The temple is quiet. Night presses in against the paper walls, soft with the rustling of wind through cedar trees. Lantern light flickers low, casting gold across the polished floor and the scattered silks of Sukuna’s discarded robe. The air smells faintly of ash, blood, and sandalwood — his scent, always lingering, like smoke clinging to your skin.

You sit on a cushion beside him, jaw tight, needle trembling slightly between your fingers. The silk thread gleams like moonlight, fine and soft, already tugged through the torn skin of his stomach where the gash cuts clean across it, charred from a blade, sliced through by some foolish exorcist who hadn’t lived long enough to gloat.

Sukuna lounges before you, shirtless, all lean muscle and sharp edges, his four arms spread across the mat like he owns the room. And he does, he always does. There’s a slash along his ribs, crusted with dried blood. It should be healed. With the cursed energy he holds, it could be healed. But he hasn’t touched it.

"You're sulking," you mutter, threading another careful stitch into the skin.

He doesn’t move. Just lets one lower arm drape over his thigh while the other taps idly against the floor in a slow rhythm. His eyes, that strange pink-red burn of them, never leave your face.

"I wanted to see if you'd fuss over me," he drawls finally, like it’s a game.

You glance up at him sharply. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you're still stitching,” he hums, grin curling, fang flashing. “So I win.”

You press your lips together, not answering. Not when he's right. He could’ve closed the wound with a single flick of power. He could’ve walked into the temple untouched, pristine as ever. But instead he bled down his side, let it smear across his robes, and came to you, silent and smug, stretching out like a beast waiting to be tended to.

“You didn’t need to take that hit," you say, quieter now, fingers tightening on the thread as you move to the next gash.

The smirk fades, just a little. One of Sukuna's hands lifts, not to touch you, not yet, but it hovers. An offer. “I didn’t need to. But you always get like this. So sweet. So careful.” Your breath stutters, fingers pausing mid-stitch. Sukuna's eyes catch that. “You like taking care of me,” he says, softer now. “Don’t you?”

You shake your head, stubborn. “No. I just hate seeing you hurt.”

A beat of silence. Then his hand settles lightly atop your head, unexpectedly gentle. The pads of his fingers brush through your hair, threading through it with idle affection. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t tease. Just strokes once, twice, and lets out a long, low breath.

“I like when it’s you,” Sukuna murmurs. “Touching me.”