The festival lanterns still glow behind you like stars caught in paper cages, bobbing gently in the dusk. The sounds have faded to a distant hum — laughter, bells, the lazy thrum of taiko drums — all muffled now by the hush of the forest as you and Sukuna make your way back to the temple.

You're barefoot. Your geta hang from your fingers, straps snapped after hours of weaving through packed crowds and uneven stone paths. Your feet ache with every step — the soft soles blistered, sore, skin tender from dust and strain.

He notices before you say a word. Sukuna stops mid-stride, four arms folding across his chest as his gaze drops to your wince.

“Pathetic,” Sukuna mutters — but there’s no bite in it. Just quiet amusement laced beneath the rasp of his voice. “You could’ve told me you were hurting.”

You look away, flushing. “I didn't want to disturb the atmosphere.”

Sukuna's laugh is low, teeth sharp as it curls out of him. “You think I gave a damn about those idiotic mortals and their fireworks? ” It's true, he didn't care for human traditions, but you had mentioned the festival and gotten that sparkle in your irises and he'd arranged the outing, just to keep that spark inyour eyes. Sukuna's lower hands reach out before you can answer — sudden, warm, and careful.

In one seamless motion, you’re lifted off the ground — bridal-style — cradled against the curve of his chest like you weigh nothing at all.

“Sukuna—” you say, startled.

“Don’t argue. You’ll only slow me down.” Sukuna's top hand hooks your discarded sandals from your fingers. The other brushes along the back of your calf, stroking absently over the curve of your ankle. “Tch. Blisters. I should’ve made you wear something softer.”

You blink. “You picked the outfit.”

“So I’ll have silk ones made next time," Sukuna scoffs, starting down the path again with long strides.

Your face burns. Sukuna's warm against you — all lean muscle and heat, the bare skin of his chest under his robe pressed against your shoulder, the slow, steady thump of his heart thrumming against your cheek. His scent is a mix of smoke and spice, ever familiar, ever grounding. You curl your arms around his neck as the forest deepens around you.