’m getting there.” And leaning forward, his voice drops, like he’s unraveling a conspiracy. “I just find it interesting how you answer work calls before the second ring. Every damn day. Doesn’t matter who it is.” His head tilts with a smug grin. “But for whatever reason, for the past month, your personal phone’s been ringing off the hook, and you never pick up. Not once.”

Heat creeps up your neck. Not because he’s wrong — but because he’s right. And he said it like it was nothing. Like noticing the pattern of your avoidance was just something that happened to him between stamps.

Oh.

Way too observant.

Shit. He couldn't have settled on what's your favorite color!? Or, what superpower would you have!? No. Of course he had to go for the fucking jugular.

His eyes drop to the planner lying open beneath the invoices. The circled date: WEDDING. And his grin sharpens. “Ohoho… I get it now,” he whistles, leaning back in his chair and kicking one leg over the other. “What’d your fiancé do to screw up this bad? Is the wedding off?”

Your head jerks up. “F-Fiancé?!” And he rolls his eyes with a scoff, still grinning. “Knew it. God, he must be really in the doghouse. Or maybe he’s just clingy as hell to be calling that much.”

You blink.

Okay. Nevermind. He’s wrong. That is not even remotely what’s happening. The most committed relationship you’ve had is the one with your coffee machine. And yet… part of it feels almost cosmically cruel.

Because somehow, this is the second time in a month that someone had looked at the scattered pieces of your life and decided a man must be hiding inside them. Except the first time, you never even got the chance to correct it.

After all… how do you tell your mother she’s wrong?

Last month, you still answered her phone calls.

Not because you expected anything different. But because somewhere between the second ring and the third, there’s this gap — this stupid, paper-thin gap — where you still believe she might ask how you’re doing and actually wait for the answer.

Some habits taste like smoke. Some burn like liquor. But yours, unfortunately, had always looked a lot like hope.

Hope is a terrible habit you’ve never been able to kick.

“Oh—uh, hi mom!”

Your phone was wedged between your ear and shoulder while you stepped out of your car, juggling your purse and what was left of your sanity. You were already behind schedule, and your mother was calling — which meant the day had already made its intentions very clear.

“What’s up?” the door slammed shut with your hip. “I’m actually about to—”

“—Trish sent the venue photos,” she blurted, launching into a conversation like always.

Blinking, you shook the bitterness away. Striding toward the towering glass of Gojo Corporation. “That’s—yeah, that’s great,” you muttered, badge in hand as you pushed through the front doors. “But I’m actually heading into work right now? So—”

“—It’s such a beautiful venue,” she ignored you. “Very traditional, very grand. But you know the Zenin family—they never do anything small.” And as she sighed in awe, you resisted the urge to roll your eyes.

The rational part of your brain told you to let this go to voicemail. But the rational part of your brain has never once won this fight. Because…

Hope is a terrible habit you’ve never been able to kick.

"Mom, I'm sure it's lovely, really… but I'm kind of—um, excuse me…" you pivoted around a man in the bustling lobby with a sigh. “Sorry. I’m literally walking into the building right now? But maybe we can revisit this later and—"

"—have you booked your flight yet?"

Your mouth flattened.

Clearly, your half of this conversation is optional.

“No… not yet,” you mumbled, as patiently as you could manage, jabbing the up button harder than necessary. “It’s been a crazy ass week so I haven’t had a chance to, but—”

“—every week is a crazy week for you.” The huff she let out sounded almost offended by the inconvenience of your life. “Why can’t you just book it now while we’re talking? I mean, it literally takes five minutes.”

A miracle, really, that your blood pressure isn’t a medical emergency.

Every week is a crazy week?

Yeah. No shit.

Two managers resigned last quarter. Another got escorted out by security. And their work didn’t disappear. No. It landed on your desk. Because that’s how it goes. That’s how it’s always gone. Group projects. Internships. End-of-quarter disasters no one else wanted to touch. If something needed fixing, it found its way to you.

You’re the one people relied on.

Just… never the one people chose.

“Mother. I’m at work,” you said, stepping into the elevator as the doors slid open, dropping your voice as you stabbed at floor fifteen. “Look—I’m about to walk into an eight a.m. meeting. But I’ll book it tonight, promise.”

“…eight a.m.?” she repeated slowly, before letting out a small, unbothered laugh. “Oh! Right. It’s eight p.m. here. Silly me. I keep forgetting.”

…

Keep forgetting?

She keeps forgetting that she’s ten thousand miles away? Forgetting that twenty years ago she abandoned you in another country to live abroad in Japan—handing you to your grandparents like a detail she'd get back to later?

How convenient that she forgot that.

The elevator slid shut, and you watched the numbers tick upward. “Um. Yeah…” you managed, trying to keep the hurt out of your voice. “Anyways. I’ll book it tonight. After work. Okay?”

"Okay, okay. Sure. Sounds good. But are you bringing anyone?”

Squeezing the strap of your bag, you swallowed the lump in your throat. This again? The last thing you needed was to walk into your shitty eight a.m. meeting looking emotional.

No thanks.

“I… uh…” you cleared your throat. “I um—actually—haven’t decided yet. But anyways, I gotta go, so—”

“Waitwatiwait. Haven’t decided? Does that mean… you actually found someone?!”

Her voice pitched up so fast it almost startled you, and your mouth dropped so low it could’ve hit floor one.

Shit.

“I-I—I didn’t say—"

“—oh, thank God. This is incredible!!” she squealed. “We’ve been so worried. I mean—Trish is younger than you and she figured it out,” her tongue clicked. “People have been asking questions, you know. Your aunt Sara keeps bringing it up every time I see her and—”

“—Mom, I—"

“—It’s about time,” The laugh she let out was relieved, like a problem in her life had finally begun resolving itself. “You can’t keep putting love on hold forever, because men aren’t going to wait around forever. You’re already twenty-six—not getting any younger, dear.”

Love?!

Who has time for that?

And why the fuck is twenty-six the age a woman expires?!

“What’s his name?” she pressed, practically beaming through the phone. “What does he do? Is he from there, or—oh, is he Japanese? Your father would love that, he always said—”

And she was off.

Spinning an entire man out of thin air. An entire future, really. Building him in real time from a tiny slip up you had because you were too tired and cornered and desperate enough to answer the phone in the first place. And you stood there, letting her. Because interrupting her has never once worked in the history of your life.

“—actually, never mind,” she chirped a moment later, as if she was being considerate now. “You have work. I’ll call tomorrow and you can tell me everything, yes? Okay, bye-bye honey—”

Click!

And just like that, the elevator went quiet. You were left staring at your reflection in the metal doors, phone pressed to your ear, listening to the silence where your mother’s voice had been.

‘We’ve been so worried.’

…

If they were so worried… why had you spent most of your life learning to take care of yourself? And yet, the second there might be a man, suddenly you’re worth getting excited about?

Funny how that works.

Scoffing, you lowered the phone, shoving it into your bag just as the elevator chimed open. Itadori Yuji’s head snapped up behind the reception desk.

“Morning, boss,” he waved, radiating sunshine as you walked towards the conference room. “Kento’s asking if you’re still good for the budget review at eight… or if I should just tell him to panic.”

Your smile softened, burying the sting. “Yes… I’ll be right there.” And as you stepped through the polished glass doors, you played the role you’d always played.

The reliable one. Twenty-six years old, with two master’s degrees, a career at one of the most competitive corporations in the world, and a team of seven that would quietly fall apart without you.

But…

None of that glitters quite like a diamond ring, does it?

“Oi,” Satoru frowns. “You’re makin’ that face again.”

“Huh?”

Blinking out of your spiral, your eyes trace back to the man across from you. His chin is resting in his palm, those impossibly blue eyes fixed on you with a quiet stillness that makes something in your chest trip over itself — like a lock turning in a door you didn’t know was closed.

“Oh.” You clear your throat, forcing the pen back into motion. “…what face?”

“The one you make when something’s wrong,” he says quietly, gaze unmoving. “When you’re upset and trying to act like you’re not.”

For a second — one terrible, unguarded second — you don’t have a single thing to hide behind. It’s just him, looking at you like your well-being is something he’s been keeping track of in a column you didn’t even know existed.

But then the sarcasm kicks in, right on time. "Wow," you say, forcing your hands back to the papers in front of you. "So… now you read faces?"

“Mm... nah. Just yours, sweetheart.”

And that grin — god, that fucking grin — hooks at one corner like he knows exactly what just detonated inside your chest. You don’t acknowledge it. Acknowledging things have consequences, and consequences with this man are not something you can afford.

"…that’s highly inappropriate," you mutter, shoving it down. "Let’s maybe redirect some of that insight toward the invoices, yeah?"

“Sorry, sorry.” He leans back, hands up like he’s the picture of innocence. “Wouldn’t wanna start shit with your dear future husband.” His grin goes sharp as he twirls his sunglasses between two fingers. “Though, wow. Tough look for him. Whatever he did, he clearly fucked up bad.”

Why does he sound… bitter?

No. You must be imagining it. This is Satoru. Satoru, who treats everything like a joke until proven otherwise. Satoru, who doesn’t care enough about anything to sound bitter over a man who may or may not exist.

You scoff. "You’re making some wildly stupid assumptions right now…"

He perks up at that. "Oh?" With his grin hooking higher, almost hopeful. "Wait. So, there’s no fiancé, then?"

Your lips purse.

What does he care? He’s not your mother.

“I wish you’d be this interested in your actual job,” you sigh, arms crossing. “Those invoices have been sitting there all week.”

“Uh-huh.” He tips his head. “And yet somehow, I noticed you still didn’t answer me.”

You frown.

What the fuck are you supposed to say!?

Oh. Um. Actually, Satoru, there is no fiancé. That’s the problem, actually! My mother invented him the other morning and I haven't worked up the nerve to call her back.

Yeah. No. You'd rather die at this desk.

“Maybe because it’s none of your business.”

“But I—”

“Drop it.”

He stares at you for a beat, then he flops back in the chair with a dramatic huff, long legs kicking out in front of him, mouth dragging into a sulky pout.

“Well, damn,” he grumbles, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair, rolling his eyes. “No wonder you’re single if this is how you shut people down…”

The second the words leave his mouth, he blinks. His gaze flicks up to yours like he hears it too late — like he realizes, all at once, how shitty that sounded.And it only feels worse the moment he sees your face.

God.

Of all the places to hit.

“Oho… wow. Okay. This?” you say with a thin, self-deprecating laugh, chair scraping as you shove back from your seat. “Yeah. This is exactly why I shouldn’t have let you ask, Satoru.” You reach for your planner, your purse, anything to do with your hands besides let them shake.

He straightens, watching you scramble. “Whoa. Wait. I—"

“—because you don’t know when to stop!” The words come out louder than you mean, blinking at the sting behind your eyes. “You just keep pushing and pushing and pushing until you get what you want. Well good. I hope you’re happy.”

Before you can turn away, he’s on his feet. “Wait—” And the moment his hand catches yours, you freeze, breath snagging.

His voice is quieter now. His grip is firm yet gentle, and the air between you shifts, while something warm and uneasy twists low in your chest. The kind of feeling that makes you want to lean in and run in the same breath.

Though your eyes stay down. “Satoru… let go.”

“I didn’t…” he starts, then stops, gaze flicking to where his fingers still circle your wrist — before climbing back to your face, slower this time. “I’m… sorry. I just—” His mouth tightens. “I see how hard you work, okay? I see it. And every time that phone rings, you get this look on your face like it’s already ruined your day before you even touch it. And…” His brows pinch. “Fuck. I dunno why, but it pisses me off!”

Your gaze hesitantly drags to his, and the look in his eyes is softer than they have any right to be — all that blue, stripped of its usual sharpness, turned careful. Like he’s stepping toward something breakable and knows it. Like… if he asked once more, something in you might actually give.

“Satoru…” your breath hitches. “I-I—"

“Oh, finally.”

Shoko’s voice trails in, and your head snaps up so fast your neck almost goes with it. She’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, coffee in hand — looking like a woman who arrived exactly on time for something she's been expecting all week.

Her gaze flicks down to where he’s holding you, and the corner of her mouth twitches.

"Sooo… not to interrupt whatever this is," she says, taking a sip, "but Kento's one eye-twitch away from a medical event. He needs you to sign off on the variance line before he starts reconciling his own will and—"

You're already jerking your hand back. "Yup—coming!" And as you step away, heat floods your face, but you don't look back. Not once. Not even when you feel him still standing there, watching you go.

Because looking back would mean acknowledging that something just shifted. And you are not — not — doing that today.

Unlike those invoices, perhaps some things are better left… unfinished.

You’re gone in a blur of heels, nerves, and professional self-preservation, leaving Shoko trailing behind and Satoru staring at the empty doorway like maybe the conversation might wander back through it.

It doesn’t.

And it’s not long before his mouth is pulling into a slow, petulant pout—just before he flops back in the chair with all the elegance of a man personally betrayed by the universe.

Un-fucking-believable.

He’d almost had you! After four months and four days of being stonewalled, redirected, and professionally shut down, you’d finally looked like you might give him something. A crack. A sliver. And then Kento had to ruin it with his stupid reconciliation sheet, his stupid earnest face, and his stupidly impeccable timing.

…

He could fire Kento.

Should he fire Kento?

As tempting as that thought is, Satoru settles for glaring at the empty doorway a second longer before dragging a hand down his face and raking it back through his hair. There’s no point. This performance will end soon. Because by this time tomorrow, he’ll be on a flight back to Tokyo. Where he can resume the slow, agonizing process of preparing to inherit a company he didn't actually give a shit about.

'Grow up, Satoru.'

'Apply yourself, Satoru.'

'You have no idea what it takes to run something like this, Satoru.'

Right. Because apparently, the heir to a multinational corporation needed to learn humility. Alphabetize files. Sit in a cubicle. Fetch coffee like some goddamn spreadsheet slut with a trust fund and nowhere to put it.

Four years of business school, two years shadowing his father; and yet, this is what they had for him?!

He scoffs. And when his gaze drops to the wreckage of your desk, he’s pulling the stack of vendor invoices toward him with a sigh that sounds put-upon even to his own ears. You’ve been nagging him about filing them for the better part of the week and… the least he can do is clear one thing before he goes.

The stamp thuds against the first page. Then the next. Then the next. And with muscle memory taking over, his face goes blank in the way it always does when boredom finally wins. It’s mindless shit. Still, he’s used to it. So naturally, when the phone on your desk buzzes, he doesn’t think twice; snatching it up, tucking it between his ear and shoulder as he reaches for the next invoice.

It’s probably another budget nuisance. Or Mei. Or one of the other thousand little crises that seem magnetically drawn to your extension.

“Yo,” another stamp echoes. “Satoru speaking.”

There’s a sharp inhale. “…who?”

His brow lifts. “Uh… Satoru?” Another thud of ink slams against the paper and he huffs, annoyed. “What do y’need?”

The line goes quiet for a beat too long. Before the woman on the other end finally murmurs, “Satoru…” Sighing in awe. “What a lovely name. Is that Japanese?”

"Uh… yeah?” he snorts, flipping to the next page. “I mean. Last I checked.”

“Mm… I thought so!” She giggles. And her voice pitches like she's just unwrapped a present she didn't know she was getting. “So… Satoru. Why exactly are you the one answering her phone, hm?”

…

Why the hell does this woman sound so invested? And why is she asking questions that should be obvious?

Frowning down at the invoice, he stamps it harder.

“Because it rang?” He says it like it’s obvious. “And uh—sorry, but. Maybe because I’ve been with her for months, so… why the hell wouldn’t I?”

"Months?!” A soft gasp crackles, far too delighted. “You've—you've been with her for months?!"

"Mmm… four months and four days, technically."

He’s been her intern for that long.

That’s the question, right?

"—technically?!" she squeals, like the word personally seduced her. "Ohmygoodness—oh, this is perfect. Four months and four days—that is so specific.”

He blinks. But she doesn’t give him time to process.

“Look at you Mr. Devoted. Keeping track. I was starting to worry she’d never find someone like you. Every time I asked it's like pulling teeth. But I knew there had to be someone. I told her father—I said, there is a man, I can feel it.”

Pausing mid-stamp, the words slowly begin to catch up. Satoru straightens.

"…sorry. Who is thi—"

“—everyone is so excited to meet you at Trish’s wedding. I already reserved your seat and—"

Her voice keeps going… and going… and going. He pulls the phone away slowly as her voice echoes on the receiver, staring down at the phone in hand to see:

📞 Mom

Oh.

Oh, shit.

This is not your work phone. Your work phone is currently sitting at its dock twelve inches to his left. And it dawns on him that he accidentally just spent the last sixty seconds answering your personal phone like an absolute jackass and—

"Uh…” he backpedals. “Wait. I—"

"I told Sara, I said, we have to meet him and—”

"Stop. I-I really think—"

“—Satoru, what are you doing?’

His head snaps up at the sound of your voice, mouth dropping as he sees you standing at the doorway, eyes wide in horror.

Oh, fuck.

“Who is on the other end of that phone,” you hiss.

He winces, pulling the phone from his ear like it’s toxic — and you’re snatching it right out of his hand. He lets you have it without a fight, sinking back into the chair like he’s trying to physically dissociate from the situation he’s just created while you press the phone to your ear.

“And I mean…” she rambles. “I certainly was never one to wait around at twenty-six, believe me. But—"

"Mom."

"Oh! Honey!” She gasps. “Oh, my goodness, hi—I was just having the loveliest chat with—"

"I'm at work. Gotta go."

"—okay! I can't wait to meet Satoru, he—"

Click!

The phone sits in your hand like evidence.

And Satoru — to his credit — has the decency to look like a man standing in the blast radius of his own stupidity. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Like he’s rehearsing an apology in a language he hasn’t learned yet.

You stare at him.

He stares at you.

And somewhere ten thousand miles away, your mother is already calling your aunt Sara.

“Sooo… funny story…”

“—what did you do?!”

Satoru flinched, and now, the tears were already rolling down your cheeks — hot, fast, completely unauthorized. Not the kind you could disguise as allergies or blame on the air conditioning. No. The ugly kind.

Great. Fucking great.

You were standing in the middle of your own office, in the building where you work, crying in front of your intern. And Satoru felt the weight of it all at once. In the last four months, he had seen you in every flavor of workplace misery there was. Pissed off, stressed out, one spreadsheet away from actual murder.

But cry?

Never.

And this had his fingerprints all over it.

"Shit," he breathed, panic flashing across his face. "I—fuck. Okay. Please don't—I can fix this. I can—"

"Fix this?" A splintered laugh ripped out of you, and you hated how thin it was. "Fix what, Satoru? You just confirmed a boyfriend to my mother, a boyfriend that doesn't exist—and she is, at this very moment, probably already—"

Another break in your voice cracked, and you squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your hand to your forehead hard like you could hold the tears in by sheer force. But it only made it worse, because now you could feel the wetness on your own face, the heat of it under your palm, and the mortification landed like a second wave.

God. How fucking humiliating.

"Hey, hey—it's okay,” his voice softened. “We'll just… call her back. Right? Tell her it was a misunderstanding. Easy."

“Easy?” you scoffed, the word coming out strangled. “Y-You don’t understand my mother, Satoru,” you managed, voice gone thin as thread. God, you sounded like a child. “If she thinks something is true, then it’s true. That’s it. That’s—there’s no correcting her, there’s no walking it back, she’s already told my aunt Sara by now and Sara’s told Trish and—oh, fuck—”

Another sob tumbled out, and your fingers dug harder into your temple.

God. Stop it.

Stop it stop it stop it.

Think.

Think logically. You're good at this. You solve problems for a living.

But every time you tried to grab onto a thought, it slipped — replaced by the echo of your mother's voice, high and delighted. The happiest she'd sounded talking to you in years. Maybe ever.

…what look will she give you when you show up alone?

"I can’t," you whispered, and the word came out waterlogged. "I-I'm supposed to get on a plane to Japan in a week and—do what? Tell them there's no one? Tell them I'm still—"

Single.

The word sat in your mouth like a stone. You didn’t realize you’d gone silent until the silence itself started ringing — your sniffling, the hum of fluorescent lights, the muffled life of the office continuing beyond the door like yours wasn’t actively coming apart at the seams.

And through all of it, you could feel Satoru looking at you. His stillness; holding you with an expression you'd never seen on him before and couldn't categorize if you tried.

"Um…” he looked down, scratching the back of his neck. “Soooo... the wedding's in Japan?"

You blinked. “What?” And as you wiped your face with the back of your hand, his gazed tentatively flicked back up. “The wedding…” he repeated, voice careful. “It’s in Japan?”

"Yes." Your brow furrowed, not understanding. "Why?"

He didn't answer right away. Just looked down at the floor for a second, jaw shifting, like he was turning something over in his head — something he hadn't fully assembled yet but could already feel the shape of.

"Huh… okay."

Okay what?

You watched his expression change in real time — from guilt to calculation to something else. "Right then!" He said, clapping his hands once, bright and sudden. "No biggie. I'll just go with you."

No biggie?

Your mouth dropped.

That wasn’t even an option, was it?

…is he crazy?

“You’re kidding,” your laugh was awkward and breathless. His eyes rolled with a smug grin. “Sweetheart, c’mon,” and he was gesturing between the two of you like the answer was sitting there in plain sight and you were the only person in the room committed to not seeing it. "Your family thinks you're bringing someone? Cool." A hand pressed to his chest with theatrical solemnity. "I'm someone."

You stared at him. Genuinely stared.

Oh. He wasn’t kidding.

Yup. He’s crazy.

"You are not 'someone,' Satoru. You are my intern."

“Yeah. For like… another six hours?"

He checked his watch with a shrug, and your lips flattened.

"…that is not the point."

“Mm… feels a little like the point."

He smirked, but it faded faster than usual, dimming at the edges as his blue eyes hesitated on yours. Something shifted in his posture; the performance pulling back, like a tide going out. "Um… look…" He pushed off the desk, stepping closer. "It’s really no hassle." He said, hands sliding into his pockets. "I already have a flight scheduled. My family's in Tokyo. And I was going back after this internship anyway, so… this just moves my timeline back a little."

He was shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he wasn’t agreeing to fly across the world with you and walk straight into the disaster that was your family.

…

His family’s in Japan too?

You barely knew anything about him. He kept his life sealed off with the same practiced deflection you kept yours — jokes in place of answers, charm in place of honesty. You never bothered to ask, because asking meant caring and that was a door you never intended to walk through with anyone.

But…

"Just… let me come with you. I’ll be your boyfriend for the weekend. For the wedding. For… whatever you need,” he said. And this time, when he stepped closer, there was no grin to hide behind. "I can be useful. I caused this. So… let me fix it."

Heat creeped up your neck, and you scoffed, weakly.

"Okay… but you can't fix my mother."

"No…” he murmured, tilting his head. His hand came up and brushed a tear trailing down your cheek with a careful gentleness. “But… I can make sure you don't have to walk in there alone?"

Your breath hitched, and when your eyes finally lifted, the morning light was being cruel again — catching in that impossible blue and turning it soft. Like stained glass dipped in sunlight. Like something holy made dangerous by the simple fact that it was looking straight at you.

“Mhn. So, do I get the job, boss lady? Because that look you’re giving me…” a slow smirk curls up the corner of his mouth. “Very encouraging for my boyfriend résumé, by the way. Might get addicted to it and wanna make it a full-time gig.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, looking away too fast to be convincing.“That was not a look. I was just—” You grimace. “…never mind.”

He’s chuckling as you brush past him. And his words are what scared you the most. Which was bad. Very, very bad. Because your mother was one problem. Japan was another. But Satoru looking at you like that?

Shit…

That felt like the kind of complication that didn’t stay neatly contained. And you knew better than anyone. Nothing about Satoru had ever suggested he could be contained.

a/n: hehe. this has been fun to work on! i am excited to share the next part. clearly i love these fake dating/fake marriage tropes aha 🙂‍↕️ bc this is like... what—my third time doing it? soooo i tried to change things up and make it feel less standard/generic :) but anyways, like i said pt 2 will be out in a week, pls lmk if you wanna be tagged 💖

Suguru’s shoulders drop. He sets the coffee mug down carefully, like he’s trying really hard to look sorry. His lower lip pushes out just a tiny bit (the stupid pout he used to do when he wanted you to skip class with him). 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, eyes flicking down to the table. “I lost my phone somewhere. I just… needed to check a few things. And then I scrolled a little. It’s been a while since I saw normal stuff.”

You roll your eyes so hard you almost strain something. “What things did you need to check? Your evil masterplan to take over the world part two?”

“No,” he says quickly, cheeks going a little pink. “None of that.” He pauses, then adds softer, “I made breakfast for you. There’s toast and eggs.”

You glance at the plate he pushed toward you. Two slightly uneven fried eggs, toast with butter and a sad little pile of sliced tomatoes. It actually looks edible, your stomach growls before you can pretend to be mad.

“Fine,” you mutter, grabbing a fork. “But next time ask. Or I’m changing the password to something you’ll never guess.”

He chuckles under his breath, the sound warm in the morning light filtering through your small window. You eat in silence for a minute, the eggs are actually pretty good, while Kia jumps down from the fridge and starts circling his legs like she’s already picked her new favorite human.

After a couple bites you set the fork down and look at him seriously. “Geto, listen, you can’t just hide here forever eating my toast and watching TikTok on my phone. You need a job. Like, a real one. With paychecks and everything boring normal people do.”

He freezes mid-sip, eyes widening like you just suggested he swallow a special grade curse again. “A… job?”

“Yeah. A job. You know, the thing people do so they don’t mooch off their ex forever?”

Suguru rubs the back of his neck, suddenly looking lost. “I don’t know how to do that. I’ve never… applied for anything. My whole life was curses and fighting and… well, the other stuff. What would I even put on a paper? ‘Former cult leader, excellent at manipulation and swallowing evil spirits, now powerless and kind of useless’?”

You sigh, already feeling the headache coming. He still makes you kind of sad, because he’s right. Without his technique, Suguru Geto is just… a guy. No fancy skills, no resume, no nothing. The man who once commanded an army of curses can’t even list “team leadership” without sounding like a serial killer on paper.

“Come on,” you say, standing up and grabbing your laptop from the counter. “We’re doing this together, come here.”

You both end up squeezed on the couch, laptop balanced on your knees while Kia claims Suguru’s lap like it’s her throne. He keeps shifting awkwardly, like he’s scared to take up too much space. You open a new document and stare at the blank page.

“Okay. Name: Suguru Geto. Easy. Age?”

“Twenty-five.”

“Education?”

He hesitates. “Jujutsu Tech… but I dropped out. Technically.”

You type “Completed advanced training in specialized defensive arts” and immediately feel ridiculous. “Work experience?”

“Uh… community organizing?” He tries, wincing. “Leading group activities?”

You snort. “Suguru, you led a cult that wanted to wipe out non-sorcerers. That’s not ‘community organizing.’ That’s a hate crime.”

He pouts again, resting his chin on your shoulder to watch the screen. “Fine. Put ‘independent contractor in spiritual cleansing services.’ Sounds vague enough.”

You keep typing, but every line makes that sad little feeling grow. Cooking? He can barely toast bread without supervision. Customer service? He’d probably call someone a monkey by accident on day one. Driving? He never learned because he used to fly around on curses. Computer skills? The man just discovered TikTok yesterday.

By the time you finish the world’s most pathetic resume (one page of half-truths and creative wording), you close the laptop and lean back, staring at the ceiling.

Suguru is quiet beside you, one hand absently petting Kia. “It’s bad, isn’t it?” he asks softly. “I’m… really starting from zero.”

You don’t answer right away. Because yeah, it is bad. The guy who used to be terrifying is now scared of filling out a simple form. Part of you wants to stay annoyed forever, the other part, the stupid soft part that still remembers late-night talks on the school roof, feels genuinely sorry for him.

“You’ll figure it out,” you finally say, bumping his shoulder with yours. “Now get dressed, we’re going hunting.”

He looks terrified all of a sudden. “Hunting?”

“Job hunting, Geto.” He still looks confused. “Nevermind, just get dressed.”

Suguru nods feeling that he’s agreeing to a suicide mission, but he still follows you into the bathroom while you brush your teeth and throw on jeans and a hoodie that doesn’t scream “I teach teenagers how to fight curses.” You’re done in ten minutes flat, hair tossed up, keys in your pocket, ready to drag him around Tokyo like a very tall and reluctant puppy.

When you come back out, though, he’s still in the living room. Shirtless. Just standing there in the middle of your rug with his suitcase exploded around him like a black hole of bad fashion choices.

Your brain does a full system reboot.

He’s still ripped. Like, stupidly ripped. The kind of muscle that doesn’t go away even when you lose your cursed technique and start eating sad toast for breakfast. Broad shoulders, abs that look like they were carved by someone who had way too much time on their hands, that stupid V-line disappearing into the waistband of his low-slung sweatpants. Eight years and the man still looks like he could bench-press a curse without breaking a sweat. Your face goes hot in a way that has nothing to do with the apartment heater. You hate it. You hate him. Mostly you hate that your body is still this predictable.

Suguru doesn’t notice at first. He’s holding up a long black tunic thing that looks like it belongs in a very dramatic temple ceremony, frowning at it like it personally betrayed him. 

“This feels too cult leader,” he mutters, tossing it aside. Next comes a dark haori jacket with silver accents. “This one too. Way too cult leader.” Another shirt, this one with those weird wide sleeves he used to wear when he was monologuing about monkeys. “Definitely cult leader.”

You stand there, arms crossed, trying to play it cool even though your cheeks are definitely heated and your eyes keep traitorously drifting to his chest. “Suguru. We’re going to apply at a coffee shop and maybe a convenience store. Put on a normal t-shirt before I die of second-hand embarrassment.”

He glances up, catches you staring, and his little smirk creeps onto his face. “What? It’s warm in here.” He flexes a little (probably on purpose) and picks up another black button-up. “Everything I own feels like I’m about to give a speech about the superiority of sorcerers. I don’t even have normal clothes anymore. This is all… ex-special grade stuff.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose and let out the longest sigh known to man. “You are impossible. I have a plain gray t-shirt in my closet that’ll fit you.”

He drops the tunic dramatically and pads over to you, still shirtless, close enough that you can smell the faint laundry soap on his skin. “You’re blushing,” he says, voice all soft and teasing. “Cute.”

“I am not blushing. I’m overheating from how done I am with you.” You shove the gray shirt at his chest (trying really hard not to notice how firm it is) and turn away so fast you almost trip over Kia. “Get dressed. We’re leaving in five minutes.”

Suguru laughs under his breath, the sound that used to make your knees weak, and finally pulls the shirt over his head. It fits a little tight across the shoulders (because of course it does), but it actually makes him look normal. Sort of. Like a hot guy who maybe works at a bookstore instead of a guy who used to command an army of curses.

He runs a hand through his hair, tying it back loosely, and grabs the printed resume from the table. “Ready, I think. Do I look employable?”

You look him up and down, ignoring the way your stomach does a stupid flip. “You look like you’re one bad decision away from starting a new cult in the break room. But it’ll have to do.”

He steps closer, bumping your shoulder gently with his. “Thanks for the shirt.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling despite yourself as you grab your keys. “Yeah, okay. Now move it before I change my mind and make you do the dishes instead.”

Suguru follows you out the door, suitcase finally zipped up and left behind like a sad reminder of his old life. As you lock up, he leans in close and whispers, “You know, if I don’t get hired I could make an amazing house husband.”

You snort and shove him toward the elevator. “I knew you’d say that!”

He bursts out laughing with you, dropping his head back as you press the elevator button. Feels just like when you were together in your teenage years. You almost have the reflex to link your arm with him before stopping yourself.

“I want to try to be a productive member of society first, though,” Suguru comments now that the laugh has died out. His eyes soften when he looks at you, a tiny smile forming on his lips as he tilts his head. He’s trying hard to be believable, to gain your trust back, and maybe even your love, who knows at this point?

God, you are so done with him.

But walking down the street with him beside you, looking all soft and nervous in your borrowed shirt, the apartment doesn’t feel half as lonely as it did yesterday. And that’s even more annoying than his abs.

The first stop is a cute little cafe two blocks from your building. The manager is a tired looking woman in her thirties who barely glances at the resume before handing Suguru an application form. He sits at a small table outside like he is going into battle, gripping the pen too hard. You wait on a nearby bench, pretending to scroll on your phone while actually watching him. He finishes fast, then goes in for the interview. Ten minutes later he comes out with his shoulders a little slumped.

“They said they need someone with barista experience,” he mutters, falling into step beside you. “I told them I can learn fast. She just smiled like I was kidding.”

You pat his arm. “One down. Plenty more places.”

The second interview is at a bookstore. Suguru actually lights up a little walking in, surrounded by shelves of novels and quiet corners. He talks about how he likes reading, how he can recommend titles based on vibes. The interviewer seems interested until she asks about availability and he admits he has no fixed schedule yet because everything is new. She thanks him politely and says they will call. They do not call.

Third place is a convenience store. The manager is blunt. Suguru stands there tall and polite in your gray shirt, answering questions about handling money and night shifts. He messes up a little when they ask him to do a quick register test on their old system. His fingers are too used to different kinds of control. He comes out frowning.

“I hate machines,” he says under his breath as you walk to the next spot. “They make everything feel slower.”

You try to encourage him. “You are doing okay. Just keep going.”

But by the fourth interview, at a small family restaurant looking for a waiter, the cracks start showing. Suguru sits through the questions, smiling that charming smile of his, but you can see the annoyance building behind his eyes. He forgets to mention the fake customer service experience you added to the resume. The owner says they need energetic people who can handle rush hour. Suguru’s reply is dry and a bit too honest. No hire.

Fifth one is a warehouse gig that pays okay for entry level. You wait outside this time, chewing your lip. When he walks out after only eight minutes, his face is stormy.

“They said I looked too intimidating and my answers were too vague,” he snaps, shoving the folded resume into his pocket like he wants to burn it. “Intimidating. Me. As if I did not just sit there and pretend I enjoy stacking boxes for eight hours straight.”

You walk together down the busy street, people rushing past with their own lives and bags and earbuds. Suguru slows down after half a block. He stops completely near a crosswalk, staring at the ground with his jaw tight.

“This is pointless,” he says. “I am wasting your time and mine. Five places, five rejections. I am not made for this world. I should just… go back to your apartment and figure something else out. Or leave. Whatever.”

He turns like he is ready to walk away from the whole day, shoulders tense, his confidence from breakfast completely gone. The annoyance radiates off him in waves, the same way it used to when a plan did not go perfectly back in the old days.

That is when you snap.

You grab his arm hard enough that he actually stops, spinning him to face you right there in the middle of the sidewalk. People glance over but you do not care as your voice comes out sharp and loud.

“Geto, you have got to be kidding me right now. You do five interviews, five, and you are already giving up like some spoiled brat who expected the universe to hand him everything again? News flash, the world does not owe you a perfect job just because you used to be strong and scary and in charge of a bunch of messed up followers!”

He blinks, lips parting in surprise, but you keep going, stepping closer so he has to look at you.

“You lost everything, yeah, but you are still here breathing, healthy and ridiculously hot. Most people start from zero and they do not quit after one bad morning. You are not useless, you are just scared. And instead of pushing through it you are pouting and ready to run back to my couch like a defeated puppy. I did not drag you out here to watch you fold the second things get uncomfortable. Grow up, Geto. Either fight for something real this time or stop wasting my time pretending you want to change.”

Your chest is heaving by the end, cheeks warm from the rush of words. Suguru stares at you, eyes wide and something softer flickering behind the shock. The street noise fades a little around you two, just the two of you standing there under the afternoon light, his hair slipping loose from the tie, your hand still gripping his sleeve.

“Fuck, okay fine. I’m sorry,” he says, lowering his gaze to see your hand on his arm. “I’m tired now, I wanna go home.”

Your breath is calmer now, but you’re still angry at him that if you hadn’t controlled yourself you would’ve told him, you don’t have a home, Geto. But you keep your mouth shut, dropping his arm and turning your back to start walking towards the closest bus stop. Suddenly, you’re tired too, you just screamed at him in the middle of the street, a full monologue only for him to just curse, apologize and say he’s tired. He’s been back in your life for less than two days and every time it gets harder to push your past feelings, and you wonder if Geto is struggling with that as well. 

He walks a few steps behind you, arms hidden in his pockets and his eyes locked on your neck. He wants to say something else, but nothing feels appropriate. You’re angry, and you deserve to be angry, he’s surprised that you haven’t screamed at him longer. He’s surprised about how gentle you have been with him, he’s glad that you kept the kindness in your soul after all these years, he knows you’re a strong woman. 

Suguru wonders, as the air gets colder, if you had any lovers these past years, if you found peace in another person’s arms, if someone made you feel as special as him. You were each other’s first on everything: first kiss (you taught each other how to), first date, first time… he can’t help but to feel a little proud of himself about it, about how he’s going to have a place in your heart forever.

You and him arrive at your apartment in silence, the elevator ride up feels endless and neither of you says a word. Suguru keeps his hands in his pockets, eyes somewhere far away, while you stare at the numbered lights blinking higher. When the door clicks shut behind you two, the quiet only gets thicker. Kia meows once from the couch like she can feel it too, but even she gives up and curls back into a ball.

You don’t look at him. You just kick off your shoes and head straight for the bathroom. “I’m showering,” you mutter, not waiting for an answer.

The hot water feels like the only good thing left in the day, you stand under the spray for a long time, letting it run over your face and shoulders until your muscles stop feeling so tight. Your mind keeps replaying the way you yelled at him on the street, the way his eyes went wide and soft at the same time. Part of you still feels angry. Another part, the softer one you wish you could ignore, feels guilty for how harsh you got. He is trying, even if he is terrible at it.

After you wash your hair, you step out and wrap a towel around yourself. Your curls are a wet mess, so you start the routine you have done a thousand times. Leave-in conditioner first, then the curl cream, fingers working through each section carefully so they do not frizz later. The mirror is still foggy from the steam, but you can see enough to keep going. It is peaceful in a way, just you and the familiar scent of your products filling the small bathroom.

The door opens quietly.

You glance up and freeze a little. Suguru stands there in the doorway, one hand still on the handle like he is not sure if he should have come in. He changed into a black tank top, hair loose around his shoulders. His eyes meet yours in the mirror, soft and unsure.

“Can I help?” he asks. “I used to watch you do this… before. I remember the steps.”

You should probably tell him to get out, instead you just nod once, not trusting your voice right away. He steps inside and closes the door behind him, the click soft in the quiet room. The space suddenly feels smaller with him in it, his tall frame taking up so much air. He washes his hands at the sink, then comes to stand behind you, his hands hover for a second before he gently takes a section of your wet curls. You watch everything in the mirror. The two of you like this, him carefully twisting product through your hair with those long fingers, you standing there in just a towel. It feels so domestic it almost hurts. Like you are a normal couple after a long day, not two people with a mountain of broken history between them.

“You always did the bottom layers first,” he murmurs after a minute, voice barely above a whisper. “So the weight helps the top curls fall right.”

“Yeah,” you answer, just as softly. Your eyes stay on his reflection. “You actually remember that?”

He gives a tiny smile, the corner of his mouth lifting. “I remember everything about you. Even the little things.”

Silence settles again, but it is not as heavy as before. His fingers work through another section, detangling with patience you did not expect from him. The steam is clearing from the mirror now and you can see both of you clearly. His focused expression, the way his hair falls forward when he leans in a little closer. 

“I did not mean to give up so fast today,” he says after a while, eyes on your hair instead of your face. “It felt like every door was closing before I even opened my mouth. Made me feel… fucking useless. I hated it.”

You bite your lip, watching his hands. “I know. But running away after five tries is not going to make it better, Suguru. You are starting over, it’s supposed to feel hard.”

He nods slowly, twisting a curl around his finger the way you like. “You were right to yell at me. I needed it. No one has talked to me like that in years. Everyone else either feared me or followed me blindly.” He pauses, then adds quieter, “I like that you are not scared of me anymore.”

“I was never scared of you,” you whisper. “Even when I should have been.”

Your eyes meet in the mirror again and something passes between you. His hands slow down on your hair, thumbs brushing the back of your neck by accident. The touch sends a little shiver down your spine.

“Do you think I can actually do this?” he asks, voice uncertain in a way that tugs at your chest. “Be normal. Hold a job. Not mess everything up again.”

You turn your head just a little so you can see him better. “I think you can. You are smart, Geto. But you have to actually try instead of expecting it to fall into your lap like everything used to.”

He lets out a soft breath. “Fair.” His fingers finish the last section and rest lightly on your shoulders. “There. Looks good.”

You are both just standing there, watching each other in the mirror like you are trying to figure out what this moment even is, his hands feel warm through the towel. The bathroom light is soft on his face and for once he does not look like the ex-special grade sorcerer who almost ended the world. He just looks like Geto. Like Suguru, your Suguru. Tired and close enough that you can feel the heat from his body.

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

He leans down a little, forehead almost touching the back of your head. “Anytime. I mean it.”

You don’t answer right away, the air feels thick with everything you are not saying, all the old feelings pushing up like they never really left. Part of you wants to lean back into him but the smarter part knows it is too soon, too complicated, too dangerous for your heart. Suguru seems to sense it too. He straightens up slowly, hands sliding away. “I will let you finish up. Maybe order something for dinner if you want?”

You nod, suddenly missing his hands already. “Yeah. Sounds good.”

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The book, after all, was but a simple ruse meant to get you closer to Sukuna, if only for a brief moment.

You see, after that unfortunately unsexy exchange on your porch the other weekend, you spent the rest of it pondering your next steps. Eating breakfast in the morning, sitting in your exam hall, touching yourself in the shower at night, your mind was constantly occupied by the mystery that was Sukuna’s feelings.

On Monday, you finally decided that the best course of action was to simply ask him yourself.

This was you taking the high road, like the adult you were. And the high road meant accepting defeat – if it ever came.

Arrogantly, you doubted it would.

You’d had sexual chemistry with people before. The longing stares, the subtle touches; wanting each other so badly, so carnally, that words on their own weren’t enough. 

With Sukuna, words weren’t even needed in the first place.

You could tell he was reserved by nature, showing more than he would tell. To some, that’d be an obstacle. But you? You knew how to play his game. Every lingering stare and nearly-smile meant a tally mark for your mental diary. And last Saturday, you realized you had enough of them to make a case.

You were fresh after class, strolling down the quiet streets of the Suginami neighbourhood with a C.C. Lemon in hand and a game plan in your mind:

On this day, you’d do your damn best to try to seduce Ryomen Sukuna.

After weeks of mixed signals, you wanted proof that this wasn’t just a figment of your frustrated imagination, but evidence of mutual attraction. Lust. Whatever it was, you were ready to confront it. 

Worst-case scenario, you’d get rejected. Easy. You’ve been there before, and you knew how to walk out with your head high.

Best case?

You’d get to live out all your fantasies: from the hot, nasty sex to the flowery dates and breakfast in bed. If things went right, you’d get to date him. Bound by friend code, you’d also need to tell Yuji.

But as you toss your emptied bottle into a trash can, you reason that it was a predicament for a later breakdown. 

Yuji and Sukuna’s apartment building comes into view like a brick-clad tower against the setting sun, familiar enough to make you smile, but not quite enough to set your nerves at ease.

“Oh, Sukuna? I didn’t expect you here!” You rehearse, inputting the four-digit code and buzzing yourself in. “How’s Gojo? Uh-huh. Yeah. No, I don’t think I’ll go out with him.”

You push up the staircase; floor one, two, three, then four. You’re a bit out of breath as you reach the last step, arriving at their door in a heavy whisper. “Oh, this? This…this is nothing, just a–”

Red-cheeked and frizzy from the heat, you realize the door to your soon-to-be-lover’s apartment is cracked open, letting a stream of natural light into the dim hallway.

You step forward hesitantly, placing your palm against the wooden surface and pushing gently. The hinges creak, making you cringe at how sloppily you’ve just blown your cover. 

“Yuji?” you call into the lit space, pushing further. You spot the foyer with its familiar stack of shoes. Something whirrs in the distance. “It’s Bunny. You left the door open.”

No answer comes, so you slide through the crack and leave the door as you found it. You step further into the apartment, realizing that the soft drone you heard earlier is actually a running showerhead. 

The bathroom (or what you assume to be one) is lit from the inside, a sliver of smoke escaping from the gap at the bottom of the door.

Because you decided to make your visit impromptu, you couldn’t know who was inside. Asking outright would be weird, calling Yuji right now would be suspicious, and leaving was too cowardly, even for you.

Could be Yuji, could be Sukuna. Either way, you’re standing in their apartment unannounced, and you have approximately thirty seconds before a half-naked man walks out and asks what the fuck you’re doing here.

“I’m just gonna get my book and go!” Lie. “Take your time in there.” Another lie. 

Then, your feet carry you forward.

You witness the living room in daylight for the first time. The couch sits snug against the wall, a few magazines lining the armrest. The coffee table, without the clutter of empty bottles and pizza boxes, almost looks tidy. 

And when you spot the door to Sukuna’s room cracked open, you forget about your book entirely.

Your heart hammers a steady beat against your temples as you approach, sliding your socked feet over the wooden floors to avoid making noise. And once within reach, you peek your head into the gap all against your better judgment. 

What if he’s the one in the shower?

You spot the edge of his desk, a laptop sitting atop. You take a step forward. 

What if he catches you snooping and all your plans go to hell? 

An office chair draped with clothes. Another step. 

But, maybe most importantly, why were you snooping in the first place?

A half-empty water bottle on what looks to be a makeshift nightstand. A stack of more car mags.

You can’t help but take a deep breath. The clean scent of air mixes with Sukuna’s signature smokiness, reminding you of a leather jacket saturated with cigarette smoke. Not the pre-made stuff, either, but a pure spice of tobacco. 

And then you’re deep enough to see his bed. His covers are rumpled against the mattress, two pillows scattered as though someone had woken in a stupor and flung them about.

In your sickest fantasies, you’d sit atop his covers in your nicest lingerie, hair done up and fresh-faced in expectation. He’d march in all sweaty from the day, tank top stained with the same engine grease that’d cover his forearms, eyes narrowed and tired but ready to take in all your sweetness. 

Evening, he’d mutter. That for me? And of course it would be for him. Everything you’d do would be for Sukuna. You’d help him undress and suck him off gently, letting him grab your hair at the scalp. You’d utter quiet praises against his hip bone: you’re always so soft for me. My sweet, hardworking man. Letting me take care of him after his long day. 

You’d continue until he was whimpering. Until he was asking – pleading to fuck you. 

And you’d let him.

Keep it on, he’d insist, toying with the little bow atop your panties. All dolled up for your man.

Your man.

You’re practically salivating by the time an inconspicuous floorboard creaks behind you, making you spin around so fast you nearly lose your balance.

“Yuji–” 

Except it’s Sukuna.

He stands tall in the hallway, shirtless and glistening with moisture. His forearms are thick and tattooed, crossing over his pecs with the white towel hugging his hips hangs so damn low that you can easily peek his happy trail, painting the tan skin between his V-line.

Then, after you’ve finally assessed your priorities, you witness his face.

He’s not smiling, but he’s not exactly frowning, either. He simply looks at you with a slight tilt of his head, like he’s genuinely curious why you’d be creeping near his door.

“Hi,” you squeak, voice about three octaves too high to sound casual, let alone sexy. You clear your throat, trying to summon some semblance of dignity that never really comes. “Sukuna.”

“Hi,” he echoes flatly, and you quickly realize he’s waiting for an explanation.

“I was just–” You gesture vaguely toward yourself, then Sukuna’s room. “Book. Yuji borrowed my book. I need it back.”

His gaze flicks over your face, then your body. He always did this. No matter what you were wearing, he’d always make sure to check you out. For you, this was just another tally mark for the ever-expanding collection.

“Wrong way,” he states, nodding towards the only other room in the hallway.

And sure enough, Yuji’s door stands closed a few feet away, a faded band poster tacked to the wood. 

You swallow thickly. From the get-go, you knew you had the wrong room. You’d been inside a few times already. There was no mistaking it, and no good excuses you could conjure.

“Yeah,” you shrug. “Right. I knew that.”

“Mm.”

He doesn’t move, and neither do you. You’re both looking at each other, waiting for the other to make a move, no matter how small. And meanwhile, he’s still taunting you with that low-slung towel, and wet hair, and all those damned tattoos that make him look good enough to eat.

Your eyes catch on a stray droplet of water, sliding down his chest, over the ridge of his pectoral, then eventually splitting in two at the divot of his abs.

“See something you like?” he asks.

Your gaze snaps back to his face, lips squeezed tight like you’re trying hard not to smile like the freak you are. Sukuna’s expression, on the other hand, hasn’t changed – save, of course, for the brief tick of his jaw you’ve gotten so used to.

“No,” you lie. “I mean–I wasn’t–I was looking for it. The book.”

His brow arches. “In my bedroom.”

“I got turned around.”

“In my bedroom.”

You open your mouth, close it, then open it again with a dry smack. Nothing decides to come out. So being the fucking siren you were, you crack a smile at him instead.

He stares at you with his eyebrows knit, long enough that your crooked grin eventually flattens to an unsure smile.

And then, with nothing more than a soft grunt, he walks past you, close enough that you have to press yourself against the doorframe to avoid touching him. The smell of his soap and warm skin fills your nostrils, and you hold your breath until he’s gone.

“Wait here,” he mutters.

And then he disappears into his room. The door clicks in front of you, leaving you standing there like a lost puppy. There’s the soft rustle of fabric, another grunt, then finally a thud of a drawer. 

When he finally emerges, he’s wearing dark jeans and a loose t-shirt, his hair still damp. He’s rubbing a towel over his head, and the flatness of his affect makes you want to yell. 

You invaded his privacy. You, essentially, broke into his home just to ogle him. And now he was parading around like you weren’t even there.

“The book,” he says, tossing the towel onto the armchair you remember seeing Toji sit in last time you came over. “What’s it called?”

“What?”

“The book. That Yuji borrowed. What’s the title?”

Shit.

“Uh,” you rack your brain through all of Abe Kobo’s novels, trying your best to remember the one you had left. “It’s kind of literary. I don’t know if you’ve heard of it.”

He tips his head to the side, eyes glinting. “Try me.”

You stare at him with that same goofy smile, and he stares back, unfazed. You knew you couldn’t bide your time for long.

“The Woman in the Dunes,” you blurt. 

He raises an eyebrow. “Abe?”

“Yes.” You nod, your chest thrumming. If you got this wrong, you were fucked. “You’ve read it?”

“Uh-huh,” he hums, moving towards his brother’s door. You follow suit, keeping your steps quiet behind him and trying your hardest not to implode. Were you ignorant for assuming Sukuna didn’t know the classics?

“I need it for a citation,” you try to convince him as he pushes into Yuji’s room. 

The space is a mess of clothes, empty cups, and a full trash bin sitting tucked in the corner, right next to a bookshelf that Sukuna slowly approaches. You watch his head crane as he scans the spines, finger trailing smoothly across them.

“You read a lot?” he asks without turning.

“Whenever I can.”

“Mm.” His finger stops. He pulls a slim volume off the shelf, glances at the cover, then holds it out to you. “This it?”

You step forward with your heart hammering in your chest. The book is small, paperback, with a familiar minimalist design.

The Woman in the Dunes.

“Yeah. That’s the one.” You literally exhale in relief. 

But he doesn’t let go immediately. Instead, his fingers stay curled around the spine, with yours wrapped around the other end.

“You could’ve just asked,” he says quietly.

Your eyes widen, and you’re sure he can tell. With a thick swallow, your lips part despite the sudden rush of adrenaline and pure, uninhibited dopamine. “For the book?”

“For whatever you came here for.”

And, once again, your breath catches at the unimaginable instinct this man seems to possess. It was either that, or something entirely supernatural you didn’t want to dig into right now, not when his dark, steady eyes kept on yours, the book still wedged between you like a delicate bridge you couldn’t help but want to burn down.

You clear your throat. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

He stares at you for another long moment, long enough for you to remember your plan. You were meant to be more. You were meant to be seductive, and confident, and finally try to win him over, if only for one night.

Yet here you are, fingertips trembling as he finally lets the book go.

“Sure you don’t.”

He walks past you again, arm brushing yours despite having space not to, and heads toward the living room again. After a brief moment of shock, you follow, watching him slide into the kitchen, never looking at you.

So this was it. You had your stupid, unnecessary book in hand, and Sukuna was apparently bidding you a wordless ‘fuck off’ which, for you, meant no more excuses. 

With your plan an epic failure, it was time to leave.

But you scan the back of his t-shirt, a little damp where his shoulder blades meet, arms working steadily as he pours himself a glass of water from the sink. Yuji isn’t around. You have nothing to do back home but sit and whine. You can practically hear the choir of your ancestors cursing you out for letting the moment slip away.

Say something.

“I don’t need the book.”

No time to second-guess yourself or rehearse. The words slip out as they’ve always meant to, raw and honest.

You watch Sukuna’s head tip back as he drinks the last of his water, the glass clinking loudly against the counter. You watch his mighty back flex, shoulders rolling once, then twice. 

Then he turns to you. His eyes look different from before, something about the light, though you can’t exactly say what.

“Yeah?” he asks, arms crossing.

You clutch the paperback to your chest like a shield. “I don’t need it. I mean, I do. Eventually.” You follow the contours of his face, softened in the dim, eastward light casting from the window. “But that’s not why I came.”

His brow furrows slightly, arms squeezing tighter over his pecs. The movement makes his t-shirt stretch across his shoulders. “Why did you come?”

You swallow, then again, placing the book you allegedly came for on the TV console.

Here goes nothing.

“I wanted to see you.”

Your confession hangs in the air like the naked, vulnerable thing it was, surprisingly bold in contrast to the anxiety wrecking your insides the moment you realize you’ve finally done it; not exactly a full-on “I want you”, but for now, this was as close as you could get without retching.

For a brief, cruel moment, you worry he’ll leave, laugh, or be polite with his inevitable rejection, god forbid. Whatever came, you were ready. You’d walk out with a smile and your head held high, just like you planned it.

So when none of that comes, you can’t help but freeze.

Ryomen Sukuna, with his eyes narrowed and the slightest quirk of his lips, shifts his weight away from the counter and takes a slow step towards you.

“See me,” he repeats, pocketing his hands.

“Yeah.” You persevere, pinching the skin of your elbow to make sure all of this is really happening. “Do you have time? To hang out. Or something.”

“Or something.”

Finally, unable to handle the tension, your body forces out a dry chuckle. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

And there it is again: that little twitch at the corner of his mouth, disappearing before you can commit it to memory. It’s not quite a smile, but with everything you’ve just forced yourself to say, it feels like a weight off your shoulders.

You stand at this almost-proximity for exactly seven beats of your rabbiting heart, taking in each other’s expressions and letting your breaths intermingle into one off-key harmony.

When he finally speaks again, you think he’s never sounded better.

“You smoke?” he asks, jaw flexing.

Your brows scrunch, then relax, scanning his face for a sign of jest. But there’s nothing you find save for the briefest flare of his nostrils, which makes you wonder about something you probably shouldn’t.

“Sure,” you clear your throat. “Yeah.”

He nods. You nod. 

And then, like a lost, lovestruck puppy, you follow him into his room and watch with bated breath as he closes the door behind you.

And just like a wish come true, you finally get granted permission to see his space in full. 

Two bookshelves stand against the far wall, stuffed with spines of every color: worn paperbacks next to shiny hardcovers, a few in English, most in Japanese. They’re not decorative, you can tell. He reads, and he reads a lot. Above them, the shelves are cluttered with the artifacts of a life lived: a small bonsai planter, a branded ashtray, and a leather-strap watch you’ve never seen him wear.

That same bed you’ve only peeked at before sprawls on a frame of wooden pallets, twin-sized, unmade. You edge your calf towards the mattress, not yet confident to take a seat. 

Sukuna, meanwhile, is already opening a drawer. You briefly glance at the plastic rolling tray filled with various paraphernalia, biting your bottom lip as he begins the preparations.

Yes, you smoked. In fact, you’d smoked plenty of times. A shared joint here and there at house parties, late-night sessions with Nobara, and even the occasional self-roll when you were feeling particularly stressed. 

You had a mini bong stashed in your sock drawer. You always kept papers on you, just in case. 

You knew how to handle yourself. 

Except this was Sukuna you were dealing with, with his battered Zippo and metallic grinder that you convinced yourself had nothing on the plastic little thing you had once gotten from the dollar store.

The sharp schrrrk, schrrrk, of it reaches your ears, view obscured by the girth of Sukuna’s back as it flexes for your racy enjoyment. You can nearly spot the outline of his delts through the dampened t-shirt, tan skin glowing in the soft afternoon light.

And, you think, maybe the fact you can’t see him roll is for the better. You doubt you could keep your cool if–

Except then, as if on cue, he turns towards you. 

His lower back anchors against the desk as he sprinkles the fragrant flower onto a prepared paper. His chin is tipped down, brows furrowed by just the slightest pinch, sexy as ever in his focus.

“You’re quiet.”

His voice is flat and not quite teasing, but there’s a thin current underneath his words that makes you feel like he’s asking you to bite back.

Except you can’t. Not when your skin sears with the simple fact of standing in his room, through his invitation, no less.

“Can’t a girl appreciate craftsmanship?” you reply, tucking a strand of hair behind your burning ear.

He looks up for a split second, making you wonder when you started feeling so nauseous. “Uh huh.”

You watch him roll the joint with those thick, calloused fingers, so delicate and precise as though he were performing surgery. And when he goes to wet the paper, you try, miserably, to keep any uncouth thoughts at bay. 

This, of course, proves particularly hard when he decides to shoot you a look at the exact moment you’re biting your lip, totally transfixed at the fantasy of his flattened tongue dragging a slow line up your pussy.

You’re gone.

“Seems you’ve done this before,” you comment quietly, whipping your gaze towards the nearest available object that just so happens to be a set of dumbbells loaded up to the max. Fuck. No wonder he was so carved out.

“Might’ve picked up a thing or two,” he says flatly, rolling the joint between his palms with ease. He gives it a final lick, seals it, then tucks it behind his pierced ear as a seasoned carpenter would do with a pencil. You swear you feel your pussy pulse.

And with a stretch of his neck, he kicks a pair of black slides towards your feet.

You blink down at them, taking in their sheer size. Maybe a Japanese 30, or higher. Did they even make shoes this big? 

“What’s this for?” you ask.

He eyes you down, taking in the little divot of chest your top so graciously uncovers, then flicks over your wiggling toes.

“Just wear ‘em,” he mutters, already turning toward the sliding door in only his socks. He pulls it open, letting a warm breeze swirl into the room, his eyes fixed patiently on you.

So, convinced you might not get another chance, you eagerly slip your feet into the slides. As expected by your earlier measurements, they’re massive. Your toes barely graze the front, and you feel like a baby duck taking the first few steps, but at least they’re his and you’ll be warm.

The balcony is small, with just enough room for two people. A plastic chair sits folded against the wall, just below a rotating, unused clothesline. When you lean over the railing, it feels warm against your forearms, heated by the earlier sunlight.

Sukuna steps in behind you, sliding the door most of the way shut. You spot the glint of that silver lighter in his hand, the free one reaching to pull the joint from behind his ear. As he joins you against the railing, you watch with bated breath as the flame flickers to life. 

He burns the paper tail away, then tucks the filter between his lips. It dangles there haphazardly as his free palm shelters the flame from dying, lighting the tip orange with the soft hisssss of his inhale.

He holds it for one second, two, jaw straining slightly. When he exhales, the steady stream emerges milky on the backdrop of dusk.

“Nice view,” you offer, eyes fixed anywhere but.

He doesn’t answer or look at you. Instead, you watch in awe as he takes another drag, this time slower, then passes the joint to you.

And, of course, you make sure your fingers brush. They’re calloused and warm against your cooler ones, making enough contact to send a jolt of electricity down your spine.

You mutter a soft ‘thanks’ and bring the filter to your lips, slightly damp from Sukuna’s drag. You inhale slowly and steadily, letting the warmth sink into your lungs, convincing yourself that you’re fine. The drag is smooth, you’ve smoked before, and you can do this.

But then, for no reason at all but superficial curiosity, you decide to shift your gaze to Sukuna.

He’s already looking at you.

His eyes, dark and narrow, study your face like you’re the most interesting thing on this balcony. Not the shimmering sunset or even the shape of the smoke between you – only you; you and your heart-eyed stare, pupils surely blown out just for him.

Your breath hitches. Fuck. The smoke glides down the wrong pipe.

You cough loud and ugly, leaning over the railing as your eyes sting with tears. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck! How gullible were you to think this day was finally going your way!?

By the time your cough subsides and you’re stable enough to pass the joint again, Sukuna’s lilt rises with an almost-chuckle that you pray is not a mockery.

“Easy,” he says as your eyes come into focus. He brings the joint to his smiling – yes, crooked but smiling lips, his eyes never leaving yours.

And fuck, you want to die. This seasoned professional you were, once having taken three back-to-back bong rips at a party without a single cough, suddenly bested by a single, puny puff.

All because the hottest man you have ever fucking seen agreed to a “hang out” with you.

“I’m good,” you strangle out, wiping your eyes. “Totally fine. Thanks.”

Another sound leaves his throat as he takes the joint back, something between a hum and a breathy chuckle. You’re not sure which one is worse.

But surprisingly, you don’t feel awkward. Standing on your crush’s balcony in his slides, smoking his weed, you were feeling… fine. Comforted, even, despite the quiet brewing between you. 

And eventually, between grazing fingers and the setting sunlight, you start feeling it. 

Hard. 

The first wave of numbness hits you somewhere between the fourth or fifth drag, like a sluggish, benevolent flush behind your eyes. The second, much more overwhelming, comes with a tangible buzzing under your skin, settling into your limbs like hot, hot honey.

Whatever you’ve been smoking in your life so far had nothing on what Sukuna gave you.

Your shoulders start feeling loose against the railing, the too-big slides like iron weights against the wooden parquet.

Sukuna is quiet beside you. You don’t know when he decided to move closer – or maybe it was you who did – but your shoulders currently press against each other, the warmth of his body nearly scorching against your thin top. The closeness feels too good to overthink.

“You good?” he asks, and it takes your brain a few seconds to piece the question into something legible.

“Mm.” You blink slowly, turning your head to look at him. His face is half in shadow and half golden from the last light of the day. “Yeah. Great.”

You think you see his lip quirk. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You wonder if he’s feeling it as much as you are.

“I can tell.” Maybe not. No surprise there, though; he was about twice your size and probably held thrice your tolerance. 

That’s fine, you think. You’d let him settle in.

The neighbourhood swims with dog barks and bird song, settling muffled into your ears like you’re seated underwater. You wish you had some music to play right now, if only to drown out the fervent beating of your own heart.

Sukuna, when you peek at him, looks the same as always. That sharp jawline you’d love to kiss all over. His neck, so thick and good to bite. And, of course, the hooked nose you’d thought about riding countless times before. 

But most of all, you can’t help but notice just how close his hand seems to yours, pinkies so close you could easily grab on.

“Kuna?” The nickname leaves your lips unprompted, tongue loose and mind hazy.

He must not notice or care, because all you get in return is one of his standard-issue grunts. Whatever the case, this wordless consent and his sudden, curious gaze on you give you a little headrush.

So you lean into him just a smidge, craning your neck up to make sure he can’t look away, then hit him with the best, most lighthearted smile you can muster up. 

“What’s your type?”

Something in his eyes sharpens. You bite your bottom lip, waiting to see if he withdraws.

He doesn’t.

“My type,” he repeats flatly.

“Uh-huh,” you push, enunciating your next sentence with cruel intention:  “A few weeks ago, Satoru asked me the kind of person I’m into.”

Hook, line, and sinker: that seems to catch Sukuna’s attention. His eyebrow quirks, then lowers, then pinches in the center. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Your smile widens to a grin. “But I never got to hear your answer.”

His eyes bore into you, flicking over every feature like he’s trying to figure out the best place to anchor his focus. He’s quiet like that for a long, long while. You watch, hypnotized, as the joint burns low between his thick fingers, close enough to burn, but it doesn’t.

“Dunno,” he finally says, turning towards the sky and taking a drag. “Never really thought about it.”

“Liar.”

He looks at you again, a twinkle in his eye that, paired with silence, you take as a sign to continue. 

So, with a slight smirk and a deep exhale, you take the joint from his grip and place it loosely between your lips. You pray it looks as cool as you feel, because you’d be damned trying to be that bold again.

“Everyone thinks about it,” you explain with a shrug that puts his nonchalance to shame. “Even you.”

The silence that follows settles in like a gentle feather, stirring the high in your bones and making the edges of your vision feel fuzzy. You really, really didn’t need that last puff, but at least everything looks so much more beautiful now.

The sky above has deepened into a gradient of indigo and blue, painted with thick, milky clouds that swirl and stretch far into the city. You breathe in the cooling air, feeling skin press against skin.

Right.

Your gaze briefly flicks down to where you and Sukuna are pressed together, still. You suddenly realize that neither of you must have felt the need to move, or maybe it was something much, much more compelling.

When you look back up again, his eyes are darting over your face. Starstruck by the color of his eyes, you stay quiet as you look right back.

“You’re staring,” he mutters.

“Maybe.” You say, voice thick with the smile you’re barely trying to hide anymore. “You should probably answer my question if you want me to stop.”

He huffs, then extends his forearms over the railing. They must look wonderful like that, speckled with ink and close enough to touch, but you can’t help but stay fixated on his face instead. 

“Bossy,” he speaks into the air.

“You’d be surprised.”

But he, in fact, still doesn’t reply. And you don’t push.

You sit there, side by side, passing the shrinking joint between each other until the purple fades to navy, and navy fades to black. Clear and unobscured, the sky stands as a grand canvas for the speckling of stars. You spot Andromeda. Then, the faded light of Alpha Persei.

Then a sudden gravel comes from your side, so low you almost rack it up to your overactive imagination:

“Someone who can handle silence.” And eventually, he continues: “Who doesn’t need to fill every second with noise.”

You breathe out a chuckle, leaning your head against your folded arms. “That’s it?”

His eyes flick to yours. “It’s enough.”

You shiver, because it’s the kind of graveness you didn’t ask for or even expect in the first place. You, with your butterfly-filled tummy and hot cheeks, thought nothing when you asked Sukuna what you now realize to be a very loaded, very suggestive question. 

“Okay,” you swallow thickly, feeling tension in your throat at his sustained eye contact. “What else?”

His lips, against all odds, curl into a crooked smirk. “You want more?”

Your breath catches silently.

Don’t say it like that, you think. Don’t make me believe you mean something you don’t.

And maybe it’s the haze of your high or the intimacy of a warm evening, but you feel emboldened enough to hold his gaze for longer than you’ve ever managed thus far. His pupils, close enough to catch your reflection, are blown enough to steal the color of his eyes. Something in your chest flutters.

“I want to know you better.” You say, smileless and forthcoming. “And this is just how I’m going about it.”

Which, by most accounts, meant that you wanted him – his hands under your shirt and tongue against yours, joint be forgotten – you just didn’t have the guts to tell him any other way.

Yet.

The hum of a nearby train rattles through the balcony, sending subtle vibrations up your legs. Sukuna’s arm flexes against yours. You’re still looking at each other.

“Someone who knows what they want.” He says in a low gravel, his palm splaying against his forearm. 

He taps once. Twice.

You watch, mesmerized. “And?”

Three. 

You feel the weight of his gaze, even in the dark. 

Four. 

Laughter echoes somewhere in the streets. You hold your breath, his lips part. “Someone who isn’t afraid to ask for it.”

You realize you’ve lost track of time. The sky has gone dark, you had to get home by ten, yet here you were, shamelessly eyeing the lips of your best friend’s older brother.

“That’s not a type.” You swallow.

His fingers stop tapping.

Sukuna pushes off the railing slowly, turning his body toward yours. The movement, as unexpected as it feels, seems completely unhurried and utterly intended. His shoulder blocks out part of the streetlights behind him, and suddenly, the balcony feels much, much smaller than it should.

You tilt your chin up to keep eye contact, but he’s already leaning down to compensate. Just slightly, just barely, juuuuust enough to crowd your space without committing to touch.

His head tilts, lip quirked to display those sharp, delicious canines of his. 

“Isn’t it, Bunny?”

His voice is low and smooth like molasses, cruising over your nickname and causing your breath to stutter in your throat. Your back presses against the wall, but there’s nowhere for you to go as if you wanted to be anywhere but under his cool regard, so close to getting exactly what you came for.

“I–” You start, then stop. You stare up at him, lips parted, realizing that in the moment you needed her most, your mouth has decided to run cotton-dry.

And Sukuna doesn’t move, or blink, or even consider letting you out of his sight. 

He watches you with those dark, half-lidded eyes, waiting. 

For what? You can’t say.

So you just can’t help it – you look away first. Your gaze drops to his chest, shoulders, everywhere and anywhere but that burning, preying stare. Your hands clasp together. You think you let out the softest whine.

Fuck. You were doing so well, and now everything was falling apart the moment he gave you a taste of your own medicine.

So you wet your lips, suddenly self-conscious. Did you have coffee earlier? Was your breath okay? If this was going where you thought it was, did you–

A sound catches your ears.

Not a big one, or mocking, or even remotely loud, but curious nonetheless. You look up, red and confused, and sure enough, you catch the unthinkable:

The object of your wildest desires swats a hand over his mouth, thick fingers loose over the bottom of his face. Ears pink, eyes crinkled, and the sharp points of his canines peeking through his fingers like those of an unruly wolf pup. 

Ryomen Sukuna, in all his terrifying acclaim, was giggling.

You refused to believe that very same, sour-tempered man was allowed to exist so carefree, so devil-may-care, with you, of all people – a no one, essentially – his little brother’s best friend, someone he met mere weeks ago. 

No, this wasn’t the Sukuna you knew. 

But the weed did what the weed does, and suddenly your brain was committing this rare, once-in-a-lifetime image to memory forever, hoping one day you could do this to him every day for the rest of your lives.

But before you got there, you had to deal with a complete, utter loss for words.

So, as seconds pass and he continues to yip, you speak with barely contained shock:

“W-Why–What–” you swallow, face scorching. “What’s so funny!?”

His air-dried hair sweeps in the breeze, highlighting the thin pinch of blush coating his temples. His eyelashes are enviably long, brushing the peak of his cheekbones as he finally drops his hand enough for you to see his face in full again.

You’ve never seen him like this. Unfiltered. Young. Boyish, even.

“Your face,” he says, still fighting laughter. “Like a skittish little rabbit.”

He’s not even trying to hide it anymore. His shoulders shake, standing there and giggling at your very appropriate reaction like it’s the funniest thing he’s seen his entire fucking life.

You should, maybe, be a bit mortified by this situation. You are, to an extent, with your red face, shallow breaths, and… okay, he might be a bit right to laugh.

He’s precious. In the rawest, most juvenile way, he’s adorable enough to admire.

And maybe you would, too, if it wasn’t for the relentless flips your heart was currently doing.

Because seeing him wane off his laughing fit with a certain sparkle in those eyes, pink-cheeked and positively towering over you, makes you, for lack of better words, feral.

He places the stub of your shared joint between his lips, curled at the corners and taunting. 

He leans his flank against the railing, one arm sprawled. His finger lifts.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Without much else to focus on but his thick digits and the soft, autumn breeze, you soon realize that more than anything tonight, you want to kiss him. 

And you want it badly.

The thought cuts through the haze like a blade, heart hammering against your ribs and making your palms clammy with sweat. Your lips part.

Do it, something ugly within you whispers. Take what you want.

You push off the railing.

It’s just a shift of weight, but it brings you chest to chest with him. You’re close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin, and certainly close enough to count the individual lashes framing his dark, suddenly curious eyes.

His hand drops from the railing. The tapping seizes once again.

“Sukuna.”

You watch his throat bob. “Yeah?”

And as the Universe herself had intended, you don’t answer with words.

Your hand reaches for the ashen filter hanging between his lips, forcing it out before taking advantage of his parted lips to rise onto your toes and smash your mouths together.

Your kiss is not soft, or gentle, or even particularly romantic.

I’m not scared of you, it says. I’m not scared of this.

But he freezes for half a heartbeat. You feel the quick exhale of surprise through his nose and the slight stiffening of his shoulders as they collide with yours.

Then suddenly, his large hands are cramping onto your waist with near-burning firmness.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your lips.

And then you’re both gone.

He kisses you back with animalistic hunger, lips parting to press heavier against yours. He tastes herbal, and ashen, and surprisingly sweet, and you part wide open to drink him up as best your body allows you.

His other hand comes up to cradle the back of your neck as you pull his body flush against you by the belt loop of his jeans. But even when your breasts press against his chest, and your hips grind at the apex, you just can’t get close enough.

A small, embarrassingly desperate sound escapes your throat. He swallows it like it’s his.

That’s right, you think, dizzy and triumphant. That’s fucking right.

You’re not sure who uses their tongue first, but it doesn’t take long for your kiss to become open-mouthed and messy. Hot, shallow breaths intermingle, him nipping your bottom lip, you licking along his teeth until you’re struggling for air.

Air. Fuck, what’s that? And when was the last time you breathed in, anyway?

So you part suddenly, loudly, pulling back just enough to gasp.

You stare at each other, lips parted, chests heaving with desperation. His hands are still firm against your waist, gripping hard enough to bruise. Yours are against his chest – you’re unsure when you put them there – feeling the ridges of muscle through his thin t-shirt.

No words are exchanged in those seven seconds.

His chest rises and falls beneath your palms. His heartbeat is fast and wild against your fingertips, and yet only half the pace of yours.

His jaw ticks. His eyes drop to your lips.

“Sukuna,” you whisper.

Then you’re on each other again, without hesitation. His mouth crashes into yours, tongue sweeping across yours, and you open for him eagerly.

His hands slide from your waist to your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh there. He pulls you flush against him, and you feel absolutely everything, from the muscular planes of his abs to the hardening tent in his jeans.

Fuck, fuck, fuck! This wasn’t real. None of this could actually be happening right now!

You moan into his mouth, totally forgetting you’re only on the fourth floor, in open air, for anyone to hear or see.

Naturally, you don’t give a fuck.

Instead, your hands leave his belt loop, sliding up his chest, then his shoulders, then his neck. You tangle your fingers in the barely-damp hair at the nape and tug just enough to make him hum low and rough into your throat.

His hands slip beneath the hem of your top, his palms flat against the bare skin of your waist, warm, and calloused, and huge. His thumbs trace slow circles over your hips, and you shiver, arching into his touch.

Then, like the echo of your wildest fantasies, he tucks two digits into your waistband, bunching your pants and panties together to feel against the ridge of your tummy.

You gasp, and he breaks the kiss just long enough to breathe your name against the corner of your lip: “Bunny.”

That’s all: just your nickname. But the way he says it, god, like it’s a damned prayer to you, and being this greened out and dick-hungry, you knew exactly what he was asking for.

“Yeah,” you breathe, “Yes–fuck–yes, you can–”

Your phone, slid into the back pocket of your jeans, rings its sorrowful tune.

It’s jarring and entirely too loud, too soon: a tinny pop theme that slashes through the tension like a bloodied sword through flesh.

Still tangled together, still breathing into each other, you freeze.

Sukuna’s hands don’t move from your waist, his lips still hovering over yours, close enough that you could capture them again if you just–

The phone keeps ringing, a steady vibration against your ass cheek. 

“You–” His voice is wrecked, but still teasing. “You gonna get that?”

Oh yes, you should. You know you should. But Sukuna doesn’t make it easy with his thumb teasing the lacey hem of your panties – yes, you wore your nicest pair just in case – lips swollen and pecking at the corner of yours. 

You worry that if you move now, the spell might break forever.

“It’s probably my mom,” you manage thinly, quickly realizing your mistake.

Fuck, were you twelve!?

He crooks a brow. “Your mom.”

“Yeah, my parents they–” you choke, too dizzy to think straight. “They’re coming home tonight. They were, uh… abroad.”

You feel him huff softly against your cheeks. “Abroad.”

“Yeah.”

The phone stops ringing, but the much-expected silence that follows is completely deafening.

You stare at each other: his hands still on you, and yours on him. You slide your digits from his hair to his shoulders, anchoring hard in case you were to pass out from… fuck, maybe everything that just transpired?

And then, so softly you almost miss it, he exhales:

“You should probably call her back.”

You should. You should? You should. But you can’t move, and you couldn’t even dream of wanting to.

But eventually, like all good things coming to an end, you make the adult decision to sever from him. Immediately, you want to gasp at the loss, skin cooling rapidly in the nighttime breeze as he, too, parts from you, anchoring his back against the railing.

“Thanks again,” you nod, suddenly unable to look him in the eyes. It’s not regret, though. For the first time in years, you feel truly, authentically shy in the presence of a man you like.

You think he may hum a goodbye to you at some point in your reaching for the sliding door, a simple ‘uh-huh,’ or just a nod of his head.

Except once you step foot into his room again, his gravel reaches you clear as day one last time:

“Bunny.”

You nearly get whiplash from how fast you twist your head to glimpse him one last time before farewell. There’s a softness to his face you’ve never seen before, sharp lines blurred by the coming night, not quite his regular self yet. 

You wish you could stay and take it in for a little longer. You wish you could kiss him goodbye.

“Yeah?” You breathe out, halfway through kicking his slides off.

His jaw flexes, and you see it so clearly in the sharp light creeping in from the hallway. He hovers by the sliding door for a few beats of your heart that you expectantly count, before his chest hollows with a loud exhale:

“Don’t forget your book.”

Before tonight, you’d feel hollow hearing this kind of response. But now? With your lips freshly bitten and your pussy practically salivating at the unresolved sexual tension that you helped build up?

You grin back at him, sharp and confident, and for a split second, you think you glimpse that youth in him again. 

“Goodnight, Kuna.”

And then, before anything more can even think to transpire, you’re gone with the wind.

You shut his door behind you, take your book off the TV console, slide into your outside shoes, then practically float down the dim apartment stairwell. 

Once you’re outside, the fresh air hitting your face makes it feel like you’re not even high anymore. Trembling and buzzing, yes, but sober. Completely and utterly sobered up.

And though it takes you an hour, with your copy of Abe Kobo pressed to your chest, you decide to walk the rest of your way home. At some point, you find yourself skipping like a schoolgirl, laughing out loud at nothing, startling a stray cat off a wall. A group of passing teenagers looks at you like you’ve lost your damn mind.

And maybe you have.

But for the first time in your life, you feel like all the fantasies you’ve been touching yourself to on your lonesome might actually have a chance to materialize. Maybe not today, and maybe not tomorrow, but eventually.

Ryomen Sukuna wasn’t just someone you wanted to fuck anymore. He was someone you would – and could – fuck, kiss, and make yours.

Like a perverted girl, reborn a woman.

☆

a/n; hope this was worth the wait and that kuna's not toooooo OOC yarrrhh brooding characters are hard to write you all but that's why they're so sexy!

tags; @satones @freddiweasly @mey-archive @aeanya @fallen-angelxoxo @kunako29 @ghostinggecko @lizzyloo22 @sweetsformysoul @suguwantsmoremovie @loulasav @iluvgetosuguru @heavenbananapie @22sublime @maomimii @sukubusss @man1cslut @burningmywill @notnormalthings-blog @cocochannelmoi @mikkmmmii @caramelothequeen @mirror0mirror @sukunasl-ttywh0re @heartsscribe @kuna-beefcake @youremomhehe-blog @jiyuspassion @glittzygorilla @wonderland-fan @in-aa @loakspr0perty @uchiha-kaguya @saintsglow @laserbeyza @ambrosiarosesworld @skylaryippee @hyeon3y @laserbeyza @urfavsunkissedleo

You touched one lightly, then another, watching your own face shift as the memory followed right behind it.

Surprisingly, it wasn't shame that hit you first; instead, it was something lighter.

You felt...pleased. That was the only word that made sense, although it barely felt like enough. There was a quiet thrill in it, in knowing that it had been him, that after all this time of watching him from a distance, of finding excuses to stay close, he had finally given in. 

You had wanted him for longer than you cared to admit, and now your body carried proof that he had wanted you back. There was a strange sort of certainty in the fact that he was your first.

You hadn't thought much about your first time before, not in any real, concrete way, but standing here now, it felt right. You couldn't explain it, but it felt meant to be.

It wasn't because losing your virginity was supposed to be anything special, but because it had been Yuji, you were satisfied with the night before. He had been someone you had already built up in your mind, someone you had wanted long before this ever happened.

It made the fact easier to accept.

There was no disappointment to pick apart, no awkwardness, nothing that made you wish it had gone differently. 

If anything, the thought of it being anyone but him felt wrong now, like it wouldn't have carried the same weight. If it had been anyone else, it wouldn't have left you standing here like this, tracing the aftermath with something close to fulfilment.

Your fingers paused just below your collarbone, pressing lightly into a mark that seemed to have indents of teeth bitten into it. You studied it for a second longer, your thoughts drifting back. 

You couldn't stop recalling the way he had looked at you.

But that didn't mean anything, did it? You knew better than to assume it did.

For him, it could have been anything. A lapse in his judgement. A moment of weakness. 

Something easier to take and walk away from. You weren't blind to it. You knew how it looked from the outside, how wrong it was, and how easy it would be for him to treat it like nothing more than something to pass the time.

To him you might be nothing more than 'Kugisaki's grandchild'.

There was something almost ironic about it and your lips twitch faintly despite yourself. 

Maybe that was all it was to him. 

You were something he wasn't supposed to have, something that should be left untouched, not to be tainted, and it only made you easier to want.

You exhaled slowly, your fingers dropping away from your skin. You didn't care as much as you probably should. 

Even if it might be demeaning, you would take it anyway.

Whatever you received from him must have been the tiny crumbs he brushed off, but you'd still take them over nothing.

The quiet of the room shifted slightly, broken by the faint creak of a door opening beyond the bathroom. You stilled, head turning just slightly as your attention snapped toward the sound.

"Are you in the shower?" your grandmother's voice called out, distant but clear. "Why are you up this early?"

You blinked once, not even having realized your grandmother was already back home. 

"Yeah," you called back, your voice more even than you expected. "I just woke up early."

There was a brief pause and your chest tighten with worry. Was she suspicious? Had you missed anything while cleaning up? 

"Alright," she replied. "Come out quickly, I ordered breakfast."

You hummed something in response, not trusting yourself to say much more. A second later, you heard the door close again, the sound soft but final as the bathroom settled back into quiet.

And just like that, your emotions changed.

The warmth that had been sitting so easily in your chest shifted, something more daunting slipping in. Your eyes found the mirror again, but this time it was different. You were looking at something you didn't entirely recognize.

The ease from before was gone, something demoralizing taking it's place that was harder to ignore now that you weren't alone in your thoughts anymore. 

Guilt.

You pressed your lips together, your gaze dropping briefly like you were trying to decide what to do with it.

You turned away, stepping toward the tub as the water finally stilled, steam rising in soft waves. You lowered yourself into it slowly, letting the warmth settle over your skin, easing the tension that had crept over you being.

The bubbles gathered along the surface, barely shifting as you leaned back against the porcelain and stared up at the ceiling.

You tried not to think about it, but your mind didn't stay empty for long.

It drifted, almost on its own, back to him. To the way he had spoken before leaving, to the cryptic words he left behind before his departure. You hadn't questioned it, already having deciphered his message.

The date had settled in your mind without effort. The 28th. 5 days.

You exhaled slowly, your head tipping back further as you let your eyes close for a second. You should have been thinking about anything else. You should have been wallowing in guilt, but you weren't.

Instead, you found yourself counting the days.

Despite the secrecy, despite how easily it could all fall apart if anyone notices, the two of you didn't stop.

If anything, it got more steady along the way.

Yuji learned quickly. He stopped coming by when your grandmother was home and his visits were timed. When the house wasn't an option, he would find other places, quieter ones, where neither of you had to worry about being seen. 

It became a routine in a way.

You understood what you were doing.

You knew it wasn't right, not with the way your grandmother had been working longer hours and how easily you used that absence to make space for him. There were moments, brief ones, where it sat heavier than usual, where you caught yourself thinking about it a second too long.

But those thoughts never lasted.

Not when he was there, bare in your arms.

Everything else seemed to fall away the second his hands found you and the space between you disappeared like it had never been there to begin with.

And somewhere in that year, something shifted. It wasn't obvious at first, it never was with him. 

Yuji had always been hard to read, his expressions were calm, his presence quiet that didn't invite questions. But you started noticing it in small ways, in things that didn't quite line up.

Around your grandmother, he seemed...different.

Quieter, but not in the same way as before. There was a solemnity to it now, something that seemed to weigh heavy and linger around him where he sat even when he wasn't speaking. 

You caught when he looked at her sometimes, like he was holding back something on his mind. His eyes would follow her when she moved around the room, not obvious enough to draw her attention but it wasn't subtle since you noticed it every time.

He listened more than he spoke, nodding along when she talked, giving the same short responses he always had. But there was something else there now, something that made it feel less casual.

You had your speculations, but you couldn't be sure. Whether it was because she was getting older, and he wasn't. Or something else entirely. Something that had to do with you.

Because with you, he wasn't the same either.

The distance that had been there in the beginning—like he was aware of the line even when you weren't—had started to slip. 

He started to stay longer.

Not just to fuck you more, but after it, when everything was quiet and he had no reason to still be there. He stopped leaving right away, instead, he would lean back against the headboard or the couch, arms resting behind his head, like he wasn't in a rush to go anywhere else.

You would curl up on him, chin resting on his chest as your legs tangled beneath the sheets to find warmth. 

And it was those time where he would talk to you. 

It started with the small things, simple things about where he was heading later or when he vaguely described what he had to do for work that day. 

But over time, it became more than that.

He told you about people you had only ever heard about in passing, names your grandmother had mentioned without much detail. 

He filled in the gaps your grandmother had left behind, speaking about the things he had lived through, things you could only imagine.

There were moments when his voice would shift, something lighter breaking through when he spoke about certain memories, like he was somewhere else entirely for a second. 

Other times, it stayed the same, his expression barely changing.

You never interrupted him, you never asked too many follow up questions, afraid he might be reluctant to share more later. 

You just listened, tracing idle patterns along his chest, your head resting against him as his voice lulled you to sleep more often than not.

He spoke about your grandmother, about the people he had lost, about things that stretched back longer than your life had ever gone. He didn't make a big deal out of it. 

He just told you.

He let you stay close to him as his hand would settle against you without thinking. He opened up, and you started to see a side of him that resembled the version of Yuji your grandmother used to describe.

It somehow made you feel closer to him, deluding yourself to believe you were the apex of his subtle change of heart. 

But you were afraid to put titles on it, fearing the gravity of it all might just push down on you and make the absurdity all the more real. 

So, neither of you asked what it meant.

Closing in on your year together with him, the two of you had learnt each other's bodies by heart.

You knew the layout of his hands before they even moved, already anticipating how he would hold you, the way he would position you, the way he'd stuff your cunt enough to keep you going for hours. 

There was no hesitation left in him, not like the first time or even the early days where he still used to hold back.

That was gone now.

His hands were heavy on your hips as he thrusted into you from behind, the cool marble of the bathroom counter a stark contrast to the heat of your skin. Your fingers remained splayed across the smooth surface, gripping it for dear life as he drove into you with increasing fervor. 

"Hnng! Hahh!" Your breathy moans and the obscene slaps of skin on skin echoed off the tile walls, mingling with his quiet grunts. You were lost in the moment, in the feeling of him filling you so completely, so perfectly. 

The rest of the world fell away until there was only the two of you, moving together in a primal rhythm as old as time.

This was one of those rare times Yuji fucked you without a condom, so you were aware of the effect it had on him. But the same could be said for you as well. 

You could feel every ridge, every vein as he stretched you around his substantial girth, filling you so completely that it almost hurt. But the pain, like always, blurred deliciously into pleasure, and you found yourself pushing back onto him, greedy for more.

The mirror had long since fogged over, the steam thick enough to blur everything except what was directly in front of you.

You watched as Yuji buried his face into the crook of your neck, his mouth latching onto your throat. 

He sucked hard, his teeth and tongue leaving bruises in their wake. He smoothly licked a stripe up your shoulder before biting down, no doubt leaving a vivid bite where none could see.

The sight of his pink hair, the line of his jaw, the determined set of his shoulders as he took you sent a thrill down your spine. You could only imagine the look on his face, the expression of pure lust and desire as he lost himself in your body.

"Fuck! Yu-ji!" you gasped, fingers scrabbling for his hands on your waist as he hit a particularly deep spot inside you. 

 "That's it, baby." He murmured against your neck, his breath hot on your skin. 

Suddenly, Yuji froze behind you, his hands tightening their grip on your hips. 

"Oh shit." he said, his voice barely above a whisper. Before you could even register his reaction, you felt his large hand clamping over your mouth, muffling your increasingly loud moans. 

At first, you were confused, your eyes wide as they met his in the fogged mirror. 

But then, a chill ran down your spine as you heard the distinct creak of your bedroom door opening, followed by the unmistakable sound of your grandmother's voice drifting through the bathroom door.

Oh shit indeed.

She was home, a lot earlier than she was supposed to be. 

Yuji didn't pull away. 

If anything, he closed the space further, your back pressed flat against him as you kept a hand over his that kept you quiet.

You could hear her moving around your room. The soft shuffle of her steps and the faint sound of something being set down. 

"Are you in the bathroom?" your grandmother called out, her voice closer to the locked door than you expected. 

You forced yourself to breathe through your nose, your fingers tightening against him as you tried to steady yourself.

Yuji releases your face, his hand barely drifting far as it comes to rest on your shoulder, his arm circling you around your collar.

"Dear?" Her voice comes in again, but you remain frozen in shock, heart beating rapidly as all you could think about were the worst possible scenarios of how this could go.

She voice called out again, more worried now.

"Answer her." You flinch as Yuji's whispers into your ear, proximity so close it felt suffocating despite the familiarity. 

You were hyperaware of his cock still buried inside you as he slightly shuffled against you.

"Ye-yeah! Just in the bath." Your fingers gripped him hard, steadying yourself to keep your voice from giving anything away. 

"Will you be going anywhere tonight?" She inquired with a tone that almost made you believe she was suspicious of something. 

You were damn near trembling against Yuji, his hand patting your hip once to encourage the conversation.

"No. I'll just be chilling here. At home." 

"Good. I need you at home today, dear. I came back for a bit but I need to leave again. I got called somewhere else for an emergency." 

You wanted to blame your distraught mind for your observation, but you were sure that what you heard from your grandmother's voice was somewhere close to worry. 

"Is...everything alright?" You question despite yourself.

"It should be. Don't make dinner, just order something for yourself." You heard her voice along with a little shuffling around the room. 

Your worry only grew, wondering if Yuji had left something out that she might have noticed. 

Meeting his eyes, it felt like he understood your distress as he just slightly shook his head, leaning his face over to kiss along your jaw.

"Y-you won't be home?" You continued to converse with your grandmother as it was your turn to cover Yuji's mouth due to his teasing. 

He barely seemed worried now, confident that your grandmother had no clue about his presence. You turned your face to the side to properly look at him now.

"I don't think I will be. Don't keep your phone on silent, okay? And lock everything before you sleep."

"Okay." Your hand didn't move from Yuji's face, just continued to keep your gaze connected as he tilts his head slightly.

"Alright then, I'll leave now. Again, don't keep your phone on silent!" Her voice got softer with each word, indicating that she walked further away from where she was as she smoothly made her exit, her departure being marked with the thud of your bedroom door.

Your hand slid away from his face slowly, yet he didn't step back, didn't give you room to think, to breathe, to process what had just happened. 

For a moment, neither of you spoke. And then you exhaled, your grip tightening again as the tension refused to leave your body. 

"She was right there. We almost got caught."

"But we didn't." 

"Did you leave anything out there? Where are your clothes Yuji?" 

"I hid them under the bed. Like always." 

"Right. Okay." You exhale harshly, running a hand down your face to wipe the cold sweat. Yuji palm brushes your hair away from your nape, then placing it flat and clutching your neck smoothly.

His other hand swiftly makes way between your legs, teasing your clit as you are made painfully aware of your walls still keeping him warm. 

He pulls you back, feeling a jolt as he thrusts only once.

"Y-Yuji. Please. I...I just need a m-moment to think!" Your words are broken as his hips continue the movement, his hand gliding from your nape to you throat as he lays it flat. 

His face comes closer yet again, nose pressed to your cheek as his lips brush your jaw.

"Do you?" He speaks against your skin, more confident now that he sensed Kugisaki was out of the house completely.

"Because it doesn't feel like it." He murmured, his voice low. Yuji's hand tightens around your throat as he starts thrusting harder, his hips slapping against your ass with each powerful drive.

"F-Fuck..." you whimper, trying to pull away but his grip on your throat keeps you in place. Your nails dig into his skin as you struggle to keep your balance.

Yuji was rubbing slow circles around the swollen nub, his hips never stop their relentless rhythm, driving into you over and over. You're lost in sensation, drowning in the feeling of him inside you. 

Your mind goes blank, thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind. There's only room for the hot ache of his cock, the slick glide of his fingers on your clit, and the heat of his skin on yours.

You gasp, arching into his touch as jolts of pleasure shoot through you.

"Don't think," he murmurs, voice low and rough with lust. "Just feel."

Before the aftershocks can even settle, he was moving with a new purpose. He turns you around, his hands settling on your waist to lift your trembling weight. Without so much as a grunt, he hoists you up, settling you onto the edge of the cool bathroom counter.

The sudden change in temperature makes you gasp, but you barely have time to steady yourself before he is between your thighs. 

He spreads you wide, his eyes dark as he takes in the sight of you flushed, messy, slick pussy.

As his tongue first makes contact, a sob breaks from your throat. He begins to eat you out with ease, his tongue gliding with precision over your sensitive clit. 

The sensation is so sharp, so overwhelming, that tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

Then, he pushes deeper, his tongue plunging inside you, tasting the mix of you and his own cum that was still trickling out of you. 

You cry out his name, your head falling back as you lose yourself all over again to the wet friction of his mouth.

You step out of the bathroom together, the air outside feeling cooler against your skin after a quick bath, almost jarring after the heat you had just left behind. 

You didn't stop to think about it, walking straight toward your bed as you dropped to your knees and reached underneath, your fingers brushing against the fabric Yuji had shoved there earlier.

You pulled out his clothes without looking at him, tossing his pants in his direction before straightening up, leaving his hoodie on the bed. He caught them easily, already stepping into them like a routine.

You grabbed the first thing within reach, slipping an oversized tee over your head, the fabric falling loose against your body as you adjusted it absentmindedly. Neither of you spoke, but by the time you looked up, he was already moving.

Yuji walked past you toward the bedside table, reaching for his phone like it had been waiting there the entire time. Your brows pulled together tight, mood bordering on annoyance as you pushed yourself off the bed and took a step toward him.

"You left that out?" you said, your voice lower now but edged with something sharper than your usual tone with him. "What if she had seen it?"

He paused for a second, glancing at the phone in his hand before rubbing the back of his neck, his expression barely shifting.

"Didn't think she'd come back," he replied.

"That's not the point," you said, closing the distance between you. 

"You can't just leave things like that lying around. What would we have done if she had seen it?"

You were vexed. Wasn't he supposed to be just as worried as you? Then why did it seem as though you had taken his half of the stress as well?

He didn't argue, but he wasn't stupid enough to deflect your concern. So, he just gave a small nod, his shoulders tensing slightly.

"Sorry."

A simple apology was all he offered, yet pathetically enough, it was enough for you to ease off him.

You exhaled quietly, softly pinching your nose to suppress the irritation. You had already been on edge after what conspired earlier, so this felt like a catalyst to your overtly anxious mind. 

Despite it, you to step closer, your arms wrapping around him without much thought, your body pressed against his, your head settling against his chest.

He stilled for a moment, then his arm came up, resting over your shoulders, pulling you in slightly. His hold was steady and for a second, everything felt quiet again.

It felt nice. Normal even.

For the past few months you had come very close to asking Yuji of your place in his life, hoping to put some sort of title over what you shared. But, each time your throat would close up, choking on the question long before you could voice it out.

This time, you would say it. Just three words, and a hope for a grounding answer.

All you ever wanted to ask him was,

"What are we?"

Your heard your voice before your mind could catch up, pulling your face from his chest to gauge his reaction.

You tried to bury your panic, but you were sure even Yuji could feel the faint thumping within your chest. 

You didn't even notice your breathing become frantic, only flinching to a stop when you felt his fingers touch your face, knuckles brushing against your cheek.

You couldn't, for the life of you, understand what was going on in his mind. And his face didn't show much either. He just seemed...stoic.

No shock, no panic, no sorrow. 

A very tepid reaction for something that had been decaying your brain.

He took in a sharp breath, forming the words on his tongue. But just before your ears could catch his voice, his phone buzzed.

The sound cut through the moment cleanly, and you felt the way his body went rigid against yours, his arm freezing where it rested on you. The shift was immediate, making you pull back slightly, your hands loosening around him as he took a small step back.

"Yuji?"

Yuji did not respond. His eyes were fixed on the screen, something in his countenance tightening in a way you had never witnessed before. 

He wasn't even trying to be subtle or hide it.

"Yuji?" you called out again, softer this time.

You frowned slightly, trying to turn your head and take a peak at his for so you could understand what had changed so quickly.

That was when he stepped back, breaking  away from you completely as he lowered the phone, his jaw tense as he avoided your eyes.

"I need to go."

The words came out flat, one reminiscent to the tone you were very familiar with in the start. 

It had taken you all this time to melt down a small part of his barrier, but now it was back just a quickly, hitting you like a barrel.

You blinked at him, the response catching in your throat as you watched him reach for his hoodie, pulling it on in one quick motion.

"Wait—what?" you started, taking a step toward him, but he was already moving.

He didn't halt for even a movement, and it was enough to indicate something very dreadful had happened.

He crossed the room in a few steps, heading straight for the balcony, and before you could say anything else, before you could even process it—

He was gone with a flicker. 

You stood in the quiet of you room, hand stretched out towards the direction he once stood, before letting it fall to your side. You had no idea how to react to this situation, so all you could do was to lay in bed and let your tears lull you to sleep.

You sat across from your grandmother in the living room, the television running low in the background, though neither of you were paying attention to it. 

She had her hands folded in her lap, posture relaxed, gaze fixed somewhere ahead while you watched her without meaning to.

It had been a few days.

The house had gone back to normal. Your daily meals were made, conversations were had, the same routine carried on without interruption, but something had dull had settled. 

You felt it most when his name came up, or rather, when it didn't.

You had found out the reason soon enough.

An old friend of theirs had passed. 

Hana. 

You had gone with your grandmother to the funeral the next day, standing beside her through it all, listening to the conversations that drifted around you.

You had seen him there.

He stood there, apart from the others, close enough to be present, but distant so that no one tried to pull him into conversation unless necessary. 

He hadn't seem to be expressing the same sorrow as the ones around him, though the way he had left you the night before made sure that this indeed had shocked him enough to leave him rattled.

When your grandmother approached him, he spoke to her, giving her the attention he always did. He never glanced your way, not while he spoke to her, not during the entire duration of the funeral.

He never looked at you. Not even a single time.

You had waited for it, longer than you wanted to admit, your eyes finding him more often than you meant them to, expecting something small, anything that acknowledged you were there.

It never came. He had left soon after his conversation with your grandmother without even a goodbye.

You sat there now, your fingers loosely intertwined, your gaze dropping for a moment before lifting again, settling on her as she reached for the remote and increased the volume.

"You friend...he hasn't come by," you said finally, keeping your tone even, casual enough to not draw attention to it.

She glanced at you briefly, then back at the screen.

"No," she replied. "He won't."

The certainty in her voice made your chest tighten slightly. You shifted in your seat, your hands loosening before settling again.

"Why not?"

She didn't answer immediately, but her thumb paused against the remote before continuing to surf through the channels.

"He said he wouldn't be attending funerals anymore." She said, her voice steady

You frowned slightly, the words not sitting right. Your gaze dropped briefly before you looked back at her, your voice quieter now.

"Did she mean that much to him?"

Your grandmother leaned back slightly, her expression thoughtful, as if she was choosing her words carefully.

"I'm not sure," she admitted. 

"But they understood each other in ways most people wouldn't. Being a vessel, it changes how you see things."

She paused for a moment, her eyes shifting slightly towards you.

"And after Fushiguro..." she continued, her voice lowering just enough. "She was one of the few connections he had left to him. Losing that was very difficult for him."

"But the three of you were friends, were you not? He won't even come to meet you, now?" You ask, trying to be subtle.

"Who knows. Itadori has always been unpredictable, even more so as he grew stronger. Reminds me of our first mentor."

You nodded slowly, though the explanation didn't settle anything inside you. All you took from it was you might never see Yuji again.

Your grandmother was back to watching the television, but you didn't move. Your mind lingered somewhere else, caught between what you had been told and what you had seen, the absence of him pressing more than his presence ever had.

Later that night, you sat alone in your room, your phone resting in your hand, the screen dimming and lighting again as you unlocked it without thinking.

His contact name sat there.

You stared at it for a moment, your thumb hovering over the screen, hesitating as you already assumed the worst.

There was no label for what you had. No place for you to stand beside him that made it feel right to reach out.

But you did anyway.

With a single message.

are you okay?

You stared at it for a second after sending it, your chest tightening slightly as the screen went still again.

There was no reply. Not that night, nor the next.

A month passed, though it did not feel like something that could be measured so cleanly. The days blurred into each other, slow and uneventful, while the nights stretched longer than they should have. 

You found yourself lying awake more often than not, your thoughts circling back to him without invitation, replaying what little you had to hold onto until it lost its shape. 

You cried more than you expected to. 

It was quiet and solemn, and you let it pass through you when the house fell still and there was nothing left to distract you. 

You did not question it or try to give it meaning. 

Instead, you simply let it happen until, slowly, it began to ease on its own, time working it's wonders as it got easier to forget. 

The weight of it did not disappear, but it turned into something light, something you could carry without thinking about it all the time.

By the end of the month, you had convinced yourself you were fine.

You stopped checking your phone as often. You stopped expecting anything from him. You let your days move forward without waiting for something that had already proven it would not come.

So when he did come back, it did not feel real at first.

There was no message, no warning, no attempt to ease into it. 

He was simply there, standing in your room as if the past month had not existed, as if nothing had been left unresolved between you. 

His presence filled the space like it always had, leaving no room to question how or why he had returned.

You looked at him, your mind catching up slower than your body did. 

There were things you had held onto for weeks, questions that had built up in the silence he left behind, but none of them made it past your throat. 

You knew why he had left, and that knowledge was enough to keep you from saying anything at all.

You started to speak, his name leaving your lips in one of the many ways it had over the past year, but none of them had ever sounded so devastating.

"Yuji..."

He stepped closer, closing the distance, and whatever you had been holding onto slipped away.

You did not stop him.

Everything you had pushed down over the past month surfaced all at once, as you held onto him, as you refused to pull back even when you should have. 

The frustration he had caused, the confusion he had left behind, the quiet relief of him being there again, it all came crashing through you.

He met it without question.

He gave no explanation, no apology, no acknowledgment of the time that had passed. He did not offer anything to make sense of it.

And you did not ask for it. 

You simply took him to your bed, letting his calloused hands strip you off your clothes, baring you of your body and soul, and he fucked you, carefully ignoring the latter.

By the time everything settled, the room had gone quiet again. 

You laid there, your breathing slower now, your thoughts dulled by what you wished was peace, but knew better to be of exhaustion. 

The balcony had begun to let in the first signs of morning, a faint light creeping in, marking the time neither of you had paid attention to.

Yuji moved first.

You watched him sit up, reaching for his clothes without looking at you, pulling them on with the same ease and lack of urgency he had during the early days.

There was no hesitation, nothing that suggested he had anything to say before he left.

You stayed where you were, your gaze following him without calling out,

You didn't ask him to stop.

Not when he hadn't even looked back.

Not when he spoke no words to you at his departure.

No goodbye. No message. No promise.

The only thing he left behind was his absence.

Like always.

A month turned into two, and then into something you no longer bothered keeping count.

Just like your grandmother had said, he was unpredictable. 

He came back when he wanted to. Sometimes it was a month, sometimes longer. 

Every time your grandmother was away, leaving the house empty for you, you would expect him to be there, the show up after depriving you of himself.

But somehow he always showed up when you least expected it.

There was no pattern you could rely on, no message beforehand, no explanation after. 

He would appear in your room as if nothing had passed between the last time and now, and you would let him in without asking where he had been.

It became something you stopped questioning.

Until one night, you did.

part 4 coming soon...

modulo yuji collection [taglist open] {you will be tagged for all modulo yuji x younger reader fic}

all reason aside (this series) [taglist open] {you will be tagged for this series only}

masterlist

Everything he saw, he threw in the box like it was chore—mechanically, brain never pausing long enough to register what his fingers curled around.

A scarf—vermillion silk, obnoxiously red. His kind of red. The color of his eyes, and the dried blood on the corner of his mouth after a vicious bar fight.

Then—heels, heels, heels.

You collected heels like you were set to walk on a runway show. He never paid much attention to them before—why would he? They were just shoes. But now? They almost felt like a declaration. Like each click against the floor was you strutting away from him, step by step.

Further and further.

Runway…funny. He’d always thought of you as the one who stayed. But now, he realized you had run away, and never looked back.

He scoffed, shaking his head before he paused.

Just a quick break—eyes flicking to the window, watchful and narrowed into suspicious slits.

More apartment complexes, boxed glass showing snippets of strangers’ lives: a couple making out as they made dinner, an old man reading a book, a single mother juggling her toddlers—their muffled laughter somehow infiltrating the apartment. It was like watching a live movie, but right now, nothing could be as dramatic as a man scavenging through his ex’s previously-prized possessions.

A pigeon flew by and perched on a balcony’s railing as if taking a break.

Just like him.

As Sukuna continued sorting through your things, his fingers brushed over a small velvet box at the bottom of the closet, pushed to the back like something unworthy of remembering. He pulled it out, studying the worn corners, how the fabric frayed slightly at the edges. He paused, staring at it before opening it with a quiet snap.

Inside, nestled on a bed of black silk, was a pair of diamond earrings that glittered in the dim light. They caught the light with a cold, perfect shine.

Cautiously, his touched an earring with his index finger—poking it like it was a live specimen and not a piece of delicate jewelry. With that touch, a memory broke loose, his mind transporting him to that moment before he could escape it.

His chest tightened. Those earrings. The ones he’d bought you after forgetting the second year anniversary.

He hadn’t meant to forget. But he always had an excuse on the tip of his tongue: work, something else—something more significant than a date that marked what he had thought was a stable relationship. His mind just never stayed in one place long enough to be present with you. When you’d confronted him, hurt written all over your face, he’d tried to make it up to you. He’d bought you diamonds because he didn’t know how else to apologize.

It was a fake apology.

One that, unfortunately, couldn’t cover the void he’d left in your heart, the countless nights where you had to fill in the emotional space he had refused to occupy.

You’d worn them once, he remembered. The sharp edges of the diamonds gleaming as you smiled weakly at him. But he’d never seen the look on your face then—or perhaps it hadn’t fully registered—the silent resignation that you weren’t about to keep fighting for something that wasn’t real.

He closed the box slowly, and trapped the memory inside, his heart sinking with the weight of it. Another gift that meant nothing.

In that same corner—the corner of memories—there was a stack of shoe boxes. Sukuna assumed they housed more designer heels, but when he opened on of them—

It wasn’t shoes.

It was him.

Not literally, but close enough to make something in his chest tighten before he understood why.

Inside were folded scraps of paper. Ticket stubs. From the many nights where he’d promise to go with you, but he’d always flake at the last minute—until you stopped inviting him altogether—stopped expecting him to show up. Underneath were Polaroids with the corners bent soft from being handled too many times. He could picture your trembling fingers creasing them, like you couldn’t decide whether to keep or get rid of them.

A dried flower pressed flat in the middle like it once mattered enough to preserve. Hydrangeas—Sukuna recalled. Your favorite. He’d read somewhere it symbolized gratitude and apology. You bought them especially during the rainy season, always blue. You’d put them inside the vase, their scent filling the apartment while you prattled on about the legend of the emperor who had gifted them to his beloved. His mouth twitched at the memory, almost instinctively, like he could brush it off the same way he used to.

“Ridiculous,” he’d probably said back then as you recited the story for the umpteenth time with a bright smile on your face.

He could count the times he’d bought them for you in one hand.

Not even a hand—one finger.

Only once.

His fingers hovered over it before he picked it up, careful in a way he didn’t realize he was being careful at all. The petals were brittle—too fragile for pressure, too dull for color—like they’d given up on staying alive. Still, with his sharp vision, he detected a lavender hue before it faded into the browned edges.

He recognized it—this was it—the bouquet he’d bought you—-and he hadn’t even bothered to get the right color.

Not the pale blue that you loved. Not the soft, careful shade you had pointed out many times to drill into his head—as if hinting that you wanted him to buy them. Finally, he had enough of hearing about them and purchased them on a random day while passing the floral shop. He hadn’t cared enough to double check on the color. Just took whatever the florist had handed him, wrapped too neatly in paper he didn’t look twice.

Back then, it hadn’t felt important—just a task he had to cross off his list because work awaited. And work was his top—if not only—priority.

Flowers were flowers.

They grew, they bloomed, they withered.

Just like the love you both shared.

Until this moment, he wasn’t sure why he’d given them to you. Perhaps they were an apology, or maybe it was due to another forgotten anniversary.

He remembered tossing them into your arms with the same ease he did everything else—like making an effort was optional, like meaning could fill itself in later.

You’d smiled anyway—kissed him on the cheek like you wanted to preserve your love onto his skin.

That was the part that should’ve bothered him more than it ever did.

Sukuna exhaled through his nose—low and sharp—like he could cut the feeling out of himself if he did it hard enough.

His grip tightened slightly around the flower, and for a second, thought about crushing it into fine dust.

But he didn’t—he couldn’t bring himself to.

He just stood there, holding yet another version of an apology he’d never properly made—realizing too late, that even when he tried to fix things, he’d never really been looking at what needed fixing.

He stared at the rest of the contents. At things that were too small to be valuable—not unless they carried meaning to whomever kept them.

His fingers twitched for a second as he eyed the next item, pausing midair before he touched anything like the box might bite.

Then, he picked up a random Polaroid.

It was him. Half-captured, unguarded. Not scowling, not smirking—just caught in an everlasting moment where he hadn’t noticed the camera. His eyes were turned away, yet you’d still kept it.

Another photo. Him again. A blur of motion—tousled hair like roseate flames like it had fought with gravity and won—probably taken without him caring enough to stop you.

Sukuna clicked his tongue under his breath, sounding a lot weaker than he meant to. “Tch…”

Except it didn’t sound like annoyance.

It felt like being watched from a place he hadn’t realized you’d been standing all along.

You’d captured him through your eyes.

Chaos and muddled motions.

He dug deeper.

Another movie stub.

A receipt from a nearby café he vaguely remembered you begging him to accompany you to—practically vibrating with excitement as you’d raved about their strawberry cloud matcha—folded carefully like it mattered.

Rain check—he’d texted you. No explanation, no apology.

He opened it, scanning the transaction even though he knew what you had probably ordered—but it was like he wanted a confirmation, proof that he knew you more than you knew yourself, despite never being—

Despite never being a good boyfriend.

Despite never being the kind of man who asked instead of assumed.

His eyes dragged over the faded ink, the numbers illegible, the date stamped on the corner like a quiet accusation. He swallowed, throat closing up, then reread it as if the words might change if he looked hard enough.

A strawberry cloud matcha as expected.

Sukuna’s eyes narrowed.

Not because of the drink itself—he’d seen you order it enough times to remember the stupid name—but because of the number beside it.

2.

Two fucking strawberry cloud matchas.

And below it, a list of baked goods: two slices of strawberry shortcake, two strawberry croissants, two strawberry mochis.

He stared at it longer than he intended, like the total number of items would disappear if he glared at it long enough.

Two.

Two of everything.

His first instinct was simple.

Maybe you bought them for him.

But he already knew the truth before he admitted it to himself.

He didn’t drink matcha.

He had more of a savory tongue than a sweet tooth.

And you knew that.

Could it be—no. No. Impossible.

His thumb pressed on the receipt. He scoffed quietly, folding it back up with unnecessary pressure.

Whatever.

Maybe it was for your friend—Shoko, or whatever her name was. Maybe it was nothing.

He tossed it back into the shoebox and moved on.

But the uneasy feeling stayed lodged in his chest like a splinter.

He skimmed over the other items.

A torn corner of wrapping paper with candle stencils on it. His birthday. The one he’d barely acknowledge. Even before he’d met you, it wasn’t something he thought was worth celebrating.

Not until you had showed up in his life.

Birthday surprises once the clock struck midnight. Meaningful gifts that he’d dismiss as corny—laughing under his breath, rolling his eyes like it was stupid.

But he’d still hold them in his hands a second too long.

He’d stare at them like they were the best thing anyone had ever given him.

Because he didn’t know how to stay thank you—to express his gratitude—without ruining the moment. He didn’t know how to accept love without acting like it was embarrassing—like it was worthless.

But you had noticed. You always noticed.

He blinked at the stuff before him.

Each item was quiet on its own.

Together, they weren’t quiet at all.

They were a pattern.

Proof of effort. Proof of waiting. Proof that you had been building alone longer than he ever noticed.

His hand paused over something softer at the bottom.

A small notebook.

Not yours, not really—one of those cheap ones people buy without thinking. Just a notebook to fill with addresses or contact information—maybe even doodles at the margins.

He opened it.

And for the first time he’d stepped into the apartment, Sukuna didn’t have something clever to say in his head.

Just your handwriting. Boxed characters, impatient slants, the occasional scribble where you’d crossed something out and rewritten it like you didn’t trust your own feelings to be correct the first time.

Short lines. Dates. Moments.

Not dramatic. Not poetic.

Just honest—unfiltered, unapologetic.

He started from the beginning.

Sukuna secretly loves that I call him Suki.

He let out of a huff of air from his nostrils—harsh, amused, the closest thing to a laugh he ever allowed himself. He remembered the first time you’d called him that.

It had slipped out so easily—so effortlessly—like you didn’t realize you were playing with fire.

“Suki.”

He’d turned his head slowly, eyes narrowing like you’d just insulted him.

“What the hell did you just call me?”

You hadn’t even flinched. Just smiled—sweet, smug—like you’d already decided you belonged in his space.

“You heard me,” you’d said, tilting your head. “Suki.”

He remembered the way irritation had flashed through him, hot and immediate, because no one dared to shorten his name. No one softened him down into something cute. Something harmless.

He’d grabbed your wrist then—not rough, but not exactly gentle either—just enough to remind you who you were talking to.

“Don’t call me that.”

You’d blinked up at him, eyes wide and innocent in a way that wasn’t innocent at all. “But it suits you…”

He should’ve shut it down—should’ve made you stop.

Instead, something strange curled into his chest—something warm and familiar, something that made him want to keep you closer just to hear you say it again.

And the worst part?

He’d never corrected you after that.

Sukuna flipped the page, skipping a couple of pages with silly drawings. For a second, he appreciated them—cherished this side of you. This childish, playful side that made him realize that life shouldn’t always be so serious.

He paused, his finger lingering on a crude drawing of a cartoon version of him—bold, exaggerated features, sharp fangs and crimson eyes and pinkish spikes—a jagged crown with a blood-red ruby perched on top of his head. You’d drawn him like that once you were sitting next to him on the couch, laughing as you scribbled with crayons and markers like some big kid, saying he looked like an “evil king who needed a good hug.”

It had been the first time he’d genuinely laughed at something that wasn’t a mocking snicker or an arrogant grin. He’d actually laughed with you. And it felt…easy. Comfortable.

For a moment, he wondered why he hadn’t let the moment mean more, why he hadn’t let that version of himself—that version—stay longer. But then the thought left as quickly as it came.

Sukuna turned the pages, catching pieces of your thoughts—thoughts you had tried again and again to share with him, only to have them swallowed by a boundary he’d built between you.

Not a wall, exactly.

A distance.

A quiet refusal to meet you where you stood.

He kissed me today. I think he meant it.

Sukuna’s throat tightened even more, like someone had secured a zip tie around it.

He kept reading.

He laughed at something I said. It felt…warm.

More notes, each one like a stab to the heart.

He didn’t come today. I said it was fine.

He laughed when I tried to explain it.

I wish he’d look at me when I’m talking.

I think I’m starting to stop expecting—

The last line wasn’t finished properly.

Just a sentence cut off like you couldn’t be bothered to finish what he already refused to understand.

But then he quickly turned the page, as if searching for the other half of this incomplete thought.

Maybe I’m asking for too much.

And he didn’t know why, but the pain in his chest grew unbearable.

Because you weren’t asking for too much.

You were asking the wrong man.

Sukuna remained in that same position, unmoving.

The box still open.

The room still silent.

And for the first time, it didn’t feel like he was sifting through your things.

It felt like he was standing inside everything he never paid attention to—until it had already stopped being his to notice.

Blank pages after that. No more thoughts, no more entries—no more reminders. Because that was they seemed to him. Reminders of why you should walk away. Reminders of why you should give up on him.

But halfway through flipping, he found a loose page, folded and tucked randomly inside, like it wanted to be hidden and discovered at the same time.

Baby Suki Ryoumen Sukuna,

I don’t know why I’m writing this instead of saying it to your face. Maybe because I’ve tried and you look at me like I’m asking for too much.

You always act like love is something childish. Something embarrassing. Something worthless. Something beneath you.

But I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention.

I’ve seen it.

I’ve seen how you soften for a second and then shut it down like it’s a weakness. Like you’re ashamed of it.

Sukuna scoffed, rolling his eyes—ignoring that sharp pang in his chest, and how it just kept fucking probing, probing, probing.

And I’m tired.

I’m so tired.

I’m tired of loving you quietly. I’m tired of having to translate your silence into something I can survive or else I’ll lose my mind.

His eyes started to sting, but he blinked the burn away. Annoyed.

You don’t say sorry. You just buy things.

You don’t talk. You just touch me, not mentally, not emotionally…just physically.

You don’t comfort me. You pull me closer like it’s supposed to fix everything.

And I let you.

Because I love you in a way that makes me feel stupid.

I keep lying to telling myself that one day you’ll wake up and realize that I’m not asking you to change who you are.

I’m just asking you to let me in.

Just once.

You need to understand:

I don’t need flowers.

I don’t need earrings.

I don’t need anything expensive.

I want you to look at me and mean it when you say you want me.

I need you to care when I’m hurting, to actually show it and not give me a dismissive reaction.

I need you to stop treating love like it’s something you can throw away and pick back up whenever you feel like it.

Because I can’t keep doing this, Sukuna.

I can’t keep waiting for the version of you that only shows up when you think you’re losing me.

And maybe…maybe I should’ve lieft sooner.

Because there’s something that I kept from you.

Sukuna paused, the ground tilting beneath his feet, his entire world in disequilibrium, and he couldn’t find the balance to stand upright. He had to take a break. His hands shook slightly as he set the letter down, as if it might burn him if he held it any longer.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

This was not how he imagined it.

A 6’5 man with the scariest demeanor, who got into bar fights like it was a sport…was scared.

He felt terrified of what was on the other side of this paper.

His chest constricted, his breathing shallow. He didn’t know what do with this knot in his stomach. Anger clawed at him, ready to push the fear aside, but it didn’t work. It never worked when it came to you.

For the first time in years, he felt something there than the rage he used to fuel him.

He ran a hand over his face, fingers cold against his skin like that could wipe away the pain. His jaw flexed. Hard. Teeth grinding.

Why the fuck am I like this?

He let out a frustrated breath. His hand clenched around the letter—knuckles turning white—crumpling it slightly. No. He couldn’t get weak now. He wasn’t going to break.

Not now, not ever.

With a determined effort, he flipped the page over, and continued reading:

I was pregnant.

The words scrambled and unscrambled like a code that didn’t want to be deciphered.

I was pregnant.

Was.

Was.

Was.

A sound tore out of him—something strangled, sharp. And then his mind betrayed him.

Another flashback—uninvited, vivid.

You were curled up beside him on the bed, the blanket half kicked off, like you couldn’t decide if you were hot or cold, so you had to compromise. The bedroom TV was playing in the background—some stupid show that he hadn’t been paying attention to. You’d been quieter than usual, playing with the edge of the blanket like you were rehearsing something.

“Sukuna,” you’d said softly.

He hadn’t answer at first.

“Baby?” You’d murmured, reaching for his shoulder, Your fingers slid over the muscle slowly, gentle, careful—like you were approaching something that wasn’t easily tamed.

But Sukuna had shrugged off your touch without even thinking.

Not because you’d done anything wrong.

Because his mind was already elsewhere—still simmering over a bad investment, a phone call that hadn’t gone his way, numbers that refused to bend.

Your hand hovered for a second betore retreating.

“I have a question…” You’d said, too quietly—disheartened.

“Speak,” he’d ordered—jaw tight—eyes still on the TV screen.

“If we ever had kids…” You started, almost laughing like it was a joke. Like you were trying to make it easier on yourself. “What do you think they’d look like?”

He remembered the way you’d smiled when you asked. Nervous. Hopeful.

He remembered answering even without turning his head, like making eye contact with you was a tedious chore.

But he’d done so, angled his head just a tiny fraction as if to make sure you’d engrave his answer into your skull. “I don’t want any.”

Simple. Final. Cold.

It was a decision he’d barely made any effort to ponder over.

The smile on your face had faltered, the colors of the screen reflecting on your skin—but you’d recovered fast—too fast.

“Like…for now?” You asked, your voice sounding smaller.

His eyes returned to the TV, teeth gritted, expression bored—like the conversation was an inconvenience. “At all.”

“Oh,” you’d said lightly. “Yeah. Me neither.”

A lie. He could see it now. He could see it so clearly it made him sick.

You’d leaned into him anyway, like you could bury the disappointment somewhere he wouldn’t notice.

And he hadn’t noticed.

Or maybe he hadn’t cared enough to stop it.

He was staring at the letter like it was a corpse in his hands. The memory hit him with a punch to the gut because it proved how you’d tried to test the waters, and he had shut the door.

“Well, that explains the two strawberry matchas,” Sukuna said, relief filling his lungs because a part of him had assumed the worst, that you’d found someone else worth your time, someone who prioritized you. But deep down, he knew, if you’d cheated on him, he wouldn’t’ve handled it well.

Being pregnant was—in a way—a blessing.

A blessing he was robbed of witnessing.

I found out and I sat on the cold bathroom floor with the test in my shaking hands, staring at the two lines. Staring at them until my vision blurred and all I saw was lines, lines, lines. Then, I waited. Waited for fear, for panic, for something ugly—but it never came. I only felt quiet warmth spread through my chest. Something soft. Something hopeful.

And then I thought of you.

I thought of telling you. Thought of the way you’d look at me—confused, irritated, like I’d ruined your day by needing you. Like I’m an inconvenience that you want to get rid of.

I thought of how alone I already felt standing beside you.

And I realized I couldn’t do it.

I couldn’t bring a child into a love that already felt like begging.

So I ended it.

So I ended it.

The blood in his veins ran cold.

A new sound left him. A growl. Or it could’ve been something else—a sound foreign to him. A sound that signified something breaking. Something deep within him he’d buried so long ago, he hadn’t even remembered it was there until now.

He blinked—once, twice—in hopes the sentence would blend with the white sheet and disappear.

He reread it again and again, his mind working through ways to rewrite history—to rewrite the painful past into something delicate. Into something that belonged in some ordinary love letter instead of his destructive hands.

“No,” Sukuna muttered, but the word had no strength behind it.

His eyes flicked to the top of the page.

A date.

His mind started counting without permission.

Months.

Weeks.

Days.

Nights.

Every gulp was razor-sharp, slicing his throat until he tasted the metallic remnants of blood.

When?

When did it happen?

His eyes dropped back to words, but they blurred, the ink swimming as if the paper itself was mocking him. He blinked even harder, furious, his hand wiping his face again like it was sweat.

He couldn’t read anymore.

Not like this.

Not without knowing.

Sukuna threw the letter and notebook on the floor, mind in a haze. He stumbled to the closet, feet leadened, steps heavy.

His pulse hammered so violently it felt like his heart was about to burst out of his chest.

No.

No, this was—this was ridiculous.

His eyes scanned the tower of boxes, hands moving without thought.

Shoeboxes toppled. Another scarf slipped from the hanger and floated to the floor like a dying thing. He didn’t care.

He tore through the clutter like a man looking for a weapon. Clothes flew over his shoulders as he tossed them away, creating a mountain of fabric. More receipts fluttered out of a bag like ribbons inked with reckless purchases. A bundle of hair ties fell that you’d used to decorate your hair, somehow they’d always complement your loud and colorful outfits.

A stupid little Polaroid that landed face-up on the carpet—your smile caught mid-laugh, soft and bright.

Sukuna’s stomach churned.

He stepped on it.

He didn’t mean to.

Or maybe he did.

His breath came out harsher. Faster. Like he was being hunted by the past, present, and future.

His fingers caught on the edge of an envelope wedged between two boxes.

Torn in haste—ripped open like you couldn’t wait—like you wanted to get it over with. Just like a bandaid.

He remembered how you always did it. Pulled it straight off, wincing as if it hurt more than it did, then looked up at him with wide eyes and asked him to kiss it, soft and careful, like you were a kid with a scraped knee.

The memory latched onto him, heightening the ache that had nothing to do with wounds.

He snatched it out—quick and easy—wishing you were here to kiss away the pain.

The paper inside was folded and folded and folded into a tiny square, like the sole purpose had been to make it nonexistent.

To shrink it down until it could fit into the smallest corner of your life.

Until it could be hidden.

Forgotten.

Erased.

Sukuna let the moment stretch, pulse roaring in his ear like a lion fighting for his territory. His fingers hesitated—cautious now, almost reverent—as he began unfolding it.

Each crease resisted.

Each layer revealed another.

Like peeling back something you’d tried desperately to bury.

And when the last fold finally opened, an image stared back at him. Black-and-white. Clinical. Grainy. A small shape suspended in static, unreal and yet horrifyingly real. A piece of you and him, combined mass of cells—forming into something…into someone. The clinic’s name was stamped at the top, the date printed neatly in the corner with bold, taunting numbers.

His eyes locked onto it.

Seven weeks.

And suddenly, his tongue felt too big in his mouth, and even when he moved it around, it couldn’t settle—just scraped against his serrated teeth, his tender gums, the ridged roof of his mouth—like he could grind the feeling away. It was like an invasive check-up at a dentist—being poked and prodded with pointy tools, gums aching, jaw locked, forced to endure it while someone dug around for something rotten.

The memory came to him like a strike to the ribs.

He remembered it wrong at first.

Or maybe his mind tried to as a form of protection, his usual coping mechanism where he would numb his senses. He’d done it enough times to where it became habitual—the go-to response.

Because the truth was too ugly to hold.

It came back to him in fragments—warmth, skin, the dim light of the room, the muffled patters of rain against the window. He had you pressed beneath him, your legs locked around his waist, your breath coming apart in little, helpless sounds. His hands settled on your hips—large, calloused, rough—dimpling your soft curves. Not cruel, not gentle either. Just Sukuna. Possessive in the ways he always was, like your body was the only thing in the world that listened to him.

You’d tried to move, restless, impatient, but he hadn’t budged.

He’d held you there, anchoring you in place—cock snug inside your heat, girth stretching your puffy folds apart, blunt head nudging that aching spot inside you. He was forcing you feel him, every slick inch that pulsed and throbbed.

Heat radiated from your skin in vehement waves, mouth grazing your sweat-slicked neck as if he was tasting the moment, dragging it out until it bordered on torture. Not because he’d wanted to hurt you—but because he liked knowing you’d wanted more.

Because he liked knowing you’d fall apart if he decided to stop.

You’d made a sound—soft, frustrated—and he’d let out a low exhale that could’ve been a laugh.

“Don’t squirm,” Sukuna had rumbled, his voice a sonorous sound that seemed to from his chest—dominant, authoritative—deep enough to rule empires and witness the downfall of enemies. “You can wait, can’t you? Don’t tell me that my business trip had softened you into this impatient, pathetic woman who can’t wait take my cock.”

You’d gone still beneath him like the words had slapped you.

Your lashes fluttered, mouth parting in quiet offense—eyes narrowing as if you were about to fight back.

But your body betrayed you.

A soft sound escaped you anyway, breathy and titillating, and Sukuna remembered the way heat rushed up to your face, coloring your cheeks. You’d tried to glare at him—tried to look angry, tried to look proud—but it hadn’t landed.

Not when you were trembling like that.

Not when your hands had tightened on him instead of pushing him away.

“Sukuna…” You’d whispered, voice cracking on his name like you hated how much you wanted him.

He remembered the way you swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet his gaze, forcing some fragile defiance into your expression.

“Move…” You’d breathed—borderline whining, voice trembling between the edges of patience and need. “Please…baby…move.”

Sukuna had tilted his head, slow, deliberate, a sneer tugging at the corners of his mouth. “What’s that?” He’d murmured, low and mocking. “I can’t hear you.”

Your eyes widened, lips moving as if you’d wanted to say more but couldn’t. The red tint on your cheeks had spread to your ears, humiliation and want blending into something raw and messy.

And even with your pleading tone, Sukuna hadn’t obliged. Hadn’t moved. Not an inch. Instead he’d bent his head down, watching your composure crumble, your defiance falter.

“Say it properly,” he’d chided, voice dark, amused, as though it pained him to be entertained by your weakness. “I know you can do better than that.”

Your nails had raked his shoulders, scratching like they way you’d scratched off the words you’d wanted unsaid but you’d wrote them down anyway. “Please…Sukuna…move,” you’d whispered again, barely audible.

The gleam that crossed his eyes then was dark, hungry, satisfied—like he’d finally gotten what he wanted. He liked seeing you like this—wet, vulnerable, needy.

“Good,” he’d replied, pleased with your answer, his lips tenderly brushing your ear, gently nipping it with his teeth, almost fondly, though it had disgusted him to show affection. But in rare occasions, he couldn’t restrain himself. “Impatient brat.”

You hadn’t retaliated, not with words. Not when he’d expertly stolen them away from you the same way he stole everything else: with pressure, with proximity, with the overwhelming insistence of his presence.

You’d only clung tighter.

When he’d finally moved, the first shift of his hips pulled a low growl from his chest—something rough and instinctive, like restraint snapping. He’d drawn back only slightly, just enough to make you chase the feeling, just enough for you to arch toward him like you’d always did—desperate, like you couldn’t bear the familiar hollow his absence left behind. Then, he’d eased forward again, slow and deliberate, feeding you inch-by-inch, grunting as your warm cunt fully sheathed him.

“S’kuna,” you’d keened, sounding like music to his ears, hips bucking up as if to aid with his lazy and unhurried strokes.

He’d set a pace that was agonizingly slow, a languid drag that had him feeling every groove of your walls. Every thrust that had followed was made to engrave his cock inside so you wouldn’t forget—the obscene sound of your pussy squelching as shared arousal slicked his length filled every space of the room. He could never erase the intensity he’d felt, how your walls tightened around him, pulsing with desperation that drove him to the edge.

He’d fucked into you, cataloging the wrecked noises that had escaped you—thin, reedy and ruined—proof that he’d stripped you of every sharp words you’d meant to throw at him. His crimson flicked down at you, flames hunger and possession burning into them as he slammed into you, harder, faster, unrelenting.

You’d cried out, body curving against him, legs trembling around his waist. “Sukuna—please—I can’t—”

He’d cut you off with another brutal thrust, lips grazing your neck, biting down just enough to make you shudder. “You’ll take it,” he’d growled, hips snapping with punishing precision. “Isn’t that what you begged me for? For me to move? Wasn’t your pussy being needy, wanting to be fucked?” He’d punctuated his taunting with another rough, the base of his cock grinding on your swollen clit. A hand had reached between your thighs, his fingers moving in cruel circles, counter-clockwise motions that had you writhing—a helpless thing he loved to control.

He’d felt your body convulse as release tore through you, a broken cry ripping from your throat. Your cunt palpitating around him, dragging him deeper, setting every nerve on fire as his own climax had begun cresting.

Sukuna’s rhythm had faltered, his smirk twisting into something wicked, hungrier. With a guttural growl, he’d thrusted into you one final time, burying his cock completely as his release had spilled inside you. His body had shuddered against yours, low groans escaping his throat, his grip on yours hips bruising, claiming you fully.

You had your head angled sideways, damp hair stuck to the column of your jaw. You had been avoiding his gaze, letting the pillow absorb your cries instead.

“Look at me,” he’d commanded, voice hoarse.

He remembered you Tilting your face up, lashes moist, mouth separated, eyes shining too much.

Sukuna had paused for half a second.

Something slid down the side of your face, he’d seen it even under the faint glow emitting from the lamp, disappearing into your hair.

He’d frowned, lips curling downward. “What the hell is that?”

He’d craned his neck closer, nose grazing the length of yours, and his thumb had swiped under your eye.

Wet.

For a long moment, the only sounds had been the exchange of ragged breaths and the fading creak of the bed beneath the both of you. He’d finally dropped his forehead against yours, lips hovering just shy of a tender kiss, his crimson eyes had remained locked on your face.

His eyes narrowing, confused, unsettled by something so small. “Didn’t enjoy it?” He’d murmured into your skin, voice gruff, half-mocking.

You’d nodded too fast—too eager—like an obedient pet.

“I did,” you’d whispered.

But another tear slipped free anyway, disappearing into your hairline like you were trying to hide it from him.

Then you’d pulled him even closer, like you could drown the emotion in something physical. Like if you’d held him tight enough, he’d become real. Like he’d become yours in the way you needed.

He remembered your lips by his ear, your breath shaking, your hands sinking in his hair.

“I love you,” you’d said, bleary-eyed and smiling.

So softly it barely counted as a sound.

And in his mind—God, in his mind—he heard himself answer.

I love you, too.

He heard it clear as day. Heard himself say it like it was easy. Like it wasn’t something that could split a man open.

For a moment, the memory softened. Became kinder.

A version of him that had deserved you.

A version of him that had given you what you begged for without ever having to ask.

But then reality had corrected itself.

Violently.

He hadn’t even looked at you.

He remembered it now—the tremor beneath his jaw, the way he’d exhaled through his nose like the words annoyed him. Like they were meaningless.

He remembered how he’d kissed you harder instead.

Not because he wanted to reassure you.

But because he didn’t know what else to do with tenderness except smother it.

He remembered the way you’d went quiet after that.

Still clinging.

Still letting him have you.

Still loving him into a silence that never loved you back out loud.

And Sukuna’s stomach turned as he stood in the closet, sonogram trembling in his hand.

Because if he had said it back…

If he had just said it—three words, three syllables, eight fucking letters—maybe you would’ve told him.

Maybe you wouldn’t have folded that paper into nothingness and tried to pretend you weren’t carrying something that could’ve changed everything.

Maybe you wouldn’t have been alone.

But he didn’t.

And now his brain was trying to rewrite history like it could save him from the fact that the only time you’d ever needed him the most…he’d been right there—within reach.

And still not truly there at all.

Sukuna’s eyes fixated on the black-and-white blur until it stopped looking like ink and started looking like a ghost. His thumb dragged over the print date again, like he could rub it away.

But the numbers stayed.

The proof stayed.

His throat burned. He forced an exhale, sharp and uneven, the folded the sonogram back with stiff fingers—using the creases you’d left behind as reference. Carefully. Like he was afraid that if he tore it, whatever had existed would disappear all over again.

His gaze drifted down.

The letter was still on the floor.

He didn’t want to read the rest.

He already knew what was coming. He could feel it in the way his chest kept tightening, in the way his stomach twisted like instinct was warning him.

But he picked it up anyway.

Because he deserved to know.

Because you deserved to be heard—at least once.

I did it by myself. I signed the papers by myself. I went home by myself.

And the worst part is…I still missed you.

Even then, I still wanted you.

I still wanted your hand in mine.

I still wanted you to tell me it was going to be okay.

But you weren’t there.

And I couldn’t keep pretending that you would be.

I don’t hate you.

I don’t think I ever could.

But I’m starting to hate myself for how much I’ve been willing to accept.

And maybe that’s the worst part.

I still love you. I think I always will…

But love shouldn’t feel like drowning.

So if this is the last time you ever hear it from me—

I loved you.

I loved you even when you made it hard.

I loved you even when you didn’t know how to love me back.

And I forgive you, Sukuna.

But I can’t stay.

Goodbye.

His vision distorted, the room tilting slightly as the rest of your words etched themselves into him.

I did it by myself. I signed the papers by myself. I sat in the clinic by myself.

His hand flew to his mouth, but it didn’t stop anything. It didn’t delay what he’d been running from for years.

I loved you.

The sob broke out of him like a fracture, and he crouched down, as if he could make himself smaller. His emotions smaller. Condensed.

Goodbye.

A sound that didn’t belong to the man he thought he was.

He’d been in fights. He’d bled. He’d been hit hard enough to see stars. He’d been punched and kicked and thrown until his skin had bruised in galaxy-like shades. But he’d survived it all.

Except for this.

Nothing had ever brought him to his knees like a sentence written in your handwriting. He left all your written evidence by his feet, refusing to touch any part of you.

His body folded forward before he could stop it, elbows pressing into his thighs, head dropping like the weight of it was too much to hold upright.

The tears didn’t fall neatly.

They poured in fat drops.

Hot and relentless, slipping down his face, dripping off his chin, soaking the paper until the ink began to smudge. He wondered if you’d done the same thing, cried while you spilled your emotions on paper. And he realized that he could almost see the ghost of your tears staining the words, but they had long dried.

He tried to wipe them way, furious—furious at himself, at you, at the universe, at whatever cruel joke this was.

But the kept coming.

Because this wasn’t just heartbreak.

This was grief.

And Sukuna finally understood something he should’ve understood a long time ago:

You hadn’t just left him.

You’d survived him.

You’d given up on fighting and battling someone who had never tasted bitter loss. Someone who had always prided himself on being a winner.

Even his own parents had given up on him, why would he expect for you to not?

But the only difference between you and his parents was that you’d stuck around a little longer.

Sukuna was crying like someone whose body had been holding it for years. Years of pent-up hurt. Years of silent suffering. He was so angry. So fucking angry. At what? His fucked up childhood? At how he’d never recognize the faces of his parents if he’d ever ran into them in public?

At the world for never letting him have the power he thought he deserved?

He didn’t even know anymore.

But what he did know you was you were the one person had been there. Who had tried to sand down his sharp edges. Who had tried to shape him into someone worthy of being loved.

His chest heaved, breath tearing in and out of him like something feral. He wiped at his face with the back of his hand, frustrated at the wetness, at the weakness, at the way his body wouldn’t listen.

Pathetic.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to control himself.

But control had already left him.

His fist tightened, fingers curling into his palm—until something hard pressed against his knuckles from inside his pocket.

Sukuna straightened.

Brows furrowed, as if confused by his own body.

Slowly, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled it out.

A small velvet box.

Black.

Perfectly intact unlike the current condition of his heart.

For a minute, he just looked at it like it didn’t belong to him. Like it was this foreign object he’d never seen before. Like it had appeared there by mistake.

He’d forgotten about it.

Then his thumb brushed the edge, familiar.

He remembered buying it.

Before the breakup.

Before the secrets.

Before your heart had caught up to your mind and he’d returned to an almost vacant apartment. Half your things gone—with the exception of all the hidden clues you’d left for him—shards of your broken heart, tiny souvenirs he should’ve glued back together and treasured.

Clues he’d never had the courage to sift through for months after the gut-wrenching breakup.

He ran his thumb over the box again as if to make sure it was still there—concrete evidence of a promise he’d made to himself—thinking he had all the time in the world.

He hadn’t bought it on a whim. And not because you or anyone else had pressured him.

He’d bought it because he’d looked at you one night—hair messy, wearing his shirt, barefoot in the kitchen—and something in his chest had tightened in a way he couldn’t explain.

He’d thought: Yeah. You.

Eventually.

Just not now.

There was always something else first. A deal. A fight. A distraction. A reason.

Again, he’d always reassured himself that there was time.

Sukuna’s hands trembled as he opened the box.

The diamond caught the dim light of the apartment, sharp and merciless. It glittered in rainbow colors like it was making fun of him.

Like it was laughing.

His breath hitched again, broken.

Because it was confirmation.

Confirmation that in his head, you had already been his wife.

That he had already chosen you.

He just never said it out loud.

Never made it real.

And now the ring sat in his hand—cold, useless, too late.

Sukuna peered at it until his vision muddled again.

And the he let out a sound that didn’t resemble a laugh at all.

Just grief.

Raw and humiliating.

Because he finally had everything he’d meant to give you—and no one left to give it to.

The diamond drowned in the fresh film of tears on waterline, blurring into a lackluster shimmer of light.

Sukuna shut the box with a sharp click.

His breathing was still irregular, chest going up and down, throat raw—but the sobbing stopped. Or maybe he forced it to. Maybe he strangled it back down where it belonged.

He arose slowly, legs unsteady—knees almost buckling from the weight of all he’d allowed himself to feel.

The apartment still felt too quiet. Too empty. Like it was holding its breath, waiting for him to leave.

Sukuna returned the ring inside the box and slipped it into his pocket.

Then he reached for his keys.

Metal teeth bit into his palm—grounding him.

His jaw hardened.

He wasn’t the type of man who begged.

He wasn’t the type of man who apologized.

But he was the type of man who took what was his.

And you—you had been his, long before you ever realized it.

Sukuna glanced once at the open pages on the floor—rustling like an invisible force was reading through it—your handwriting, your truth, your pain.

You’d given up on him, but that didn’t mean he should give up on you. He shouldn’t be here, throwing a pity-party for one, waiting for the cake to come and to blow out the candle for a wish.

For your return.

And just like that, his decision was made, his feet already moving before his mind formed a thousand excuses for him to shut the closet door and leave the past as it was—damaged, irreparable.

More footsteps and he was at the door.

Eyes still wet.

Heart still beating.

But his voice was steady when he muttered to himself, “…I’m not letting you go.”

And this time, he meant it.

this was simply the natural order of things, as stable and predictable as gravity — you walked into a room, sukuna was there, the air got thicker, you glared at each other, and the universe continued spinning.

it had been like this since freshman orientation when you accidentally took the last chocolate chip muffin from the dining hall cart and sukuna had been reaching for it at the exact same time; your fingers had brushed, and sukuna had looked at you like you'd personally insulted every single of his ancestors, and then he'd muttered something under his breath about how he 'should have known'.

from that day forward, you were locked in.

so when your professor announced the paired final project for advanced literary theory — a fifteen-page analysis of narrative unreliability that would make up forty percent of your grade — and then proceeded to assign partners alphabetically, you felt the universe's cosmic joke land squarely on your shoulders.

"aizawa is with burnham, carlson is with davis... nakamura is with park, and (l/n) is with sukuna."

the room didn't go silent, but you wouldn't have heard it if it had. all you could hear was the rushing of blood in your ears as you turned your head, slow and dreadful, like a defendant watching the jury file back in.

sukuna was already looking at you.

he sat two rows over, sprawled in his chair like he'd been poured into it, all sharp angles and lazy menace. his pink hair fell across his forehead in that careless way that made you want to push it out of his face just so you could see him scowl more clearly. his jaw was set, his mouth a flat line, and his eyes — those stupid, arresting eyes that shifted color depending on the light, red one moment and almost brown the next — were fixed on you with an expression you couldn't quite read.

you glared at him.

sukuna raised one eyebrow, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world to be annoyed with you.

"great," you muttered, slumping in your seat. "just great."

the thing you didn't know — the thing you couldn't know, because nobody tells you these things, because love doesn't announce itself with trumpets and flashing signs — was that ryomen sukuna had been in love with you for three years, two months, and approximately eleven days.

it had started with the muffin.

not because of the muffin, exactly, but because of the way you'd looked at him when your fingers touched. everyone else in the dining hall flinched away from sukuna — he knew how he came across, all sharp edges and sharper tongue, the kind of person who looked like they'd bite if you got too close. but you hadn't flinched. you'd looked at him, and there had been something in your expression that wasn't fear or deference or any of the other things he was used to seeing.

you'd simply looked at him like… he was just some guy who wanted a muffin.

and then you'd taken it anyway, which was either deeply stupid or deeply brave, and sukuna hadn't been able to decide which, but he'd known, suddenly and completely, that he needed to figure it out.

so he'd started showing up at your locker, not because he wanted to intimidate you but because sukuna wanted to see if you'd look at him like that again. he'd started competing with you for grades not because he wanted to beat you but because sukuna wanted you to notice how hard he was willing to try, how he sharpened himself against you like a blade against a whetstone. he'd challenged you to the karaoke contest because you'd laughed at something utahime said — a real laugh, the kind that crinkled your nose — and sukuna had wanted to be the reason you made that sound, even if it was because he was singing badly on purpose.

none of it had worked the way he wanted.

somewhere along the way, the wires had gotten crossed so completely that sukuna didn't even know how the hell to untangle them anymore; his attention had curdled into something you perceived as hostility. his proximity had become a threat instead of a hope.

and ryomen sukuna, who had never been good at explaining himself, who had spent his whole life building walls instead of bridges, had no idea how to tell you that every time you glared at him, he felt like he was swallowing glass.

so he didn't tell you.

sukuna just kept showing up, he just kept competing, he just kept finding reasons to be near you, and let you believe whatever you wanted to believe.

it was easier that way. really, it was easier than admitting that he thought about you constantly, that he had a folder on his phone full of screenshots of your discussion board posts because he liked the way you structured arguments, that he'd memorized your coffee order from watching you get it so many times (oat milk latte, extra shot, cinnamon on top, which was objectively an incorrect way to drink coffee but he loved that about you anyway).

it was easier than saying; i don't hate you. i never have. i think i would burn the world down if you asked me to, and that terrifies me more than anything else ever has.

so when professor okamoto announced your pairing, sukuna's heart did something violent in his chest, and he had to physically stop himself from smiling. he raised one eyebrow instead, giving you his most unreadable look, and watched your face crumple with displeasure.

god, you were beautiful when you were annoyed.

yeah… sukuna was so, so fucked.

you agreed to meet in the library on tuesday afternoon, mostly because you wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible. the sooner you started, the sooner you'd be done, and the sooner you could go back to pretending ryomen sukuna didn't exist at all.

he was already there when you arrived.

this was infuriating because you were fifteen minutes early, specifically to avoid this exact scenario — walking in to find him already settled, already comfortable, already looking like he belonged in a way that made you feel like an intruder in your own study space.

sukuna had claimed the corner table by the window, the good one with the natural light and the extra outlets, and he was bent over a laptop with his reading glasses on.

you stopped dead.

sukuna wore glasses.

you had never seen this before, you had no idea sukuna even needed them, and the sight of them — wire frames, simple and unexpectedly kind against the boy’s sharp face — made something in your chest do a strange little flip.

he looked way softer like this, less intimidating, and you hated that you noticed. you hated that you noticed that the sleeves of sukuna’s sweater were pushed up to his elbows, exposing the lean lines of his forearms. you hated that you noticed the way his hair fell when he was concentrating, how he kept pushing it back with an absent hand.

you hated that you noticed anything about him at all.

"you're staring," sukuna said without looking up.

you bristled.

"i'm not staring. i'm assessing the enemy's territory."

now sukuna looked up, and the glasses made him seem almost approachable for half a second before his expression settled into its usual mask of mild disdain.

"the library is not enemy territory. it's simply a library. with books. which we both really need for this project we're both required to complete."

"don't sound so excited about it."

"i'm not excited about anything involving you."

that stung more than you wanted it to.

you told yourself it was because you were proud, because you hated being dismissed, because sukuna's opinion shouldn't matter to you but it did, it always had, in the same way a splinter mattered — small and sharp and impossible to ignore.

you dropped your bag on the table with more force than necessary and sat down across from him, pulling out your laptop and notebook and pens with aggressive efficiency.

"let's just get this over with."

"eager to escape my company?"

"desperately."

something flickered across his face, there and gone so fast you couldn't name it. he looked back at his screen.

"okamoto wants us to focus on unreliable narration in gothic literature. i've pulled some secondary sources. there's a reading list in the shared document i started."

"you started a shared document already?"

"i'm not an idiot."

"i never said you were."

"you were thinking it."

you opened your mouth to argue, then closed it because he wasn't wrong, and also because there was something in his tone that didn't sound like his usual condescension. it sounded almost... tired. like he was exhausted by this dance you two did, even though he was the one who kept leading.

the silence stretched between you, strange and unfamiliar.

you'd never spent this much time alone with sukuna before; your interactions were always in crowded hallways or full classrooms, always brief and barbed, always with an audience. now it was just the two of you and the soft sounds of the library — pages turning, keyboards clicking, someone's phone buzzing somewhere in the stacks.

you could smell his cologne; something woodsy and warm, nothing like the sharp, cold scent you'd imagined he'd wear. it made him seem closer than he actually was.

"so," you said, because you had to say something, "gothic literature. fun."

sukuna looked at you over the top of his glasses.

"is that a genuine statement or are you being sarcastic?"

"do i ever not sound sarcastic?"

"no," sukuna said, and then, quieter, "i know."

you didn't know what that meant, and you didn't ask.

the first week of working together was exactly as miserable as you'd expected.

you disagreed about everything — thesis statements, source selection, whether or not to use first-person in the analysis, the correct way to cite a multi-volume work.

sukuna was methodical to the point of obsession, wanting to outline every paragraph before writing a single word, while you preferred to write freely and shape the chaos into something structured later. he thought your approach was inefficient. you thought his approach was suffocating.

"you can't just write without knowing where you're going," he said on thursday, staring at your laptop screen like it had personally offended him. "that's how you end up with a directionless argument."

"it's not directionless, it's exploratory. there's a difference."

"there isn't."

"there is if you have any imagination at all."

sukuna’s jaw tightened. "i have imagination."

"huh. could've fooled me."

the words came out sharper than you intended, and you saw something shutter behind sukuna’s eyes. he looked away first, which he never did, and when he spoke again his voice was carefully, deliberately flat.

"just write the outline. we can argue about methodology later."

you wanted to push. you wanted to know why he looked like you'd actually hurt his feelings, which was ridiculous because ryomen sukuna didn't have feelings, not ones that could be hurt by the likes of you. but something about the set of his shoulders stopped you, something about the way he'd gone very still, like he was bracing for impact.

so you wrote the outline.

and sukuna was right, which made it worse.

by the end of the second week, something had shifted.

you couldn't point to exactly when the hell it happened, but somewhere between arguing about the reliability of jane eyre's narration and debating whether rochester was a gothic hero or just a guy with too many secrets, the edges of your interactions had started to soften.

you still bickered constantly, but it felt less like warfare and more like... a game. a familiar rhythm you'd both fallen into without meaning to.

sukuna started bringing you coffee.

not every day, and not in an obvious way either; he'd just show up to your library sessions with two cups from the campus cafe, one black for himself and one that smelled like cinnamon and oat milk, and he'd set yours on your side of the table without a single comment.

the first time it happened, you stared at the cup like it might explode at any moment;

"what is this?"

"coffee. it's a beverage. people drink it to stay awake when they're doing academic work."

"i know what coffee is. i meant—why did you get me one?"

sukuna shrugged, not meeting your eyes. "you always look like you haven't slept. figured you needed it."

it was such a strangely considerate thing to say, so unlike the person you thought you knew, that you didn't know how to respond. you just wrapped your hands around the cup and let the warmth seep into your palms, watching sukuna over the rim as he settled into his chair and opened his laptop like nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

the coffee was perfect, exactly how you liked it.

you didn't think about what that meant.

you definitely didn't think about how sukuna would have had to pay attention to know your order, how sukuna would have had to remember, how sukuna would have had to deliberately choose to get it for you even though you'd never asked and never thanked him properly.

you just drank the coffee and tried to ignore the way your heart was beating.

on the third week, you caught sukuna staring at you.

not the usual staring — the kind where he was waiting for you to finish a thought or watching your face for a reaction during an argument. this was different; this was soft, this was the way people looked at things they wanted to keep.

you'd been reading a passage from wuthering heights aloud, doing the voices for the different characters because you were a huge nerd and because it made sukuna's lip twitch in a way that was almost — almost — a smile. you were in the middle of heathcliff's "i cannot live without my soul" speech, and you'd gotten dramatic with it, leaning forward with your hand pressed to your chest, and when you looked up to gauge his reaction, sukuna was just... looking at you.

not at the book, not at the table, but at you.

sukuna’s expression was naked in a way you'd never seen before. all the usual armor was completely gone — the sneer, the boredom, the casual cruelty he wielded like a shield.

instead he looked almost... awed. like you'd done something miraculous just by existing in his general vicinity.

your voice caught in your throat.

"sukuna?"

he blinked, and the mask slammed back into place so fast you almost believed you'd imagined the moment before.

"what?"

"you were staring."

"no, i was just listening."

"you looked—"

you stopped, not sure what you'd been about to say. you looked like you loved me, maybe, but that couldn't be right because ryomen sukuna didn't love anything, certainly not you, certainly not like that.

"you looked weird."

"i always look weird."

"you don't," you said, before you could stop yourself. "you look, you know, normal? i mean, not weird. usually."

sukuna's eyebrows went up.

for a long moment, neither of you spoke. the library's heating system kicked on with a low rumble, and somewhere across the room, someone laughed quietly, and you were acutely aware of every single inch of space between you, of how easy it would be to reach across the table and touch sukuna’s hand, of how badly you wanted to.

you didn't. of course you didn't. but you wanted to, and that was new, and that was terrifying.

"finish the passage," sukuna said finally, his voice rougher than usual. "you were at 'i cannot live without my soul'."

you looked down at the book, at heathcliff's desperate words, and felt heat rise to your cheeks.

"right. yeah. okay."

you finished the passage, but you couldn't look at sukuna while you did it.

the confession happened on a thursday, and it happened because of a paper cut.

you were both hunched over a stack of printouts, cross-referencing quotes, and you were tired — the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that came from too many late nights and too much caffeine and the slow, creeping realization that you didn't actually hate the person sitting across from you, that maybe you'd never hated him at all, that maybe you'd been wrong about everything for three entire years.

you reached for a page at the same time sukuna did, your fingers brushing against his, and you both froze.

his hands were warm.

you'd expected them to be cold, because everything about sukuna seemed cold, but no, they weren't. his hands were warm and broad and surprisingly gentle when he pulled back like you'd burned him.

"sorry," you said, and meant it.

"don't be sorry for touching me," sukuna said, and his voice was strange, tight, like the words were being pulled from somewhere deep. "i don't—i don't mind."

you looked at him.

really looked, the way you hadn't let yourself look in years; his hair was messy from running his hands through it, his glasses were slightly crooked, and there was a tension in his jaw that you'd always read as anger but now seemed like something else entirely. something held back, something waiting.

"you always mind," you said quietly. "you always mind when i'm near you."

sukuna's breath caught, and you saw it, the way his chest stopped moving for just a second, the way his fingers curled into fists on the table.

"is that what you think?" he asked. "that i mind?"

"you act like you do. you've always acted like—"

"i know how i act." sukuna cut you off, and there was something raw in his voice now, something that made your stomach drop. "i know exactly how i act. do you think i don't know? do you think i haven't noticed that you flinch every time i walk into a room, that you tense up when i stand too close, that you look at me like i'm something you stepped in?"

you opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

"i know," he continued, and now he wasn't looking at you anymore, he was looking at the table, at his hands, at anything but your face. "i know you hate me. i've known for years. and i don't—i don't blame you. i'm not good at this. i'm not good at people. i don't know how to be anything other than what i am, and what i am is someone who makes you uncomfortable, apparently, which was never—"

his voice actually cracked, and you felt something splinter inside your chest.

"that was never what i wanted."

"sukuna—"

"just let me finish."

sukuna pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, and when he spoke again, his voice was muffled.

"i need to say this. i've been trying to say this for three whole years, and i just keep messing it up, and i don't care if you hate me after, i just really need you to know so i can stop—so i can stop pretending—"

he dropped his hands and looked at you, and his eyes were red-rimmed and bright, and all the air left your lungs.

"i don't hate you," sukuna said. "i have never hated you. not once. not even when you took the last muffin at orientation, which was a crime against humanity and i'm still not over it. not when you argued with me about romantic poetry in sophomore lit. not when you told professor tanaka that my interpretation of frankenstein was 'reductive and borderline misogynistic', which, for the record, it wasn't. i don't hate you. i've never hated you. i—"

sukuna stopped, swallowed, and looked at you like you were the scariest thing he'd ever seen.

"i love you," he said, and the words came out small, almost bewildered, like he was discovering the truth of them in real time. "i love you so much it's embarrassing. i love your laugh and the way you argue and how you do the voices when you read out loud even though you think nobody notices. i love that you're competitive and stubborn and terrible at asking for help and you always push your hair behind your ear when you're thinking. i love that you took that muffin even though you knew i wanted it because you don't back down from anything, including me, especially me, and i—"

his voice broke again, and he laughed, a short, helpless sound.

"i've been in love with you since freshman orientation. i've been in love with you for three years, and i've been so busy trying to get your attention that i didn't notice i was just making you hate me. and that's—that's on me. that's entirely on me. but i needed you to know. before we finish this project and you never have to talk to me again. i needed you to know that none of it was hate. not on my side. it was never hate."

the library was silent.

you could hear your own heartbeat, loud and unsteady, you could feel the blood rushing to your face, your hands, every part of you that had suddenly come alive.

sukuna was looking at you like a man awaiting execution, his chest rising and falling too fast, his hands shaking slightly where they rested on the table.

you thought about three years of mornings at your locker. three years of competitive grading. three years of him finding reasons to be in your orbit, even when you made it clear he wasn't welcome at all.

you thought about the coffee, the glasses, the way he knew your reading voice and your coffee order and the fact that you pushed your hair behind your ear when you were thinking.

you thought about how you'd actually never hated him either; at least, not the way real hatred felt cold and dead. your feelings for sukuna had always been hot, always been alive, always been demanding your attention when you wanted to focus on anything else.

you thought about the muffin.

"you're an idiot," you said.

sukuna blinked. "what?"

"you're an idiot," you repeated, and your voice was shaking, and you couldn't stop the smile that was spreading across your face, wide and disbelieving and probably ridiculous. "three years. three years of fighting over grades and arguing about literature and competing in karaoke contests, and the whole time you were just trying to get me to look at you?"

"to be fair, it worked. you looked at me constantly. just—not in the way i wanted."

"because i thought you hated me!"

"yeah, i know! i realize that! i'm aware that my communication skills are—"

"abysmal?"

"i was going to say 'deeply flawed', but yes, abysmal works."

you laughed.

you couldn't help it; it bubbled up from somewhere deep, somewhere that had been wound too tight for too long, and suddenly you were laughing so hard that tears were streaming down your face, and sukuna was staring at you like you'd lost your mind, which honestly you might have.

"i don't hate you either," you managed, between gasps. "i never hated you. i thought i did, but i don't think i know what hatred feels like anymore because every time i tried to hate you, i just—i just kept noticing things. like the way you tap your fingers when you're reading. and how you always hold the door for people even though you pretend not to. and you helped that freshman find their classroom last week even though you were late to your own class. and you look at me like—"

you stopped, swallowed, and looked at him.

"you look at me like i matter," you said softly. "and i didn't know what to do with that, so i called it hatred. because it was easier than admitting that maybe i wanted you to look at me forever."

sukuna made a sound, something wounded and hopeful all at once, and then he was moving — not dramatically, not the way they do in movies, but slowly, carefully, like the boy was approaching something that might spook.

he reached across the table and took your hand, his fingers sliding between yours, and you both looked down at where you were connected like it was the most incredible thing either of you had ever seen.

"so," sukuna said, and his voice was unsteady, "just to be clear. we both wasted three years being convinced the other person hated them, when actually—"

"when actually you have the emotional intelligence of a brick and i'm apparently blind."

"i was going to say we're both complete idiots, but yes, that's also very accurate."

you squeezed sukuna’s hand, and he squeezed back, and the smile he gave you was nothing like the ones you'd seen before; this one was real, this one reached his eyes, softened all his sharp edges, and made him look so sweet and so hopeful and so terrifyingly beautiful.

"what now?" you asked.

sukuna looked at your joined hands, then at your face, then back at your hands.

"well. i have a fifteen-page paper due in two weeks, and my partner is very distracting."

"your partner is sitting right here."

"i know." sukuna lifted your hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, feather-light, his eyes never leaving yours. "trust me. i know."

you spent the rest of the afternoon in the library, but you didn't get any work done.

you talked instead — really talked, for the first time in three years. you told him about the muffin, how you'd only taken it because you'd seen him reach for it and wanted an excuse to touch his hand, how you'd spent the rest of the day convinced you'd imagined the whole thing. he told you about the karaoke contest, how he'd picked journey specifically because he'd overheard you say it was your guilty pleasure, how he'd sung badly on purpose because he wanted to see you smile.

"i can't believe you can actually sing," you said, propping your chin on your hand. "and all this time i thought you were just terrible at music."

"i have many hidden talents."

"like secretly being in love with me for three years?"

sukuna’s ears went pink.

"that's not a talent. that's a crisis."

you reached across the table and touched his face, just because you could now, just because he was yours to touch. his stubble was rough against your fingertips, and he closed his eyes when you traced the line of his jaw, leaning into your palm like a cat seeking warmth.

"i'm sorry," you said quietly. "for all the times i was mean to you. for assuming the worst."

"don't be." sukuna turned his head and pressed a kiss to the center of your palm. "you gave as good as you got. it's one of the things i like about you."

"one of the things?"

sukuna slowly opened his eyes, and the look in them made your chest ache.

"i could give you a long list. it would take a while. we might need to order dinner."

"we're still in the library."

"the library has a cafe."

you laughed, and he smiled, and when he kissed you for the first time — soft and slow and a little awkward, both of you smiling too much to do it properly — you tasted coffee and cinnamon and something that felt like coming home.

the thing about loving ryomen sukuna was that it had never been a conscious decision either.

it just happened — it happened the way spring follows winter, the way flowers naturally turn toward the sun, the way your hand found his under the library table and held on like you'd been doing it your whole life.

you'd been wrong about so many things.

but this was absolutely, perfectly right.