Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You read the acceptance email three times before it finally settled in your mind.

Your fingers tightened around your phone. Your heart was beating too fast, too loud. You only noticed it right now and tried to stifle it as if someone might hear it through the walls of your childhood bedroom. The room was exactly as it had always been: tidy, curated, beige walls and white furniture. Filled only with appropriate decor. Everything was chosen for you long before you were old enough to protest.

But at least you got in.

Far away. Far enough that your parents couldn't drop by unannounced. Far enough that your life might finally feel like your own.

Quickly, as if the acceptance could be cancelled at any moment, you logged into the portal and confirmed your enrollment. 

Finally.

You let out a shaky breath, pressing your forehead against the cool edge of your desk. For a moment, you allowed yourself to imagine a new life with dorm rooms, late-night study sessions, and instructors who didn't care about your family name. You dreamt of a future that was yours to live instead of being negotiated over dinner tables.

Then the door opened.

"You're still awake?” your mother asked, her voice overly pleasant in the way that always made your shoulders tense. She didn't wait for an answer. She never did.

Your father followed her in, already loosening his tie, already wearing the expression that meant a decision had been made for you. There would be nothing to discuss. It was already done.

"We've finalized things," he said.

You straightened slowly. "Finalized what?"

They exchanged a glance. You'd seen it a hundred times. Agreement. Satisfaction.

"Your engagement," your mother said. "We didn't want to distract you before the exams."

The word engagement landed wrong. It felt heavy and cold. Placed there to make you flinch, to cut through your relief of escaping.

"To Kenjaku."

The name made your mood sink deeper.

Kenjaku.

A rising star from your little town. A prodigy. A neurosurgeon barely out of residency, already published internationally, already whispered about in professional circles. Brilliant. Polished. Traditional. Rich. Dangerous in the quiet way clever men like him always were.

You'd met him twice.

Both times, he looked at you like you were something to be played with. Something malleable. A girl he assumed would never notice the squeeze of the hands closing around her life.

"I'm leaving this town," you said before you could stop yourself. "I was accepted. I'm going to Jujutsu University in Tokyo."

Your father's mouth curved, faintly amused. "Of course you are. Kenjaku values a knowledgeable wife. I'm sure he'd be pleased to hear you've chosen the same university." His tone remained light, almost indulgent. "He fully supports your education."

Supports.

As if your life was a charity project being overseen by this stranger.

"You'll finish your degree," your mother added smoothly. "Then we'll have the wedding. Everything is already arranged. He is willing to cover all the costs. You're lucky to have found such a wonderful, providing husband."

Your phone vibrated in your hand.

Another email. Housing confirmation. The move-in date could be as soon as two weeks from now.

Freedom, blinking weakly beneath the weight of obligation.

You realized, dimly, that this was it. The line in the sand. The moment when you either disappeared into the version of yourself they had planned, or you ran as fast as you could while there was still time.

Chapter Text

You had started packing, slowly. Not because it was difficult to pick what to bring; you didn't have much versatility to choose from anyway. No, it was because your parents had invited someone special to see you off.

You folded the last shirt and pressed it flat with your palm, expecting to replace it within the first week in Tokyo, then zipped the case shut. The sound felt louder than it should have. Final.

Your mother lingered in the hallway, offering corrections you did not need and reminders you had heard your entire life: Tokyo was far, cities were dangerous, university was demanding, and you were not to forget where you came from.

When you stepped out, Kenjaku was already there.

He was dressed neatly, as if this were a formal errand rather than a favor. His gaze flicked briefly to your suitcase, then back to you.

"So," he said, "it is today that you are departing for university."

You nodded. "Yes."

He bent and paused, just long enough for the space between you to fill with expectation. His cheek lingered near your face just a tad bit longer than when anyone normal would have given up. You felt the request settle on you like a stage direction.

You did not lean in.

Kenjaku watched you, expression unchanged, then nodded slightly, as if confirming your choice rather than being denied something.

"Very well," he said. "That is appropriate for a lady."

Your parents exchanged a look. Your father cleared his throat.

"If you are heading to Tokyo anyway," he said carefully, "perhaps you could take her. It would be safer than going by train."

Kenjaku did not look surprised. "Of course," he replied. "I was going to offer. The conference is not far from Jujutsu University."

The five-hour drive began in silence.

The city thinned as the road stretched out, buildings giving way to long lines of gray and green. Kenjaku drove smoothly, one hand on the wheel, posture relaxed. He did not turn on music. Instead, he queued up a list of podcasts and listened to them until they ended.

After a few minutes of silence, he spoke.

"You hesitated earlier."

You kept your eyes on the passing scenery. "I did."

"It was expected," he said calmly. "I did not mean to publicly embarrass you."

You swallowed. "We are not married yet."

"No," he agreed. "And it would be premature to suggest otherwise. This was the third time we spoke. I have been told you never had a boyfriend before."

There was no reprimand in his voice. If anything, he sounded faintly pleased.

"Well, it is better this way," he continued. "People in that town are attentive. Especially when a young woman leaves home for Tokyo. Too much familiarity between us invites speculation. I would like your reputation to remain intact. At least until it's official."

You understood what he meant between the lines. Not purity as belief, but purity as image for him. Something to be preserved as is.

"You will be meeting many people in a large city like that," Kenjaku said. "Some will be… eager. They're not proper like us. Do not let them misinterpret your intentions."

You glanced at him briefly. "What do you mean?"

He smiled faintly, eyes still on the road. "Well, I assume I won't have to worry. You seem quite timid."

The city skyline began to appear in the distance.

Kenjaku slowed as traffic thickened, unhurried, as though this had always been part of the plan. When he finally spoke again, his tone was almost casual.

"University will give you freedom," he said. "It's good to develop yourself before settling with me. But freedom is most useful when it is exercised carefully."

You nodded out of habit. He did not even seem to notice.

"Life can be overwhelming at first," he continued. "Large institutions like this tend to encourage independence very quickly. Students might get the illusion that everything is self-directed."

He glanced at the navigation map, as though checking the route in the middle of a traffic jam mattered more than the moment itself.

"Of course, structure still exists," he stated matter-of-factly. "Deadlines. Expectations. Professors who decide what will be tested in the exams. You will do well if you remember that. People often mistake freedom for the absence of oversight."

He took a sip from his water bottle, not waiting to see if you reacted before speaking again.

"Tokyo universities are competitive environments," he added lightly. "Everyone is eager to prove something. Intelligence. Ambition. Individuality. It can be… distracting to your goals."

A pause. Calculated. You didn't bother replying this time. He let the silence stretch as he finally pulled up to the parking lot.

"But I imagine you will keep a low profile," he concluded. "Attend your lectures. Complete your coursework. Avoid unnecessary attention. That is usually the most efficient path to completing your studies in time."

You noticed he didn't even ask what major you would follow.

He parked neatly between the painted lines, engine idling for a moment longer than necessary before he turned it off.

Up close, the campus looked brighter than you had imagined. New buildings. Open walkways. Students moved in loose clusters, laughing too loudly, dragging suitcases that bumped against the pavement. It indeed looked like freedom. Or at least something close enough to pretend.

Kenjaku stepped out of the car first.

He opened the trunk without being asked and lifted your suitcase with practiced ease, as though this were something he had done many times before, even if not for you. He set it down beside you carefully, adjusting the handle so it stood straight.

A small thing. Intentional. Performative.

"Well," he said, closing the trunk. "This is where your life begins."

You nodded, fingers tightening briefly around the strap of your bag.

"I do hope you will feel at home," he continued, his voice mild. "If you need any help, do not hesitate to call me. There are a couple of large conferences coming up nearby, so I will be in the area again soon."

Again.

It sounded casual. Informational. Still, some expectations lingered in his voice. You knew better than to hear it as reassurance.

Students passed nearby, glancing over with polite curiosity. To them, it must have looked ordinary. A composed man seeing a young woman off. It looked respectable, even.

Kenjaku looked at you for a moment longer.

Not with affection, but with assessment.

"You have done well so far," he said. "Do not squander the impression I have of you."

You inclined your head slightly in a polite bow. "Thank you."

When you reached for your suitcase, he did not stop you, but his hand rested on the handle a fraction of a second longer before letting go. It almost felt like a display of dominance.

Then he stepped back.

"Call me when you are settled," he said. "If anything goes wrong, I can provide lodging."

It was not an offer out of kindness. It was obligatory.

You nodded and turned toward the campus, the suitcase rolling behind you, its sharp rhythm echoing against the pavement. You did not look back until you reached the edge of the walkway.

Kenjaku was already starting the car.

He hadn't even waited until you had crossed the threshold of the building before pulling away.

Performative, again. No matter. It was time to find your student housing.

The address stared back at you from your phone for the third time.

Block C. Third floor. Unit 307.

The building itself was plain concrete with narrow balconies stacked like shelves, and bicycles clustered near the entrance with a layer of dust and raindrops on them. You slipped your shoes off at the genkan, following the posted sign, and padded down the hallway with your suitcase rolling awkwardly behind you.

Unit 307's door was ajar.

You hesitated, then knocked lightly anyway.

A crash sounded from inside. Something clattered, followed by a sharp, annoyed groan.

"Hold on. Don't come in yet!"

You froze.

A moment later, a girl appeared in the doorway, hair pinned up in a messy knot, sleeves rolled to her elbows. She was holding a trash bag in one hand and a stack of folded clothes in the other. The clothes were unmistakably new; they still had the tags and spare buttons on them.

She blinked at you, then sighed in visible relief.

"Oh thank god. You must be the new roommate."

"Yes," you said, adjusting your grip on the handle of your suitcase. "I just got the assignment this morning."

"Perfect. Come in. Ignore everything. Seriously. Just ignore it, please."

She stepped aside, kicking a half-empty soda can out of the way with practiced irritation.

Inside, the unit looked like it had been surviving rather than being lived in. A cluttered table. A couch that had seen better decades. Shoes scattered near the wall like they'd been discarded mid-jump. The kitchen counter was wiped clean in some places and completely neglected in others, as if someone had started cleaning and then been distracted halfway through.

The girl dropped the trash bag near the door and set the folded clothes carefully on a box on the floor.

"I swear, it did not look this bad this morning," she said. "Well. It did. But not like this."

You smiled faintly. "I've seen worse on TV."

"Good. Because this is the result of living with two guys who think rinsing a crusty three-day-old mug counts as washing it." She paused, then gestured back at herself. "Kugisaki Nobara. Nice to finally not be the only one."

"You were… already here?" you asked, glancing at the extra chair, the clothes.

"Midterm transfer," she said, grimacing. "Changed majors, changed universities, changed cities. Housing office panicked and shoved me into the only open room they had."

She leaned closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially.

"It was a male dorm. And usually they don't allow mixed units in Tokyo."

You blinked.

"I know. I complained. They said it was temporary. Then the fourth guy graduated, and suddenly they said, Well, it's mixed now, so it's fine." She snorted. "At least the bathroom locks."

She nudged the folded clothes into her room with her foot.

"I ordered some new stuff the moment I found out another girl was being assigned. I didn't want you walking into this testosterone war zone and thinking the mess was normal."

You looked at her properly then. The tension in her shoulders. The way she kept cleaning even while talking, straightening, moving, fixing.

"I'm really glad there's another girl here," she added, more quietly. "No offense to them, but it gets old fast."

"I'm glad too," you said.

Her grin returned immediately, sharp and genuine.

"Good. Then welcome home. Come in, I'm sure we can fix this up before the boys get home."

The door shut behind you with a soft click, sealing out the hallway noise.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then Kugisaki exhaled sharply and clapped her hands once with confidence. "Okay. We're finishing this. I refuse to let you unpack into their mess."

You smiled and slipped off your coat, folding it neatly over the back of your suitcase before you even realized you were doing it.

That was the first thing she noticed.

She handed you a spare cloth without asking. You took it, rolled up your sleeves, and moved straight for the counter, aligning the scattered mugs before wiping beneath them. Your movements were domestic and efficient. You didn't complain. You didn't wrinkle your nose. You just… handled it with no complaints.

Kugisaki watched you for a second too long.

"Wow," she said. "You're actually… civilized."

You let out a small breath of a laugh. "Is that unusual?"

"Painfully." She nudged a stack of papers into a neat pile. "They're not bad. Just… men. You know? Chaos-brained and a bit dirty."

You rinsed a cup, dried it carefully, and set it upside down. "I grew up cleaning as I went. Old habits."

That earned her full attention.

"Where are you from?"

"A small town," you said. "Not far from the mountains. Everyone knows everyone. If you leave a mess, your mother hears about it before you get home."

Kugisaki froze, then barked a laugh.

"Oh my god. Same." She leaned against the counter, relief softening her sharp edges. "Tiny place. Traditional. Everyone had opinions about what I wore, what I said, who I talked to. Tokyo still feels unreal sometimes."

You nodded. "I'm curious to experience it. It seems like you can easily disappear in the loudness."

"Exactly! It's such a relief to live in a large city!" She glanced around the room, now noticeably cleaner. "Man, I thought I was going to be stuck feeling out of place forever."

She hesitated, then added, more quietly, "It sucked being the only girl here."

You met her eyes. "Well, we'll be together from now on."

Something in her expression eased. Kugisaki rushed to the other side of the room, then crouched to pull open the bottom drawer with her foot. Plastic crinkled softly.

"Okay," she said, straightening. "Full disclosure before you judge me."

She lifted a bundled mess of fabric, colors loud and slightly off, the print a little too shiny.

"They're bootleg. Like, deeply bootleg. I panic-bought them online when I realized we were all stuck sharing a unit, and I refused to live with three guys without some kind of unifying theme."

You leaned closer. The characters were recognizable but warped just enough to be funny—eyes a little too big, proportions questionable, kanji printed slightly crooked.

"Is this Demon Slayer?" you asked. You had heard about it from boys in your class.

"Unfortunately." She sighed. "Or fortunately. Depends on your taste."

She lined them up on the chair.

"So. Previously, the fourth guy, the one that graduated or escaped, stole Inosuke on the way out. Typical." She rolled her eyes. "I took Shinobu. Itadori grabbed Zenitsu because he thought he was funny. Fushiguro took Giyu because, of course, he did."

She paused, then looked back at you.

"That leaves these."

She held up the last two.

Pink. Green.

The pink one had a girl printed on it, eyes wide, expression gentle. The green one showed a boy mid-step, sword drawn, earnest to the point of seriousness.

You stared at them, suddenly aware of how loud your own thoughts were.

"Oh," you said softly.

Kugisaki tilted her head. "Go on."

"I think… pink?" you offered, reaching for it almost automatically. "Since—well. You know."

She didn't stop you. She just watched.

You took it, fingers curling into the fabric, and immediately felt that faint, familiar tightness in your chest. The sense of having chosen something because it was expected rather than wanted.

Kugisaki didn't comment right away. Instead, she stepped closer and gently nudged your suitcase with her foot. A metallic jingle sounded.

She crouched, unzipped a side pocket, and fished out your keys.

Green charms. Worn. Clearly they'd been on your keys for a while. One with a small leaf motif. One ribbon with a little green talisman.

She glanced between the keys and the pajama set in your hands.

"Huh."

Your face warmed. "It's not—I mean—"

"You picked pink because you're a girl," she said, not accusing. Observant. "Didn't you? But you like green."

You swallowed, caught in the action. "… Yes."

She straightened and took the pink set from you carefully, folding it back onto the chair.

"Okay," she said, gentler now. "Then let me actually explain."

She picked up the green set instead and held it out.

"This one's Tanjiro. He's… annoyingly kind and considerate. Takes care of everyone. Notices things. Puts himself last. Exhausting, really." She shot you a look. "Sound familiar?"

You hesitated. Then nodded, embarrassed.

"And this," she added, tapping the pink set, "is Nezuko-chan. Sweet, yes, but she's a bit more steadfast and frankly doesn't really do much of the series. It's just a different vibe. I think you should be Tanjiro."

She nudged the green pajamas into your hands.

"You don't have to know the series to know yourself," she said. "And you don't have to match your gender. We're already living in a male dorm. Let's get over that Heian era mindset."

You laughed quietly, breath shaky but lighter now.

"I didn't even realize I was doing it," you admitted.

"Well, I know where you come from now," Kugisaki said. "That's why I notice."

You looked down at the green fabric again. This time, it didn't feel like a compromise.

"Then… I'll take this one," you said.

Her grin came fast and sharp, pleased.

"Good. Tanjiro suits you." She clapped her hands once. "That makes it official."

She scooped up the remaining set and tucked it back into the drawer.

"Alright. Two idiots, two girls, one shared bathroom and kitchen, and the world's worst pajama collection," she said. "Here's to your official welcome to unit 307."

The two of you scrubbed the dorm clean before you calmly unpacked in your new room. You hesitantly called Kenjaku to tell him you moved in safely.

You were already settled in and lounging in the living room by the time the front door slid open.

The kitchen light was warm and low, reflecting off the small table where dinner had been arranged with less care than you were used to. Just two bowls of rice, topped with salmon and peas, the entire meal cooked straight in the rice cooker. You were surprised by the ease of student cooking. The stove didn't even have to be turned on.

Kugisaki sat cross-legged on her chair in her pajamas, the lilac print loud against the landlord-white room, poking at her food while complaining about shipping fees and extra VAT costs.

You sat opposite her, back straight, Tanjiro's big face staring earnestly from your chest. You'd felt self-conscious about it at first. Now it was just fabric. Comfortable. It helped you feel at home in a way that surprised you.

The door opened.

Heat and noise rushed in at once.

Shoes thudded off near the genkan. A towel hit the floor. Someone groaned like they were dying.

"Man, Gojo-sensei went way too hard today," one voice said, already half yelling. "I swear my arms are going to fall off."

"That's because you don't pace yourself," the other replied, voice flat but breathless. He stepped inside first, dark hair damp, shirt clinging uncomfortably, a faint sheen of sweat catching the light when he moved.

Kugisaki didn't even look up.

"You stink," she said. "Both of you. I just cleaned the house."

"Wow, hello to you too," the pink-haired one shot back, then stopped short when he finally noticed you. His eyes dropped to the table. The food. Then to your pajamas.

"Oh," he said. "Hi."

"She's the new girl," Kugisaki muttered with a sigh. "Introduce yourself, idiot."

"Ah, sorry!" He stored away his dirty towel, then straightened and bowed just a little too enthusiastically. "I'm Itadori Yuji! Uh—nice to meet you!"

The dark-haired one followed more slowly. "Fushiguro Megumi," he said, nodding. "Sorry. We didn't know you'd moved in already."

"It's fine," you said quickly, setting your bowl down. You stood, smoothing the hem of your pajama top without thinking. "I'm—"

Before you could finish, Itadori's eyes lit up.

"Wait—no way." He pointed, not rudely, just surprised. "You're wearing Tanjiro? We finally have a Tanjiro?"

You blinked. Heat rushed to your face.

"Oh—um. Yes? I think. Kugisaki-san picked it."

Kugisaki snorted. "Correction. She picked it after I stopped her from choosing pink out of obligation."

"It suits you!" Itadori said immediately, earnest as anything. "And Tanjiro's, like, super kind. Really caring. Always looking out for people. And also he turns out to be really strong!"

You laughed, flustered. "I don't actually know much about it."

"That's okay!" he said, waving it off. "He also didn't know his potential."

Fushiguro glanced at the print, then at you. His expression softened just a fraction.

"It's a good choice," he said simply.

Kugisaki leaned back on her hands, smug. "See? Validation from both idiots."

"Hey," Itadori protested, then brightened again. "Oh! Since you're new here—uh—we train most evenings. At the Gojo dojo. Well, the official name is the Mugen Training Hall, but we just call it the Gojo dojo."

"You don't have to," Fushiguro added immediately. "Just thought we should tell you, since Kugisaki also joins from time to time. Itadori is the only one that joins every day."

"It's very sweaty, as you can tell," Kugisaki said flatly. "But the conditioning evenings are good for toning your body and losing weight. Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, if you're interested in coming with me."

Itadori laughed. "But it's fun to join on other days as well! Every evening has a different focus, so different people attend. And Gojo-sensei's… an interesting person."

You glanced at the two of them, then back at Kugisaki, who gave you a small, encouraging nod.

"I'll think about it," you said.

"Cool!" Itadori said. "Tomorrow's beginner-friendly; we always do basics on Monday. Maybe there will be other new students as well. You're free to join me!"

The two boys moved toward the bathroom, already arguing about who had used up the hot water last time. You sat back down slowly, chopsticks resting against the rim of your bowl. The voices faded down the hallway, replaced by the rush of the shower turning on and a reminder about the hot water limits.

For a moment, it was quiet again.

Kugisaki nudged your knee lightly with hers, then leaned in, voice dropping just enough to keep it private.

"You should go," she said.

You glanced at her. "To the dojo?"

"Yeah." She picked at a grain of rice, casual but deliberate. "Not because you have to join us. Because it's good for you."

You hesitated. "I'm not really—"

"I know," she cut in, not unkindly. "That's exactly why."

She tilted her head toward the bathroom door. "Go with Itadori. He doesn't judge. At all. He's loud and dumb and sincere to a fault, but he won't think you're behind or lacking or doing something wrong."

You thought of his immediate grin. The way he'd lit up over the pajama print without a second thought.

"He just… is a good and sociable kid," she continued. "It will make things easier. Especially at first."

"And you?" you asked.

She smirked. "I'll be there on conditioning days. Trust me, try out the basics class first. Gojo-sensei will see the life squeezed out of you on the other days."

You looked down at your bowl, then at the green fabric gathered at your wrists. Tanjiro's face stared up at you again, earnest and steady.

"I'm not very confident," you admitted quietly.

Kugisaki shrugged. "Neither was I. Confidence isn't something you're born with. You build it. Sometimes by doing things while terrified."

She bumped your knee again, firmer this time.

"And if it helps," she added, "half the people there are just pretending they know what they're doing anyway. They'll forget all your mistakes by the next morning."

You let out a small laugh, breath easing.

The shower cut off with a hard click, followed immediately by the sound of water splashing against tile.

"Seriously, Itadori," Fushiguro's voice carried from the hallway, tired and flat. "You spilled it everywhere again."

"The floor was already wet!"

"I don't care. It's more wet now."

Bare feet skidded. Water crept out from the bathroom, glinting under the kitchen light.

Kugisaki was up in an instant.

"Oh, absolutely not," she snapped, already grabbing the towel and throwing it at them. "You flood the floor, you mop it yourselves. I just cleaned everything. I am not doing this for you."

"It was an accident!"

"Then accidentally take responsibility!"

Itadori grumbled but crouched down, towel in hand. Kugisaki stood there, arms crossed, unyielding. She didn't raise her voice again. She didn't have to.

You watched her for a second longer than you meant to. The way she held her ground without hesitation. The way no one questioned it. How Itadori, with his broad shoulders and muscles, obeyed within seconds.

Something settled quietly in your chest.

"I'll go," you said.

She turned. "Hm?"

"To the dojo," you added, a little steadier now. "Tomorrow. With Itadori-kun."

Her mouth curved into a sharp, pleased smile.

"Good," she said. "That's what I wanted to hear."

"Oh—cool," Itadori said, bright, looking up from the mess.

Kugisaki clicked her tongue, "Finish cleaning before you open your mouth."

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, entirely unbothered by the harsh command.

Water was wiped up. Towels were wrung out. The moment passed as easily as it had come.

It wasn't a big decision. No one made a fuss about it. But it was the first direction you chose for yourself since arriving here. One small step into a life that wasn't prearranged, negotiated, or decided for you.

You had no way of knowing yet how far that step would carry you, or who would be pulled into your life because of it.

Chapter Text

You laid your bag open on the bed and stared at the empty void like it was going to accuse you of something.

Alright. You packed the plain T-shirt. Then jogging pants. Then you refilled an old water bottle, rinsed it, and then filled it up again, only to put it down and do the same to a larger, reusable model, as if that could make up for how small the pile looked.

You unfolded the shirt so it took up more space, smoothing the fabric with the heel of your hand, then refolded it anyway. Either way, there was still so much emptiness that it felt insulting to leave it like that. You zipped the bag with a sigh and immediately wondered if you should have brought a second tee, like a spare, or maybe a sleeveless top in case you sweated too much, or maybe a cooler, black one in case you looked like you didn't belong there. In case you proved your parents right about you being unprepared for anything outside the narrow life they'd arranged.

Across the room, your phone buzzed again. Another message.

You didn't check it. Not yet. You were busy, for once at least. You tightened the cap on the water bottle until it squeaked, then loosened it a fraction, afraid you'd cracked the seal. Could that even happen? When was the last time you used an actual sporty water bottle?

Itadori's voice from earlier kept replaying in your head, too casual to still your nerves.

"Just bring yourself. The rest is easy."

Easy for him to say. He probably trained for years already. He seemed like the kind of person who showed up with confidence and somehow thought it contagious.

You glanced at the empty pocket of the bag where something else should have been.

Gloves. Wraps. Tape. Shoes? The little things people carried that said, I do this as a passion. I know what I'm doing.

Itadori and Fushiguro both had theirs hanging from the coatrack. You had noticed, even when you'd tried not to. Itadori's classic red, worn gear looked loved and used when it dangled from his bag. Fushiguro's gloves had a cute black and white dog motif, both sides neatly stuck together, all tidy and cleaned off like he'd never let them get improper. It made your own bag feel like a joke.

You hovered over the closet, fingers twitching toward more clothes you didn't need. Toward the impulse to overpack until you could hide the fact that you were nervous beneath all those layers of preparation.

Your phone buzzed again.

This time you looked.

You read it twice, then a third time, as if the words might change. As if he might suddenly add, Unless you don't want to show up looking stupid.

He didn't.

Your throat tightened so fast that it bothered you. You exhaled slowly and forced your hands to move with purpose again, tucking the water bottle into the side sleeve. The bag still looked too empty, but at least it was ready. At least it wasn't stuffed with pretense.

You slung it over your shoulder, paused, then unzipped it again to check that the shirt was folded right.

Your phone lit up with a new notification.

You stared at that one longer than at Itadori's because it was so blunt it almost felt like an order. There was no reassurance or comfort in Fushiguro's words. Just the simple fact that you didn't need anything to show up.

You went to the bathroom, grabbed a hair tie from the edge of the sink, and dropped it into the bag. Then you zipped it fully, straightened your back, and looked at your confident image in the mirror.

The nerves made your stomach flutter anyway.

Still, you turned off the light and stepped toward the door.

You walked the unfamiliar streets side by side with Itadori, the evening air cool enough to keep your hands tucked into your pockets. The dojo lights were still a few streets away, a soft glow at the end of the road, but your steps already turned careful, like you were approaching something that might judge you on sight.

Itadori swung his bag over his other shoulder, easy and unbothered. He glanced at you, then slowed half a step so you wouldn't have to match his stride.

"You know," he said, like he was commenting on the weather, "first-day jitters are normal. Even for people who are pros. You never know if you'll vibe with the sensei, you know?"

You huffed quietly. "Well, you look like you know what you're doing."

He laughed but showed no offense. "That's a lie. I just panic extremely loudly on the inside."

That earned a small smile from you before you could stop it.

He tilted his head, thinking. "You know, when I get nervous, I try to think about characters who'd just… go for it anyway. Like Tanjiro."

You blinked. "From the Demon Slayer pajamas?"

"Yeah! He gets scared all the time, but he still shows up. Trains hard. Protects people." He shrugged. "They remind me I could be like that too. It feels reassuring."

You hesitated, then shook your head slightly. "So, to be honest, I don't really read or watch things like that."

He looked genuinely surprised. "Oh? What do you like, then?"

The question caught you off guard more than it should have. You searched for an answer that didn't feel embarrassing, one that didn't make you sound out of place.

"I…" You hesitated, then decided not to lie. "I mostly watched shōjo as a kid. The older ones that aired on TV back then. Cutesy stuff."

His eyes lit up. "Really? Like what?"

You tucked your chin into your collar. "Shugo Chara. And things like that. The classic, girly stories where friends take care of each other through love, happiness, friendship, all that stuff."

He nodded immediately, like that made perfect sense. "That's not weird at all."

You glanced at him. "Most people would think it is."

"What? That a girl never read an issue of Jump in her life but enjoyed similar media catered to girls her age?" he said simply, shaking his head. "Besides, shōjo characters are tough in their own way. They just fight different battles. My argument still stands. Sailor Moon would also do anything to protect her friends!"

You couldn't help but chuckle. The way he said it made the tight nerves in your chest loosen, just a little. Like you weren't being compared to someone else's standard for once.

You adjusted the strap of your bag. "I guess those characters still show up too."

"Exactly," he said, grinning. "You're already doing the hardest part."

The dojo came into full view then, wooden doors half-open, warm light spilling across the wooden floor and into the hall. The smell of clean mats and a sharp alcoholic detergent penetrated your nostrils as soon as your feet hit the threshold. Your grip tightened on your bag strap as you stepped inside.

"Yo."

The voice came from too close.

You barely had time to register the tall figure before he leaned down into your space, hands braced on his knees, face level with yours. His eyes were covered by sunglasses (inside, in the evening). He wore a sharp grin and emitted a suffocating energy that felt like it could kill you right there.

"Oh, Yuji!" The man straightened abruptly and threw an arm around Itadori's shoulders with theatrical force. "You're early. Again. I love that about you."

Itadori laughed, easy as ever, even as he staggered a little. "I told you, it's just habit. I can't sit still at home. I have to work out."

"That's the problem." The man clicked his tongue. "You actually do the full training, without slacking even a second, and you do it every day. You take no shortcuts; you don't sneak into the toilets… unlike some people I could mention. Like Megumi."

He stated the name loudly, like it was a stage aside. He sighed dramatically, hand to his forehead, back curled almost unnaturally backwards, "Ah, you spoil me. You keep forcing me to raise my standards."

You hovered half a step behind Itadori, unsure where to put yourself. The strange man kept talking, pacing a loose circle around your housemate as if you weren't there at all.

"Honestly, it's so refreshing to have students with discipline and motivation. A sense of responsibility makes a man so much stronger." He poked Itadori lightly in the chest. "If I'd had that at your age, I'd be unstoppable."

"You were already unstoppable, Gojo-sensei," Itadori said sincerely. "Your trophies are all over the dojo."

"Yeah, but I became lazy. That's why I only spend fifteen minutes showing you guys combinations even though I log an hour of training work."

Gojo finally stopped moving.

His head turned.

His attention snapped onto you like a spotlight.

"Oh?" His grin widened. "Who's this? Fresh meat?"

You stiffened before you could help it.

He crossed the distance in two long steps, stopping just close enough that you could feel his aura without him even touching you. His posture was relaxed, but the pressure of his presence wasn't. It felt like being looked at too closely, like he was seeing through you instead of at you.

"New student?" he asked, tone bright, curious. Too curious, too close for comfort.

You nodded, a little too fast. "Y-yes."

"Ah." He tilted his head. "Interesting."

Your stomach dropped. Who the hell would reply with interesting to that?

He leaned down again, closer this time, hands on his knees like before, face angled toward yours. Even without seeing his eyes, you felt them on you, sharp and assessing. Your shoulders pulled in instinctively.

"What's your name?"

You told him.

He hummed, like he was filing it away in his mind. "First day on campus?"

You nodded again.

"First-day jitters?" His smile sharpened, fingers flexing creepily, his intensity turning playful in a way that didn't feel gentle. "Don't worry. If you survive today, you'll probably be fine."

You froze. Survive?

Itadori cleared his throat loudly. "Gojo-sensei."

Gojo blinked, straightening as if he'd just noticed the tension in the room. "Hm?"

"You're scaring her."

There was a pause.

Then Gojo laughed in a loud, bright, completely unbothered way. Like he didn't just scare the crap out of you. "Oh. Am I?"

You nodded frantically.

"Whoops." He clapped his hands together once. "Sorry. Occupational hazard."

He stepped back, finally giving you space. The pressure eased immediately, like you could finally breathe again.

"No need to look like a deer about to bolt," he added cheerfully. "This is a friendly dojo. Mostly."

Mostly did not help his case.

Itadori shifted closer to you without making a big deal of it, just enough that his presence was steady at your side.

"Ignore him," he said quietly. "He does that to everyone."

Gojo pointed at him. "I do not."

"You absolutely do."

"Uh, I suffer from selective memory loss." Gojo waved it off and turned toward the mats. "Alright! Warm-ups in five. Yuji, same routine. Jumping jacks into high knees with fist bumps and fifty warmup kicks on each side. Don't be a Megumi."

He paused, then glanced back at you. "You can borrow gear from the rack. Don't feel pressured to finish the exercises for now. Just follow along and don't overthink it."

Then, as an afterthought, with a grin that showed too much confidence in himself, he added, "And try not to pass out. That'd be awkward for me."

He walked off, humming and hips swinging.

You stood there for a second, flabbergasted, with your heart still racing.

"He gets better over time," Itadori said, quietly reassuring you. "Let's get you set up."

The inside of the dojo felt quieter than you had expected. You had expected tons of people, all of them fighting and grunting. Instead, it seemed no one else had returned from their spring break yet. Or felt like joining today's class.

Still, the room didn't feel empty but rather focused. The wide mat space was lit evenly, the air cool and clean, every sound sharper for the lack of chatter. Itadori was already stretching near the edge, his movements loose and looking familiar with the space. Further in the dojo, someone else stood alone.

A muscular guy, seemingly older than both of you. He shared a similar hair color with Itadori, but his face and body were tattooed all over. His face was a bit off, like he had some kind of mark, but you weren't able to tell from this distance. The strangest thing was that he wasn't warming up so much as just existing there, tall and still, arms loose at his sides. He wasn't wasting time on his phone. He hadn't even brought a bag. He showed no visible effort in warming up. His gaze was forward, unfocused in a way that somehow felt deliberate, like he was waiting for something. 

How menacing.

You swallowed.

Itadori noticed immediately.

He leaned in, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret. "Okay, don't freak out."

That did not help your spiraling thoughts.

"That's Sukuna," he whispered, nodding subtly. "He's… kind of intense. Shows up every day, alone."

You watched as Sukuna finally moved, rolling his shoulders once, slow and controlled. The pounds of muscles shifted under his shirt like the flexing cost him nothing.

"And he always looks like that," Itadori continued. "Like he's either bored or about to kill someone. Or both. He graduated some time ago but still shows up here. He can't have a real job. Kugisaki thinks he's a hitman."

You huffed despite yourself. "That's very reassuring. I really imagined he works at the animal shelter and feeds puppies by the bottle."

"Haha, you think so?" He grinned. "Oh, and he doesn't really sweat. Ever. I've seen him do full drills without even breathing hard. And Gojo-sensei thinks up the worst drills! It's creepy."

As if sensing the attention, Sukuna's gaze flicked toward you.

Just once. But it felt like a crosshair. Your spine went straight on instinct.

"… He heard you," you muttered.

Itadori froze. Then waved awkwardly. "Nah, no way. Maybe not."

Sukuna looked away again, already uninterested.

You exhaled.

Itadori clapped his hands together. "Okay! Let's get you in your gloves."

You were grateful for the distraction.

He walked you to the gear rack, talking the whole time, showing you how to wrap your hands properly. His movements were practiced but gentle, explaining each step without making you feel slow.

"Not too tight," he said, adjusting the wrap around your knuckles before rolling it around your wrist again. "You want to support the little bones in your hand, not make it all fall off."

You watched carefully, mirroring him on the other side. When you slipped the gloves on, they felt heavier than you expected. Now it all felt real.

"See?" he said, smiling. "You look legit already. I'm gonna put mine on before you beat the crap out of me!"

You laughed softly, some of the tension bleeding off. "Don't make fun of me."

"I'm serious," he insisted. "Everyone starts somewhere. Even he was a scrawny boy at some point in his life."

From the corner of your eye, you noticed Sukuna fully stretching now, fluid and in complete silence. He didn't look at either of you, but his presence was impossible to ignore, like an intimidating pressure boomed off him.

You shook it off and focused.

The first few minutes went well. Itadori and you alternated on the bag. Gojo gave you basic drills. You switched your stance, practicing proper footwork. You learned some simple sparring motions. Your heart pounded, but not unpleasantly. You were moving. Fighting. Even if it felt like a more interactive cardio class than the aggression you'd imagined.

Until—

"BROTHER!"

The voice boomed through the dojo like a declaration of war.

You startled hard enough to miss a step, and with that, the bag.

A massive figure strode in with zero apology, clapping Itadori on the shoulder so hard he staggered forward. The guy grinned like he'd just found his favorite toy.

"Late again, Todo," Itadori groaned. "Class starts at 30, remember?"

"My best friend." Todo ignored that entirely. "You. Me. Now."

"What—wait, I'm training with—"

Too late.

Todo had already hooked an arm around Itadori's shoulders and dragged him toward the far mat, laughing. "Sparring with me builds character! And muscles!"

Itadori shot you an apologetic look over his shoulder. "Sorry! I'll be right back!"

He wasn't convincing anyone.

You stood there, suddenly very aware of how empty your side of the mat felt.

Gojo, who had been leaning against a pillar watching everything unfold like a live show, clapped once. "Well! This is awkward. How will you ever learn all on your lonesome?"

Your stomach sank.

Itadori was already struggling against Todo, laughing and protesting as they squared off. He glanced back at you again, concern flickering across his face.

"Sensei," he called out, breathless. "She can do some solo bag work until I'm done! I'll switch after Todo's warm-ups!"

Gojo's smile widened.

"Oh no," he said lightly. "That won't do at all. She still needs guidance!"

He turned, gaze sliding pointedly to where Sukuna stood alone.

Sukuna's eyes narrowed a fraction.

Gojo's grin turned feral.

"Wouldn't it be such a shame," he continued, "to leave our new student without a partner to guide her?"

Your blood ran cold.

Sukuna looked at Gojo. Then at you.

Slowly.

His expression didn't change, but something in his posture did. A subtle shift, like a predator acknowledging movement.

You had the sudden, overwhelming urge to apologize for existing.

Gojo rested his chin in his hand, delighted. "Sukuna, be a dear and spar with her. Lightly. She's new."

Sukuna's jaw tightened.

Itadori sputtered. "Sensei—!"

"Oh, relax," Gojo said. "It will help her build confidence."

Sukuna exhaled through his nose, sharp and unimpressed. "You're enjoying this, Gojo Satoru."

"Immensely."

For a moment, it looked like Sukuna might refuse.

Then he stepped forward.

Once. Twice.

He stopped at a respectful distance, but his presence still felt enormous. He donned two pads on his hands and held them out. Then he looked down at you, eyes unreadable.

"… Don't overdo it," he said finally. His voice was low and controlled. Not unkind, but not gentle either.

Your hands tightened in your gloves.

You nodded, feigning confidence. "I won't."

Behind you, Itadori groaned as Todo dragged him into a grapple and slid him across the floor.

Gojo watched Sukuna with sparkling interest.

You stepped into the punch in the way Itadori had shown you. Feet planted. Shoulders loose. Guard up.

You threw that first punch with all the muscle you had.

It landed solidly against Sukuna's guard… and the shock ran straight back up your arm.

You bit back a sound.

Sukuna's arm barely moved. There wasn't even a shift of his weight. It was like hitting solid rock that decided to be human-shaped today. Or at least, what passed for human.

You tried again. Same punch. Same impact.

Pain flared sharper this time, a dull sting blooming across your wrist and then into your forearm. You pulled back instinctively and forced yourself not to shake your hand in pain. You didn't want to look fragile in front of a powerhouse like him, especially on your first day.

So you kept going.

Punch. Reset. Punch.

Your form was fine. Your breathing was steady. But each strike sent a little jolt through your bones, and you started compensating without meaning to by turning your wrist a fraction, by pulling back faster than you should have.

Sukuna noticed, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"Stop."

The word was quiet, but the irritation in it hit you like a command.

You froze mid-motion. "I'm fine."

You weren't sure why you said it so quickly.

Sukuna didn't make a sound as his gaze dropped to your hands, eyes focused on the way your right wrist sat just a little stiffer than the left.

"That hurts," he said flatly.

You hesitated. Then shrugged, trying to play it off. "I think you're just… sturdier than Itadori. I just need to get used to your… hardness."

A corner of his mouth twitched in annoyance.

"You're absorbing the impact wrong."

Your brows knit. "But I did it the same way he showed me."

He stepped closer, close enough that he could see the sweat beading on your forehead, and you could finally see the rough patch of skin around his eyes. His presence still made your spine straighten, but there was something different now in his gaze. You followed it to where it peered over your wrist with focus and intent.

"You wrapped your left hand correctly," he said. "The right isn't reinforced enough."

Your heart skipped. "You can tell by just looking?"

He looked at you like that was a strange question. "It's obvious."

Before you could respond, he reached out. You flinched before you could stop yourself.

He paused immediately, though his expression didn't change.

"I'm not going to hit you," he said, dryly. "Hold still."

You nodded, mortified, and loosened the glove on your right hand. He tugged it off with practiced ease, fingers careful despite their size. When he unwound the wrap, the mistake was suddenly glaring. The angle was off, the wrist support uneven.

"That brat Itadori didn't wrap this correctly," Sukuna muttered. It didn't sound entirely accusatory but more observational.

"I did that side myself," you admitted quietly.

"Well, that explains it."

He took the wrap from your hand and redid it without ceremony. His movements were precise and efficient, as if he were a professional. The new wrap was firm enough that you felt supported immediately. He tightened the fabric near the end, reinforced the wrist properly with the leftover bit, then tested it with a brief press of his thumb.

"Too tight?" he asked.

You shook your head. "… No. It feels better."

He re-gloved your hand and stepped back, returning to his stance as if nothing unusual had happened.

"Don't keep going through pain you don't understand," he added. "That's how you get permanent injuries."

You swallowed. "Thank you for caring."

His gaze flicked to you again, sharp but not hostile. "I just don't want my training time wasted."

Itadori groaned loudly in the background as Todo threw him to the mat.

You raised your guard again, heart still thudding, but this time, when you punched, the impact spread cleanly through your arm instead of snapping back at your wrist. You felt it in your shoulder, but you remembered Gojo telling you that was correct.

You reset your stance, more confident this time. The mat felt firmer under your feet now that you were aware of it, like you were finally standing the way you were meant to instead of guessing where to put your weight.

You punched again. The impact still thudded deep into your arms, but it no longer shook your bones. The pain stayed contained, dull and honest, spreading the good kind of soreness through your limbs. You exhaled in relief without realizing you had been holding your breath.

"Angle your wrist properly," Sukuna said. He didn't add unnecessary emotion. "You want to strike with the first two knuckles."

You adjusted slightly, turning your fist the way he had shown with the wrap, and tried again.

"Better," he added, almost begrudgingly. "And punch straight. The pads are at face height for a reason; don't aim for their shoulder."

You glanced up at him, startled, but he was already watching your hands instead of your face. His guard stayed high, unmoving, but his attention was unmistakably on you now.

You threw another punch, then another.

"Don't drop your guard after the strike," he said. "You're leaving yourself open. I could knock you out with a single kick to the head. Wrists at your jaw."

You corrected it, slower this time. Guard up. Punch. Reset.

He blocked again, absorbing it like nothing, but he nodded once, eyes tracking your movements.

"Keep your elbows closer," he continued. "You flare them when you get tired."

"I'm not—" You stopped yourself, realizing you absolutely were.

You tightened your posture. Your shoulders protested almost immediately after all the torture they went through.

Sukuna noticed again.

"You don't need power yet," he said. "Focus on your form first. Engaging the muscles comes later."

It wasn't encouragement; it wasn't praise, but it wasn't dismissal either.

You focused on what he was saying instead of how intimidating he looked. Still, there was something attentive in the way he watched without hovering, how he instantly corrected you without touching. Every instruction was efficient, stripped of excess words. You didn't feel judged at all. Rather, you felt properly coached.

Gojo, somewhere nearby, hummed with obvious amusement.

Sukuna ignored him like it was nothing new.

"Again," he said to you.

You punched.

This time, when your form slipped just a little, he caught it instantly.

"Guard."

You fixed it.

"Wrist."

Adjusted.

"Breathe."

You did.

The fear that had been sitting tight in your chest since you entered the dojo slowly disappeared, replaced by newfound focus and effort. You felt the quiet reassurance that someone was actually watching what you were doing and didn't judge you in their corrections.

After a few more exchanges, Sukuna stepped back half a pace.

You could feel it already before he said anything, when his focus drifted inward, pulling away from correction and observation and turning restless. The pads moved against your strikes now. He began training-for-himself, not training-with-you.

He stepped back and glanced toward the heavy bags lining the far wall.

"That's enough for you," he said. "It's my turn."

You lowered your hands, chest rising and falling, gloves warm and moist from your sweaty palms. Part of you felt relieved, while another part bristled faintly at the thought that you'd reached your limit before he had even warmed up.

Sukuna walked past you without comment, taking the pads off his hands as he went. The air around him shifted, pressure building dangerously, as if he were finally about to move properly.

Gojo, who had absolutely been waiting for this moment, clapped loudly.

"Oh no you don't," he said cheerfully. "You don't just abandon your partner."

Sukuna stopped.

"… I'm not sparring with her," he said flatly.

"Of course not," Gojo replied. "But she's going to hold the bag. Sukuna, you're far too big for our equipment, remember?"

You blinked. "I—what?"

Gojo was already dragging a heavy bag off its hook, shoving it between the both of you, grinning like this was the most reasonable suggestion in the world. "You can train your stance! Great learning experience! Builds grit. Builds confidence. Builds bones."

"That last one sounds bad," you said weakly.

Sukuna turned slowly. "She's not holding it.'

"Oh?" Gojo tilted his head. "Why not?"

"She doesn't weigh enough. As you said, I'm heavy."

You stiffened.

"I can try," you said before you could stop yourself. This was the time to break free from your past self. This was when you could finally grow in your confidence.

Both of them looked at you.

Your heart hammered, but you stepped forward anyway, planting your feet the way Itadori had taught you. The bag was larger than you expected when you wrapped your arms around it, rough canvas biting into your forearms.

"I'm not going to break," you added, quieter but stubborn.

Sukuna stared at you for a long second. Then he exhaled sharply through his nose, irritation flickering clear as day.

"… Fine," he said. "Once."

Gojo's grin widened to dangerous levels.

Sukuna donned his gloves, loosened up his shoulders, and squared up in front of the bag.

You braced the best you could.

The punch came fast.

You barely registered the motion before the impact detonated through the bag… and straight through you.

The world lurched.

Your feet left the mat.

You hit the floor hard, the bag skidding with you as your breath was punched out of your lungs in a sharp, humiliating gasp. For a split second, all you could see was the ceiling and a blur of white lights.

The dojo went quiet.

"… I told you," Sukuna said, cold.

You sucked in air, stunned but conscious, more shocked than hurt. "I—I'm okay," you wheezed, mortified, desperately crawling up again but ultimately surrendering to the dizziness.

Gojo burst out laughing.

"Oh wow. That was spectacular."

Sukuna's head snapped toward him.

"You," Sukuna said, voice low and lethal, "hold it."

Gojo blinked. "Me?"

"You wanted it held," Sukuna replied. "Hold it."

There was a brief, glorious moment where Gojo looked genuinely delighted. He removed his sunglasses with a grin.

"Alright!" he said, grabbing the bag and planting himself exaggeratedly. "Show me what you've got."

Sukuna didn't answer.

He moved.

The first strike slammed into the bag with full force. There was no restraint, no consideration. Gojo was lifted clean off his feet, skidding back slightly with a startled laugh.

"Okay! Okay, I get it—"

Another punch.

Then a kick. Gojo reinforced himself properly this time, finally shutting up as he held the sack still.

The bag became a weapon, snapping taut between them as Sukuna unleashed everything he'd been holding back. Gojo was tossed, dragged, forced to scramble for footing, awkward laughter breaking into sharp, surprised sounds.

"Hey—! You're doing this on purpose!"

"Yes," Sukuna said calmly, and drove another blow into the bag.

Gojo staggered back, laughing, brushing dust off his clothes like he hadn't just been used as a very expensive anchor. Sukuna stepped away from him now, his breathing steady and unaffected. He didn't even seem warmed up.

Itadori had already rushed to your side.

"Hey, are you okay?" He crouched, worry written all over his face. "That was… that was a lot. I told him not to—I mean, Sensei shouldn't have—"

You laughed.

It surprised even you.

It came out breathless and a little shaky, but it was a genuine laugh. You pushed yourself up to sitting, rubbing your shoulder where the mat had knocked the air out of you. Perhaps it had also knocked away all sense.

"I flew," you said, incredulous. "Did you see that? I actually flew all the way across the room."

Itadori blinked. “You're… laughing about this?”

"I've never been hit by anything like that," you said, still half in awe. "I mean, obviously. But—" You glanced toward the bag, then to Gojo, then, more cautiously, to Sukuna. "That was just a single punch. That was… unbelievable."

Sukuna didn't look at you. He was rewrapping his hands, methodical as ever, but he seemed to listen as he answered, "Yes."

Your heart skipped a beat when you replayed the sensation.

Itadori let out a breath he'd been holding and laughed too, relieved. "Okay. Okay, good. I thought you were hurt."

"It hurts," you admitted. "But I'm not hurt."

You rolled your shoulder once, experimentally. It complained, but it was still attached and working.

You looked back at the bag again. At the way it had dented completely where Sukuna had struck. A strange conviction started to bubble from within you.

"… That kind of strength," you said slowly, "I didn't know you could launch people with it. I wonder if I could launch someone my size." Your eyes flicked to Gojo. "Or even bigger."

Gojo perked up. "Oh? Ambitious."

"And," you added, quieter, glancing at Sukuna's broad back, "maybe even make someone like him stagger a little."

That got you a reaction. It wasn't much, just a brief pause in Sukuna's hands and a slight lift of his brow, a fraction of a second too long to not be a reaction. But still, he glanced over before resuming his wrapping without comment.

Gojo grinned like he'd just been handed a gift. "Careful. Say things like that and you'll give him ideas."

Itadori stared at you, then smiled, wide and proud. "That's the spirit. Honestly? That's how it starts. I also want to be able to match Sukuna! That's why I'm coming every day."

You nodded, feeling something new settle in your chest. It wasn't the confidence that Kugisaki spoke of yet, but it was a hunger, a growing curiosity. In crept the sudden, dangerous thought of what your body might become capable of if you kept showing up. 

You pushed yourself fully to your feet, brushing off your clothes.

"Next time," you said, mostly to yourself, "I want to be strong enough to hold the bag."

Sukuna finished his wrap and finally looked at you fully. "… Then you'll have to train more."

You met his eyes, a grin blooming across your face despite yourself.

"I will."

Your gaze flicked briefly to Itadori, who was still crouched beside you, relief written all over his face. The memory of the walk here surfaced in your mind, in his easy voice, about how manga protagonists would build courage even if they weren't born or raised with it.

You squared your shoulders again, feeling the soreness settle in, encouraging the thought that those muscles would be growing quickly.

"Like Tanjiro," you added boldly. "He shows up even when he's scared."

Itadori's smile widened instantly as he crawled back onto his feet.

"Exactly."

Later, you walked home with your arms all puddly and your nerves all buzzly, the dojo slowly shrinking behind you.

Itadori was quiet for exactly three steps.

Then he stopped, turned to you, eyes wide. "Okay—no. No. Even Tanjiro would not try to take on Sukuna alone."

You blinked. "I didn't say I'd win."

"You're absolutely insane!" he said, half-laughing, half-panicking. "You challenged him on your first day. Tanjiro would cry, have an off-screen training arc for three years, and then he'd still have to bring all of the Hashira. Maybe even the Upper Moons! Did you forget about the part where Kugisaki claims he's a hitman?! And she knows all the gossip on campus! There must be truth in her words!"

You smiled, tugging your bag higher on your shoulder. "But Tanjiro would still show up to the fight, right?"

Itadori groaned, running a hand through his hair. "You're crazy."

Maybe.

But you were already excited thinking about tomorrow.

Chapter Text

You woke up feeling like your arms had melted off overnight. They weren't numb, but they were… completely useless. Did you even have bones in them still? Just shifting under the covers made your shoulders protest sharply, your muscles screaming in agony at every little movement.

You groaned softly and stared at the ceiling, blinking away the weariness in your eyes while your body caught up with the fact that you were awake.

Your phone was on the nightstand. You reached for it, which was a big mistake. Your fingers barely closed around it before your forearm gave out, the phone slipping from your grip and thudding back onto the wood. You lay there for a second, stunned, then let out another breathy groan through clenched teeth.

On the second attempt, using both hands like a makeshift net of fingers, you managed to drag the phone up along the mattress so you could squint at the screen.

Oh, it was late. Very late.

You'd slept straight through the morning. Or, well, your mother would not consider eleven o'clock as a morning hour anymore.

A notification sat at the top of your screen. You smiled weakly at the message, thumbs moving slower than usual.

The moment your status flipped to online, the screen changed and showed something you hadn't prepared for.

Incoming call.

Kenjaku.

Your stomach dropped, your mind filling with panicked thoughts. Perhaps he knew; that thought came fast and irrational, but you couldn't help but imagine it. He knew you went to the dojo; he knew you shared your dorm with guys... He'd been watching somehow, or maybe your parents know and told him, or—

Your thumb hovered over the screen, trembling slightly. You had to pick up; if you didn't pick up, the backlash would be worse. It was always worse. These were old instincts of your mother's voice in your head, asking you why you didn't answer, what were you doing that you couldn't answer?

You reluctantly picked up the call, balancing the phone awkwardly on your ear because holding it properly still hurt.

"Good morning, sunshine," he said smoothly. "Or should I say afternoon? Already partying on your first day?"

"I went to the gym yesterday for the first time," you said by way of explanation. "I didn't expect to get knocked out from exhaustion."

"Ah." He paused for a moment. "First time in a while, I take it?"

"Yes."

"Mm." His voice stayed pleasant, but you could feel a weird tension underneath it. "I was a little worried, you know. When you didn't respond this morning."

Your grip tightened on the phone. That old instinct flared up again. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sleep so late—"

"No, no. You don't need to apologize." He shifted back to being warm and understanding. "I just wasn't sure if something had happened. You're in a new city, living alone for the first time. It's natural for me to be concerned."

Concerned. You weren't sure. He didn't truly sound worried.

"I would have called earlier," he continued, "but I thought I'd give you space. Let you settle in." He chuckled a soft laugh. "Though I admit I did check whether you'd been online. It's an old habit, forgive me."

He said it like a confession, like he was trusting you with a small vulnerability of his. You weren't sure why it still made you feel like you'd done something wrong.

"I'm not scolding you." His tone was gentle. Almost amused. "I'm glad you're taking care of yourself. Exercise is important for your health and well-being. I just prefer to know you're safe."

You didn't have time to think that over.

"Dinner tonight?" he asked, moving on as if the matter was settled now.

You winced, your promise to the dojo haunting your mind. "I have more gym plans."

"Then the afternoon."

"I wanted to go out to buy some supplies."

Another pause, thoughtful this time. "I can come with you."

You hesitated, then sighed. "It's… girl stuff. I was going to go with some new friends from uni."

The silence stretched. You could almost hear him recalculating his next words.

"I see," he said finally, and his voice was still so gentle. "I understand. You're building a new life here. That's healthy."

You blinked. That wasn't what you'd subconsciously braced yourself for.

"But," he continued, still soft, still kind, "we haven't seen each other since I drove you to your dorm. I'd hate for distance to build between us so early. Relationships require maintenance, don't they?"

Maintenance. There it was again. Another word or behavior that just felt so out of place amidst the sweetness. It made your chest feel strange again.

"I'm not trying to pressure you," he added, as if he'd heard your hesitation through the phone. "I simply want to see you. Even briefly. Even if just for breakfast, or well, brunch."

His tone was warm and patient, as if he were coaxing a small and frightened animal out of hiding.

"Your breakfast, my lunch," he explained. "I'll find somewhere close to your dorm so you don't have to travel far. You're sore, after all. I wouldn't want to strain you."

You stared at the ceiling, a heavy feeling settling slowly in your chest. You felt that old expectation weighing on you, the weight of someone else's want, wrapped in kindness so you couldn't refuse without feeling ungrateful. And, as always, you were unable to outrun that ancient pressure of resignation.

"… Fine," you said, finally. "Breakfast."

"Lovely." You could hear his smile. "I'll send you the coordinates. See you soon."

The call ended. You let the phone drop from your face and closed your eyes. You'd let him walk all over you, as if you were a trained dog. He hadn't even asked for your apology, and you still promised him to do better. Your throat felt dry.

Why were you like this?

You thought of Nobara yesterday, after Itadori had brought his stack of dirty plates to the sink after she had finished rinsing the last of the dishes. She had faced him with her arms crossed and had laid it into him without a second's hesitation. He had washed his plates alone, in the dark, while the rest of you prepared to go to sleep. She hadn't softened towards him; she hadn't laughed it off and accepted those plates to make him feel comfortable. She hadn't assured him to not worry about his tardiness again. And he had respected her for it, with a salute.

Meanwhile, you couldn't even hold a phone call without folding like wet paper. You pressed the heels of your palms against your eyes, trying to breathe slowly. It was fine. It was just breakfast. Free breakfast. But was it fine? He just told you he was checking when you were online; that seemed absolutely neurotic. He framed it like a joke, and you'd just... let it pass. You'd practically thanked him for it; you even promised to be better so he wouldn't have to check and ask. So he wouldn't, perchance, per a slight and tiny little chance, become angry.

You let out a shaky breath and opened your eyes. Alright. Time to pull yourself together again.

Your arms hurt so much. That was, until you moved your legs to try to peel yourself out of bed and found two new muscles that had been trained yesterday. You let yourself roll out slowly, like a thick puddle of flesh,  making sounds no human should admit to, finding the energy to roll back onto your feet only after the coldness of the floor seeped through your bones.

With regret, you started making yourself ready, even though your muscles seemed personally offended that you dared to do so. Then, finally, you shuffled to the common area, arms dangling uselessly at your sides.

Kugisaki was already there. She sat at the table in her trademark pajamas, sprawled out and perfectly awake, with a paper bag spread open in front of her. Flaky crumbs dusted her face and fingertips as she took the last bite in joy.

"Oh, you're alive," she perked up, swallowing quickly. "I was about to send one of the boys through your window."

You groaned and shuffled closer, "I barely made it."

Looking at her, seeing her sit there so easily and unbothered, unapologetically taking up the space on that couch, made something in your chest ache with regret. And a little bit of envy.

"Good, good." She nudged the paper bag toward you with her foot. "You sure you don't want one, by the way? These are the fancy ones from the bakery down the street. You know, organic homemade butter, hand-rolled pastry dough, unrefined cane sugar, Himalayan salt flakes, and so on. I had to order these plain ones ahead of time. The café only sells the filled ones in-house, and they charge insane prices."

Your stomach betrayed you immediately, twisting with want when you saw those croissants, perfectly golden and flaky, practically glowing from the fragrant, melted butter.

"I really want to," you admitted, mournful. "But I have brunch."

Kugisaki raised a brow. "With who?"

"Um." You rubbed the back of your neck, wincing as your shoulder protested immediately. "My… fiancé."

The word came out stiff, like you hadn't yet uttered it often enough to feel normal.

Nobara blinked. "Your what?"

"My fiancé," you repeated, quieter. "He called this morning to go out."

"Huh." She leaned back, arms crossed. "And you just woke up, right? So he called you instantly after you texted me?"

You hesitated. "He said he was worried. Because I didn't respond this morning."

"Okaaaay," she continued, shifting gears. "So where's brunch? Do you need suggestions?"

You checked your phone again, rotating your sore wrist carefully. Nobara leaned in, squinted at the address, then froze.

"No way," she said. "That's this place."

You frowned. "It is?"

"That bakery is impossible to get into without a reservation." She stared at you like you'd just lied to her face. "And he's taking you there? For a simple brunch?"

You hesitated. "I guess?"

She let out a low whistle. "Wow. Okay. I take back every weird thing I was about to say."

You almost asked what she meant, but she was already straightening, elbows on the table, chin resting in her hands, suddenly far too interested. "That bakery has a waiting list. Like, a waiting list waiting list. People plan their anniversaries around that place."

You shifted your weight, arms still hanging uselessly. "He just said it was close to my dorm."

"Of course he did," she said, rolling her eyes. "Rich people always say just that. 'Oh, it just happened to be nearby.' No. No, it did not."

You huffed softly. "He's not really romantic or anything. I guess he just picked the first place he could find."

"Mmhmm." She looked you up and down, crumbs still clinging to her fingers. "Who cares for romance? As long as he knows your wants and needs, adjusts his meals around yours, and casually takes you into a top-tier brunch spot like it's nothing, you don't need his confessions of undying love. Just his big fat wallet."

She paused, then grinned, nodding approvingly. "Damn. Your fiancé is actually kind of amazing. I'm getting jealous now."

You opened your mouth to respond, but something snagged in your chest.

A minute ago, she'd looked suspicious. Her little 'okaaay' had been drawn out and flat, as if it was a warning. And now, what, the restaurant fixed everything? A reservation at a fancy bakery erased the weirdness of how he tracked when you came online?

Maybe you were overthinking it.

He was your fiancé, after all; of course he'd want to see you. Of course he'd check if you were awake. That was just... concern. The kind anyone would have for someone they were going to marry. Right?

You winced. "Please don't say it like that. It's an arranged marriage. I don't feel comfortable dating him yet."

She eyed your stiff posture, then sighed and stood, moving closer. "Alright, come here."

Before you could ask why, she plucked your phone from your hand and opened the chat with Kenjaku again.

"Let's text him you're on your way," she said. "And that you're still oh so very, very sore."

You blinked. "Why?"

"Because if he's as wonderful as this sudden brunch suggests," she said, already nudging you toward the door, "he'll adjust something for you. He'll let you order something fancy to make you feel better. Or maybe he arranges a seat with cushions for you. Or at least look appropriately concerned out of sympathy for his poor girl."

She smirked. "And if he doesn't, then he's just a rich, pompous guy showing off his wealth. Which is way less impressive. But still, a fat wallet."

A test, you realized. She was testing him for you.

You let out a small, helpless laugh as she pushed you forward.

"Go," she said. "Show off your mysterious, wealthy fiancé. I'll be here, eating plain artisan croissants like a peasant."

She paused, then added, softer but sincere, "And hey. If he ever does mess up or make you feel bad? You tell me."

You glanced back at her.

She smiled, all teeth. "Fiancé or not. Me and the boys are on your side. And we got fists!"

You smiled back, but you hadn't felt that secure yet. Maybe Kenjaku was just good enough. Maybe you were the one being unfair for condemning him while he was just trying his best.

The café was as fancy as Kugisaki had described. The walls were a muted marble, the floors were made from warm wood, and above each quaint table hung a soft light that made everything feel curated down to the deliciously scented air itself. You hesitated at the entrance, suddenly acutely aware of your very stiff shoulders and plain outfit.

Kenjaku spotted you within seconds.

He rose from his chair before you could even finish scanning the room. He was dressed far too formally for brunch in his pressed slacks and crisp shirt, with his coat draped neatly over the back of his chair as if he'd immediately step into a conference hall after this meal. Which, you suspected, he probably would.

"Ah, there you are," he said, smiling as he approached. His hand hovered at your elbow, close enough to gently guide you inside without touching. "My, you do look exhausted. You weren't lying at all."

Had he thought you were?

"Well, as I said," you muttered. "Gym."

"Yes." His eyes flicked over you as if he were clinically assessing you rather than looking concerned. "Delayed onset muscle soreness. Very common when you haven't exercised in a while. The pain peaks around forty-eight hours later. Your recovery time will get better if you keep it up, though."

You weren't sure how to respond to that, so you didn't.

He pulled out a chair for you before you could reach for it yourself. Not just any chair, but the widest, lowest one, cushioned generously with velvet pillows. He adjusted it slightly, then paused.

"This one will put less strain on your shoulders when you sit," he said. "Because it supports your lower back."

"It's fine—"

"Please," he interrupted gently, already steering you down. "You're clearly in pain. I'll take the plain chair."

You sat. The chair was… incredibly comfortable. Annoyingly so. He pushed you closer to the table. A little too close, the edge pressed against your ribs. You shifted back instinctively, but he'd already moved away, satisfied. Did he do it deliberately? No, no, he was just being helpful. You were reading into things again.

Kenjaku returned to his seat across from you, folding his hands. He smiled like nothing had happened.

"Did you eat anything at all this morning?"

"No," you admitted.

His brow furrowed. "That's not ideal. Muscle recovery requires adequate protein intake. Electrolytes as well. You should've eaten a little bit of yogurt at least."

It was more of a command than a suggestion. His tone was still pleasant, still with a certain lightness, but the words felt like a small correction.

You felt your shoulders tense. Your muscles screamed at you for it.

"I... yes," you said.

"Mm." He smiled, soft and forgiving. "Well. We'll fix that now."

You blinked. "You sound like a personal trainer."

"Well, I'm a neurosurgeon," he said calmly. "Human physiology isn't foreign to me."

The menu arrived, thick and expensive-feeling. You stared at it, suddenly overwhelmed by the options and, even more so, the numbers on the price tags. Your arms ached just from holding the lacquered wooden card up.

Kenjaku leaned in slightly. "I'd recommend something substantial. Eggs Benedict with smoked salmon and avocado, perhaps. It provides high-quality protein and good fats. It will help you recover."

"I was just going to get something small," you said.

"I'd rather you didn't," he insisted, still smiling. "You pushed your body past its limits. Now you need to compensate with good food."

There it was. That subtle pressure again, wrapped neatly in concern. You hesitated too long, eyes drifting over the prices. He noticed immediately.

"Don't worry about the cost," he said smoothly. "I'm not shy of providing for my future wife."

That made your stomach twist more than the big numbers ever could.

"And for your drink," he continued, already flagging down the waiter, "I'd say the collagen-infused tonic. It has amino acids, trace minerals, and it helps you keep your youthful skin. It's quite good."

Your youthful skin. You hadn't even hit twenty yet. Why did he phrase that like a requirement?

"I'm okay—"

"I'll order for you," he said, his voice kind, yet his eyes were already on the waiter. "Decision fatigue will only worsen your cortisol levels."

You folded the menu closed, feeling oddly small. He hadn't asked what you wanted, not even once, but maybe that was fine. He was right about you being tired, and sore, and overwhelmed. It was easier to let him choose. That was just... practical.

Right?

When the food arrived, it was immaculate. Your plate looked like something out of a magazine. It steamed with perfectly poached eggs, glossy hollandaise, and thick, fatty slices of salmon layered over a croissant that probably cost more than your groceries for the week. The drink he'd ordered for you was pale and translucent, flecked with golden sparkles.

You took a bite. It was… incredible. The creamy yolks broke open in the velvety, tangy sauce; the layers of salty and vibrant salmon melted perfectly into the ripe and thinly sliced avocado; the warmth and crunch of the slightly sweet and oh-so-buttery croissant warmed both your stomach and your heart...

"You see?" Kenjaku said, breaking you from the spell. He watched you closely. "Your body needed this."

You nodded, chewing slowly. He was right. He knew exactly what you needed. The thought should have been comforting, yet... it wasn't. You thought of Kugisaki, of her teasing. Of how she'd said to watch whether he actually cared. Well, he did everything right according to her test. The cushioned chair. The protein-rich food. The fancy restaurant. It was textbook attentiveness.

Textbook.

That was the word this time, wasn't it? He'd treated this like a textbook, like a theoretical exam. Like there were correct answers to 'caring for your fiancée,' and he'd studied them.

He ate as well, ordering just as extravagantly for himself, seemingly unfazed by the mouthwatering bacon and onion confit mixture with four melted cheeses on his plate. But when you looked at his eyes, there was something distant there. Satisfaction, maybe, like he'd just completed a difficult task.

"You should rest more today," he said after a moment. "No more gym. You shouldn't strain your muscles any further."

"Well, I had plans—"

"Right. The shopping," he cut in softly. "But no gym. Your health comes first."

He said your health like he did care about it. But the true words behind that phrase felt like your obedience. Kenjaku wouldn't even know whether you'd go to the dojo tonight or not. And yet you felt strangely watched, even now. Like agreeing once meant being stuck in a contract with him, forever.

"Yes," you said quietly. "Of course."

He smiled again, pleased. Good girl, the smile seemed to say. Though he'd never say it out loud.

"Who are you going with?"

"With Kugisaki, my housemate," you answered. "Just… buying some gym supplies."

"Mm." His eyes lingered on you a moment longer than necessary. "I'm glad you're making friends."

It almost sounded like approval.

"Just Kugisaki?" he asked, almost casually. "Or will others be joining you?"

"I... don't know yet. Maybe some other people from the form."

"Other people?"

"Just... trying to make friends from the building."

He nodded slowly, his smile still in place. "That's nice. It's good to have a social circle."

He didn't ask who. He didn't have to. The question hung in the air anyway, and you found yourself pressured to answer it.

"There are two guys in the house too," you said. "Fushiguro and Itadori. But I'm not really close with them or anything."

Why did you say that? He didn't even ask.

"I see." His expression didn't change, but something in his posture relaxed. Like a box had been checked. "Well. I'm sure Kugisaki-san will keep you good company."

He reached for his phone.

You didn't think much of it at first; people checked their phones all the time, but then he didn't put it back down right away.

"You'll need some money to get proper gear," he said.

"I'm fine," you replied quickly. "My parents gave me some allowance."

He didn't look up. "How much?"

The question landed strangely. Your parents had never asked how you spent your allowance. They just gave it to you and trusted you to manage it. You had already proven to be good with money. His inquiry almost felt like an attack.

You hesitated. "Enough."

His eyes finally lifted from the phone, studying you the way he had earlier.

"You're a student," he said. "Living in Tokyo. If you want to shop here, 'enough' is never enough. Financial hesitation will increase your stress levels again."

Like your stress was now a recurring problem he was managing.

"I really don't need—"

Your phone vibrated on the table between you. You glanced down out of habit.

Your breath caught. Forty thousand yen. For gym clothes. Your thumb hovered over the notification like it might come back to bite you in the ass. Spend it wisely. Was that a suggestion or a threat?

"… Kenjaku-san." Heat rushed to your face. "That's way too much."

He set his phone down at last, fingers folding neatly. "Kenjaku-san? My, you sound so formal," he said, amused, shifting your attention elsewhere. You barely noticed the redirect. "It makes it feel like I'm speaking to a colleague. You'll be my wife, you know?"

You stiffened. "I think it's fine. We've only known each other for a few days."

"Is it?" His smile softened. "We're engaged. You could call me something else." He tilted his head, considering a nickname with a grin. "Ken-chan, perhaps?"

You laughed weakly, instantly rejecting it. "That's—no, I can't call you that. That's too embarrassing."

"Hmm. It wouldn't hurt to try. Nicknames encourage bonding." He smiled, easy and unbothered. "We'll figure it out."

We'll. He'll.

You thought about the money sitting in your account now. Forty thousand yen you hadn't asked for, a gift you couldn't refuse without seeming ungrateful.

Was this what it's going to be like?

Him giving. You taking. The scales tipping further and further until you were pressed flat at the bottom, pinned in place under the weight of everything he'd given you. You'd look up; you'd have to look up, there'd be nowhere else to look. And all you'd ever see was him against the light, your benevolent and generous deity, both the fulcrum and the hand that held it. He'd be there, at the top, looking down with that patient smile and expecting you to say—

"Thank you," you said quietly. "For the money."

"Of course." His smile widened, just slightly. "That's what I'm here for."

Not 'I wanted to' or 'glad to help', but another reminder that this was his role. And that it was your job to accept. You barely noticed him check his wrist.

"I have a meeting soon," he said, almost apologetic. Almost. His eyes were still on his watch. "I'll need to leave shortly."

"Oh." You looked down at your plate, maybe two-thirds done. "That's fine, I can—"

"No need to rush." He smiled, warm enough that you nearly believed it. Then he reached across the table. You froze as his thumb brushed the corner of your mouth. His fingers were cool against your skin, steadying your jaw like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Some Hollandaise," he said softly.

He held your gaze for just a moment, and something flickered in his eyes. Amusement? Satisfaction again? You couldn't tell. But your heart stuttered anyway, traitorous and stupid.

He withdrew, examined his thumb for a moment, then wiped it clean on his napkin. His expression hadn't changed. He still wore that pleasant smile, like he'd done nothing unusual at all.

"When we're married," he said, standing and reaching for his coat, "we'll have breakfast like this more often. Somewhere closer to our home, perhaps."

Something fluttered traitorously in your chest. You hated it. Well, you hated that you didn't entirely hate it.

You watched him walk to the counter, pull out his card, and exchange a few words with the host. His posture was relaxed as he shook on his coat with a polite laugh. He didn't look back at you at all. The transaction was handled quietly; you never even saw or heard the total. At the door, he turned. His eyes found yours across the room again, and he smiled softly before raising a hand in a small wave.

Your hand lifted before you could stop it. A tiny wave back, it happened automatically.

Then he was gone.

You sat there, fork still in hand, yolk spilling golden on your plate. The café hummed softly around you. Your cheek tingled faintly where he'd touched it.

You didn't wipe it off. You thought about it. Your napkin was right there. But your hand didn't move, and you told yourself it was because you were tired, because your arms hurt, because it didn't matter. Would anyone judge you if you did? He did pay for your expensive meal after all.

You finished eating slowly, mechanically. The eggs had cooled, the avocado browned, and the hollandaise was congealing at the edges, but you cleaned your plate anyway. It felt wrong to waste food this expensive. It felt wrong to leave something he'd given you unfinished.

When the waiter came to clear your plate, you smiled up at him.

"Thank you," you said. "It was delicious."

"I'm glad you enjoyed it." He paused, then added, "Your husband already took care of everything, by the way. Including gratuity."

Your husband.

You opened your mouth to correct him, but the words stuck in your throat. Fiancé, husband, what difference did it make? To anyone else, it seemed already decided.

"That's... very kind of him," you managed.

The waiter smiled politely and moved away.

You sat for another moment, letting the silence settle. Your cheek still tingled.

Finally, you reached for your phone.

You stared at the screen, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. How was he? Well, he was attentive and generous. He ordered for you, gave you the comfortable chair, wiped off your face, and paid for everything without a single complaint. He treated you like your future wedding and home had already been settled into, and he looked at you across a crowded café, waved, and smiled like you were the only person in it. He'd gotten a perfect score.

So why did you feel like crying?

You put your phone down and finally, finally, lifted your napkin to your cheek. The tingling feeling had already faded, but you rubbed at the spot anyway until your skin was scrubbed raw and freshly your own again.

Chapter Text

The cold air outside the bakery hit you like a mild slap. You started walking back to the dorm, shoulders stiff, body sore in that deep way that made every movement feel like wading through oil. The city moved around you as if nothing monumental had just happened, commuters passing by with coffees in hand, bicycles rattling over the pavement, someone laughing way too loudly on the other side of the street.

You shifted your weight from one foot to the other and exhaled slowly.

You did not feel better. Mentally, at least.

The dorm building soon appeared in front of you.

"There she is."

You looked up, and Kugisaki stepped out with a shopping tote slung over her shoulder and sunglasses perched in her hair, looking painfully awake and aggressively put together for someone who had just demolished around four artisan croissants by herself. She stopped short when she took you in properly.

"Oh wow," she stopped short. "You look like you got emotionally drop-kicked. Bad date after all?"

You huffed. "Well the croissant was indeed good. And I got some shopping money."

She circled you once, hands on her hips, eyes sharp and assessing. "Well, the location couldn't have been more perfect. Neither could getting free money. So, did your rich vampire fiancé then finally suck out your soul?"

"Nah. Nothing happened, really." You shrugged. "He was attentive and stuff. Just… weird, again."

"Mmm. Suspicious answer." She hooked her arm through yours without asking and gently tugged you forward. "Come on. Shopping time."

You let yourself be pulled along for a few steps before dragging your feet. "I thought you wanted deets on the date."

"I do," she said cheerfully. "But you look like you need a distraction from it more than I need new gossip. So. Clothes first."

You hesitated, then said, "I actually… wanted to get some gear instead."

She stopped so abruptly you nearly walked into her.

"Gear," she repeated flatly.

"Yeah."

She slowly turned to face you, one eyebrow lifting. "What gear? Like. Shoes?"

"More like… fighting supplies."

There it was. The pause. Then the very, very telling look.

Her eyes narrowed slightly. "You mean gym stuff? Like for tonight?"

"Yeah. Sort of. Gloves and wraps and stuff."

She stared at you for a long moment, then resumed walking, dragging you with her again. "Okay. Explain. Because this was supposed to be a fun 'talk shit about your weirdly perfect fiancé while I try on cute clothes' trip, not a 'why are you secretly arming yourself' trip."

"It's not like that," you said quickly. "I just need proper equipment."

"For what? There are loaners, right? You haven't even registered at the dojo yet. What if you don't end up liking it after all?"

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. Your jaw tightened.

Kugisaki noticed immediately.

"Oh no," she said. "Nope. Don't do that. You don't get to clam up now. Not after brunch with Mr. Evil Rich Vampire."

"He is not an evil vampire," you protested weakly.

"Undecided," she replied. "Continue."

You sighed. "I want to train more seriously."

"Okay," she said. "That part makes sense."

"And I want gear that doesn't stink."

"Still fine."

"And I don't want to look stupid."

She slowed, glancing sideways at you. "You don't. Itadori said you did fine, that you even held up sharing bag work with that ogre."

You grimaced at the nickname. "I mean stupid in front of… other people."

There it was again. That hesitation. That careful avoidance of the truth.

She stopped walking for real this time and turned fully toward you. "Who."

"No one."

She leaned in, face far too close, eyes glittering with interest. "Wrong answer. Who?"

You looked away. The street suddenly felt very loud.

"Kugisaki."

She waited.

"… Sukuna."

The name felt dangerous on your tongue. Like you'd just exposed yourself for something far more scandalous than the innocent need for validation from a big, strong guy.

Her eyes widened. Then, very slowly, a grin spread across her face.

"Oh."

You groaned, feeling small under that face. "Please don't do that."

"Do what?"

"That."

She grabbed your shoulders, careful of your sore arms, and shook you once in pure delight. "Oh my god. Oh my god. You have a crush on Sukuna."

"I do not. He's just strong and confident一"

"You absolutely do."

"I really don't. I don't!"

"You are buying fighting gear," she said, counting on her fingers, "while engaged to a rich, attentive guy because you want to look competent in front of a mysterious, scary man who looks like an exciting red flag. It's like a cliché medical romance, except it's between two fighters within Gojo's dojo! Forced proximity. Enemies-to-lovers. Forbidden love. All that's missing is him grunting something deeply inappropriate during sparring, ending in a private lesson after class…"

You swallowed. "… you're insane."

"I'm correct."

You tried to pull away, but she kept hold of you, fingers firm around your sleeve. The teasing in her expression dropped, replaced by something sharper, more intent.

"That's it, isn't it," she said, grinning to herself. "That's why your fiancé feels off to you."

Your breath hitched. "No. It's not like that."

"Then why are you blushing?"

"I'm not blushing," you snapped, heat crawling up your neck anyway. "And you don't get to just… narrate my life like it's some stupid romance trope."

Kugisaki didn't back down. "I'm not narrating. I'm pointing."

"At what?" you shot back. "That I want to be good at something? That I don't want to feel useless when I'm there?"

"At him."

You laughed, too sharp to be real. "I barely talk to him."

"You don't have to," she said. "You light up just thinking about him. I can see it in your eyes."

She released you and crossed her arms. "You don't hate your fiancé because he's creepy or controlling." She tilted her head. "You hate him because he pays attention to you. Like your parents."

You swallowed around something dry and sharp.

"And Sukuna," her voice dropped, quieter but no less pointed, "doesn't care what you do. You feel comfortable exactly because he doesn't pry!"

You didn't answer; you didn't need to; Kugisaki had instantly clocked it all the moment you dropped that name.

She scoffed softly. "Of course it's him. Of course it is. The quiet bad boy who doesn't mingle in your personal affairs."

"I don't even know him," you argued, sighing through your nose. "Can we not psychoanalyze me in the street?"

She sighed and nudged your shoulder with hers. "Look. I'm not saying dump your wealthy arranged marriage for a feral dojo man. I'm saying I figured out why brunch didn't make you feel better."

You exhaled shakily. "I feel awful."

"Good," she said. "Means you're not stupid after all." She gestured down the street. "Come on. Let's get you your gear."

"You're not weirded out?"

"Please," she scoffed. "If anything, I'm relieved. I'd be more worried about your sanity if you actually fell in love with that vampire guy after a single fancy croissant."

You glanced at her. "You don't think I'm a bad person for feeling like this?"

She snorted. "You feel guilty for not liking somebody you've been set up with. You're fine. Similar women used arsenic in the past, you know. You're not that bad."

That earned a weak laugh out of you.

As you started to walk again, she bumped your hip lightly. "Just one thing."

"What?"

She shrugged. "If you end up going for Sukuna, you should probably tell your fiancé sooner rather than later."

You groaned. "You keep insisting…"

"I'm just saying," she replied. "Now hurry up. If I'm helping you flirt via combat readiness, I at least get to pick your gloves."

The walk toward the sports store was slower than Kugisaki would have preferred and faster than your body appreciated. The sidewalk stretched ahead in clean lines of concrete and storefront glass, sunlight bouncing off windows and cars alike. The longer the day went on, the more muscles you found out had been worked hard yesterday. Apparently, your thighs and glutes had also suffered.

Kugisaki, meanwhile, walked at max velocity. She swung her bag lightly at her side, eyes roaming from shop to shop, then glanced at you with a sideways smile.

"You holding up still?"

"Barely," you said with a shrug, then winced immediately. She noticed.

"Wow, you really did overdo it," she said. "First day and already walking like a retired soldier."

"It was just… a lot," you said. "Everything was new."

"Yeah," she said. "And it was only a Monday."

You shot her a look. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing." She hummed, noncommittal, then let a few steps pass in silence. Too quiet. You knew her better than that already.

"You know," she said eventually, tone casual, almost lazy, "I've heard something about Sukuna."

Your steps faltered for half a second before you caught yourself. She kept walking, counting her steps like she wasn't about to poke at something sensitive.

"Did you see Maki-san at the dojo yesterday?"

You frowned. "No. I don't think so. There were only guys yesterday. Unless Maki is actually a man."

"No." She laughed, then slowed her pace slightly so you could keep up more comfortably. "Maki-san trains there regularly. She wasn't there this time, it seems, but she found out something interesting recently."

Your chest tightened, anticipation creeping in despite yourself. "About Sukuna?"

"Mm-hm." Kugisaki tilted her head back, looking up at the sky as if recalling the idle gossip. "Apparently, he doesn't always join on Wednesdays. Itadori confirmed that as well."

You swallowed. "Why?"

She glanced at you this time, sharp and knowing. "Because those Wednesdays line up real nicely with illegal underground fight nights."

The words 'illegal' and 'underground' settled heavy in your stomach.

"At Hakari's club," she added lightly, like she was talking about a café that did live jazz on weekends. "He dropped out of uni some months ago; he shared some classes with Fushiguro. Seems like this gig is paying him better than whatever job that chemistry degree could give him."

You stopped walking.

"Wait, what is this club?" you asked.

She turned, walking backward now, eyes bright. "Oh, yeah. It's not exactly advertised, but I've heard people talk about it. Something about late nights, cash bets, and permanently closed doors. It's very exclusive."

That tight feeling returned, coiling somewhere behind your ribs. "And Sukuna fights there? For money?"

"That's what Maki-san found out," Kugisaki said. "He never skips training at the dojo. Only when the fight nights happen. It all adds up!"

You stared at the pavement as you resumed walking, heart thudding a little too loudly. Images rose uninvited in your mind. Sukuna, who had looked so nonchalant in the dojo, now all serious in a ring you weren't allowed to see. That disinterested face could be covered in blood, but he'd frown, determined to finish the fight. Or, well, the Sukuna in your mind would look like that. Unaffected and victorious.

"And you just… found this out?" you asked quietly.

"We found out recently," she corrected. "And we got curious."

You glanced at her. "You and Maki-san."

"Yup." She grinned. "We haven't gone. Yet."

The sports store came into view ahead, with its wide glass doors and walls lined with mannequins in compression gear and running shoes. Kugisaki slowed to a stop in front of it.

"So," she said, turning to face you fully now, expression unreadable for once, "I was wondering."

Your pulse kicked up.

"Maybe you're curious too?"

You hesitated. Your mouth opened, then closed. You thought of Kenjaku's hand at the corner of your mouth, his voice explaining your body to you like a diagram. You thought of the dojo, of Sukuna's presence there, how strong he looked in a way that felt confident and true. It was true. It sounded exciting to take a look at that part of Tokyo.

"I…" You swallowed. "I don't even know what those places are like."

"Neither do we," Kugisaki said easily. "That's half the appeal."

"And the other half?"

 "Watching that big man show who he really is." She smiled, sharp and amused, adding in a sweet voice, "You know… grunting, panting, acting all tough while clearly struggling. Looking all pathetic and hot, pinned to the floor…"

"You're projecting," you said immediately. "Let's just buy my gear first."

Kugisaki huffed, but her smile widened, victorious but gentle. "Sure, sure. One step at a time. We'll have to see him tonight either way."

She pushed the door open and gestured for you to come inside.

Kugisaki glanced at you again. "By the way."

"Yeah?"

"How much did Mr. Rich Vampire give you."

You stiffened. "What?"

She smirked. "Don't play dumb. Tell me. You look like someone sitting on money guilt."

You hesitated. "… Forty thousand yen."

She stopped dead.

"Forty," she repeated. "Thousand."

"It was for gym stuff," you said quickly. "I didn't ask for it."

Her grin turned feral. "Oh, this keeps getting better."

"Kugisaki."

She waved a hand. "Relax. I'm not saying to blow it all right now." She leaned closer. "But if you're already being financed against your will, you might as well put it to good use."

"Like gloves," you said firmly. "And wraps."

"And," she added, eyes glinting, "maybe a cover charge."

Your stomach dropped. "What."

She straightened, suddenly casual again. "You know. Hypothetically. If there were an underground fight at Hakari's club tomorrow. And hypothetically, if it required cash to get in, and if we want to bet some cash on a specific guy…"

"You can't be serious."

"Oh, I'm very serious." 

"I don't want to waste his money," you said weakly.

She scoffed. "He wired you forty thousand yen without asking. If anything, you should ask for more."

You stared at her in horror. "I am not taking money from Kenjaku to finance an illegal fight club."

"Yet," she added, pushing the door open. "Come on. Let's buy the gloves first and see how much we've got left."

Inside, the store smelled faintly of rubber and detergent, rows of gloves hanging in neat color gradients along the wall. Kugisaki immediately let go of you and zeroed in on them like a predator spotting prey.

"Okay," she said briskly. "Rule one: no boring unicolored ones; we aren't in the Punch-Out!! game."

"They seem fine," you said automatically. "The design is whatever."

She ignored you and started flipping pairs aside with practiced efficiency. "You say that now. Then you'll skip training because mine and Maki's look so much cuter."

She paused, then pulled one pair halfway off the rack. It was a light green with a pale pink stitching. And—

You stopped short.

There was a small capybara stitched near the wrist. A round, fat, and stupidly cute one.

Kugisaki glanced at you sideways.

"Oh," she said slowly. "There it is. It's like the wand picking in Harry Potter."

"What," you said, too fast.

"You like those," she said with absolute certainty. "Don't lie. They chose you."

"I didn't say anything."

"You looked like you just found a stray kitten." She held them up properly now. "They're decent quality, with enough padding for bag work and light sparring. And look—" She tapped the little animal with her finger. "Emotionally supportive rodent. Maki-san actually has the rat of this set, and I have the chipmunk. We can match!"

You hesitated, then reached out despite yourself, turning the glove over in your hands. They were softer than you expected. Lighter, too, though that would probably be easier on your shoulders.

"They're kind of stupid." But you were smiling.

Kugisaki grinned. "No, they're perfect."

She shoved them into your arms before you could argue. "Wraps too. Something that matches. And then we’re getting you actual gym clothes before you keep showing up dressed in those pajamas."

"I have gym clothes."

"You have lounge clothes. We're getting you leggings," she corrected, already steering you toward another aisle. "High-waisted ones with good support. And a top that actually fits instead of hanging off you like you're hiding your body."

"I'm not trying to—"

"I know," she cut in. "That's why I'm helping."

She pulled a fitted set from the rack and held it up against you, tilting her head. "Hm, this will prove that you actually have a waist. For when Sukuna glances over and suddenly forgets what combination he was doing."

"Kugisaki!" you hissed, mortified. "That’s not—I'm not trying to distract him."

She didn't even look sorry. She just snickered, clearly enjoying herself far too much. "Relax. I didn't say you were attempting to. I said it would happen when you put this on."

You crossed your arms, pointedly looking away. "You're unbelievable."

"And yet," she said sweetly, draping the leggings over your arm with the gloves and wraps, "you're not putting them back. Let's go pay, shall we?"

You paid quickly, Kugisaki chatting with the cashier like this was a completely normal afternoon errand and not the procurement of what felt suspiciously like the first step toward ruining your newfound peace. The receipt was folded and stuffed into your pocket, the gloves and clothes redistributed between your bags, and then you were back outside, the door swinging shut behind you with a soft chime.

The walk home was quiet, at least.

Once inside the dorm, you peeled off your shoes and let your bag slide to the floor with a dull thump. Your shoulders ached more now that you'd stopped moving, muscles tightening in protest.

"I'm going for that magnesium soak," you said, already toeing off your socks. "If I don't, I'm not gonna be able to join tonight."

Kugisaki made a vague approving noise from the kitchen area. "Take your time. Itadori's cooking today anyway."

You nodded and retreated to the bathroom, shutting the door on their voices. The tub filled steadily, steam curling up as you poured the magnesium flakes in, the sharp, mineral scent blooming in the warm air. When you finally lowered yourself into the water, your body sank with a sound that was halfway to a sigh.

You leaned your head back against the cool tile, eyes closed, letting the water do its work. Somewhere beyond the door, you could hear Itadori moving around, the clink of pans, Kugisaki talking too loud about something inconsequential.

For a few minutes, you let yourself just exist there, floating between soreness and calm, dinner and training and everything else waiting on the other side.

The water had just settled into that perfect, aching warmth when your phone buzzed against the edge of the tub.

You cracked one eye open and sighed.

Kenjaku, again.

You shifted carefully, lifting one arm out of the water to grab it before it could vibrate itself onto the floor. "Hey," you said, keeping your voice low.

"Did your shopping go well?" he asked, tone mild, almost fond. Like he was checking in on groceries rather than quietly tracking your day.

"Yeah," you said. "I got some things." You glanced down at the waterline lapping at your collarbone. "I'm actually in the bath right now."

There was a brief pause. 

"I see," he replied. "The bath should help you feel better."

"It does," you admitted. "My housemate let me use the magnesium salts."

"Mm." Another pause. "Did you have enough money for your things? I can transfer more if you need it."

You frowned slightly, doing the mental math. "I still have about twenty thousand left."

"I see," he said again, pleasantly neutral. "You budget well for a student."

"Yeah," you said. "I didn't go crazy or anything."

"I wouldn't expect you to," he replied smoothly. "Rest well. I'll let you relax."

"Thanks," you said, already easing back into the water. "I'll talk to you later."

"Of course."

The call ended.

You set the phone back down and let yourself sink fully under for a second, water closing over your ears, muffling the world. When you resurfaced, calmer, your muscles felt looser than before.

A few minutes later, your phone buzzed again.

You frowned, reached for it, and froze.

A notification glowed on the screen.

You stared at it for a long moment. He'd listened, calculated exactly what you'd spent, and replaced it without asking.

Your thumb hovered over his contact. Should you call him back? Confront him? Thank him?

The water had already started to go lukewarm. You set the phone on the tile, face down, and sank deeper. 

You didn't know whether to be amused for Kugisaki's sake or unsettled. Instead, you closed your eyes and let the lingering warmth hold you a little longer.

In the end, you decided to join for the infamous 'Conditioning Tuesday' all three of your housemates had warned you about. Itadori, Fushiguro, Kugisaki, and you followed the now-familiar road down to the dojo, casual banter of Saturday's training session doing very little to calm the slow, creeping nerves as the building came into view.

Once inside, the first order of business was registration.

You'd walked up to Gojo-sensei, accepted the clipboard, and stepped aside to fill it out properly. Name, check. Student number, check. Emergency contact, check. All seemed fine and normal.

Then your eyes reached the payment section.

¥12,000 monthly fee (student discount applied) + a ¥10,000 one-time enrollment fee.

You stared at the numbers.

"… This is a scam," you muttered under your breath.

Your pen hovered over the signature lin. Monthly fee and an enrollment fee? For some cardio training? In a building that looked like it had been renovated sometime around the invention of concrete?

You glanced up.

Gojo-sensei was leaning against the wall a few meters away, arms crossed, posture loose, and entirely too relaxed. His sunglasses, you now noticed they were from a clearly expensive brand, were still on indoors, perched on his face like you and the other plebeians simply weren't worthy of his eyes. His gym clothes fit a little too well, as if they were tailored, the fabrics natural and pristine in a way that suggested they cost more than your entire weekly grocery budget.

He caught you looking and grinned. "Can I help you with anything?"

You narrowed your eyes and looked back down at the form.

"Is this a pyramid scheme?" you whisper-asked Kugisaki, who was waiting nearby. "Are you getting money for recruiting me? Why is this so expensive?"

She glanced at the numbers and shrugged. "Eh. It's still cheaper than therapy."

That did not help.

You hesitated a second longer, then sighed and signed anyway, the pen scratching your name onto the line with a sense of resigned dread. You handed the clipboard back, half-expecting Gojo-sensei to immediately ask for your soul next.

Instead, he took it cheerfully. "All set!"

Kugisaki grabbed your wrist before you could overthink anything. "Come on. Let's get changed before we miss warm-ups."

Inside, you slipped your bag onto a bench and started changing, stretching once more before you took off your shirt.

Kugisaki, meanwhile, was halfway through peeling off her jacket when she froze.

"Oh," she said, suddenly delighted.

You glanced up. "What?"

She pointed with her chin toward the far bench. A dark green, well-worn gym bag sat there, alongside neatly folded clothes.

"Maki-san's bag," Kugisaki said, grinning. "She's here today. We could make plans for tomorrow!"

"Haha…" You swallowed, pulling the new leggings on. At least the fabric felt nice and snug against your thighs. The top fit better too, without any sleeves that kept sliding down your shoulders, and it allowed your arms to move freely. You caught your reflection in the mirror mounted on the locker and paused.

Well, you looked good. Like someone who worked out.

Kugisaki appeared beside you, also changed, and gave you an approving once-over. "See? Actual gym clothes suit you."

"They're fine," you said.

"They're hot." She grabbed your wrist. "Come on. Maki-san's probably already warming up."

The training floor had filled considerably since you'd stepped into the changing room. There were more people today, more noise, the sound of wraps being pulled tight and gloves smacking together in test swings. You scanned the space reflexively, looking for—

Sukuna stood near the heavy bags, arms crossed, watching Gojo-sensei arrange cones in the center of the floor with the kind of detached interest someone might give to roadwork outside their apartment. He wore a similar black tank top and shorts as last time, with the same expression of vague, patient boredom.

Your stomach did something inconvenient.

"Stop staring," Kugisaki hissed, dragging you toward the far side of the room. "You're being obvious."

"I wasn't—"

"You were." She released you and waved. "Maki-san!"

A woman straightened from her stretch, lean and sharp-featured, with hair pinned back severely enough to suggest she took no shit from anyone, ever. She had the build of someone who'd been doing this for years, like she wasted no minute of training at all.

Next to her, a guy with dark hair and tired eyes looked up from wrapping his hands. He had the kind of face that seemed naturally apologetic, like he was perpetually worried about taking up too much space.

"Nobara." Maki's voice was flat and dry. She looked you over once. "New victim?"

"New member," Kugisaki corrected brightly. "This is my housemate. She survived Monday."

"Congrats. I'm Maki." Maki tilted her head toward the guy beside her. "Okkotsu Yuta. My boyfriend. He's harmless."

Okkotsu offered a small, polite smile. "Nice to meet you."

You nodded, suddenly aware of how new you were, how obviously out of place you seemed despite the nice leggings.

"We're training together today," Maki said to Kugisaki, jerking her thumb at Okkotsu. "You can take the newbie. Try not to break her on week one."

Kugisaki grinned. "No promises."

Before you could protest, a sharp whistle cut through the noise.

Everyone stopped.

Gojo-sensei stood in the center of the floor, hands on his hips, sunglasses still firmly in place despite the flexible stretches he just performed. He looked almost cheerful.

"Conditioning Tuesday," he announced, voice carrying effortlessly. "Favorite day of the week."

Someone groaned.

"Come on, we haven't even started yet!" Gojo clapped once. "We're doing circuits today. Four stations, one minute each, thirty seconds rest between. We'll run it for—" He paused, tilting his head as if considering. "—forty minutes."

Another groan, louder this time.

You did the mental math and felt something drop in your stomach. That was ten full rounds.

"Station one: burpees. Station two: heavy bag, nonstop combinations, boxing and kicks. Station three: sprawls. Station four: plank hold." He smiled wider. "And because I'm feeling generous, we'll rotate partners every five rounds."

Kugisaki leaned in close. "He was military. Special operations instructor or something. Fushiguro looked it up once."

"It wasn't this bad yesterday…"

"Yeah." Kugisaki chuckled, "Monday is his day off."

You stared at Gojo-sensei, who was now demonstrating a sprawl with the kind of casual precision that suggested he could do this in his sleep, underwater, with weights attached, on his left pinky finger.

"Oh," you said faintly.

"Yeah."

"First group, let's go!"

The room split into motion.

The whistle blew.

You found yourself at station one with Kugisaki across from you. Sukuna ended up one station in front at the heavy bags. You could hear the steady rhythm of his strikes. Thud-thud-thud. No variation in tempo or strength. No hesitation behind the strikes. Just the same brutal efficiency he brought to everything else. You tried not to look.

Burpees were a mistake.

Thirty seconds in, your thighs were screaming. Forty-five seconds in, you were questioning every life choice that had led you to this moment. By the time the whistle blew, you were on the floor, gasping, while Gojo-sensei walked past and said, "Good work," in a tone that suggested he was lying.

Thirty seconds of rest.

Then the bags.

You struck as hard as you could, combinations bleeding together into a graceless blur of motion. Your new gloves absorbed the impact, the little capybara stitched on the wrist bobbing with each hit. Across the room, Sukuna moved through his sprawls with mechanical efficiency: down, legs back, snap forward, repeat. He seemed to make no visible effort. He wasn't even breathing hard.

The whistle blew.

Sprawls.

You thought you knew what tired felt like after Monday. You were wrong.

Whistle again.

Plank hold.

Your shoulders shook within fifteen seconds. By thirty, you were gritting your teeth so hard your jaw ached. Kugisaki, beside you again, flashed you a grin before wiggling her hips as a way to egg you on.

"Use your breath," Gojo-sensei called out as he passed. "Holding it just makes it worse."

You exhaled shakily and tried to stabilize.

The whistle.

By round three, your body had moved past soreness into something closer to numb rebellion. By round five, you were operating on pure spite. Kugisaki had cycled out, replaced by someone who should've given you more motivation.

Sukuna rotated through the stations with you without a single complaint. No groans, no muttered curses, nothing. Just sweat soaking through his tank top and that same blank, focused expression.

When you ended up at the bags beside him, you tried to match his pace.

You failed.

Your punches grew sloppier, your breath ragged. His stayed clean and sharp.

The whistle blew before you could embarrass yourself further.

Round nine.

Your vision had narrowed to the immediate: the floor, the next station, the sound of Gojo-sensei's voice cutting through the haze.

"Two more rounds! Let's finish strong!"

You were not finishing strong. You were finishing vertical, maybe, if you were lucky enough to not completely melt away.

Plank hold again.

Your arms trembled. The floor swam beneath you.

"Time," Gojo-sensei said somewhere above you.

You collapsed.

Stayed down.

Breathed.

Someone's shoes appeared in your line of sight, black and a little worn at the edges.

"You good?"

You tilted your head up.

Sukuna stood over you, face unreadable, a towel slung over one shoulder. He wasn't even winded. Just... present. Sweaty, sure, but calm in that same infuriating way he'd been calm through everything else.

"Yeah," you managed. "Great."

He huffed, something between a laugh and something dismissive before he took a chug of water.

Kugisaki appeared a moment later, hauling you upright again. "Come on. One more round. You can die after."

"Promise?"

"Cross my heart."

You survived the last round on muscle memory alone.

When the final whistle blew, half the room collapsed where they stood. You joined them, sprawled on your back, staring at the ceiling, lungs burning.

Gojo-sensei's face appeared above you, upside-down, sunglasses reflecting your miserable expression back at you.

"Not bad for day two," he said cheerfully. "Megumi would've been home already."

"5 minutes of cool down and stretch," he continued, already walking away. "See you tomorrow again."

Kugisaki flopped down beside you. "Still think it's a scam?"

You turned your head to look at her. "Yes. Absolutely. One hundred percent."

She laughed at you.

The changing room felt like a sanctuary after those forty minutes of hell. You peeled off your gloves with trembling fingers, the capybara looking slightly worse for wear, damp with your forehead sweat. Every muscle in your body had once again lodged a formal complaint.

Kugisaki was already half-changed, pulling her shirt over her head with the kind of ease that suggested she hadn't just survived military-grade conditioning. She caught Maki's eye across the bench.

"So," Kugisaki said, casual but pointed. "Tomorrow night."

Maki paused, sports bra halfway off. "What about it?"

"You know." Kugisaki tilted her head meaningfully. "Hakari's."

You froze, one leg still stuck in your leggings.

Maki's expression didn't change, but something sharpened in her eyes. "You want to go?"

"We want to go," Kugisaki corrected, gesturing between herself and you.

Maki looked at you properly for the first time since introductions. Her seemed to be assessing you. "She know what she's getting into?"

"Not really," Kugisaki admitted cheerfully.

"Great." Maki pulled her shirt down and sat on the bench to unlace her shoes. "It's not exactly a beginner-friendly venue."

Your stomach tightened. "I can handle watching a fight."

Maki snorted. "It's not like watching a match on TV. It gets loud. Violent. The crowd's half-drunk and fully betting for KOs, or more. Blood on the mat's a given, and people get rowdy when money's on the line."

Kugisaki waved a hand dismissively. "She can handle blood. We're all women here."

"Uh."

"See?" Maki gestured at you. "She's already second-guessing."

"I'm not second-guessing," you argued, finally extracting yourself from the leggings and reaching for your regular clothes. "I don't care about those things."

Kugisaki sat down next to Maki, bumping her shoulder. "Come on. You were curious too when you first found out. Don't pretend you don't want to see it."

Maki's expression softened slightly, or at least, became a little less sharp. "I was. That's how I know it's intense."

"Have you been there?" you asked.

"Nah." She started unlacing her other shoe. "But Yuta goes sometimes; he's strangely chummy with Hakari still."

You glanced toward the door, where presumably Okkotsu was changing in the men's section. "He goes to underground fights?"

"He's weirdly into combat sports," Maki said with a shrug. "Likes seeing the techniques or something. He watches it like a chess match."

Kugisaki leaned forward, eyes bright. "So we'll go?"

Maki was quiet for a moment, considering. Then she sighed. "Fine. But we'll have some rules."

"Anything," Kugisaki said immediately.

"One: you stay with me the entire time. Both of you. No wandering off to get drinks, no bathroom trips alone, nothing. The crowd can get aggressive and handsy, and you're both obviously newbies."

You nodded.

"Two: you don't bet more than you can afford to lose, even when the bet seems to be in your favor. The fights are fixed sometimes. Not always, but enough that you shouldn't stake rent money on an outcome."

"Noted," Kugisaki said.

"Three: if I say we leave, we leave. No arguments, no 'just one more fight.' Some nights the vibe turns bad fast."

"Understood," you both said in unison.

Maki studied you for another long moment, then seemed to come to some internal decision. "Meet me outside the east exit of Shibuya station at ten PM. Wear something that, well, doesn't make you look like a student. And bring cash; they don't take cards."

"How much?" you asked.

"Five thousand for the cheapest seats up top. More if you want to bet." She stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder. "And don't bring any valuables. Phones are also not allowed inside."

Kugisaki grinned, victorious. "We'll be there."

Maki headed toward the door, then paused. "What's got you two so interested anyway? You don't strike me as the underground fight type."

There was a beat of silence.

Kugisaki glanced at you, eyebrow raised, a silent question of whether to say something.

You kept your expression carefully neutral, suddenly very focused on folding your workout clothes back into a neat pile.

"Just curious," Kugisaki said lightly. "Been thinking of it since you found out about it. Figured we should see what all the fuss is about."

Maki's eyes narrowed slightly, like she didn't quite buy it but wasn't invested enough to push. "Right. Well, don't say I didn't warn you. It's not a pretty scene."

"We'll survive," Kugisaki said.

"Your funeral." Maki shrugged and left.

The door swung shut behind her.

The moment she was gone, Kugisaki whirled on you, voice dropping to an excited whisper. "Oh my god, I almost told her about Sukuna."

"Please don't," you said quickly, heat crawling up your neck.

"I won't, I won't." She grinned, zipping up her bag. "But you realize tomorrow night you're going to be watching him beat the shit out of someone, right?"

Your stomach did that inconvenient thing again. "It'll be fine."

"You're blushing right now just thinking about it."

"I'm not—" You caught sight of yourself in the mirror. Your face was definitely flushed. "Shut up."

Kugisaki laughed, slinging her bag over her shoulder. "This will be amazing. Educational, even. We'll finally get to see if all that mysterious quiet intensity translates to the ring."

You shoved your workout clothes into your bag with more force than necessary. "Can we not psychoanalyze this in the changing room either?"

"Fine, fine." She headed for the door, then paused and looked back with a knowing grin. "Can't wait to see your face when he takes his shirt off in the ring."

"Kugisaki—"

But she was already out the door, laughing.

You followed her out into the hallway, muscles protesting every step. Tomorrow night. Shibuya station. Ten PM.

Tomorrow night, you'd see exactly who Sukuna was when no one from the dojo was watching, and you had no idea if that made you excited or terrified.

Chapter Text

"Hm, you're not joining for Specialized Striking Wednesday?" Itadori asked as he shrugged his bag over his shoulder. "Today's Wing Chun; it's one of Gojo-sensei's favorite styles. You know, the close-range stuff with all the rapid punches, chain punching, trapping hands, neck strikes, all the crazy 'Bruce Lee' things. It'll be so much fun!"

"… For what it's worth," Fushiguro added, adjusting his bag strap, eyes half-lidded, "Sukuna's terrible at Wing Chun. He's just too bulky."

Itadori stopped mid-step. "Huh?"

Fushiguro glanced at you, just briefly, but it was a pointed look. "It's kind of awkward to watch."

"Ah," you smiled awkwardly, looking back at Kugisaki. "We were gonna have a girls' night out tonight. But I'll be there for tomorrow's session for sure!"

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught Fushiguro's overly neutral reaction. You noticed the slight tilt in his brow, the almost imperceptible quirk at the corner of his mouth.

Oh. Oh.

He was absolutely baiting you into joining. Testing to see if mentioning Sukuna would make you change your plans. You clenched your fists subconsciously. Kugisaki grabbed your wrist and pulled you towards her room, "We have to get ready."

"Okay, okay, cool!" Itadori grinned, nudging Fushiguro before heading toward the front door. "We're gonna suffer alone in that case. Have fun with your going-out thing!"

"Thank you!"

As soon as the boys left, Kugisaki was already rifling through her closet with the intensity of someone on a life-or-death mission.

"So, what was that about?" she asked, holding a skirt in front of your face.

"Fushiguro-kun," you muttered. "I think he knows."

"Knows what?"

"That I—" You gestured vaguely, feeling your face heat, hands fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. "About Sukuna."

Kugisaki paused, a black jacket hanging from her hand this time, then shrugged. "I mean, you're not exactly subtle with this crush-thing. And Fushiguro's annoyingly perceptive." She grinned. "But he's not gonna say anything. Probably just finds it entertaining to get a reaction out of you."

That... did not make you feel better.

"Sit," she commanded, pointing at her desk chair.

You obeyed, watching as she pulled out outfit after outfit, eyeing each one critically before either tossing it onto her bed or hanging it back up with a dissatisfied huff.

"We're not going to some fancy club," you reminded her. "It's a fight club; like Maki-san said, it's probably dirty."

"Exactly," Kugisaki said, holding up a black cropped jacket against you with a scrutinizing squint. "Which means we need to look like we belong there, not like we're sneaking out of uni." She paused. "Which, remind you, we are."

Twenty minutes later, you were standing in front of her mirror in clothes that definitely weren't yours, while Kugisaki leaned in close, dragging eyeliner across your lid with unsettling precision.

"Stop blinking."

"I'm not—"

"You are." She pulled back, examining her work, then reached for another product. "Okay. More mascara, then we're done."

"Thank god."

She shot you a look. "You'll thank me when we don't get kicked out of the place."

Once she finished with herself, significantly faster than with you, she stepped back and grabbed her bag. "Okay. Let's go plunder the ATM first, then we meet Maki."

You both slipped out and made your way to the nearest convenience store, its fluorescent lights harsh against the darkening sky. The ATM beeped as you inserted your card.

Kugisaki leaned against the magazine rack, scrolling through her phone. "How much are you taking out?"

You thought about the forty thousand yen sitting in your account, about Kenjaku's bizarre wire transfer from yesterday that you still hadn't fully processed. "Maybe... ten thousand?"

"Ten?" Kugisaki looked up. "We're betting on your little crush, not going for a drink. Don't you want him to earn a bit tonight?"

"Fine. Fifteen."

She tilted her head, considering. "Make it twenty."

"Twenty thousand yen?"

"It's all going to Sukuna anyway, isn't it? That hulk is guaranteed to win; you can make it back." She pushed off the magazine rack, arms crossed. "Besides, you've got a free forty grand just sitting there. Might as well put it to good use."

You hesitated, your finger hovering over the keypad.

"Come on," Kugisaki said, grinning. "Live a little. What will you use that money for if not this?"

"... Fine. Twenty."

Her grin widened. "That's my girl."

You and Kugisaki stepped out of the konbini into Shibuya's neon-soaked night, the air thick with the hum of conversations and distant music.

"There," Kugisaki said, nodding toward a figure leaning against the wall near the Hachiko exit of the station.

Maki pushed off from the wall as you approached, hands in her jacket pockets. Her eyes swept over both of you with the kind of assessment that made you feel like she was cataloging every detail.

"You're late," she said flatly.

"Not even five minutes," Kugisaki shot back. "We're here on time, aren't we?"

Maki's lips twitched. "Hakari's place gets overly crowded after eleven. You want to actually get in or stand outside like tourists?"

She turned without waiting for an answer, already moving through the crowd with the easy confidence of someone who knew exactly where she was going. You and Kugisaki exchanged a glance before following.

The streets grew narrower as Maki led you away from the main scramble crossing, down alleys where the lights flickered amber and the sounds of Shibuya became muffled and distant.

"So," you ventured, catching up to walk beside Maki, "what should we expect?"

Maki glanced at you sidelong. "Why, getting cold feet already?"

"No," you said quickly. "Just... curious."

"Good." Maki's smirk was barely visible in the dim light. "Because we're here."

The entrance wasn't much; it was a simple, rusted metal door wedged between a closed ramen shop and a pachinko parlor. A man in a dark jacket stood beside it, arms crossed, his expression suggesting he'd seen it all and wasn't impressed by any of it.

Maki walked up without hesitation. "Three."

The bouncer's eyes flicked over all of you, lingering just a moment longer than comfortable. "Cheap seats up top are two thousand each."

Kugisaki was already pulling out cash when you stepped forward. "Actually, do you have anything closer to the ring?"

The bouncer raised an eyebrow. Maki turned to look at you.

"VIP's ten thousand," he said, almost like he was testing you.

"Each?" Kugisaki hissed.

You nodded at the bouncer. "That's fine for me."

Kugisaki's jaw tightened as she reluctantly pulled out more bills, muttering something under her breath about 'highway robbery' and 'better be worth it.'

Maki just shrugged, sliding her money across without comment. "It's her evening. If she wants to sit closer to the ring, then that's what matters."

He grunted, pocketing the money, then jerked his head toward Maki. "Arms out."

The pat-down was efficient and impersonal. Your pockets were checked, your bags were opened, and there was a quick sweep for weapons. When he finished with you, he stepped aside and pulled the door open. Bass-heavy music and the roar of a crowd spilled out into the alley.

"Downstairs. VIP's to the left."

The stairwell reeked of cigarette smoke and sweat. As you descended, the shouting, cheering, and dull thuds of fists meeting flesh became increasingly louder. The walls were lined with peeling concert posters and graffiti tags, some fresh, some decades old.

At the bottom, the hallway opened into a sprawling underground space. The fighting ring sat in the center, lit by harsh overhead lights, surrounded by a seething mass of spectators. Some stood on risers, others pressed against the chain-link barrier, all of them screaming.

To the left, just like the bouncer said, was a roped-off section with actual seats, or well, mismatched chairs and a few benches, but at least you weren't standing in that crowd. And directly ahead, near the entrance to the ring area, was a table with a hand-written sign:

 BETS HERE.

A man sat behind it, cigarette dangling from his lips, counting a stack of bills with practiced speed. He looked up as you approached.

"Odds are on the board." He nodded toward a chalkboard propped against the wall.

You scanned it quickly:

"KING OF CURSES" SUKUNA: 1.2x payout
"RAZOR" KOJIMA: 3x payout

Kugisaki whistled low. "They're really not confident in this Kojima guy, huh?"

"Smart money's on Sukuna," the man said, tapping ash into a tray. "But hey, upsets happen." His eyes slid to you. "You betting or just looking?"

You pulled out your remaining ten thousand yen and set it on the table. "Sukuna."

The man's grin widened as he wrote something on a slip of paper. "Ten grand on the King of Curses. You don't want to gamble on tripling it for a fancy new dress?" He glanced up at you, something knowing in his expression. "Or are you into that pink-haired rough-and-dangerous type, sweetheart?"

Heat crawled up your neck.

Kugisaki snorted, not even trying to hide her amusement.

"I—he's a friend," you managed, taking the betting slip he held out.

"Right. A friend." He leaned back in his chair, smirking. "Well, your 'friend' better put on a good show for you. Wouldn't want to disappoint a pretty girl betting her entire allowance on him, would he?"

You grabbed the slip and turned on your heel, ignoring Kugisaki's barely suppressed laughter.

Maki, already seated in the VIP section, looked entirely too entertained. "You done being flustered, or should we give you a minute?"

"Shut up," you muttered, dropping into the seat beside her.

Kugisaki sat on your other side, still grinning. "Oh, this is going to be fun fun."

Soon, the lights dimmed. The crowd's roar swelled into something almost feral. A door on the far side of the ring opened, and Sukuna walked out.

Your breath caught.

He was shirtless.

You'd only seen him in his training gear, in tank tops and loose shorts, but this was different. Entirely different. His torso was all defined muscle and sharp lines, tattoos stark black against wet skin that caught the harsh overhead lights. Tape wrapped around his hands and forearms. As he moved, you could see the flex and shift of muscle under skin, the way his shoulders rolled with each step.

Your mouth went dry.

Someone handed him a water bottle. He tipped his head back and drank, and you watched—couldn't not watch—the way his throat worked, the way a bead of water (or was that sweat?) traced down the side of his neck and over his collarbone. When he lowered the bottle, he was already glistening under the lights, and your heart did something stupid and unhelpful in your chest.

"You good?" Kugisaki's voice, amused, cut through your daze.

"Fine," you managed, not looking at her.

"Uh-huh."

The crowd chanted his name like a war cry, and Sukuna's expression, looking even a bit bored, didn't change at all. He handed the bottle off, rolled his shoulders, and stepped toward the center of the ring.

In the past few days you'd seen more men than in the entire previous chapter of your life. You'd trained with them, seen Itadori and Fushiguro in just a towel more times than you would've liked to.

But he was doing something entirely unfair to your pulse.

"Razor" Kojima entered from the opposite side. He looked bigger, bulkier, with a body that was all muscle and scar tissue. He cracked his neck, rolled his shoulders, and glared across the ring at Sukuna like he had something to prove.

You barely registered him.

The referee, a wiry man who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else, stepped between them, said something short, and backed away.

A bell rang.

Kojima charged immediately, closing distance with alarming speed for someone his size. Sukuna sidestepped, almost lazy, and Kojima's fist whistled past his head.

"Sukuna prefers Muay Thai," Maki commented beside you, arms crossed as she watched. "See how his weight's distributed? It's centered with a wide base, hands high and elbows close. He's ready to check kicks or throw them."

Kojima swung a wide hook aimed at Sukuna's ribs. Sukuna brought his elbow down, blocking it with a sharp crack, then snapped a low kick into Kojima's lead leg.

The muscles in his thigh flexed with the movement, and you told yourself to focus on the fight, not on that.

Kojima stumbled, just barely.

"That's a Thai roundhouse," Maki continued, leaning forward slightly. "It uses the shin, not the foot. A kick like that has crazy power and damage. He's targeting the thigh to slow him down early."

Sukuna circled, patient, sweat beginning to gleam more noticeably on his skin now. Every movement was controlled, efficient, almost hypnotic to watch.

You were definitely not focusing on the fight.

A jab snapped out—fast, precise—catching Kojima on the nose. Blood sprayed.

The crowd roared.

You should've been concerned. Should've winced at the violence. Instead, you couldn't look away from the focused intensity on Sukuna's face, the way his muscles coiled and released with each movement.

"Kickboxing now," Kugisaki said, leaning forward. "See the hands and legs? He has a tighter guard for more movement."

"He's mixing it up," Maki added. "Muay Thai for power, kickboxing for speed and angles."

Kojima wiped his nose, snarled, and lunged. He managed to get both arms around Sukuna's torso. The crowd screamed as if they'd just watched the underdog win a war.

Bad idea.

Sukuna's hands slid behind Kojima's head and his knee came up—once, twice, three times in rapid succession—slamming into Kojima's midsection with brutal efficiency. The sound of it echoed even over the noise of the crowd. You watched the way his abs contracted with each strike, the sheen of sweat making every line of muscle more pronounced.

Your face felt hot.

"What's he doing?" Kugisaki asked, squinting.

"Clinch work," Maki said, almost appreciative. "Classic Muay Thai. You lock the head and destroy the body."

Kojima shoved him off, gasping, and Sukuna let him go, stepping back with that same unhurried ease. He rolled his neck, and you helplessly tracked the shift of his shoulders, the way his chest rose and fell with steady breaths despite the exertion.

"He's toying with him," Kugisaki muttered.

"Yeah," Maki agreed. "He is."

Kojima came in again, desperate now, throwing everything he had. Sukuna weaved, ducked,  and then—

His rear leg whipped up in a perfect arc, the shin connecting with the side of Kojima's head.

The impact made your stomach drop even as the crowd exploded. Kojima dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.

Your heart hammered against your ribs, the betting slip crumpled in your suddenly sweaty hand. The referee rushed in, waving his arms, but Sukuna was already walking away, rolling his shoulders, utterly unbothered. Sweat dripped down his spine, and you, by every kami-sama you knew, needed to get a grip.

"Well," Maki said, standing and stretching. "That was a quick buck."

Kugisaki grinned at you, nudging your shoulder. "Your 'friend' just made you two grand. You're welcome, by the way, for the pep talk."

You barely heard her, still watching as Sukuna exited the ring. Someone handed him a towel, and he wiped Kojima's blood off his shin like it was just some muddy rain, then dragged it across his face and neck. The movement was so casual, as if nothing had just happened, and somehow that made it so much hotter.

He glanced up into the crowd. For a second, you forgot how to inhale.

You could've sworn his eyes found yours. Or maybe they didn't.

His gaze dropped again. And then he was gone, disappearing through the exit, and you remembered how to breathe again.

"You okay?" Kugisaki asked, still grinning. "You look a little flushed."

"It's hot in here," you muttered.

Maki snorted. "Sure it is."

"Come on," Kugisaki said, already standing. "Let's go get your money before this place gets even more packed."

You followed her and Maki back to the betting table, weaving through the crowd that was still buzzing about the knockout. The same man sat behind it, cigarette replaced but the smirk entirely unchanged.

"Well, well," he said as you approached, already reaching for a lockbox under the table. "The pretty girl's back. Let me guess, come to collect your payout?"

You held out the crumpled betting slip.

He took it, examined it briefly, then counted out twelve thousand yen with practiced efficiency. "Not bad for ten minutes of watching your 'friend' work, huh?"

"Thanks," you managed, taking the money.

You hesitated, the bills warm in your hands, then carefully peeled off ten thousand and slid it back across the table.

The man's eyebrows rose. "You want to bet again? Next fight's not for—"

"No," you said quickly, your face already heating. "That's... could you give that to Sukuna? As a—a tip."

The smirk widened into a full grin. "A tip."

"For winning." You swallowed, acutely aware of how warm your face felt. 

"Uh-huh." He leaned back in his chair, studying you with open amusement. "You want me to pass along a message with that? 'Good job'? 'Nice kick'? 'Call me'?"

Your face was absolutely on fire now. "No! No message. Just—just give him the money. Please."

"You sure? No 'thanks for the show' or anything?"

Kugisaki was trying so hard not to laugh that her shoulders were shaking.

"No message," you repeated, mortified.

The man chuckled, pocketing the bills. "Alright, alright. I'll make sure he gets it." He leaned forward conspiratorially, lowering his voice. "Though between you and me? Big guy like that, wins every fight, but with that scar and the attitude?" He shrugged. "Can't seem to land himself a girl. Walks out alone every night. Shame, really. He'd probably appreciate a name and a number more than the cash. Just saying, girlypops."

Your heart did something complicated in your chest.

"I—" you started, but couldn't find words that didn't make things worse.

The man shrugged, that knowing smirk still firmly in place. "But hey, what do I know? I just work here."

You turned on your heel and walked away before he could say anything else, Kugisaki's laughter finally breaking free behind you.

"Oh my god," she wheezed, catching up. "Giving him ten grand as a tip? You are so down bad."

"It was free money," you protested weakly.

"That you immediately gave to your sweaty, single crush who apparently can't even get a date," Kugisaki said, grinning. "And you're not even asking him out with it. Very financially responsible."

Maki just shook her head, looking far too entertained. "Ten thousand yen for nothing. You've got it bad."

You didn't dignify that with a response, but your mind was still stuck on what the betting man had said.

Can't seem to land himself a girl.

The scar or nonchalance didn't bother you. If anything, it just made him more—

You stopped that thought before it could finish.

The three of you pushed back through the crowd toward the exit, the noise of the next fight already building behind you. The stairwell felt quieter by comparison, though your ears were still ringing slightly from the noise.

Outside, the night air hit you like a splash of cold water after the stale heat of the underground. You took a deep breath, letting it clear your head.

Or trying to, anyway.

Can't seem to land himself a girl.

You kept seeing the way Sukuna had moved in the ring, all controlled power and precision. The way sweat had caught the light on his shoulders. The casual way he'd wiped blood off his shin like it was nothing.

The scar across his face that you'd traced with your eyes more times than you'd ever admit.

"Earth to—hello?" Kugisaki waved a hand in front of your face. "You still with us?"

You blinked, refocusing. "Yeah. Sorry."

"She's thinking about him," Maki said, not even looking back as she walked ahead. "Look at her face."

"I am not—"

"You absolutely are," Kugisaki cut in, grinning. "You've had that dreamy look since we left. It's kind of painful to watch, honestly."

Your face burned. "I'm just thinking."

"About Sukuna."

"About the fight."

"About Sukuna in the fight," Kugisaki corrected, linking her arm through yours. "Specifically about him shirtless and sweaty. Beating up the bad guys in your daydreams. Don't lie."

You didn't have a good comeback for that.

Maki glanced over her shoulder, shrugging. "You know you could just talk to him, right? He's not gonna bite your head off."

"Easy for you to say," you muttered.

"Yeah, it is. Because I actually know the guy." Maki stuffed her hands in her pockets. "He acts all rough, but he's pretty chill if you're not annoying. Just go up to him after training sometime and say hi. It's not that deep."

"She gave him ten thousand yen and didn't even leave her name," Kugisaki said. "You think she can handle a conversation?"

"Yeah, you're either very smooth or very stupid," Maki said flatly.

"Stupid," Kugisaki said immediately. "Definitely stupid."

"I panicked," you muttered.

Maki snorted. "Yeah, I noticed. Look, the guy trains and fights; that's basically his whole life. You want to get his attention? Show up to the dojo and actually talk to him instead of staring from across the room. He's not scary."

"He knocked a guy out with one kick tonight."

"In the ring. He's not gonna roundhouse you for saying hello." Maki shot you a knowing look. "Trust me, just be normal about it. He's probably more awkward about this stuff than you think."

Walks out alone every night.

"Next time," Kugisaki said, squeezing your arm, "you're leaving a note. Or your number. Or literally anything other than just money."

"There's not going to be a next time."

Both of them looked at you.

"Okay," Kugisaki said slowly. "So you're just going to pine forever instead?"

You didn't answer because you didn't actually have a plan beyond surviving tomorrow's training session without spontaneously combusting when Sukuna walked in.

The three of you walked toward the station, the lights of Shibuya gradually growing brighter around you. Kugisaki chattered about the fight, about the odds, and about how she should've bet as well to make the guaranteed profit. Maki added the occasional comment about Sukuna's technique, casually mentioning she'd have to ask him about that clinch work next time she saw him.

You only half-listened.

Your mind was still underground, watching the way Sukuna's expression had shifted for just a moment when his eyes found the crowd. And found you. Or maybe you'd imagined it.

Later, you and Kugisaki slipped back into the dorm as quietly as possible, easing the door shut behind you. The common area lights were still on, and you could hear the hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen.

"Hey!"

You nearly jumped out of your skin.

Itadori was standing by the open fridge, shirtless in sweatpants, eating what looked like a cold hot dog straight from the package. He grinned at you both around a mouthful of processed meat.

"You're back! How was girls' night?"

"Exhausting," Kugisaki said immediately, already heading down the hallway. "I'm going to bed. Night!"

She disappeared into her room before Itadori could say anything else, leaving you alone with him. Of course she did.

Itadori blinked at you, then grinned again. "So? You guys look nice. You go somewhere fun?"

You were still wearing Kugisaki's clothes. Your hair still faintly smelled like smoke. There was dirty, sticky cash in your pocket that felt heavier than coins.

"Just drinks," you said. Your voice came out too quick. "With Maki-san. Nothing special. How was training?"

"Oh." He nodded, then made a face. "Well, training sucked. Total bust. Sukuna didn't even show up."

Your heart skipped. "He didn't?" you tried to force out as nonchalantly as possible.

"Yeah!" He gestured with the hot dog, "We waited like twenty minutes so we could watch him beat up Maki-senpai's TikTok-streamer cousin again, and Gojo-sensei finally was like, 'guess he's not coming,' so we just did regular sparring instead." 

You forced a laugh. It sounded wrong to your own ears.

"Fushiguro said he probably had something better to do." Itadori went on, chewing thoughtfully, "Which, knowing Sukuna, was most likely beating someone up somewhere."

You forced out a laugh that hopefully sounded natural. "Yeah, most likely."

Oh god. Oh no.

You knew exactly where he'd been. Knew exactly what he'd been doing. Had watched every second of it while pretending to be out having innocent drinks with the girls.

"You okay?" Itadori asked, tilting his head. "You look kinda red. Did you drink that much?"

"It's, yeah, I'm just a little tipsy still," you lied, grateful for the excuse. "Should probably get some water."

"Oh! Good idea. Hydration is super important!" He held up the package of hot dogs. "Want one of these? Protein is also good for hangovers."

"No thanks. They're cold."

"Well, yeah. Pre-cooked and convenient." He grinned. "Or do you prefer them hot?"

You shook your head and escaped to your room before you could say something that would ruin your life.

The door clicked shut behind you.

You leaned back against it.

Sukuna hadn't gone to training because he'd been at the fight club.

Where you'd watched him win. Where you'd left him ten thousand yen.

Anonymously.

And Itadori had no idea any of it had happened. Would he be able to put it all together? Would he notice if you went 'out' another time? Would Fushiguro?

You pressed your hands over your face and tried very hard not to scream into them.

Tomorrow's training session was going to be absolutely unbearable.

Chapter Text

You'd stared at the message for a second before hitting send, thumb hovering like it might be a mistake you could still undo. Kugisaki's reply bubble appeared instantly, then vanished, then appeared again.

You locked your phone before you could see her answer.

Outside the station, in the kiss-and-ride area, the air tasted like exhaust. Across the street, a dark car approached, and so did that overwhelming sense of doom again.

Kenjaku had invited you over for lunch once again, with a little sense of urgency. Actually, he had first started texting you the evening before, and you hadn't been able to answer his message due to the exhaustion of last night. And the anti-phone rule. Mostly the anti-phone rule, which had forced you to ignore Kenjaku's message for over twelve hours before you reluctantly had to accept his plans in order to calm him down. 

The car pulled up with that same predatory smoothness as the man himself, dark and expensive. The rear window descended just enough to reveal Kenjaku's face, that familiar smile already in place.

"There you are," he said, as if you'd been lost. "Let's be on our way."

You slid into the backseat, the leather cold against your legs. He leaned over in an attempt to kiss your cheek, even though you moved away, at which he settled back with that appraising look you'd learned to recognize. The one that catalogued how well you'd been "performing" in his eyes.

"You look tired," he observed as the car pulled away from the curb.

"I had a late night."

"Mm." His hand found yours, fingers threading through for a moment before sliding back to the gearshift. "I was worried when you didn't respond. I thought perhaps something had happened."

An implication that your silence was a kind of transgression.

"I was just... busy. Sorry."

"Busy." He repeated the word like he was testing its validity. "Well. You're here now."

The restaurant was different from last time but cut from the same cloth, looking trendy and expensive, another place where the waiters wore tailored suits and the menu had no prices. Kenjaku guided you to a corner table with his hand on the small of your back. The muscles there twitched involuntarily.

You sat, and he watched you do it. Closely watched, with that clinical attention that made your skin prickle.

"You're moving better today," he said, unfolding his napkin with deliberate care. "Less stiff."

Shit.

"Oh. Yeah, I guess I'm—"

"The soreness is already improving?" His eyes hadn't left your face. "From the gym?"

You should have just nodded. Should have smiled and agreed and let him believe whatever he wanted to believe. But exhaustion made you careless, or maybe it was the ghost of last night's excitement still making you reckless.

"I actually didn't make it to the gym yesterday. Kugisaki-san and Maki-san wanted to grab drinks, and I—" The words died as his expression shifted. Not dramatically. Just a flicker, like something behind his eyes had clicked off. "It was just a couple of hours, nothing—"

"Of course." His smile didn't waver. "You should spend time with your new friends."

But something had changed. You could feel it in the air between you, thick and strange.

For a moment, you were twelve again, reaching for a soda at a diner. Your mother's hand would land on your wrist, gentle but firm. Do you know how much sugar is in that? How many empty calories? Your father would nod in agreement, already pushing a glass of water toward you instead. We're just looking out for you, sweetheart. You want to stay healthy, don't you?

The waiter appeared, hovering with that particular attentiveness expensive restaurants seemed to breed into their staff. Kenjaku didn't even glance at the menu.

"I'll have the seared duck breast with the cherry reduction," he said. "And for her..." He turned to you, that smile still perfectly in place. "The caprese salad, I think. Something simple and light."

You blinked. "I—actually, I was thinking maybe the—"

"The caprese will be perfect." His hand covered yours on the table, his thumb stroking across your knuckles. "Trust me. You don't need anything heavy right now. You didn't even work out yesterday."

The waiter's pen paused for just a fraction of a second before he nodded and retreated.

"I had a salad for lunch yesterday," you said, trying to keep your voice light. "Maybe I can try something different—"

"Did you?" Kenjaku's head tilted slightly, like you'd said something fascinating. "Well. Consistency is good. And really, darling..." His thumb kept moving across your skin, a metronome of false comfort. "After those drinks with the girls, I imagine you consumed quite enough calories last night. Wine, cocktails, whatever appetizers you shared. Those things add up quickly."

Your stomach went cold.

"It was just a couple of drinks."

"Of course it was." He squeezed your hand. Gentle. Firm. "I'm not criticizing. I'm just looking out for you. You've been trying so hard at the gym, making such wonderful progress. It would be a shame to undo that with..." A slight pause, perfectly calibrated. "Unnecessary indulgence."

The word hung in the air like smoke.

"I'm not—I wasn't indulging, I was just—"

"I know." His voice was so reasonable, so kind. "And that's why I'm ordering something light for you. Because I care about your goals. About our goals, really. You want to look your best for the wedding, don't you?"

Across the restaurant, silverware clinked against china. Someone laughed, bright and carefree. Your phone buzzed in your pocket. Probably Kugisaki, finally responding to your message. 

All of it faded to background noise.

"Of course I do," you heard yourself say.

Kenjaku's smile widened. "That's my girl."

The caprese salad arrived on a pristine white plate with three thin slices of tomato, three translucent pieces of mozzarella, and a drizzle of balsamic that looked like the chef barely tipped over the bottle. Beside it, Kenjaku's duck breast sat in a pool of dark cherry sauce, the meat pink and glistening, accompanied by roasted vegetables and what looked like truffle mashed potatoes.

The contrast wasn't lost on you.

You picked up your fork. The first bite was fine; the ingredients were fresh and flavorful, and light, exactly what he'd said it would be. Yet, the second bite tasted like nothing. By the third, you were hyper-aware of every movement of Kenjaku's jaw as he cut into his duck and chomped down with loud satisfaction.

"How is the caprese?" he asked.

"Good."

"Just good?" A small laugh. "You sound disappointed."

"No, it's fine. Really. The tomatoes seem imported from a sunny area…"

He took another bite of his duck, and you watched the way he savored it, eyes half-closing in appreciation. "This is excellent. Perfectly cooked." A pause. "Would you like to try some?"

The offer hung there, and you recognized it for the test it represented. Say yes, and you'd prove you couldn't control yourself. Say no, and pass.

"I'm okay, thank you."

"Good." He dabbed his mouth with his napkin. "Self-control is so important, isn't it? Especially when temptation is right in front of you."

You pushed a piece of mozzarella around your plate.

The meal continued in that same rhythm, his enjoyment a discord against your restraint. He ordered dessert for himself, a chocolate soufflé that arrived in a ramekin with real Madagascar vanilla ice cream melting into its center. You declined when he offered you a taste, and the approval in his eyes made something in your chest twist.

When the check came, he handled it with his usual efficiency, with his black card appearing and disappearing without giving it much thought. You found yourself waiting for the familiar pattern of his payment, of heading back home, and seeing the transfer notification lighting up your phone. The routine you'd come to expect, however much it made you feel like something purchased.

But this time, Kenjaku just stood, helped you with your chair, and guided you back to the car with that same possessive hand on your lower back.

The drive back was quiet. He checked his phone occasionally at the traffic lights, responding to messages with quick, efficient taps. You stared out the window, still waiting for the buzz in your pocket that didn't come.

"I have a meeting at two and after-work drinks," he said as the car approached your place. "But I'll text you later tonight. We should discuss dinner plans for next week."

"Okay."

The car stopped. He leaned over, and this time you didn't pull away when he kissed your cheek. It felt easier to just let it happen.

"Take care of yourself," he said, those words that sounded like affection but felt like instruction. "I'll be in touch."

You got out, the door closing behind you with that expensive, solid thunk. The car pulled away, and you stood there in the nearby parking area, phone in your hand, waiting.

No notification came.

You unlocked your phone. The banking app showed the same balance as this morning. No transfer. No deposit. Nothing.

It took you a moment to understand that lunch had been just lunch. No LINE pay transaction. No compensation for your time. He'd taken you to that expensive restaurant, ordered your meal for you, watched you eat your three slices of tomato while he enjoyed his duck and his soufflé, and then simply... left.

Your thumb hovered over Kugisaki's message she'd sent you during lunch.

You locked your phone without responding and headed for your building, that caprese salad settling in your stomach like a heavy weight.

The apartment was quiet when you got back. You dropped your bag by the door and stood there for a moment, not quite sure what to do with yourself.

You pulled out your phone again, checking the banking app one more time even though you knew what you'd find. Nothing.

"Oh, you're back!"

You looked up to find Itadori emerging from his room, already packing up his gloves and clothes. Behind him, Fushiguro appeared in the hallway, pulling a gym bag over his shoulder.

"We're heading to the dojo," Itadori continued, his usual brightness dimmed slightly by concentration as he tied his shoelaces. "Gojo-sensei moved the class to late afternoon. Something about 'other engagements of utmost importance.'" He made air quotes, grinning. "Which probably means he wants to stand in line for that new gelato shop that's opening tonight."

"Oh." You hadn't checked your emails. You hadn't even thought about training today after that weird connotation Kenjaku had planted.

Fushiguro's eyes tracked across your face with that quiet, assessing look he had. "You okay?"

"Yeah, just—" You stopped. Started again. "Can I still come with you?"

Itadori's head popped up, his expression brightening immediately. "Of course! We're leaving in like five minutes if you want to grab your stuff."

You were already moving toward your room before he finished speaking. The idea of sitting alone in the apartment, staring at your phone, subconsciously waiting for a notification that might never come made your skin crawl. At least at the dojo you could move, could hit something, and exhaust yourself into not thinking.

Your workout clothes were still in a messy pile from two days ago. You packed them quickly, caught a glimpse of your tired self in the mirror, and turned away before you could catalog everything else Kenjaku's gaze had inventoried earlier.

When you emerged, Itadori was stretching in the living room, one leg propped up on the coffee table. Fushiguro had his phone out, typing something with his usual economy of movement.

"Kugisaki went shopping," he said without looking up. "I let her know we're heading out, but..."

"She might not check her messages for hours," Itadori finished, dropping his leg and switching to the other side. "There was some special promotion. You know how she gets in the boutiques. Full radio silence."

"Alright." You grabbed your water bottle from the kitchen, trying to ignore how your hands wanted to shake. "That's fine. We don't need to wait for her."

The three of you headed out into the late afternoon sun, the air already starting to cool from the day's heat. Itadori filled the silence with chatter about some movie he'd watched last night while staying up to wait for Kugisaki and you to come home, something with explosions and a plot that made Fushiguro raise an eyebrow.

"I'm just saying, there is no way a worm and a human would produce something viable—"

"It's a movie, Fushiguro. It's not supposed to be realistic."

"Then why can you spend ten minutes explaining the 'science' behind it?"

You let their banter wash over you like a comforting background noise. 

The dojo was already visible down the street, its traditional architecture incongruous among the modern buildings. Through the windows, you could see movement. It was probably Gojo-sensei, already warming up or doing whatever it was he did before you arrived.

"Ready?" Itadori asked, holding the door open.

You nodded and stepped inside the changing room, leaving your phone in your bag when you finished, and went towards the main area.

Gojo-sensei was already there, stretched out on the floor in what looked like an elaborate yoga pose that defied several laws of physics.

"Ah! My little ducklings arrive!" He unfolded himself with theatrical grace, grinning. "Right on time, too. I'm impressed."

"We're even five minutes early," Fushiguro pointed out.

"Like I said. Impressive." Gojo-sensei clapped his hands together. "Alright, conditioning part two! Electric boogaloo. We're doing alternating bag drills today to really get that cardio and those big shoulders going. Partner up!"

You were already moving toward Itadori when Fushiguro stepped beside you.

"Want to partner up?" he asked, casual but deliberate. His eyes flicked past you to where Sukuna was emerging from the changing room, that same intimidating aura in every movement. You couldn't face him. Not after last night. It'd be too much for your fragile heart to handle, on top of the cardio at least.

"Sure," you said, relief flooding through you before you could stop it.

Itadori bounced over to Sukuna with his usual unshakeable friendliness. "Guess that means we're together! Try not to break me, yeah?"

Sukuna's mouth curved, not quite a smile. "No promises, brat."

Gojo-sensei explained the drill: one person on the heavy bag with combinations while the other did burpees, then switch every minute for ten rounds. It was brutal by design, meant to push endurance and explosiveness while maintaining technique under fatigue.

"And remember!" Gojo-sensei called out as everyone took positions. "Form over speed. I see any of you flailing like inflatable tube men and we're adding extra rounds until we've hit the time goal properly."

The timer started.

Fushiguro took the bag first, his combinations clean and economical. You dropped into burpees, trying to pace yourself. One minute felt like five when your muscles were screaming for you to take a break.

"Switch!"

Your turn on the bag. Jab, cross, hook. Your arms felt heavier than they should, that caprese salad sitting uselessly in your stomach, providing no useful nutrition. Three slices of tomato. Three pieces of mozzarella. A basil leaf.

"Keep your guard up," Fushiguro said between burpees, not even half as winded as you.

You adjusted, throwing another combination. Beside you, Itadori was laughing about something, his hits thunderous against his bag. Sukuna moved through his burpees with mechanical precision, barely breaking a sweat.

The rounds continued. By round five, you were feeling it, that specific kind of exhaustion that came from running on pure fumes. By round seven, your vision was starting to narrow at the edges.

"Switch!"

Round eight. Fushiguro on the bag. You dropped into another burpee, and—

"Shit!" Itadori's voice, sharp with pain.

Everyone stopped. Itadori was on the ground, clutching his ankle, his face twisted in a grimace that he was trying very hard to hide.

"What happened?" Gojo-sensei was there instantly, that casual demeanor dropping away.

"Just—landed wrong on the burpee. It's fine, I just need to—" Itadori tried to stand and immediately sat back down. "Okay, maybe not fine."

Gojo-sensei crouched down, examining the ankle with surprising gentleness. "It's swelling already. Nothing broken, but you've got yourself a nice sprain there, kid."

"Can I just—"

"Absolutely not. You're done for today." Gojo-sensei stood, hands on his hips. "Someone needs to help him get home; he can't put weight on it for now. And get some ice on that, and keep it elevated."

"I'll go," Fushiguro said immediately, already moving toward Itadori.

Gojo-sensei's eyebrow rose above his sunglasses. "How noble of you, Megumi. Not at all like you're looking for any excuse to escape conditioning again."

"It's not—"

"Uh-huh." Gojo-sensei waved them off. "Go on then, Sir Knight in shiny armor. Make sure he actually ices it and doesn't try to 'walk it off' like some kind of macho idiot."

"I'm right here," Itadori muttered, but he was already leaning on Fushiguro, hopping toward the door on one foot.

The door closed behind them.

Silence settled over the dojo, broken only by the hum of the overhead lights. You looked at the remaining fifteen minutes on the timer and felt your stomach drop.

"Well!" Gojo-sensei clapped his hands. "Guess that means you two are partnering up. Unless you want to be a weakling and call it early?" He looked between you and Sukuna with that teasing expression that made it clear what the expected answer was.

"I'm good to continue," Sukuna said, his eyes already on you.

"Ah, yeah! Me too," you heard yourself say.

"Excellent. I'll be over here not supervising." Gojo-sensei settled back against the wall with his phone, clearly planning to do exactly that.

The timer started again.

You took the bag first, throwing combinations that felt increasingly hollow. Your arms were lead. Your legs were worse. That narrow feeling at the edges of your vision was getting worse, a creeping gray that made the dojo lights seem too bright.

"Switch!"

Burpees. You dropped down and pushed back up, but the movement made your head swim. The floor tilted slightly, then corrected itself.

"Switch!"

Bag again. Jab, cross. Your knuckles connected, but you barely felt it through the fog that was settling over everything. When had the dojo gotten so warm?

"Switch!"

Another burpee. Down. Up. The gray at the edges spread further.

"Switch!"

You hit the bag. Once. Twice. Your third punch missed entirely, your depth perception suddenly unreliable.

"Stop."

Sukuna's voice cut through the fog. You blinked at him, confused. The timer still had time left.

"I said stop." He was closer now, studying you with that intense focus. "You're pale and shaking. When did you last eat?"

"I—lunch. I had lunch."

"What did you eat?"

The question felt invasive. You wanted to tell him it was none of his business, but your mouth was too dry. "Salad. Caprese salad."

His expression didn't change, but something shifted behind his eyes. "That's all you've eaten today?"

"I had breakfast. Toast." Had you? The morning felt like it had happened to someone else.

Sukuna looked at you for a long moment, then over at Gojo-sensei, who was very pointedly not looking up from his phone. "We're done here."

"There's only five more minutes—"

"You're about to pass out." He said it matter-of-factly, like he was commenting on the weather. "Go, change."

Your pride wanted to argue, but your legs were already trembling. You managed to make it to the changing room without falling over, which felt like a victory.

When you emerged, Sukuna was waiting by the door, already changed, his gym bag over his shoulder. Gojo-sensei gave a little wave from his spot against the wall, still not looking up.

"Have fun, kids!"

Outside, the late afternoon air hit your face like a cold cloth. You stood there for a moment, just breathing.

"There's a nice pita place two blocks from here," Sukuna said. His tone was casual, but there was something careful in it. "You need to eat something."

"I'm fine—"

"You're not." He started walking, clearly expecting you to follow. After a few steps, he looked back. "You coming or are you planning to pass out on the sidewalk? Because I'm not carrying you if you do."

You followed.

The pita place was tucked between a convenience store and a laundromat, the kind of hole-in-the-wall spot you'd walk past without noticing. The paint on the sign was peeling, and through the window you could see exactly four tables crammed into a space barely bigger than a closet. The smell of grilling meat and warm bread wafted out every time the door opened.

You hesitated at the entrance. This wasn't the kind of place Kenjaku would ever take you to. There were no waiters. The menu actually had prices, even if it was just a laminated board behind the counter with photos that looked like they'd been printed in 2003.

"What is this place?"

"Good food." Sukuna held the door open, waiting.

Inside was even smaller than it looked from outside, but the interior was warm and bright with the dodgy fluorescent lighting you'd only seen in CCTV footage. A tired-looking man behind the counter looked up from his phone and nodded at Sukuna like he recognized him.

"What do you want?" Sukuna asked, already studying the menu board.

You stared at the options, overwhelmed. Chicken shawarma, lamb kofta, falafel, or something called "mixed grill" that came with four different kinds of meat. Everything came with options like extra tahini, extra hummus, extra garlic, hot sauce levels from one to five peppers, add fries inside the pita for 100 yen… They were nothing like home-cooked meals or pretty dishes served in restaurants. You'd never been in such a dingy place before. Was it even safe to eat here?

"Uh, you can order already. I can pay for my own—"

"I didn't ask if you could pay. I asked what you want."

Your eyes tracked over the photos, over the glistening meat and overflowing wraps. Everything looked too unhealthy, too indulgent. Unnecessary calories. For the wedding. Kenjaku's voice echoed in your head, reasonable and kind and suffocating.

"The... the Greek salad?" you heard yourself say, pointing to the one green thing on the menu.

Sukuna looked at you like you'd just suggested setting yourself on fire. "Try again."

"What?"

"You just almost passed out from low blood sugar, and you want to order another fucking salad." He stepped up to the counter, and the man looked up expectantly. "Two chicken shawarma pitas, extra everything. Large fries. Two Cokes."

"That's too much—"

He was already pulling out his wallet, and you froze when you noticed the bills. 

They were crumpled and worn, the same ones you'd seen the weird guy smooth out and count yesterday at the fight club. The same ones you'd anonymously tipped back to him last night.

He was using that money. To buy you food.

Something hot and uncomfortable lodged in your throat.

Sukuna handed over the cash, took the number card, and turned to find you still standing there. "Sit."

You found a table by the window, the plastic chair wobbling slightly under your weight. Your hands were still shaking slightly, and you shoved them under your thighs to hide it.

He returned with a tray piled with food and set it down between you. The pita was massive, wrapped in foil, and already leaking garlic sauce that pooled at the bottom. The fries were golden and crispy, steam rising from them in the cool air conditioning.

"Eat," he said, pushing one of the pitas toward you.

"I don't need—"

"Yes, you do." He unwrapped his own pita and took a bite, watching you steadily. "Stop arguing with me and eat the fucking food."

You picked up the pita with hands that still trembled slightly, the foil warm against your palms. It was heavier than you expected, overstuffed to the point of it barely holding together. You peeled back the foil.

Inside was chaos, with layers of thinly sliced chicken, shredded lettuce, tomatoes, and pickled turnips, all drowning in white garlic sauce and tahini. It looked like it would fall apart the moment you bit into it.

The first bite was hesitant. You weren't even sure what you were tasting at first, but then it hit you.

The garlic sauce was sharp and creamy, cutting through the richness of the tahini. The chicken was tender and seasoned with something warm and complex. Cumin, maybe, or coriander. The pickles added a bright, acidic crunch that made everything else pop. The bread itself was warm and slightly charred, with a chew that held everything together despite all odds.

The second bite made you realize how empty you'd been. The heaviness of the meat and sauce easily warmed and filled your stomach with every swallow.

By the third bite, you were eating without thinking, leaning over the foil to catch the drips of sauce, not caring that some of it was getting on your fingers. The flavors kept revealing themselves in layers: the lemon juice in the tahini, a hint of paprika in the chicken, and the sharp bite of raw onion you hadn't even noticed at first.

Sukuna ate his own food in silence, occasionally stealing fries from the shared basket between you. He didn't comment when you finished your entire pita or when you reached for the fries without asking. He just pushed the basket closer and kept eating.

You grabbed another fry. Then another. They were perfectly salted, crispy on the outside and fluffy within, and you couldn't remember the last time you'd eaten French fries without your parents discussing the health risks of such a meal.

The Coke was cold and sweet and made your teeth ache. You drank half of it without stopping.

It wasn't until you'd finished, the tray mostly empty except for a few scattered fries and some stray pieces of lettuce, that you realized what had just happened.

You'd eaten something your family or town would've looked down upon. And no one had stopped you.

Sukuna crumpled up the foil from his pita, tossed it on the tray, and leaned back in his chair. He didn't say anything about the fact that you'd demolished your food like you'd been starving.

Then his hand moved across the small table. You went still as his thumb brushed against your cheek, in the same spot where Kenjaku had kissed you earlier. The touch was brief, rough with calluses, but careful.

"Sauce," he said, showing you the white streak of garlic sauce on his thumb before wiping it on a napkin.

But it was the exact same spot. The precise location where Kenjaku's lips had pressed in that possessive claim of ownership. Where Sukuna's touch had just removed something that didn't belong there.

For a brief moment you wondered if he could somehow see the invisible marks that lunch had left on you. But he merely looked at you with those sharp eyes and asked, "Better?"

And somehow, you managed a calm nod. "Yeah. Better."

You walked back toward the dojo in silence, the evening air cool against your skin. Your stomach felt full and actually satisfied, though the butterflies still found a way to flutter about.

The walk back was short, just the same two blocks, but it felt longer with Sukuna beside you and no hungry thoughts to occupy your mind. He didn't make conversation, either; he didn't try to fill the silence with empty words. He just walked, hands in his pockets, occasionally glancing at you like he was checking to make sure you weren't about to keel over again.

When you reached the dojo, Gojo-sensei was standing outside, already changed into his normal clothes, or well, dark jeans and a button-up shirt that probably cost more than your rent. He had his phone out, clearly texting someone, but looked up as you approached.

"Decided to come back for more?" His grin was insufferable. "I'm touched. Really. Though I should warn you, I've already locked up the equipment, so unless you want to continue the burpees in the parking lot—"

Sukuna walked past him without a word, heading for the entrance.

"—or not," Gojo-sensei continued, unbothered. He looked at you, that grin softening into something more caring. "You good now?"

"Yeah. Just needed some air."

"Mm-hmm. Air. Is that what we're calling that shawarma shop now?" He pocketed his phone. "Make sure you finish your stretches when you get home. Don't want you waking up tomorrow feeling like you got hit by a truck."

Before you could respond, Sukuna reappeared from inside, gym bag over one shoulder, and something else in his hand. 

It took you a second to recognize it as a motorcycle helmet. He held it out toward you without preamble. "I'll drive you home."

You blinked. "What?"

"You live near the university, right? It's on my way."

It definitely wasn't on his way. You'd seen him head in the opposite direction last time, toward the industrial area where the fight club was held.

"I can also walk—"

He was still holding out the helmet, patient but immovable. "Bike will be faster."

Gojo-sensei's eyebrows had climbed above his sunglasses, his expression delighted. "Oh, this is too good. Big, scary Sukuna offering rides now? What's next, opening doors? Pulling out chairs?"

"Shut up," Sukuna said without looking at him.

"I'm just saying, character development is a beautiful thing to witness—"

"I said shut up."

You took the helmet. It was lighter than you expected, the interior lined with soft padding. "You just... keep a spare helmet in the dojo?"

"For surprise passengers," he said, like it was obvious. Like he regularly drove people around on his motorcycle. Though somehow, you doubted that was true.

"Well, this has been adorable," Gojo-sensei said, pushing off from the wall where he'd been leaning. "But I have a date with a pint of that new artisanal gelato, so I'll leave you two to your... whatever this is." He waggled his fingers in a wave as he walked toward his car, some expensive-looking white thing that probably drove itself or at least had a chauffeur. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do! Which, admittedly, leaves a lot of room for interpretation."

Sukuna ignored him completely, already heading toward the corner of the parking lot where a motorcycle sat in the shadows. It was matte black, aggressive, and angular, the kind of bike that looked like it could star in an action movie.

You followed, turning the helmet over in your hands. "I've never been on a motorcycle before."

"It's not complicated." He swung his leg over the seat, the bike settling under his weight. Then he pulled out his phone, tapped the screen a few times, and held it out to you. The navigation app was open, waiting for an address. "Put it in."

You stared at the phone, then at him.

"Your address," he clarified, impatient. "Unless you want me to just start driving and hope for the best."

"Oh. Right." You took the phone; the screen was cracked in one corner but still functional. You typed in your address with slightly shaky fingers. Your little apartment near the university. The one you shared with three people you'd only known for a few days but who somehow felt more like home than anywhere else had in months.

You handed the phone back. He glanced at the route, then mounted it on a holder attached to the handlebars.

 "Just hold on and lean with me in the turns," he said, pulling on his own helmet. The visor was still up, and you could see his eyes watching you. "You know, engage your core."

"That's it?"

"That's it." He flipped the visor down partway. "You getting on or not?"

You put on the helmet, it fit surprisingly well, and carefully climbed on behind him. The seat was narrow, forcing you closer than felt comfortable, your thighs bracketing his.

"Hold on properly," he said, and started the engine.

The bike roared to life beneath you, the vibration traveling up your spine. You grabbed onto his jacket instinctively, your fingers curling into the leather.

"Tighter than that. I'm not gonna break."

You hesitated, then wrapped your arms around his waist properly, pressed against his back. You could feel the warmth of him even through the layers of clothing, the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

"Good," he said, and pulled out of the parking lot.

The world tilted as he leaned into the first turn, and you held on tighter without thinking, your face nearly pressed against his shoulder. Even the helmet smelled like—well, what was that? Not cologne, nor anything like the bright-colored 3-in-1 soaps Itadori used. Just cleaning agent and something warm underneath. Maybe it was the leather from his jacket or a hint of whatever soap he used. Or perhaps even the faint ghost of sweat from training.

Your face heated inside the helmet, grateful he couldn't see.

The bike straightened out, and he accelerated smoothly onto the main road. The city blurred past, its streetlights beginning to flicker on in the dusk with storefronts glowing, people on sidewalks reduced to streaks of color. The wind whipped around you, but you were sheltered behind his broader frame, tucked against him like you belonged there.

Which was a dangerous thought to have.

He shifted gears, and you felt the movement through your entire body as the bike responded to him with perfect synchronization. His hands rested on the handlebars, holding on steady and sure. The flex of his back muscles rolled against your arms when he leaned into another turn. Everything about the way he moved spoke of absolute confidence, like the motorcycle was just an extension of himself.

You tried to focus on the scenery, on anything else, but it was impossible. Every breath brought that scent again, the warmth that made your thoughts scatter. Every shift of his body against yours sent your heartbeat stuttering. The rumble of the engine between your legs wasn't helping either, creating a steady vibration that made you hyper-aware of every point of contact between you.

A red light. He came to a smooth stop, one foot planted on the ground to balance. You should've probably loosened your grip now that you weren't moving, but your arms stayed locked around his waist. Through the helmet, you could see the side of his jaw, the strong line of his neck disappearing into his collar.

The light turned green.

He accelerated again, and you pressed closer instinctively, your chin nearly resting on his shoulder blade now. This close, you could see the way his fingers moved on the clutch, precise and practiced. The way he checked his mirrors, that sharp awareness that never seemed to leave him even in something as mundane as riding through traffic.

Another turn, sharper this time, and you leaned with him like he'd told you to, your body following his without conscious thought. The trust required for that, for letting someone else control your movement, should have been terrifying.

Instead, it felt like flying.

Your mind wandered despite yourself. What would it be like if this wasn't just a ride home? If this was something else, somewhere else? Just riding through the city with no destination, the night stretching out ahead of you, nothing but the road and the wind and the solid warmth of him against you—

Stop it.

You had a fiancé. An expensive car. A wedding to look your best for. Unnecessary indulgences to avoid.

But Sukuna had bought you dinner with money you'd secretly given him. He'd noticed when you were about to pass out. Had ordered you real food without commentary or judgment, just that blunt "eat the fucking food" and then a comforting silence while you demolished it.

The bike slowed as he navigated through a busier intersection, weaving between cars with practiced ease. A taxi honked, and he ignored it completely, focused on the road ahead. The GPS on his phone chimed with directions, and he followed them without hesitation, getting you home.

Home to your apartment, where your roommates were probably wondering where you'd disappeared to for so long. While your phone, nestled deep in your gym bag, was full of messages you hadn't checked. Where reality waited with all its complications.

But right now, on the back of this bike with your arms around Sukuna's waist and the city lights streaking past, none of that felt quite real. This, however, did feel real. The warmth seeping through his jacket, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the way your heart hammered against your ribs every time he shifted against you.

You closed your eyes behind the visor for just a moment, breathing in that clean, warm scent one more time, letting yourself have this little daydream. Just this. Just for now.

The bike began to slow. You opened your eyes and recognized your street, the familiar buildings coming into focus. It was too soon.

He pulled up in front of your apartment building and cut the engine. The sudden silence was almost startling after the constant rumble. For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then you forced yourself to let go, your arms unpeeling from his waist, immediately missing the warmth. You climbed off the bike on shaky legs. From the adrenaline, you told yourself. Just the adrenaline.

You fumbled with the helmet, fingers clumsy as you tried to figure out the clasp, until you finally got it off and held it out to him, your hair probably a disaster underneath.

He took it without ceremony, hooking it over the handlebar. Didn't comment on your flushed face or the way your hands were still trembling slightly. He just looked at you with those sharp eyes for a moment, like he was making sure you were steady on your feet.

"Until tomorrow," he then said. Not even intonation to his words.

"Tomorrow," you echoed. Training. Right, there would be training tomorrow again.

He gave a short nod, then kick-started the bike again, and the engine roared back to life. He didn't even wave or look back at you; he just pulled away from the curb with that same fluid control, the taillight disappearing down the street until it was just another red glow among many.

You stood there on the sidewalk, watching long after he'd turned the corner and vanished from sight. Your heart was still racing. You could still feel the phantom warmth of him against your front, still smell that clean scent clinging to your collar.

This was dangerous. This was—

Movement caught your eye. You looked up toward your apartment window.

Three faces were squished against the glass on the fourth floor, pressed so close their features were distorted. Itadori's nose was completely flattened. Fushiguro's cheek was compressed at an angle that looked uncomfortable. Kugisaki had somehow wedged herself between them, her hands cupped around her eyes like binoculars.

They were all staring directly at you.

The moment they realized you'd spotted them, chaos erupted. Itadori jerked back so fast he probably hit his head. Fushiguro disappeared from view immediately. Kugisaki stayed for a half-second longer, long enough for you to see her mouth form what looked suspiciously like "OH SHIT" before she too vanished.

The curtain fell back into place.

You closed your eyes. Took a deep breath. Then started toward the building entrance, already bracing yourself for the interrogation waiting upstairs.