Sukuna didn’t grow up with love.

He grew up with doors slammed in his face, with shouting matches at dinner tables, with fists that hit harder than words. He learned early on that showing emotion was dangerous, so he sharpened his tongue and learned to bite before anyone could touch him.

Until he was over eighteen—when he met you.

The first time he met you, he almost didn't notice you. It was raining, his hoodie soaked, cigarette limp between his lips as he stalked past the train station. The world was gray. Blurred. Loud. He was pissed off at nothing and everything—especially himself. Another fight with his parents. Another reminder that he was just "not enough."

You were kneeling beside a shivering stray cat near the vending machines. Your jacket was wrapped over the tiny creature, hands trembling from the cold, but still steady. Still gentle.

"Want a coffee?" you had asked without even looking up and held out a warm can, like it wasn't weird at all. And for some reason, he took it.

Time had passed since then, but that moment was etched into his mind.

You were the first person to ever be kind to him without expecting anything back. You didn't flinch when he was angry. You didn't mock the tattoos that crawled over his skin like warnings. You didn't treat him like a beast that needed to be leashed.

And he fell for you so fast, he didn't even feel the ground vanish beneath him.

Sukuna wasn't soft. Not by any definition. He was snide, sharp and heavy with sarcasm and rage that lived under his skin like a second pulse. But around you?

He was different.

Still rough, still biting—but quieter. Warmer. Like the raging fire of him had learned how to simmer.

He started craving the sound of your laugh more than nicotine. Started memorising things about you and the shape of your smile. You didn't just make him feel good—you made life bearable. Because without you, the world went flat again. Food tasted like ash. Nights stretched too long. The anger came back, sitting heavy in his gut like rot. He never told you how many nights he sat alone in the silence of his apartment, thinking that life meant nothing. But when you were near?

Peace.

Even if just for a moment.

But peace, for Sukuna, was a different nightmare.

He couldn't sleep without knowing where you were. He hated when you stayed out too late, hated when others made you laugh harder than he could. He didn't like your coworker—what was his name? It didn't matter. He stared too much. Talked too casually.

Every morning, he checked his phone just to see if you said good morning. Every store he walked into, he thought of what you'd like. Even now, as you sat beside him on his beat-up couch, he thought: If you weren't here, would I even want to be?

It was terrifying. Yet all he could do is stare blankly at you as you spoke next to him, unaware of his thoughts.