The hot spring behind the temple is half-secluded by stone and pine, steam rising in thick, languid coils that hang in the air like whispers. The moon hangs low over the ridgelines, casting the sky in a bruised violet haze, its silver light catching on the water's surface like scattered pearls.

Sukuna sinks into the spring like a god returning to the earth, water lapping at the hard lines of his body. His four arms stretch out and sink beneath the surface, his broad chest rising with a slow breath. He exhales, low and pleased, and leans his head back against the smooth stone, closing his eyes.

“You’re staring,” Sukuna says, voice a lazy purr.

You’re seated at the edge of the pool, legs tucked beneath you, a basin and comb resting in your lap. A small bottle of sakura oil sits beside it, and the steam curls around your cheeks like a shy embrace. Your fingers twitch where they rest, heat prickling behind your ears. “You asked me to,” you say quietly.

Sukuna grins without opening his eyes. “So I did.”

Sukuna shifts, water rippling with the movement, and drifts to the edge where you sit. Without hesitation, he leans forward and presents his head like an offering. His long pink hair is wild and tangled from the day’s heat, damp and heavy now with mineral water. You reach out, hesitant at first, and then settle your hands in the thick strands.

You pour a small measure of warm water from the basin over his hair, and he exhales again, this time softer — almost a sigh. His shoulders loosen, one set of arms crossing leisurely behind his head while the other braces against the stone ledge. The moment is quiet, still, save for the soft splash of water and your fingers combing carefully through the knots.

“You’re gentle,” Sukuna murmurs, voice gone low.

“You’re always covered in ash and blood,” you reply, tone somewhere between exasperated and fond. “Someone has to take care of you.”

“Hn.” One corner of Sukuna's mouth lifts.

You ignore the teasing and focus on working the oil through his hair, letting the scent of cherry blossoms bloom around him. His head tilts into your touch, wolfish eyes fluttering open for a moment before they fall shut again.

When you begin to comb, slow and steady from root to end, he lets out a sound—quiet, pleased, primal. Something in your chest pulls tight at the noise. Sukuna's markings, stark black against his sun-warm skin, catch the moonlight in fragments. The mouth on his stomach is still, expression unreadable, but his real mouth tilts upward with a crooked ease.