Chapter Text
You weren’t planning to lie.
You really weren’t.
But the moment your brother’s name lit up your phone, cheerful and oblivious as always, something in you braced for impact. Weddings meant questions. Questions meant pity. Pity meant… well, last Thanksgiving, your Aunt squeezed your hands and asked whether you had “given up on love entirely.”
So when your brother asked, bright and excited, “You’re bringing someone, right?” you panicked.
“Yes,” you said, before your brain could intervene. “Actually… yeah. My boyfriend’s coming.”
There was a pause. A dangerous pause.
“You—what? Since when?”
“Uh—recently.”
“Do I know him?”
“No!”
“Name?”
You swallowed. “I’ll tell you later!”
He sounded thrilled. You hung up and immediately buried your face in your hands because you had done the one thing you swore you’d never do: created a fictional boyfriend three weeks before a family event where everyone knew everyone.
You needed someone convincing. Someone who could handle your family’s nosiness. Someone who wouldn’t mock you for this disaster.
Unfortunately, that someone did not exist.
Which is why fate thought it would be funny to put Sukuna in your path an hour later.
You went to the coffee shop because caffeine was your emotional support system. Because you needed something warm to soothe the humiliation burning in your chest. Because if you thought about the imaginary boyfriend situation any harder, you were going to open your window and swan dive dramatically into traffic.
You weren’t expecting anyone you knew to be there, much less the last person you wanted.
But the second you pushed open the door, the scent of roasted beans and vanilla hit you—along with the unmistakable sound of a deep, bored voice saying, “Yeah, oat milk, whatever. Just make it hot.”
Sukuna.
Of course.
He stood at the counter, black t-shirt stretched perfectly across his shoulders, jeans slung low on his hips, forearms inked with dark lines and symbols that disappeared under the hem of his sleeves. A leather apron hung loosely from one hand—he must’ve just gotten off shift at his studio, judging by the slight streak of black ink near his wrist. He looked too pretty for someone who spent his days etching art into other people’s skin.
You froze. He didn’t.
He turned slightly, sensing movement, eyes flicking lazily toward you—then sharpening with unmistakable amusement.
“Oh,” he said, lips curling. “Look who crawled out of their apartment.”
You closed your eyes for one second. One. God was not merciful.
“I didn’t crawl anywhere,” you muttered.
“You look crawled.”
“Thank you.”
He shrugged, accepting his drink with a half-interested grunt. Then he leaned against the counter, watching you like you were a sitcom he had already predicted the ending to.
You stepped up to order. The barista greeted you warmly.
You tried to sound normal. Sukuna was still staring.
Finally, you snapped, “What?”
He lifted a brow, sipping his drink with obnoxious calm. “You’re twitchy.”
“I’m not twitchy.”
“You’re very twitchy.”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t,” he said, smirk deepening. “If you did, you wouldn’t be sweating.”
“I’m not sweating.”
“You’re absolutely sweating,” he murmured.
And then—because the universe despised you—the barista asked, “The usual?”
Sukuna snorted. Loudly.
You scowled at him. “Go away.”
He pushed off the counter leisurely. “Can’t. You’re entertaining.”
Your drink came out fast, because the staff pitied you for having to exist near this man. You grabbed your cup, intending to flee into the nearest shadow, but Sukuna stepped directly into your path.
He didn’t touch you—but he stood close enough that you felt his presence like a hand on your waist.
“You going to tell me why you look like you just confessed a murder?” he asked softly.
“I didn’t confess anything.”
“But you did lie to someone,” he said, voice dipping, tone too knowing for your comfort. “Didn’t you?”
Your throat dried. “How would you know?”
He leaned down—just enough for you to smell the faint ink-and-spice scent clinging to him. The kind of warmth people hid in their pillowcases after sitting in his tattoo chair for hours.
He murmured, “Because you only look like that when you panic.”
You swallowed hard.
Which he noticed. Of course.
“Spit it out,” he said, stepping back just enough to look at you fully. “What’s the crisis?”
You inhaled sharply. “My brother thinks I’m bringing a boyfriend to his wedding.”
Sukuna blinked. Then blinked again. And then—very slowly—he grinned.
“Ah,” he said. “A lie.”
“It wasn’t a lie, it was—pressure.”
“Same thing.”
“I’m not explaining this to you.”
“You just did.”
You groaned into your coffee, wishing the floor would swallow you.
Sukuna watched you, arms crossing casually over his chest, veins and ink shifting with the movement. His head tilted, eyes running over your face—assessing, calculating, something flickering with interest.
And then he said, too calmly, “So you need a boyfriend.”
“No—”
“You do.”
“I do not.”
He smiled like the devil was proud of him. “You do.”
You tightened your grip on your cup. “I am not asking you.”
He didn’t even blink.
“You don’t have to,” he murmured, leaning forward again, eyes warm with something you didn’t understand yet.
“I’ll do it.”
Your breath caught. “What?”
“For the wedding,” he said simply, as if this wasn’t insane. “I’ll go with you.”
You were stunned. Speechless.
He dipped his head, voice lowering. “Relax,” he said. “It’s not a big deal.”
“It’s a massive deal!”
“Not for me.”
You swallowed. “Why would you… agree?”
He stepped even closer, gaze flicking down to your mouth for a split second before returning to your eyes. “Because,” he said, “it’s going to be fun watching you try to convince yourself it’s all pretend.”
Your heart tripped over itself.
He smirked. “And,” he added, brushing a thumb over the lid of your drink before turning away, “your family already thinks I’m responsible.”
He paused at the door, glancing back. “They’re about to think a lot more than that.”
Then he left you standing there, heart pounding, drink shaking in your hand, realizing you had officially lost control of your life.
You weren’t supposed to say yes.
You told yourself that three separate times on the walk to his place, clutching your phone like it personally betrayed you. Sukuna had texted you an hour after the coffee shop meeting—no greeting, no explanation, just:
come over. we need to talk details.
Followed by:
address is 314. don’t be weird, weirdo.
Which was funny, because he was the weird one inviting you to his apartment like it was a 2 a.m. hookup. It wasn’t. Obviously. But the elevator ride up felt too tense anyway, and by the time you reached his door, you were hyperaware of every heartbeat.
He opened the door before you even knocked.
“Good,” he murmured, stepping aside. “You’re on time.”
His apartment looked exactly like him—clean but cluttered with expensive equipment; black and steel accents; tattoo sketches pinned everywhere in organized chaos. A faint smell of ink and sandalwood clung to the air.
He was already barefoot, shirt swapped for a loose black hoodie, sleeves pushed up to reveal the full spread of ink across his arms. Comfortable. Too comfortable.
You stepped inside warily. “So you… wanted to talk terms?”
He gave a short nod toward the living room. “Sit.”
There was a low coffee table scattered with blank paper, pens, and—God help you—two glasses of whiskey already poured.
You sank into the couch. He sat beside you, not near the other end like a polite person. No. Right next to you. Close enough your knees brushed.
“Okay,” he said, picking up a pen. “Let’s start with the lies.”
You blinked. “You mean the backstory?”
“Same thing.”
He wrote HOW WE MET across the top of a page in neat, sharp handwriting.
“Fine,” you muttered. “We… met through my work. At the charity event. That’s normal enough.”
“A lie with a spine,” he said approvingly. “Good. Next—how long?”
You chewed your lip. “Two months?”
“Too short.”
“Three?”
He shrugged. “Better.”
He wrote it down. TOGETHER 3 MONTHS. Then looked at you again, eyes scanning your face like he was cataloguing reactions.
“Okay,” you said, clearing your throat. “We need guidelines for PDA.”
His mouth ticked up. “Do we?”
“Yes.”
“Fine,” he said. “Tell me what’s allowed.”
You hesitated. “Um… hand holding?”
“Easy.”
“Maybe… a hand on the back?”
“Which part?” he asked, leaning closer. “Upper? Lower?”
You blinked rapidly. “Upper.”
He smiled slowly, satisfied.
“And hugging,” you added, looking away.
“Mm.” He made a note. “What about kissing?”
“Kissing?” you echoed, voice cracking.
“Relax,” he said, a half-laugh under it. “I’m asking because your family will.”
Your face heated. “In public? No. They’ll never expect that.”
“So… private?”
“No!” you snapped too fast.
He snickered. “Okay. We’ll call that conditional.”
You glared. He didn’t stop smiling.
“Next,” you said stiffly. “What you can’t do.”
He leaned back, draping one arm across the back of the couch behind you. “This should be good.”
“No whispering shit in my ear to embarrass me.”
“Noted.”
“No calling me pet names in front of my family.”
“Debatable.”
“Sukuna.”
“Fine. No pet names.”
You exhaled. “Good.”
He tapped his pen. “Sleeping arrangements?”
Your stomach flipped. “There are none.”
“There are,” he corrected gently. “A couple at a wedding shares a room.”
You stared at him. Sukuna stared back, eyes unreadable.
“We can have two beds,” he offered.
You relaxed a fraction. “Okay. Good.”
“Or one,” he added.
Your head snapped toward him. “No.”
He laughed under his breath, writing something down you couldn’t see. “And what about your aunts?” he asked. “The nosy ones.”
“Oh God,” you groaned. “Just—don’t let them corner you. They love asking invasive questions.”
“I don’t mind invasive.” He shrugged. “I can be more invasive.”
You smacked his arm. He looked entertained.
“And lastly,” you said, trying to gather your composure, “we need boundaries.”
“Oh?” His tone dipped. “Do we?”
“Yes.” You swallowed. “We need to agree on what lines shouldn’t be crossed.”
He didn’t write anything. He just looked at you—like he was measuring the distance between your words and your pulse.
“Alright,” he said quietly. “You go first.”
“No real flirting,” you said.
“Define ‘real.’”
“Sukuna—”
“Alright, alright,” he murmured, holding up his hands. “No real flirting.”
“Thank you,” you muttered. “And no—no touching unless it’s necessary.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Necessary for… what?”
“To sell the story,” you snapped. “Not for fun.”
He hummed thoughtfully. “Is it fun for you?”
You nearly choked on air. “That’s not— I didn’t—”
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, crowding your space. “Relax. I’m only clarifying.”
“You’re being an ass.”
He shrugged lazily. “It’s my nature.”
You inhaled slowly, desperately trying to steady yourself. “So… we agree. Minimal touching unless we absolutely have to.”
He nodded. Then, as if he had been waiting for the perfect moment to detonate you, he added: “I don’t mind touching you. If you need it to look real.”
You froze. Heat shot down your spine.
Your mouth opened uselessly. “I—I don’t—need—”
He tilted his head, eyes dark and soft and annoyingly perceptive. “Do you?”
Your breath stuttered.
You lied. “No.”
Sukuna smiled like he had just solved a puzzle.
“Sure,” he murmured. “Whatever you say.”
You don’t know how long the two of you sit there, the rules laid out in messy handwriting on the table, the glasses of whiskey half-finished, the air thick with tension that neither of you acknowledges out loud.
Eventually, you gather your things.
You need distance. You need air. You need to get out of this apartment before your brain does something reckless—like believe his smile meant something.
You stand. “Okay. I should go.”
Sukuna rises with you, like he’s been waiting for the cue. He walks you to the door without being asked, hands in his pockets, shoulders loose in that deceptively casual way he always moved when he was thinking too hard.
You pull your coat tighter around you. He watches the motion, head tilted, eyes too sharp for comfort.
“Well,” you say, trying for breezy and landing squarely on awkward, “thanks for… all of this. The planning. Everything.”
“Mm.” He nods once. “We’ll go over it again before the wedding.”
“Right. Sure.”
You reach for the doorknob.
His voice stops you. “Do you want me to walk you home?”
You turn back, surprised. “What?”
He stands there, one hand braced on the doorframe, the other still tucked in his pocket. His expression isn’t mocking, or smug. It’s unreadable.
“So?” he asks.
You blink. “You don’t need to walk me home.”
“I know.”
Oh.
You swallow. “Are you offering because you think I’ll get lost? Or mugged? Or—?”
“I’m offering,” he says, stepping closer, “because I want to.”
You freeze.
No quip. No sarcasm. No arrogant little grin. Just that.
You force a shaky exhale. “I’ll be fine.”
He studies your face for a long moment, something tugging at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile—more like the idea of one, too soft to fully form.
You reach for the doorknob again.
“Hey,” he murmurs.
You look up.
“Don’t worry,” he says quietly, voice dipping into something illicit, something warm, something dangerous. “I’ll make them believe it.”
Your breath catches. “Believe what?”
He steps close enough that you can feel the heat from his chest, close enough that your heartbeat stutters painfully in your ribs.
“That I want you,” he says.
Your pulse stops. It stops, and then it restarts like someone hit you with a defibrillator. Sukuna’s mouth curls—slowly, like he can feel your reaction in the air between you.
“After all,” he adds, pulling the door open for you, “it shouldn't be hard.”
You stare at him, unable to look away.
He taps his knuckles lightly against the doorframe. “Text me when you get home.”
You nod, trying not to let him see how unsteady your breathing has gotten. He watches you walk down the hallway, eyes lingering even after you turn away.
And for the first time tonight, you realize something terrifying. He wasn’t acting. Not even a little.