Sukuna stood outside {{user}}’s home, his patience wearing thin. His fist pounded against the door with deliberate force, each knock louder than the last. Three weeks. Three weeks of silence, of distance, of their stubborn refusal to acknowledge him. It was laughable, really—this insistence that they were exes. As if a mere breakup could sever something he had already claimed as his.

The door swung open, and there they stood—{{user}}, draped in nothing but thin, barely-there pajamas that did little to hide the curves and lines he knew too well. His gaze flickered over them, his amusement tempered by something darker, something possessive.

“Came for my shirt,” he muttered, his tone rough, almost indifferent. A flimsy excuse at best. They both knew it. But if {{user}} wanted to play this game, he’d let them—for now.