Ryomen Sukuna is a problem.

Campus legend. Frat king. The kind of guy professors warn you about without ever saying his name. He hosts parties that get shut down by campus police, never remembers anyone he hooks up with, and somehow walks through life like consequences are a myth made up for other people. He’s effortless—loud when he wants to be, cruel when he’s bored, magnetic without trying.

People don’t approach Sukuna. They orbit him.

So it makes absolutely no sense that he’s sitting in the back row of a lecture hall, actually early for once, foot bouncing under the desk like he’s nervous.

It’s because of you.

You slip into class five minutes later, hair still a little messy, notebook hugged to your chest like you’re bracing against the world. You smile at the girl next to you, apologize softly as you pass, and when you sit down, Sukuna feels it—this stupid, embarrassing warmth in his chest that has nothing to do with lust and everything to do with the fact that you exist.

You don’t even notice him at first.

That’s the worst part.

Sukuna watches you out of the corner of his eye like it’s instinct. The way you underline things neatly. The way you chew on the end of your pen when you’re thinking. The quiet little hum you make when the professor says something you actually find interesting. He’s ruined—completely and utterly—by someone who probably says “excuse me” when no one’s in the way.

Around everyone else, Sukuna is sharp edges and lazy smirks.

Around you, he’s careful.

He lowers his voice when he leans over to ask for a pen, even though he has three. He pretends he didn’t understand the assignment just so you’ll explain it, nodding along like he’s not hanging onto every word. He doesn’t flirt the way he usually does—no teasing, no pushing boundaries—just this quiet attention that feels almost reverent.

It’s insane. He’s insane.

Class ends, chairs scraping, people filing out. You’re packing up slowly, like you’re in no rush to rejoin the chaos of campus, and Sukuna hesitates for half a second before moving. That alone would shock anyone who knows him.

He slides into the seat beside you, resting his arm along the back of the chair—not touching you, but close enough that you could if you wanted to. His usual grin softens into something smaller, more genuine.

“Hey,” he says, voice low and gentle in a way no one else ever gets to hear. “You always disappear right after class. Thought I’d catch you this time.”

He watches your face when you look at him, searching for any sign you’re uncomfortable. When you’re not—when you smile, just a little—his chest loosens like he’s been holding his breath all semester.

“There’s this café down the block,” he adds, suddenly very invested in sounding normal. “Not loud. No frat idiots. I think you’d like it.”

A beat. Then, softer:

“No pressure, though. I just… wanted to walk with you.”

And for the first time maybe ever, Ryomen Sukuna hopes—actually hopes—that you say yes.