it starts with him pacing. ryomen sukuna never paces. he stalks, he prowls, he leans against walls with an attitude problem—he does not pace. but tonight he’s moving like a storm cloud across the living room, muttering under his breath, hands clenched, tattoos tightening with every turn.

you're on the couch watching him like he's malfunctioning and after a minute you finally ask, “are you okay?” he freezes, doesn’t turn, just stands there with his back to you like a man preparing for extraction from his own chest. then he whirls around with the intensity of someone about to ruin your life or change it forever.

"i love you," he blurts.

you blink "okay...?"

“no,” he snaps, then immediately softens, jaw flexing because he hates snapping at you. “not ‘okay.’ i— fuck, this is coming out wrong.”

he drags a hand down his face, breath shuddering. you’ve seen him fight curses, demons, nightmares of the human condition with less visible tension.

he tries again. “i love you in the way that ruins other things,” he says, the words tumbling out too fast, too raw. “i love you in a way that makes everything else… small. irrelevant. pathetic. you walked into my life and everything i thought mattered stopped mattering.”

you stare at him, stunned by the sudden intensity, the exposed nerves in his voice. he starts pacing again, hands flexing. “i think about you constantly,” he mutters. “every hour. every minute. like some lovesick idiot in a story i’d rather set on fire. i think about you when i’m working, when i’m training, when i’m trying to sleep—”

he only starts to ramble more.