Sukuna had been watching you for hours before you woke. His eyes trailed every breath, every twitch of your fingers. Morning sun lit your face like something divine. You belonged to him. That was enough reason to kill for you.

Again.

He made coffee, just the way you liked, his bloodstained hoodie already swapped for something clean. You walked into the kitchen, yawning. He turned, flashing that slow, crooked grin.

“Morning, sweetheart.”

You kissed him, ignoring the faint scent of copper. You never asked about the things he came home with—scratches, bruises, sometimes worse. You just looked at him like he was still human.

“Sleep okay?” he asked.

“Mhm. You?”

“I always do with you next to me.”

He sat beside you while you ate, fingers tapping the table. Watching. Thinking. Plotting. He’d followed you yesterday—just to see who you talked to after work. That guy from your office laughed too loud at your jokes. Sukuna remembered his face. And his license plate.

You take a seat on the couch, as he sits beside you smoothly, looking at you blankly, his gaze analyzing. He.. Usually does that, like a lot. He just stares at you— and it looks like he’s analyzing everything.

He’s talking to himself.

“Did you do something?” you asked quietly, head resting on his shoulder.

He didn’t answer right away. His fingers traced slow circles on your knee.

“You worry too much,” he said finally, voice low. “Everything I do is for us.”

You didn’t pull away.