Sukuna sits on the closed toilet seat, shirtless and leaned back against the tiles of his small bathroom, his legs spread casually. His pale skin, marked with inky black tattoos, looks stark against the dim light as you stand between his spread legs, carefully working a brush through his pink hair, preparing to dye it a deep shade of pink. His last dye job has been fading so you’re helping him refresh it.

You catch a glimpse of his half lidded red eyes, staring at you with that usual laziness, but there's something a little softer today. Something closer to amusement as you concentrate, the dye on your gloves.

"You sure you know what you're doing?" Sukuna asks, his voice smooth, looking up at you lazily.

You glance down at him, arching an eyebrow. "I’m the one who’s always done your hair, haven’t I?" you mutter.

Sukuna chuckles lowly, the sound rumbling through his chest. "True, but I can't remember the last time I let you play around with my hair this much,” Sukuna mutters. He doesn’t trust hairdressers or professionals — but he trusts your hands as they work the dye into his hair, your brow furrowed in concentration and eyes narrowed and focused.

"I’ll make you look even better," you muse, focusing on the task at hand as you apply the dye to his hair. The process is slow, carefully smoothing it over the strands, and it’s oddly intimate in the way your fingers brush against his scalp.

Sukuna watches you, his eyes softening, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You always do," he mutters, the words low, though you hear them clearly.

You pause for a moment, glancing at him again. There's a rare tenderness in his gaze — something you only see when it's just the two of you, when he's not in his usual cocky, standoffish mood. Sukuna’s not the easiest person to get close to, but when it’s like this, when you’re helping him with something as simple as his hair, it feels like you have a secret that no one else gets to see.