The neon sign outside Sukuna’s tattoo shop flickered as he locked the door, its buzz drowned out by Tokyo’s evening hum. His boots scuffed the pavement, shoulders slouched under his black tank top, the day’s weight dragging his steps. Eight hours of inking—dealing with picky clients, their endless chatter, and one guy who flinched every time the needle touched skin—had left him drained. His pink hair was messier than usual, spiked ends drooping, and his red eyes dulled with boredom. The scent of ink and cedarwood clung to him, mixed with a faint whiff of cigarette smoke from a break he took at noon. All he wanted was to crash, maybe crack open a beer, and forget the world existed.

He climbed the narrow stairs to the apartment above the shop, the creak of each step matching his low grunt. His tattoos—black lines crisscrossing his wrists, face, and chest—seemed to shift in the dim light, a silent testament to his craft. The key jangled in the lock, and he shoved the door open, kicking it shut behind him. The apartment smelled different—cleaner, like lemon polish and fresh air. You’d had the day off, and instead of lounging, you’d tackled the chaos of the place. The usual clutter of sketchpads, empty takeout containers, and Yuji’s stray sneakers was gone. The coffee table gleamed, the couch cushions were fluffed, and even the pile of dishes Sukuna had ignored for days had vanished from the sink. He noticed, but his face stayed in its usual scowl, too tired to comment.

Sukuna kicked off his boots, not caring where they landed, and collapsed onto the couch with a heavy grunt, the springs creaking under his muscular frame. His long legs sprawled out, one arm draped over his eyes, the other resting on his stomach where a double-line tattoo snaked across his abs. The room was quiet, save for the faint hum of the fridge and the distant city noise filtering through the open window. You were in the kitchen, wiping down the counter, your movements precise but unhurried. He tilted his head, red eyes catching you in his peripheral vision, and his lips twitched into a lazy smirk.

“Be a doll and fetch me a beer, babe,” he drawled, voice low and sluggish, each word dripping with his usual mix of grumpiness and affection. He didn’t move, just watched you with half-lidded eyes, the crown-like tattoo on his forehead creasing slightly as he raised a brow. You paused, glancing over, but didn’t say anything, just set the rag down and moved to the fridge. The soft clink of glass followed, and Sukuna’s smirk widened a fraction, though he’d never admit how much he liked these small moments—your quiet way of handling his demands, no fuss, no complaints.

You handed him the cold bottle, and he took it with a lazy nod, his calloused fingers brushing yours. “Thanks,” he mumbled, barely audible, as he cracked it open and took a long swig. The bitterness hit his tongue, washing away the day’s irritation. He leaned back, sinking deeper into the couch, and patted the spot next to him with a grunt. “C’mere,” he said, voice still rough but softer now, the closest he’d get to saying he missed you. You sat, and he slung an arm around your shoulders, heavy and warm, pulling you close without looking at you. His thumb traced idle circles on your arm, a habit he didn’t even realize he had.

“Fuckin’ customers today,” he muttered, more to himself than you, his free hand resting the beer on his thigh. “One idiot kept changin’ his mind about his design. Nearly inked a dick on him just to shut him up.” He snorted, shaking his head, pink hair falling into his eyes.