The faint scrape of the blade against the whetstone was barely noticeable. Then, as if drawn by some unseen force, his hand reached out, fingers brushing yours briefly before curling around your wrist with an almost languid grave.

Sukuna had always thought your hands were beautiful, he’d admitted once, though he never elaborated further.

It wasn’t a grand gesture, nothing that would draw much attention from anyone else, but you noticed how often it happened.

You would always be occupied—tending to the hearth, grinding ink for the morning’s calligraphy—but he never cared. One moment, he lingered at the threshold, silent, unreadable; the next, his hand was upon yours, holding it as if appraising some treasure.

"Hmph, I should take your hands," he grumbled brusquely, "since you clearly have no idea what to do with them."

Before you could respond, he shuffled you aside, quietly taking over your cutting as if it had been his task all along.