Chapter Text
He's already half lost in his own headspace when he tells you in the evening that he has plans to game with the boys, dropping the names as if, for once, the squad has changed. It doesn't; it’s still Satoru, Suguru, Toji, Jin, and maybe Choso if he shows up late, which, naturally, is a given.
It has never been a problem between you, so like every other night, you grab your book, smile at him and tell him to make you proud and to shoot Gojo at least once if the opportunity presents itself. That earns you a low snort and a glance that says he absolutely will.
Not even ten minutes into your book before your phone buzzes softly against the soft fabric of the couch, flicking to life with a single message from Sukuna: Come here.
Letting out an amused huff, you carefully set your bookmark in place and pad down the hallway, curious and suspicious at the same time. You’ve learned by now not to assume anything with this man.
The moment you step over the threshold of his gaming room, you stop short.
In the corner, angled carefully so it doesn’t intrude on his meticulously arranged setup but still positioned to face it, is an armchair you’ve absolutely never seen before. It’s deep, wide, and looks impossibly comfortable. If you had to guess, it was clearly chosen with that exact purpose in mind. Right beside it stands a small, round table, holding your favourite gummies and a soft, neatly folded blanket.
Sukuna doesn’t even turn around fully when you enter. His eyes merely flick toward you, headset already on, and he grunts, “Bring your book and sit.”
At first, you are unsure how to react. This is typical Sukuna behaviour–doing something extremely thoughtful that invariably makes your heart give a little leap, and then instantly pretending the gesture is nothing extraordinary, getting openly annoyed if you dare to offer too much gratitude.
In this case, however, it hits way harder. It isn’t some random expensive gift, but an actual invitation into his personal space. It’s fascinating how he can rearrange his life to make space for you, before ever admitting he wants you in it.
Without dwelling on it too much, you retreat, returning a minute later with your book and two steaming mugs of tea, which you place on the small side table.
You take a step toward his setup, stopping right behind his chair. Your fingers immediately find their way into the dark, soft hair at his nape, scratching his scalp lightly without disturbing the placement of his headset. Leaning down, you press a kiss on the top of his head and murmur against it, “Thank you, Kuna.”
His attention is completely absorbed in navigating the game lobby which the boys are slowly joining, yet you know he heard you. The corners of his mouth curl into that distinct, smug half smile that only appears whenever he’s utterly pleased with himself.
As you settle in your new spot, the fluffy blanket over your legs already, your mind begins to cycle through the logistics of the surprise. The effort, the subtlety, and the fact that a piece of furniture this huge hasn’t magically appeared. When did he bring it home without you noticing? You picture him, somehow managing to sneak it past you, maybe in the middle of the night, or when you were out running errands, and the image makes you break into a wide, cheerful smile.
The boys’ loud and chaotic chatter spills through his headset. Sukuna and Suguru instantly launch into their favourite pre-game agenda item: rage-baiting Gojo, who is already talking thrash and making impossible threats. Jin, as always, attempts to mediate, and, also as always, fails spectacularly, while Toji’s deep, throaty laughter rumbles in the background.
Somehow, Sukuna manages to split his focus, giving the majority of his attention to the intense game in front of him, while still reserving a small, steady sliver for your presence.
Every so often he flashes a quick, assessing glance over his shoulder to ensure you’re comfortable, before returning his gaze to the game, satisfaction setting over his features.
At one point, in between the kills, he reaches back blindly, his hand finding your knee, resting there for a second, before snapping back to the keyboard, never once breaking eye contact with the monitor.
There is no need for you to speak or comment on the game. You understand fully that it’s not about keeping you entertained or actively engaged in his activity. It is a simple act of proximity and knowing you are physically in his space, choosing to be there, simply existing alongside him while he does his own thing.
So you sit there, comfortable and included, because even when he’s busy, he still finds a way to make room for you without ever making it feel like he's making a sacrifice or giving something up.