Your hand curls around what should have been Sukuna's arm but instead flexes against air, eyes still closed, you pat around the bed feeling absolutely no one.
The other side of the bed is cold.
Not empty-cold, not abandoned-cold. Just cold enough to tell you he’s been gone for a while.
For a moment you consider rolling over and going back to sleep.
Then you glance at the monitor.
A small square of blue glow and a large shadow by the crib.
You push yourself out of bed.
The hardwood floor is cool beneath your feet.
Your body still aches in strange places. Recovery has been slower than you expected. Motherhood has been more beautiful and more terrifying than anyone managed to explain.
The nursery door is cracked open when you reach it.
You stop before stepping inside.
Sukuna is crouched beside the crib.
As though getting any closer might somehow disturb the tiny sleeping boy in front of him.
The nightlight paints the room with deep hazy blue little white stars speckling the ceiling.
Your son’s fists are curled near his face. His chest rises and falls in tiny, steady breaths.
And Sukuna is staring at him.
The kind you’ve almost never seen on him.
You don’t announce yourself right away, you just stay in the doorway watching with the kind of wonder people usually reserve for seeing an endangered species.
But the sight in front of you almost feels the same.
His forearms rest on his knees.
His head is slightly bowed.
For a long moment he says nothing.
Like he hasn’t spoken in hours.
The baby sighs in his sleep.
Sukuna’s gaze follows every movement.
As if he’s making sure he’s still there.
Something twists in your chest.
The word leaves before you mean to speak.
Not because he’s startled.
Because he’s been caught.
For a second he doesn’t look at you.
The floor creaks beneath your feet.
You glance toward the crib.
The same sharp brows though faint.
The same shape to his mouth.
You know exactly what Sukuna sees when he looks at him.
You watch his jaw tighten.
Watch him stare at the sleeping child.
Watch a man who has never been afraid of much suddenly look terrified of something he can’t fight.
“What if he gets the worst of me?”
The question hangs there heavy and wrong.
“I know what I was like.”
His eyes never leave the crib.
You hate hearing him talk like that.
Because you know exactly how long he’s carried it.
The list of things he regrets.
The parts of himself he’s spent years trying to outrun.
“What if he’s angry like me?”
His voice is barely above a whisper now.
“What if I teach him something wrong without realizing it?”
“What if one day he looks at someone the way I used to look at people?”
“What if he becomes the kind of man I wouldn’t have wanted around you?”
For a moment neither of you speak like maybe he’s out of what if’s.
The nursery hums softly around you.
The monitor light blinks.
Outside, the world keeps moving slowly starting to wake up.
But inside, everything narrows to the space between your husband and your sleeping son.
Close enough to smell the soap on his skin.
Then you squat down with him and rest your chin on his shoulder.
Not because he doesn’t expect affection.
Because he doesn’t expect comfort.
Not when he’s talking about things he’d rather hide.
You look into the crib with him.
At the tiny human who has no idea how fiercely he’s already loved.
Sukuna doesn’t answer, but you feel him listening in the way his body slows his harsh breaths.
“No, he’s probably going to get the worst parts of both of us.”
That earns the smallest snort.
“He’s going to inherit my stubbornness,”
“My tendency to make terrible decisions,”
“Your inability to ask for help.”
His shoulder shifts slightly beneath your chin.
“And our combined talent for being difficult.”
That one almost makes him smile.
The tension in the room eases by a fraction.
You slide your hand over his shoulder.
Lace your fingers together across his chest.
“But he’s also going to get the best parts.”
“I don’t know if there are any.”
You keep talking before he can argue.
“He’s going to be brave.”
“He’s going to be loyal.”
“He’s going to love hard.”
And then, because it’s the thing Sukuna never sees when he looks at himself—
“He’s going to be protective.”
“He’ll get that from you.”
For a long moment he says nothing.
The baby shifts in his sleep.
Immediately Sukuna’s attention snaps back to him, instant, instinctive, protective over something as meaningless as a sound.
Watch the concern appear before he even realizes it.
And something inside you aches.
Toward the man crouched beside him.
“That’s what he’ll learn.”
Sukuna’s eyes stay fixed on the baby.
You rest your chin against the top of his head.
Then a whisper so quiet you almost miss it,
“I really don’t want to fail him.”
Because for all his fear.
For all the ghosts he keeps expecting to find in himself—
Bad fathers don’t sit awake in the middle of the night worrying about becoming bad fathers.
Bad fathers don’t crouch beside cribs.
Bad fathers don’t spend hours staring at their sleeping sons, terrified of passing on their mistakes.
You tighten your arms around him.
