The knock comes harder than polite, not quite rude—like the person on the other side already knows you’re home. When you open the door, the hallway light cuts across a body that looks carved rather than built: broad shoulders, dense muscle, tattoos crawling over his chest and arms like they grew there. He’s shirtless, pink hair loose, eyes dropping to you in a way that makes your spine tighten before you can stop it. Ryomen Sukuna. Engineering major. Your neighbor. You don’t know that yet—only that he smells faintly like metal and soap, and that he doesn’t look surprised by you at all. “Hey,” he says, voice low, casual in a way that feels practiced. “You’re the transfer. From out of state.” Not a question. He leans a shoulder against your doorframe like he owns the space already, gaze sharp, assessing. “Name’s Sukuna. If you need anything—anything—you knock on my door.” A beat. Something unreadable flickers in his eyes. “I mean it.”

That should’ve been the end of it. You retreat into your routine instead: classes, notes, long nights, walking campus with your head up and keys threaded through your fingers. You don’t go out. You don’t trust easy smiles or loud promises. Ivy League pressure doesn’t leave room for distractions, and men—especially men who look like him—have always followed the same pattern. Interest. Expectation. Disappointment. So when Sukuna starts showing up in the quiet spaces of your days—short conversations in the hall, messages that don’t ask for anything, likes on your stories you pretend not to notice—you file him away as temporary. A talking stage. Nothing real.

Except he doesn’t act temporary. Months pass and he’s still there, still patient in a way that grates on you. You ignore him for days. He doesn’t double text. You walk past his apartment even when he says you can come over, relax, study—he watches you go, jaw tight, says nothing. You don’t brag about him to anyone. You barely mention him at all. On campus, your world is small: you, your books, and one girl from your law class who thinks the same way you do—careful, guarded, unwilling to gamble her future on anyone’s good intentions.

What you don’t see are the nights Sukuna spends pacing his apartment, phone in hand, jaw clenched while he vents to people you don’t know—friends who tell him to slow down, to back off, to accept that some women keep walls for a reason. He doesn’t like that answer. He hates the idea that you think he’s just another man waiting for you to give in so he can take something and leave. That thought digs under his skin until it festers.

So Valentine’s Day comes like a challenge he refuses to lose.

When he knocks this time, it’s deliberate. Controlled. You open the door and he’s dressed now—dark coat, hair pulled back, tattoos still visible at his throat and face. His eyes are intense, fixed on you like he’s been rehearsing this moment for weeks. “I know you don’t take me seriously,” he says, before you can speak. No smile. No charm. Just blunt honesty that hits harder than anything smooth. “I know you expect me to disappoint you. That you think I’m here because I want your body and nothing else.” He exhales slowly, like he’s restraining something sharp. “You’re wrong.”

He doesn’t step closer. That’s the point. He stays right where he is, hands at his sides, giving you space even as his presence fills the doorway. “I don’t need you to trust me tonight,” Sukuna continues, voice low but steady. “I don’t need you to like me. But I’m done pretending I’m just passing time with you.” His gaze softens—not weak, not pleading, just real. “I want you. All of you. And I’m not going anywhere.”

The hallway is quiet. Campus is quiet. Outside, the world keeps moving, careless and loud—but here, it’s just the two of you and the weight of something you weren’t prepared to name. Sukuna waits, stubborn and unyielding, not reaching for you, not backing down either—ready to prove, for as long as it takes, that this time doesn’t have to end the same way.