I'll wait for you
F1 Driver Soft! Ex-Ryomen Sukuna x F!Reader (Satoru's sister)
+ Brojo being the absolute best brother around.
Summary: You got stood up at a local fair by a man from Hinge, then got trapped beside your ex, and remembered that Ryomen Sukuna could drive a Ferrari for a living but still get scared by carnival rides. Then you relearn that Sukuna still knew your usual order, your cat hates him on sight, and your brother had once told you to stop throwing your life away for him. (Ft. Gojo Satoru, Catoru, Takako Uro & mentioned Geto Suguru Slander).
Or, Satoru got sick a few years ago, & you haven't been the same since. Will the F1 driver be able to get you back?
Based on this poll. WC: 6.5K.
Warnings: Contains fic spoilers, crack treated seriously, fluff, exes to lovers, hurt/comfort, mentions of illness (metastatic uveal melanoma (ocular cancer with secondary poliosis)), brief panic attack/sensory overwhelm in public, but don't worry, Sukuna’s there, nothing graphic & good ending.
A/N: I have never cried this much while writing a fic (at Satoru's parts.) Playlist
You arrived at the fair in an outfit that made men stupider, which meant Suguru from Hinge had chosen a historic day to become legally dead to you.
The skirt and the boots were new. The lipstick was so expensive that it made you eat fries with caution and drink water through a straw held at an angle. You had spent twenty minutes deciding between earrings, then another ten pretending that decision said anything meaningful about you on a first date.
Suguru had sent you a voice note that morning.
Can’t wait to finally see you.
He had a calm voice and a nice laugh. One month and a half of decent conversation, book recommendations, a very confident opinion about soup dumplings, and enough green flags that you had lowered your guard by four percent to show up here without thinking of ending up on Dateline.
You checked your phone again.
7:16 PM.
The meeting time had been 6:30.
You called once more, and it went straight to ringing, then voicemail.
You opened your chat with Uro.
You: i hope all his hair falls out.
Uro: Did he arrive?
You: if he did he is doing a stealth mission.
Uro: Men from dating apps need ankle monitors.
You: i wore the boots.
Uro: The black ones?
You: yes.
Uro: Jail.
you: he hasn’t picked up once.
Uro: Jail with soap drops.
You stood near a booth where a man in a foam hot-dog hat shouted about ring toss prizes. A toddler screamed at a plush duck. Couples passed with paper trays of fries and stupidly linked hands. Then you got startled by a generator coughing behind the cotton candy stand.
Your phone buzzed again.
Uro: I have to pick up my niece from my sister’s. She tried to feed a Lego to the dog.
you: that’s advanced.
Uro: I’d have brought her, but she's three, so fairs are still beyond her. Go enjoy the place. You already paid for parking and the outfit.
you: I got stood up.
Uro: But your boots are innocent, babes. Just eat overpriced food, and have fun. God knows you need it.
You looked down at your boots.
They really were.
you: fine. if i die on a carnival ride-
Uro: I’ll sue the park.
You put your phone away and bought cotton candy from a teenager. Pink sugar melted against your tongue. It was too sweet, coating your teeth, but the outrageousness helped.
The fair had a local committee feel—half the lights flickered, the prizes looked as if they had been won in divorce court, a banner near the main stage promised LIVE MUSIC AT 8 but the band currently tuning looked prepubescent.
You wandered because you were good at taking yourself out. That skill had come from practice. Movies, cafes, bookstores, and whole birthdays turned into errands because if you waited for people to show up on time, you spent half your life facing an empty chair.
So you did the stalls.
You threw darts at balloons and missed every single one, which the booth guy treated as a genuine tragedy.
You watched a little boy win a plastic sword bigger than his arm and immediately whack his father in the shin.
You texted Uro a photo of a plush frog with one eye sewn higher than the other.
you: this is suguru.
Uro: Too handsome.
you: true. suguru had better hair.
Uro: Frog has better commitment.
You laughed and got powdered sugar on your lips.
By the time you reached the rides, the sun had dropped behind the school building beside the fairground. The Tilt-A-Whirl sat near the back, painted red and yellow, its bulbs blinking in frantic loops. The cars spun in drunken circles while a group of teenagers shrieked.
Your stomach did a happy little flip with them.
You loved rides that ruined balance—Ferris wheels were pretty, carousels felt decorative, and the Tilt-A-Whirl was nonsense with bolts. It made your insides lift and swoop, and for three minutes your head cleared out.
You bought a ticket and climbed into an empty two-person car with your cotton candy tucked against your side. You hoped the operator would forget about you or place a woman beside you.
You continued to eat through your leftover cotton candy while looking at what other rides you could go on after this one.
The car dipped as someone sat right next to you.
You half turned.
Tattoos.
Black Line Tattoos.
Your hand clenched around the paper cone.
He was looking away, one elbow braced on the edge of the car, his phone in his hand. His hair was shorter than when you had last seen him. He wore a black jacket over a plain t-shirt, and the side of his neck still had that faint tan line from racing gear. He looked rich in the way drivers did after sponsors got involved—expensive, mildly sleep-deprived, capable of getting photographed beside a model and smirking through the headline.
You looked away so fast your neck nearly clicked.
Fine. Fine. He hadn’t seen you.
Maybe.
The fair was crowded. The ride was loud. The universe had placed him next to you as a practical joke, but you had survived worse jokes.
You reached for the lap bar to lift it.
It locked.
The operator gave the car a bored shove.
The ride started.
Your soul left your outfit.
Sukuna still hadn’t turned. He was watching someone by the fence. You followed his line of sight without moving your head much and caught sight of Yuji waving both arms while Choso held a paper plate piled with funnel cake. Some younger cousin or family friend bounced beside them with a flashing wand—so they were out on family night.
Aww cute.
No.
Horrible.
Your exit routes had been sealed by machinery and his entire goddamn bloodline.
The first spin was mild—your car rolled around the platform, gaining momentum. Wind pulled at your hair, and the cotton candy trembled in your grip.
Sukuna’s knee hit the side.
You tried to look at him from the corner of your eye without turning fully toward him.
His jaw had tightened.
Oh.
You remembered now.
He could take corners at speeds that made sports commentators develop religion. He could slide a car through rain, through smoke, through the hideous math of another driver trying to cut him off.
Yet put him on a county fair ride operated by a boy named Mason with an energy drink, and Ryomen Sukuna became a trapped alien.
The car swung harder.
His hand landed on the seat between you, palm pressed flat.
You turned your face away and bit the inside of your cheek.
Another spin, faster. The platform tilted. Your stomach tingled in the way you loved, a bright swoop that rushed up your ribs. You almost laughed.
Sukuna made a sound that could have been a cough—if coughs carried primal fear.
You stared at the painted horse on the booth across the ride and, without looking at him, placed your hand over his.
He seemed too busy fighting for his life to notice.
But the car spun again, and his hand gripped yours on instinct, hard enough to make your rings press into your skin. He still didn’t turn. Maybe he thought you were a stranger. Maybe he was far gone in battle with the Tilt-A-Whirl deity. Maybe he had recognized you from the first second and decided mutual delusion was better than conversation.
You kept your face angled away.
The ride grew faster and meaner, so your laughter broke out, helpless and breathy. Sukuna’s shoulder bumped yours, his body almost lurching forward.
When the ride slowed, you pulled your hand back before he could catch it properly. The lap bar lifted, and you stood while everyone around you stumbled out.
Sukuna finally turned.
His eyes caught on your waist, right where his hand used to land before dawn when his alarm went off and he reached across the bed half-asleep, finding you before he found his phone.
Recognition moved through his face with vulgar speed.
You were already moving through the crowd.
You didn’t run because that would imply guilt. You were simply a dignified woman fleeing a carnival ride because your ex had discovered your waist by sight.
He called out your name, but it was so loud he couldn't hear his own voice.
A child with a glow stick cut across your path. You dodged. Someone spilled lemonade near the duck pond game. You stepped around it. Your heart was making a ridiculous amount of effort for a body that had only eaten sugar.
You almost reached the row of food trucks when a hand closed around your arm.
You turned.
Sukuna let go at once.
For a second he looked exactly as stupid as you remembered him.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I thought that was you.”
You stared at him.
His mouth opened, then closed. His eyes flicked over your face, the boots, and the cone of cotton candy crushed in your hand.
“You changed your hair,” he said.
“You still scared of rides at a carnival.” Adreline made you blurt it out before you could stop yourself.
His face loosened, his crimson eyes relaxed into his features, and it reminded you too much of the day you’d last seen him.
You cleared your throat. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
“How have you been?”
“Driving in circles for money.”
“Healthy career path.”
“You?”
You nodded toward the fair in general. “Being abandoned beside a corn dog booth. Thriving.”
His brow moved. “Abandoned?”
Your phone buzzed in your bag. Probably Uro asking if she could pay an Etsy witch to get Suguru stalked by goats.
“Long story.”
Sukuna studied you, then glanced toward the ride. “You stayed on.”
“I was trapped.”
“You held my hand.”
“You were dying.”
“I was assessing structural failure.”
“Mason looked very qualified.”
“The operator?”
“He had a whistle.”
Sukuna’s mouth twitched. “Powerful credential.”
You hated how fast your face warmed. You hated the stupid, familiar muscle memory. You hated that the air between you could still find the old groove with one push.
“I saw your last race,” you said, because your mouth had chosen arson.
Genuine surprise crossed his face. “You watch them?”
You scrunched your nose mildly, accidentally. The way you did when you’d been caught.
Sukuna stared at that tiny movement. He’d never told you about that one tell.
His expression did a weird thing—softened at the edges, then caught itself.
You swallowed. “Some highlights came on. At a gay bar with friends.”
His brows rose. “I have gay bar fans?”
“You have fans with betting habits everywhere.”
“Which bar?”
You refused to explain that you had begged the bartender to put the race on while you sat alone PMSing, a gin and tonic beside your hand, pretending you wanted sports because sports had become a pathetic substitute for his absence. You had watched his car move through the screen while drunk men argued behind you about karaoke. You had missed him so badly you had ordered fries you didn’t want just to stay until the podium interview.
“Some place downtown,” you said. “The bartender said you were probably annoying.”
He leaned a little closer. “You care about other people’s opinions of me?”
“I was doing community outreach.”
“So you follow me.”
“You have gotten hard to miss.”
He smiled then, infuriatingly flustered beneath the smirk. “Are you seeing someone?”
Your grip tightened on the cotton candy cone again.
You could have said you had been stood up by a man whose most impressive quality was voice-note confidence. You could have said everyone after Sukuna had felt as if they never really saw you. You could have said you had wanted him to be there so many times that no one would ever compare.
Instead, you said, “How’s the model?”
“The model?”
“The one from the news about the rooftop dinner. Tall one.”
He huffed. “You follow me pretty closely for somebody asking casual questions.”
It should have made you laugh.
That was the script. He teased, you deflected, he leaned closer, you rolled your eyes and pretended your heartbeat didn’t sing for him.
Instead, something inside you slipped.
Satoru would have loved this. He would have demanded screenshots, then called Sukuna a pink-haired lizard, then told you to stop acting as if a breakup suddenly made you mature.
Your smile thinned before you could poker-face it.
Sukuna saw.
He stopped teasing so fast it hurt more than anything.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
He looked at your face as if he could pull the answer out, then seemed to think better of it. His hand flexed at his side.
“I fly back the day after tomorrow,” he said, instead. “Before that, can we get coffee tomorrow night?”
You watched a father lift his daughter onto his shoulders near the balloon stall. The little girl had blue face paint smeared across one cheek.
You said zilch.
Sukuna’s mouth thinned. “I need an answer. I can’t call you.” He paused. “Same number?”
You had blocked him so thoroughly your phone treated his existence as malware.
“Same number,” you mumbled.
“I’ll pick you up.”
“I can drive.”
He ignored you. “You live at the same place?”
“Next to the old one.”
“Six then.”
“I didn’t agree.”
“I did for both of us.”
You should have hated that.
But your lips twitched before you could stop them.
He saw that and looked pathetically relieved for a man paid to risk death.
At home, you called Uro from the couch.
She answered with, “Tell me Suguru got shingles.”
“I saw Sukuna.”
There was some scrambling on the other side.
“Ryomen Sukuna?”
“How many Sukuna exes do you think I have?”
“With your taste? I fear categories.”
You told her everything—the Tilt-A-Whirl, the hand, the gay bar lie, the coffee.
Uro went silent.
Then she sighed. “You should go.”
You sat up. “Why?”
“Sukuna didn’t cause this.”
You looked toward the TV, where a cooking show contestant was crying over burned fish.
Uro lowered her voice. “You ended it because of Satoru.”
Your throat tightened.
“You told Sukuna he was boring,” she continued. “Which was insane, by the way. That man has a lethal jawline and a deadly career.”
“He did become boring.”
"No, honey, you panicked because your brother relapsed, and the illness came back worse, and Sukuna was training for the season that could make his career. You thought he’d throw everything away and come sit in oncology waiting rooms.”
You pressed your thumb under your ring, twisting it.
Uro added, “You also kept telling everyone you were fine, which was your least convincing era.”
“I couldn’t make him choose.”
“You chose for him.”
You closed your eyes.
“Go for coffee,” she said, smiling. “You can still leave if he’s gotten stupid. I’ll key his car.”
That made you laugh, but it hurt coming out.
After the call, you fell asleep with your boots still beside the couch.
Satoru woke you by poking your ankle over the blanket. “Breakfast.”
You opened your eyes in the old house, in his room, on the giant bed you had practically moved into during the bad months. The emergency bell sat on the nightstand beside many bottles of prescription eye drops, a strip of tablets, and the ugly plastic water bottle he hated because it made him “feel eighty in a hospital commercial.”
He stood at the doorway in sweatpants and a sweatshirt, hair white around his face and paler at the lashes. Before the cancer, he had black hair and caramel eyes. He used to say the universe stole his color and made him ethereal.
You sat up too fast. “Why are you moving around?”
He waved a hand. “I made pancakes, nurse warden.”
“You’re meant to rest.”
“I am resting.”
“Satoru.”
“I feel better, let me have this.” His smile spread, bright and crooked, a little thinner than it used to be. “Breakfast for my baby sister.”
You followed him to the kitchen because arguing with him had once been a full-time job and you missed him having the energy for it.
His pancakes were your favorite—he'd made them with extra fruit and too much syrup, even warmed the plate.
You took a bite.
The taste was wrong.
It was floury, flat, and a little bitter.
Satoru’s smile faltered. “Meds messed with my taste buds again, huh?”
“It’s good.”
“Liar. Give me the plate. I’ll remake it.”
You pulled the plate closer. “It’s perfect.”
“Add more syrup.”
He sank into the chair across from you, breathing a little heavier than he wanted you to hear.
“Will Kento or Shoko come by today?” you asked.
“Don’t feel like socializing.” He sighed, stretching his shoulders with a wince he couldn't hide well. “I was thinking we watch a movie.”
You fully looked up.
He shrugged. “Unless you have better plans. Like maybe calling your bubblegum-haired ego a problem."
“Sukuna has a name.”
“Sukuna has anger issues.”
You laughed.
Satoru leaned back, pleased. “Call him back.”
“I broke up with him.”
“Why?”
“He should focus on his career.”
“If he’s going to be worth anything, he should learn to multitask." He speared a piece of fruit from your plate. “If he has a girl, she’s high maintenance. He’ll have training.”
“You barely know him.”
“I know he looks at you as if you’re a pit stop he wants to marry.”
You choked on syrup.
Satoru waited until you stopped coughing. He passed you water, then kept his hand around the glass for a second, as if he knew you might use it to hide your face.
“I’m serious,” he said.
You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand. “That’s new.”
“Don’t get cute. That’s my job.”
“You’re bad at it.”
“I’m excellent at everything. Keep up.” His smile faded before it could become a joke. “You shouldn’t have broken up with him because of me.”
You looked down at your plate. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to. You make every decision like every part of your life has to consider me first.”
“That’s not—"
“It’s true.”
You pressed your fork into the pancake. “You’re sick, Satoru. You need me.”
“I know that.” His voice stayed steady, but his fingers tightened around his mug. “I need my sister. I don’t need you to turn into a nurse with no life after me.”
Your throat burned. “That’s a horrible thing to say.”
“It’s a horrible thing to watch.”
You looked at him then.
He held your eyes, tired and pale and still your brother under all of it. The same brother who had signed your school forms when your parents forgot, who had shown up to parent-teacher meetings in his uniform because he had practice right after, who had made your lunch badly for a month before he learned how to pack fruit without smashing it. He had been loud about everything except the things that mattered most.
“You think I don’t see it?” he asked. “You don’t sleep unless I sleep. You don’t eat unless I complain first. You keep your phone face down because you’re scared he’ll call and you’ll want to answer. None of this is good for you.”
You swallowed.
“Sukuna makes you happy,” he said. “He also annoys you, which is good. You get unbearable when nobody argues with you.”
A weak laugh left you, then quickly turned into tears you blinked away.
“I’m scared too.” Satoru leaned back, breathing through the small cost of sitting upright for more than his body was able to bear right now. “I don’t want to say that because then you look at me like your whole chest got kicked in. But I’m scared. And I still don’t want your life to shrink down to this house.”
“Satoru—”
“No. Listen to me.” His voice cut through yours, low and clear. “Love me. Take care of me. Fight with doctors. Make ugly pancakes taste worse with extra syrup. Fine. But don’t throw away someone you love because you think suffering alone is what you deserve.”
You wiped away the tears that came treacherously anyway.
“I raised you better than that,” he said, softer now.
You tried to smile anyway. “You raised me to be dramatic and suspicious.”
“I raised you to have standards, and somehow you picked a race car demon, but I’m choosing peace.”
“He’s not a demon."
“He has face tattoos.”
You laughed again, a little bit bigger this time.
Satoru opened his arm to let you tuck in. “Promise me you’ll call him. If he’s useless, I’ll hate him with you. If he shows up, let him.”
“You make that sound easy.”
“It won’t be.” His hand rubbed against your temple, careful and warm. “Do it anyway.”
He grinned, and for a second he looked sixteen again—school jacket half-zipped, practice bag slung over one shoulder, his mock-test rank posted near the top of the board. Boys copied his notes despite hating him. Girls found reasons to borrow erasers. Teachers used his name in warnings and compliments in the same breath. He played whichever sport had a vacancy that week, won enough to make coaches greedy, then came home with convenience-store candy for you because you had texted him a sad face during math.
You spent the afternoon watching a dumb action movie. It had three explosions in the first twenty minutes and a villain with an accent from nowhere. Satoru kept making comments under his breath, weaker than his usual running commentary but smug enough.
Halfway through, his head tipped against the back of the couch, heavy medication dragging him under.
“You’re missing the part where the car jumps through a hospital.”
“Mmph.” He made a lazy sound, eyes closed.
You let him sleep.
The medicine did that to him lately—took his words first, then made his limbs sluggish, then the rest of him slower to react. You checked the time on your phone, compared it with the notebook on the table, and saw his next dose still had some time. Fine. He could sleep. You could give him that.
The movie kept playing—someone on-screen was shouting about a bomb as Satoru breathed beside you, shallow but steady, so your body allowed itself to unwind.
You must have drifted off too, because when you opened your eyes again, the room had shifted into evening. The TV had gone to the streaming menu, and the house had that late-day smell, dust, syrup, old coffee in the mug by his elbow.
Your neck hurt from the couch angle.
You yawned and nudged his knee with your foot. “Toru. Go to bed.”
He stayed slumped against the cushion.
You rubbed your eyes and sat up properly. “Seriously. Your back’s going to hurt more if you sleep here.”
His hand rested palm-up on the couch between you—long fingers, pale knuckles, and a small bruise near the wrist from the last blood draw. You nudged his palm.
“Medication time soon,” you added. “Come on. I’ll help you walk.”
He stayed still.
A small irritation rose in your chest, familiar and domestic. The type of annoyed you got when he acted dramatic during eye drops or complained about water tasting “aggressively round.”
“Satoru.”
You leaned closer and shook his shoulder.
His body moved with the shake, then settled.
Your irritation thinned.
“Toru?”
You touched his cheek.
It was warm but too still under your palm. His lashes were pale against his skin, white from the treatment and the strange pigment loss.
“Hey.” Your voice came out softer. “Wake up. You have to take the evening meds.”
The notebook lay open on the coffee table—pills and drops listed by time. The little boxes you had drawn and checked and checked again.
You reached for his wrist.
His pulse was hard to find.
Your own pulse got in the way, slamming through your fingertips.
“Satoru, stop it.”
You pressed harder at his wrist, then shifted to his throat the way the nurse had taught you during one of the discharge briefings.
“Wake up,” you said, even louder. “Go to your bed. You’re too tall for the couch, and I’m sick of hearing you complain about your spine.”
His head stayed angled toward the TV.
You grabbed his shoulder with both hands.
“Satoru!”
The name came out in a cracked scream.
You shook him again, rougher than you had touched him in months.
“Stop. This isn’t funny. Toru, get up.”
You bent close to his mouth.
For one awful second you thought you felt breath, then realized it was yours hitting his skin and coming back.
“No,” you said, and the word came out small, stupid, and useless.
You pressed your ear to his chest.
You waited.
You moved your ear, searching.
You held your own breath so you could hear his.
Nothing came.
Your hands began to shake so hard his shirt wrinkled under your fists.
“Toru,” you whispered.
Then you screamed for him.
The dream broke there, same as it did every time.
You woke on the couch in your apartment, gasping, sweat cooling under the collar of your shirt. The TV had gone to sleep, your phone had slipped between cushions and outside, daylight had already moved across the room and started fading again.
You had slept through most of the day.
Coffee was in an hour.
You got ready in simpler clothes because the idea of another date outfit made you feel stupid. New jeans, clean socks and the oversized white cashmere sweater Satoru had bought you years ago, back when he had health, black hair, caramel eyes, and a talent for buying gifts that made you cry in private.
Downstairs, Sukuna waited beside a car you couldn’t place. New or rental.
He straightened when he saw you.
Then he opened the passenger door and held out flowers.
You stared at them.
They were real flowers—pink and white, wrapped in brown paper, tied with twine.
“For you,” he said when you kept staring at them.
“I gathered.”
“You going to take them?”
“I’m thinking.”
He waited.
You took them.
He looked away, and the edge of his mouth moved, almost smug.
You wanted to beat the smugness off with the said flowers, but instead you got in.
The car ride carried all the comfort of small talk. He asked about traffic near your building. You asked about his flight schedule. He mentioned a sponsor event. You said the fair food was probably giving him diarrhea. Sukuna laughed.
The cafe was small, upscale, and filled with people who seemed able to drink espresso after sunset without ruining their nervous systems.
Sukuna held the door. You hated that too.
At the counter he asked, “Usual?”
You nodded.
He ordered it correctly.
You took a table near the wall.
“So,” he said once he sat, “what are you doing these days?”
“Work sabbatical. Finishing my degree.”
His eyes stayed on you. “That good?”
"Please, I don’t need judgment from a man who believed cigarettes were breakfast.”
His mouth twitched. “I matured.”
“You bought a sports car.”
“It was assigned.”
“What? Corporate custody?”
“Something along those lines.”
The server arrived with drinks plus a small pizza cut into uneven squares. Your usual.
You stared at the tray for a second too long.
He sipped his coffee. “How’s Satoru?”
Your body became hyperaware of your reality.
The hiss of the steamer grew enormous. A chair scraped behind you. Someone laughed near the window, high and sudden. The chili oil on the pizza smelled acidic. The sweater collar touched your throat.
“He died.”
Sukuna froze, frowning. “What?”
“It’ll be a year soon.”
His hand hovered near the table, then lowered. “How?”
You folded your napkin, then unfolded it. “Peaceful, according to the doctors.”
His jaw worked. “Are you living alone?”
“Yes.”
“Family?”
You almost smiled. “Satoru was the family.”
The words hurt to speak aloud.
Sukuna knew you had family, but having and being reciprocative with affection and meeting a child's needs were two different things. They didn’t like you or satoru much.
“Have you…” Sukuna looked at you for a long moment. "Cried since?”
Your hands felt cold. “What?”
“Since he passed.”
You pushed back from the table—the legs screeched. The cafe turned its head toward you in a hundred tiny ways. Every cup, every voice, every light on the wall became a separate grating sound.
Sukuna rose with you, fast enough to catch your wrist before you could knock something over.
You flinched, and he released you.
Then he stepped close enough that his voice could reach your ear and no one else. “Breathe. You can skip the answer. I pushed.”
You shook your head.
“Breathe,” he said again. “Look at me or the door. Pick one.”
You looked at the door because you didn't have the capacity to look at him right now—his crimson eyes were too expressive at the worst of the times.
"Please…" You took a deep breath in. “I want to go home.”
“Okay.”
The drive back was short.
He made zero attempts at conversation, keeping both hands on the wheel, eyes on the road. At your building, he parked and walked around to open your door.
“I can get upstairs.”
“I know.”
He followed anyway, carrying the pizza and flowers, as if the evening had become a delivery service with unresolved romantic history.
Inside your apartment, Toru stood in the hallway—white fur and blue eyes. A body shaped by luxury and criminal entitlement.
The cat looked at Sukuna, then at you, then back at Sukuna.
Sukuna stared.
You mildly introduced them, “That’s Toru.”
Toru blinked slowly, withholding citizenship.
Sukuna took off his shoes. “Does he bite?”
“He does and also loudly meowdals every old man complains he has.”
“Fair.”
You went to the couch because your bones had become heavy. Sukuna went into the kitchen without asking, which should have annoyed you, except you were less overwhelmed now. He filled the kettle. Opened cabinets and found the pan.
Toru followed him and sat near the fridge, supervising with contempt.
“You eat?” Sukuna asked the cat.
Toru’s tail moved softly.
“Useful answer.” He paused, then asked. “She eat?”
You pulled a pillow over your face, quite far away to hear any of this.
Sukuna continued, fully serious. “Blink once for very little. Twice, if she survives on coffee.”
Toru blinked once.
“He seems credible," Sukuna called out to you.
“He licks plastic bags.” You yelled back.
Sukuna smirked towards Toru and tapped his nose, making the cat paw at its own nose. “It’s okay. Witnesses are allowed to have flaws.”
The cat squared up and hissed, which meant he was flawless.
From the couch, you heard the scrape of a knife, the tap of the cutting board, and the click of the stove. He made coffee first. Then stir-fry, simple and fast, with vegetables cut the way you used to cut them and sauce mixed from memory.
Your recipe.
Stolen.
Also, the only thing he’d eat after a long day.
You hadn’t realized you had fallen asleep until Sukuna stood over you with a bowl in one hand and the remote in the other. You woke up with the smell of garlic and soy.
“Sit up.”
You sat up because your body, treacherous thing, wanted the food.
He sat beside you with his own bowl and put on a terrible movie. Some action sequel where cars exploded for reasons that offended even him. Toru jumped onto the armchair and watched Sukuna as if waiting for a confession.
The first bite loosened your chest. Warm rice, vegetables, and sauce with slightly too much garlic because he remembered you liked it that way.
“You still cook it wrong.”
He glanced over. “You’re eating fast for a critic.”
“You stole my recipe.”
“I improved it.”
“You put too much ginger.”
“You need flavor.”
“You need to be humbled.”
“Tried it. Bad fit.”
A huff of a laugh escaped you.
Sukuna looked at your face, then back to the TV.
You ate half the bowl before speaking again. “Satoru wanted a cat.”
Sukuna kept his eyes on the screen. His body shifted into less performative ease and more attention.
“Our parents would never let us have one,” you continued. “Which made sense in the practical way. Then it made less sense because they weren’t indulgent with anything, so it became this larger question of why they had children at all.”
Toru groomed one paw, deeply unmoved by human origin stories.
“Satoru used to send me photos of cats. He said once he got better after treatment, he’d buy a bigger house and fill it with cats who were babied and spoiled.”
Sukuna set his bowl down.
“During the last months, his hair went whiter. Lashes too. The doctors explained it, saying it was pigment cells, immune response, and treatment side effects. His eyes were the first problem. He couldn’t see well, but we could work around that while the meds still worked. There were tools, routines, labels on bottles, brighter lamps, audiobooks when reading hurt too much. Then—”
You swallowed, eyes distant, because if you’d stopped now, it’d stay stuck in there forever and eat you worse. “Then the liver got worse. He had these drops, and scans, and appointments where everyone used gentle voices at us. He made jokes about turning into a designer ghost.”
Sukuna made a small sound, almost a laugh, because Satoru had deserved that much.
The crying began softly—a few tears you could have blamed on the movie.
“I kept thinking if I managed the appointments and the meds and the food and the calls, it would make a difference. If I stayed in his room and stayed awake, I’d catch everything. If I heard every breath, if I woke up fast enough...” Your spoon rested against the bowl.
“It didn’t matter.”
Sukuna said your name.
Your face hit his chest, and the sound that came out of you was ugly and torn loose. Years of holding yourself upright broke down into his shirt. He moved your bowl away with one hand and pulled you in properly.
You cried until your nose ran, until Toru abandoned the armchair and jumped onto the couch, until Sukuna’s shirt was damp and his hand had settled at the back of your head, warm and familiar in a way your body accepted before you realized.
“I told you that you were boring,” you choked out because he deserved that. “I was lying.”
“I know.”
“I thought you’d ruin everything.”
“You should’ve let me choose.”
“I’m sorry.”
His mouth pressed to your hair. “I know.”
His eyes burned once before he blinked hard and looked away. The wins had come with the money, the cameras, and the noise.
But none of it fixed the part of him that still looked for you after every flight, every podium, every room full of people talking too much.
Every success felt a little thinner because every hotel room still ended with him reaching for a phone he couldn’t use to call the only woman he’d ever cared about.
Back then he’d known you were lying, he just hadn’t known how to make you come home.
You cried harder because you probably hadn't since your brother left.
At some point the movie ended and the streaming app tried to play another. Toru fell asleep against your thigh. Sukuna kept holding you until your body gave out.
You woke once when he picked you up, mumbled something unintelligible, and fell asleep again.
He carried you to your bedroom.
You hadn’t slept there in weeks. The bed looked almost staged.
Sukuna set you down and left only long enough to bring water, your phone, and Toru, who protested being handled until Sukuna told him, “Your landlord requires supervision.”
Toru bit his arm.
Sukuna winced and let the cat curl up to you.
Sukuna got into bed beside you fully clothed. He didn’t crowd you at first. He lay on his back, one arm open.
You moved into it.
The sweater smelled faintly of your perfume and old cashmere. Sukuna smelled of coffee and the same cologne he used to wear when he had early flights and kissed you in doorways while pretending he had plenty of time.
You slept deeply.
Morning arrived without the usual panic of dreams.
For a few seconds, you knew that before you knew anything else. Your body had rested properly because your jaw didn’t ache and your hands weren’t curled into fists under the blanket.
Then you reached beside you.
The pillow held a dent, but Toru had claimed Sukuna’s side of the bed and looked pleased.
Your chest tightened, then eased in a tired, resigned way.
Of course. He had a flight. He had said so.
Maybe last night had been a mercy visit from an ex.
That was fine.
It had helped.
You could survive that much.
You got up to feed Toru.
A note was stuck to his bowl in Sukuna’s handwriting.
I’ll be back next month. Unblock me.
You stared at it.
Toru headbutted your ankle because romance meant little compared to tuna.
You fed him first.
Then you unblocked Sukuna.
A text came through almost at once with a photo.
You were asleep on his chest the night before, your cheek squashed against his shirt, Toru sitting on your hip as if guarding property. Your hair was everywhere and your mouth was slightly open. Sukuna’s jaw was only partly visible, but his hand rested over your back, his thumb blurred mid-stroke.
Below it came a calendar invite, already adjusted to your time zone.
1:30 PM Video Call.
Don’t dodge me.
You clicked on the calendar and saw that he'd squeezed it in after his team debrief. It was surreal to see that your ex had a Ferrari schedule, a flight, and a body people paid millions to keep functional, and still he had blocked out time to annoy you himself.
You accepted it.
Then you went into the kitchen and saw the flowers resting in a mug of water on top of the fridge.
And inside, cold brew waited in a glass bottle, labeled with tape.
Eat something first.
Beside it sat the remaining pizza, wrapped properly, and a container of leftover stir-fry.
You took out the bottle of cold brew, took a photo of it, and sent it.
You: i’m sorry, and i’ll wait for you.
The typing bubbles appeared so fast you almost dropped the phone.
A picture arrived.
Toru sat on the kitchen counter near the same coffee bottle in the gray morning light, tail curled around his paws, blue eyes aimed at Sukuna behind the camera. Beneath it, Sukuna had written:
Your brother might approve.
A/N: I hope you loved this piece as much as I did writing it even if the keyboard was blurry through most of it. I wanted to write only crack and fluff in this; however, Satoru stole my keyboard midway. So hopefully the next story I post isn't going to be as hurt/comforting.
Want to read the same pairings but with Gojo as the endgame?
Masterlist | Rabies | Chuki
Taglist: @maplewood-valley.
Header images are from anime & Pinterest; the Lana Del Rey lyrics divider is from @saradika-graphics (recolored with permission), and the remaining dividers are mine.
