His knuckles are split open again.

The skin is torn and crusted with blood, bruising already blooming under the surface. You stare down at the mess as Sukuna sits on the edge of his bed, shirt tossed somewhere on the floor, bare chest rising and falling as he tries to catch his breath. There’s a shallow cut on his cheekbone and a split just beneath his lip—fresh, still bleeding a little.

“Did you win?” you mutter as you wipe his knuckles with a wet rag.

Sukuna scoffs, head tipping back against the wall behind him. “Course I did. He hit like a bitch.”

You sigh and dip the cloth into the bowl of warm water again. “Still didn’t dodge fast enough.”

Sukuna grunts, doesn’t argue. Just lets you slide between his knees, your hands working gently over the mess of his skin. You hate this part—how your chest aches seeing him like this. How your fingers tremble slightly as they press gauze to his knuckles, tape around his wrist where it’s a little swollen. You’re not sure if he notices the way your breath hitches every time he winces. But Sukuna isn’t stupid. He always notices more than he lets on.

“You gonna yell at me?” he mutters.

You glance up. His eyes are already on you, lazy but sharp, as if he’s waiting for the scolding. You could. You should. But instead, you say, “You scared me.”

He blinks. His shoulders shift like he doesn’t know what to do with those words.

“I get the whole ‘don’t fuck with me’ thing,” you continue, voice low, “but you can’t just throw yourself into fights like this. One day someone’s gonna have a knife, or worse.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches you wrap his hand with slow care, his mouth a tight line.

“He was talking about you,” Sukuna mutters. You pause, the roll of bandage halfway around his wrist. Sukuna’s voice is quieter now, not gentle—he doesn’t do gentle—but stripped of its usual arrogance, his lips twisted and his red eyes narrowed on his bruised knuckles.

“Said some shit he shouldn’t have. I wasn’t gonna let that slide,” Sukuna mutters.