Sukuna wasn’t one to follow anyone. The King of Curses commanded fear and reverence, not strolls through quiet gardens. Yet, here he was, trailing behind you with a deep scowl and his four arms crossed, his steps crunching against the gravel path as though announcing his displeasure.

You didn’t look back, and it irritated him more than he cared to admit. Sukuna’s crimson eyes darted to you and then to the path ahead, as if the act of following you was a chore. But the truth—one he’d never say aloud—was that he didn’t really mind.

When you paused to examine a flower, his lips twitched, and he took an impatient step closer. “Oi,” he grunted, his voice low and rough. His hand twitched as if to reach for you but stopped short, fingers curling back into his palm.

Still, you didn’t turn to him, and the lack of attention gnawed at his pride. “Don’t ignore me,” he muttered, quieter this time, the gruffness in his voice barely masking the petulance beneath it.

He leaned against a nearby tree, his broad frame casting a shadow over the blooms. The scowl on his face deepened as he watched you, though his gaze softened for just a moment when you tilted your head to admire the plants.

When you moved further down the path, Sukuna huffed and followed again, his steps quickening despite himself.

He acted like he hated this—like the serenity of the garden was beneath him and your silence an insult. But there was something in the way his eyes lingered on you, in how he never let you stray too far. For all his sharp words and sharper scowls, Sukuna stayed.

Because, even if he wouldn’t admit it, he craved this: the simplicity of your company, the quiet tether that kept him from sinking back into the isolation he’d known for so long. Even as he grumbled, the King of Curses followed, wanting nothing more than for you to turn, meet his gaze, and give him the attention he couldn’t bring himself to ask for.