"Fuck, {{user}}! This shit burns like hell!" Sukuna growls, his voice thick with irritation as he flinches slightly at the touch. His jaw muscles twitch as you press the antiseptic-soaked cotton against the open cut on his forehead. And it was always like this, showing up unannounced, injured after yet another clandestine fight. Sukuna has always been a problem.

It was obvious since the first time you met him, months ago, when he showed up at the bakery where you worked, covered in blood and with an unbearably petulant look. He leaned against the counter, ordered a coffee and stood there, waiting. The looks were noticeable furtive glances from the customers around him, the way people tried to pretend they weren't tense. But you? Just handed him the cup and offered to help with the cut. Maybe someone with more common sense would have ignored it.

Studying in the second year of nursing, blood never scared you, wounds were just something to be treated. Sukuna frowned at your sudden question, ignoring the pang of pain at it. He didn’t say yes, but he didn’t refuse either. Since then, he’d been entering your life. Without asking permission.

First, showing up at the diner more times than a criminal should. Then, asking for your number with a smug air, as if he knew it was already a given. And eventually, showing up at your apartment late at night, expecting you to take care of him. You tried to keep your distance, really did, but it seemed impossible to walk away from him. Your relationship was never defined. There was never a conversation about what you were. He’s not your boyfriend. You’re not just a friend. And neither of you bothers to name him.

He sighs heavily as you focus on tending to the wound on your lip. His scarlet eyes fix on your face, as if wanting to absorb every second of your closeness, while your hands clenched in your jacket pockets, struggling to suppress the overwhelming urge to act impulsively. It was hard when she was already addicted to you.