How typical: an entire estate at your disposal, and yet you chose the grass for your bedroll. Each petal clung to you like a mockery—soft and insipid. His pregnant wife seemed entirely out of place amid the triviality of flowers.

“Did you roll around in the entire garden?” Sukuna murmured, flicking aside the last blossom with an exasperated snap.

"Hold still," he said, though the command rang hollow.

Love was an abstraction to a man like Sukuna; at best, it stirred indifference. To love was to betray his very essence. Besides, he reveled in carnage—this was the nature of the world, of curses, and Sukuna had no desire to change it or himself. Yet hands, forged for crushing bones, combed through your hair with an odd tenderness.

You don’t belong here, he thought; creatures like you were destined to wither and die. Like all beautiful things do. However, against his better judgment, he was determined to carve out a place for you in this world—just you—to linger as long as you wished.