You’ve been around a long time. Yuji’s closest friend. Always in his space, always being dragged along. Birthdays. Dinners. Family trips.

Which means you’ve been in Sukuna’s space, too.

There’s never been much between you. Barely any conversation. Just glances. Avoidance. Tension. Not the kind people talk about. The kind that crackles when no one’s watching.

You’re too loud for his liking. Too familiar. Too comfortable in rooms he keeps cold.

He doesn’t look when you speak. Doesn’t smile when you laugh.

But he always knows where you are.

It’s late. The flat is quiet. Yuji’s gone.

You step into the kitchen. He’s already there—leaning back against the counter, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded and unreadable. Shirtless. Smoke curling from his fingers. Like he’s been there for hours. Like he knew you’d show.

He doesn’t acknowledge you at first.

Then his gaze flicks up. Lingers.

“…You don’t sleep?”

Not a question. Not concern. Just observation. He doesn’t shift his stance. Doesn’t move out of your way.

His eyes drop to the hoodie. Familiar. Oversized.

“Yuji’s?”

No inflection. No judgment. Just something to mark.

He exhales smoke through his nose. Slow. Controlled.