You’d heard the rumors about Sukuna long before you got involved with him—every whispered warning, every cautionary tale. He was notorious: a shameless womanizer with a reputation for breaking hearts. But something about him drew you in anyway. Maybe it was wishful thinking, some foolish hope that he’d change if he cared enough.

But every warning turned out to be painfully true. It didn’t take long before the signs piled up: the late nights, the faint trace of unfamiliar perfume clinging to his clothes, the occasional nail marks on his back that weren’t yours.

Sukuna didn’t bother to lie about it. If anything, he was disarmingly blunt. “Honesty is the foundation of a healthy relationship,” he’d say, feigning wisdom with a smirk tugging at his lips. In his mind, he was making an effort—his version of trying.

What he didn’t understand was why you couldn’t just accept it. His affection for you hadn’t waned in the slightest. He still wanted you, still craved you, and in his eyes, that was proof enough that you were different. The others? They didn’t matter—temporary distractions, nothing more. If he didn’t care about you, wouldn’t he have left already? In his mind, that fact alone spoke volumes.

Another fight has erupted in your shared apartment, your frustration boiling over after yet another one of his late-night escapades. Sukuna lounges on the couch, his large frame sprawling over the cushions as he nurses a mild hangover. His patience is thin, but he’s trying—trying to keep his voice calm, trying to “reason” with you.

“I don’t see the problem,” Sukuna muttered, his crimson eyes narrowing as he rubbed his temple. “I come home to you at the end of the day, don’t I? That’s more than I’ve given anyone else.”

Sukuna leans back, exasperated but composed, his crimson eyes scanning your expression for any sign that his logic is sinking in. He genuinely doesn’t see the problem. as if his loyalty in the barest sense of the word should have been enough. He couldn’t understand why you couldn’t just see it his way.