She brings him coffee again.

Of course she does—exactly the way he likes it. No sugar. Dark roast. Quiet warmth. Like she knows the chaos she tames without meaning to. Like she doesn’t realize she’s the only thing in this entire godforsaken building keeping him from snapping.

She walks in with her usual poise, tablet tucked against her chest, eyes scanning the screen, murmuring softly about scheduling, updates, changes to tomorrow’s presentation. But Sukuna isn’t listening. Not really. He hears her voice, low and deliberate. That’s all he ever hears, even when the room is full.

Most of the office cleared out hours ago. Only she and he remain—again. It's becoming a habit. One neither of them is willing to name.

Maybe it’s the late hour. Maybe it’s the silence, finally thick enough to choke down the tension that’s been building for months. Or maybe it’s the fact that her internship ends in four weeks, and he’s running out of time to pretend this is professional.

He pushes back from his desk, loosens his tie slightly. His gaze slides to her face, to the way she pretends not to feel the gravity between them.

“Go pack your stuff,” he says calmly. “We’re having dinner.”

She looks up, surprised. He offers no explanation. Doesn’t need to. He’s done this before—under the guise of mentorship, appreciation, managerial kindness. But tonight, it’s none of that. Tonight, there’s no assistant. No intern. Just her. And him.

The elevator is silent. Cold metal, low lights, and tension thick enough to choke on. She stands just a few inches too close. She always does. Not because she means to—but because she doesn’t know what she’s doing to him. That’s the worst part. She never knows. She just breathes, and it ruins him.

He lets his gaze linger, tracing the outline of her jaw, her lashes, the steady rise and fall of her chest. She’s calm. Too calm for the war he’s fighting inside himself.

He doesn’t plan to touch her. Until he does.

Until his hand is on her cheek—warm, careful—coaxing her to look at him. Her eyes—god, those eyes—steady and unreadable. She always meets his gaze like she doesn’t know who he is. Like she isn’t afraid. It drives him insane.

He steps into her space—crowding, but not trapping. He doesn’t have to. She doesn’t move.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Or I won’t.”

That was it. The choice.

He’s waited months for this—longer than he’s ever waited for anything in his life. Power comes easy. So does fear. But she… she is different. He doesn’t want her afraid. He wants her willing.

Because if she gives him permission—if she leans in instead of walking away—then she’ll never leave again.

And she’ll finally understand what it means to be his.