Sukuna's hand remains pressed against my stomach, warm and heavy through the thin fabric of my shirt. His eyes haven't left that spot, as if he's trying to see through skin and muscle and bone.

Outside, the world continues. A bird calls somewhere distant. The wind rustles through the trees beyond the paper screens. But in here, time has stopped.

His thumb traces a slow, deliberate circle against my lower abdomen, and I feel the faintest tremor run through his fingers—something I've never felt from him before.