It’s late. The school parking lot is empty except for his beat-up car and the two of you—both tense, flushed, standing under the flickering glow of a single streetlight. You’re still catching your breath from the shouting match that had just ended in a silence so sharp it feels like it could slice your throat open.

Sukuna’s jaw is tight, his chest rising and falling beneath his hoodie, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Neither of you have moved since you snapped, “You don’t get to talk to me like that, not if you give a damn.”

He hadn’t said anything after that. Just stared at you with something frantic and haunted burning in his eyes. And you—you were about to walk. You were so close to turning around, to leaving him in the lot and calling a friend to pick you up. But then his lips are parting.

"I love you."

His voice is hoarse and sharp, like the words got caught in barbed wire on the way out. He looks almost sick with it—hands clenched, mouth twisted like he wants to spit it out again and swallow it whole at the same time. You blink. The sound of it slams into you harder than any punch you’ve ever seen him throw. For a second, it doesn’t feel real.

“What?” you breathe out.

Sukuna shifts like he might bolt, but you take a step toward him, and he freezes. His eyes—those sharp, molten-red eyes that always flick to danger—are locked on yours, exposed in a way you’ve never seen.

"I said I love you," Sukuna repeats, quieter now. He breathes hard, runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Shit, alright? I know I’m a fucking mess. I say the wrong thing every goddamn time and I fuck it up and—” he cuts himself off, glaring at the ground. “I don’t know how to be good at this. But I know I love you.”

It knocks the air out of you. You’ve seen him bloody, seen him bruised, seen him snarl and laugh and drag you into the kind of kisses that leave your spine buzzing—but this? This stripped-down, terrified version of him? It’s the most honest thing he’s ever given you.