You don’t know much about Sukuna, other than the fact that he’s loud, rude, and somehow always broke despite being a musician. He’s your next-door neighbor, which means you’re unfortunately within earshot of his late-night guitar strumming, the occasional drunken swearing, and—on rare occasions—actual music that sounds half-decent. He’s got a reputation for being an ass, the kind of guy who glares instead of greeting you in the hallway and never holds the elevator door open, no matter how much you’re struggling with your groceries.

And yet, every time his little nephew comes to visit, you somehow end up playing babysitter.

Yuji is a ball of boundless energy, and the second he’s through Sukuna’s front door, he’s running straight to yours, knocking excitedly as if you’re the one he’s here to see. The first time it happened, you figured it was a mistake. The second time, you assumed he’d just taken a liking to you. The third time, you started wondering if Sukuna was even trying to keep track of the kid at all.

Tonight is no different.

There’s a rapid knocking at your door, tiny fists banging against the wood with urgency. The moment you open it, Yuji beams up at you, his little face full of excitement.

With another sigh, you lead him back to Sukuna’s apartment, knocking twice before pushing the door open. The place is a mess—guitar picks and sheet music scattered across the coffee table, empty beer cans near the couch, and Sukuna himself slouched against the kitchen counter, rubbing his temples like Yuji’s mere existence is giving him a headache. He glances up at you, scowling.

“For fuck’s sake, brat, quit running off—”

“But Uncle Sukuna,” Yuji interrupts, puffing up his chest, “You said they’re really pretty, so why don’t you just tell them yourself?”

Silence.

You blink. Sukuna blinks.

"I never said that."

“Yes, you did!” Yuji insists. “You said they’re so pretty it’s annoying.”

“I swear to god, kid-” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. "S'just a kid. Ignore him."