Work Text:
The first thing you noticed about him was that he looked like a man who had never been told no in his entire life.
The second thing you noticed was that he was glaring at the autorefractor like it had personally betrayed him.
He was enormous.
Not just tall.
Tall would’ve been polite. Tall would’ve been normal. Tall would’ve been a man ducking slightly beneath doorframes and pretending it didn’t bother him.
This man was six foot seven of pure irritation, broad-shouldered and built like he could fold the exam chair in half if the mood struck him. He had pale pink hair, cut short, dark tattoos creeping from beneath the collar of his black shirt and along his hands, and a face so sharp and handsome it almost felt rude.
Like someone had sculpted him specifically to ruin peace.
He sat in the exam room with his arms crossed over his chest, jaw tight, crimson eyes narrowed at Dr. Kusakabe while she calmly reviewed his results on the screen.
You were standing just outside the open doorway, holding a tray of trial contact lenses, trying to mind your own business.
Trying.
Failing, because his voice carried like thunder. “I don’t need glasses.”
Dr. Kusakabe, who had the patience of a saint and the unshakable calm of a woman who had heard this exact sentence from hundreds of stubborn men before him, smiled gently. “Mr. Itadori, your prescription says otherwise.” His scowl deepened.
“My eyes work fine.”
“You told me you have trouble reading street signs at night.”
“I read them eventually.”
“You also said restaurant menus look blurry.”
“Restaurants are dark on purpose.”
“And you said you’ve been getting headaches while driving.” He leaned back in the chair, lips pressing into a thin line. “That’s because people drive like idiots.” Dr. Kusakabe blinked once.
You turned your face slightly toward the wall and bit the inside of your cheek.
Do not laugh.
Do not laugh.
Do not laugh at the giant angry man who apparently believed blurry vision was everyone else’s fault.
Dr. Kusakabe clicked something on the computer. “You have mild astigmatism and nearsightedness. Nothing dramatic, but it is enough that glasses would help.”
“I’m not wearing glasses.”
“You have options.”
“I’m not wearing glasses.”
“There are contacts.” His eyes shifted immediately toward the tray in your hands.
His expression changed.
Not softened.
Never softened.
But something about his irritation sharpened into suspicion. “Contacts,” he repeated, like the word itself smelled bad.
Dr. Kusakabe smiled, and that was how you knew you were about to be sacrificed. “Y/n will teach you how to insert and remove them.”
You froze.
Slowly, Sukuna turned his head toward you.
His gaze swept over you, heavy and unimpressed, his eyes still slightly dilated from the exam. You offered a small professional smile, clutching the tray a little tighter. “Hi,” you said.
He stared.
You kept smiling.
His gaze dropped to your name tag. “Y/n,” he read aloud.
You nodded. “That’s me.” He looked back at Dr. Kusakabe. “I don’t need a lesson.” Dr. Kusakabe stood, washing her hands of him in the calmest way possible. “Everyone needs a lesson for contacts.”
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
“I’ve put things in my eye before.”
You blinked.
Dr. Kusakabe blinked.
Sukuna looked between you both, then frowned. “Eye drops.” You coughed into your hand.
Dr. Kusakabe mouth twitched. “Y/n, he’ll be in the insertion and removal room.”
“Of course,” you said, voice too bright.
Dr. Kusakabe handed him his printed prescription and slipped past you, murmuring, “Good luck,” so quietly only you could hear.
That was not encouraging.
Sukuna stood.
And stood.
And stood.
God, he is tall.
You had to tilt your head back to look at him properly. He looked down at you with the bored disdain of a king being asked to sign paperwork.
You gestured down the hall. “Right this way.”
He followed behind you, footsteps heavy, presence impossible to ignore. You led him into the contact lens training room, a small space with a sink, mirror, counter, tissues, saline, and a chair that looked comically fragile once he lowered himself into it.
His knees sat too high. His shoulders looked too wide for the room. His expression said he was already planning to hate everything.
You washed your hands first, then turned toward him. “Okay, so before we start, I’m going to go over the basics.”
“I know how circles work.”
You paused.
He looked at the trial lens blister pack on the counter. “It’s a tiny circle. You put it in. Done.” You gave him a sweet smile. “Perfect. Then this should be quick.” Something flickered in his eyes.
A challenge.
A terrible, stupid, masculine challenge. “Open it,” he said.
You peeled open the contact lens packet and poured the lens carefully into your palm with saline. “You’ll want to make sure it’s not inside out. It should look like a little bowl. If the edges flare out, it’s inside out.”
He leaned forward, squinting.
You tried not to stare at the irony. “Can you see it?” you asked.
His gaze snapped to yours.
“I can see it.”
“Of course.” His scowl deepened. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Talk like you’re laughing.”
“I’m not laughing.”
“You want to.”
You pressed your lips together.
He narrowed his eyes. “You definitely want to.” You held the lens out to him. “I would never laugh at a patient.”
“Liar.”
“Maybe a little.” His mouth twitched.
It was quick. Barely there. Like a blade catching light.
You placed the lens on the tip of his index finger. “Okay. Use your other hand to hold your upper lid, then use the middle finger of the contact hand to pull down your lower lid. Look straight ahead into the mirror, bring the lens toward your eye, and place it gently.”
He stared at you.
Then at the lens.
Then at the mirror.
Then back at you.
“This is stupid.”
“It feels stupid the first time.”
“It looks stupid.”
“It does, yes.”
His brow lifted.
You shrugged. “I’m being honest.” He huffed through his nose, then turned toward the mirror like he was entering battle.
He lifted his hand.
Stopped.
Lowered it.
Lifted it again.
The contact trembled slightly on his fingertip.
You stood beside him, hands folded, biting down on your smile so hard your cheeks hurt.
He pulled his lower lid down.
Then tried to pull his upper lid with the same hand.
The lens slipped off his finger and landed on his cheek.
You made a tiny sound.
His head turned slowly toward you.
You looked at the ceiling. “Don’t,” he warned. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You made a noise.”
“A supportive noise.”
“That was not supportive.”
“It was emotionally complex.” He peeled the wet contact from his cheek with two fingers and glared at it. “This thing is mocking me.”
“It’s a medical device.”
“It has intent.”
“It does not.”
“You don’t know that.” You swallowed a laugh and held out your palm. “Let me rinse it.” He dropped the lens into your hand like it had offended his bloodline.
You rinsed it carefully with solution and placed it back on his finger.
“Try again. Keep both eyes open if you can. Sometimes people shut the other eye without realizing it.”
“I’m not people.”
“No, clearly you’re a very calm and easygoing man.” His gaze slid toward you. “You’re sarcastic.”
“I’m an optician. It’s a survival skill.” Again, the corner of his mouth threatened to move.
He turned back to the mirror.
This time, he got the lens close to his eye.
Very close.
Then blinked aggressively before it touched him.
The contact folded in half and stuck to his lashes.
You clapped a hand over your mouth.
He froze.
Slowly, his eyes moved toward your reflection in the mirror. “You laughing?” Your voice came out strained. “No.” His eyelid twitched.
The contact hung from his lashes like a tiny clear jellyfish.
You made a strangled sound.
He turned around fully, looking murderous. “Take it off.”
You couldn’t help it.
A laugh slipped out.
It was small. Barely more than a breath.
But it was enough.
His brows rose. “Oh,” he said darkly. “So that’s funny?” You tried to recover. “No, no, I’m sorry. It’s just—”
“It’s just what?”
“You’re very…” You looked at the contact clinging to his lashes. “Tall.”
His face went blank.
“I’m tall?”
“Yes.”
“That’s what’s funny?”
“No.”
“Then what?” You reached for a tissue, shoulders shaking. “You look very intimidating, but the contact lens is winning.”
Silence.
Dead silence.
Then Sukuna plucked the lens off his lashes, dropped it on the counter, and leaned back in the chair with his arms crossed. “I hate this place.”
You burst out laughing.
You tried so hard not to. You really did. But once it started, it came out soft and bright, filling the small room like spilled sunshine.
Sukuna watched you.
His scowl remained, but something about his eyes changed.
Not warmth exactly.
Interest.
Dangerous interest.
The kind that felt like a hand at the back of your neck even though he hadn’t touched you. “You laugh a lot at work?” he asked.
You wiped carefully beneath one eye. “Only when men start losing arguments with tiny pieces of plastic.”
“I’m not losing.”
“You have one red eye, one wet cheek, and the contact lens is on the counter.”
“I’m assessing the enemy.”
“Of course.”
“Give me another one.” You lifted a brow. “Another one?”
“I’m not losing to plastic.”
“That’s the spirit.”
For the next twenty minutes, Sukuna Itadori fought for his life.
Not literally.
But emotionally, absolutely.
He tried using his right hand. Failed.
Tried using his left hand. Failed worse.
Tried staring straight ahead with the focus of a man defusing a bomb, only to blink so hard the lens popped off and landed somewhere near the sink.
You both stared at the empty counter.
He slowly turned to you.
“You saw where it went.” You looked around. “I actually did not.”
“It vanished.”
“It’s probably on the floor.”
“It ran.”
“Contacts don’t run.”
“This one did.” You crouched, searching near the base of the counter. He stayed seated for a second before begrudgingly leaning down too, his large frame folding awkwardly in the tiny room.
You spotted it first. “There,” you said, pointing. “By your shoe.” He looked down.
The contact sat on the floor, innocent and useless.
He glared.
“Coward.” You laughed again.
He looked at you from beneath his brow. “You’re enjoying this.”
“A little.”
“You always this mean to paying customers?”
“Only the dramatic ones.”
“I’m not dramatic.”
“Mr. Itadori, you just called a contact lens a coward.” His eyes lifted to yours.
For a second, neither of you moved.
Then he said, “Don’t say my name like that.” Your smile faded slightly, not from fear, but from the sudden weight in his voice. “Like what?” He stood slowly, towering over you again, the room shrinking around him.
“Like you’re trying to make me behave.” Your stomach fluttered.
Which was annoying.
Because he was forty, grumpy, irritating, ridiculous, and currently had eyes red enough to look like he’d been crying in the bathroom at a wedding.
You straightened and stepped around him toward the sink. “I’m just trying to teach you contacts.”
“No,” he said. “You’re trying not to laugh.”
“That too.”
He watched as you rinsed your hands.
His voice dropped.
“You think I’m funny.”
“I think you’re something.”
“What?” You glanced at him over your shoulder. “A lot.”
That made him smirk.
Finally. Fully.
And it was devastating.
Not cute. Not boyish.
Devastating.
The kind of smirk that belonged on trouble. Expensive trouble. The type of man your mother would tell you not to entertain and your friends would beg for updates about.
“A lot,” he repeated.
You looked away too quickly.
“You still need to get the contact in.”
His smirk sharpened. “Changing the subject.”
“I’m doing my job.”
“Poorly. I still can’t see.”
“That sounds like a you issue.”
He barked out a laugh.
It startled you.
Deep, rough, sudden. Like thunder cracking open a clear sky.
He seemed almost surprised by it too, because the laugh disappeared as quickly as it came, replaced by a scowl that looked forced now.
“Again,” he said, sitting back down.
You gave him a fresh lens.
This attempt was almost heroic.
He held his eye open.
Brought the contact close.
Closer.
Closer.
His hand froze a millimeter away from his eye.
You leaned slightly beside him, voice gentle now. “Don’t think about it too much. Just look past your finger. Touch the lens to the eye and hold it there for a second.”
“I don’t like you telling me what to do.”
“I can tell.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
His gaze cut to yours.
You softened your voice.
“You’re doing fine.”
His expression shifted.
It wasn’t much. But it was there.
His fingers loosened slightly. His shoulders dropped half an inch.
Then he tried again.
And immediately blinked.
The lens folded, slid under his lower lid, and came back out at an angle.
He slammed his hand on the counter.
“Absolutely not.” You jumped, then immediately covered your smile.
He pointed at the lens. “No.” You nodded slowly. “No?”
“No.”
“Do you want to try taking a break?”
“I want to set it on fire.”
“You cannot set the contact lens on fire.”
“I can do anything I want.”
“You cannot do that in our office.” He leaned back, eyes red and irritated, one cheek damp, jaw clenched. “I’ll get the stupid glasses.” You pressed your lips together.
He noticed.
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re smiling.”
“I’m relieved we’ve made progress.”
“I hate you.”
“You don’t.”
“I might.”
“You’ll like me again when you can see.” He scoffed. “Doubtful.”
You led him out to the optical floor.
The office was bright and beautiful, lined with frame boards carrying everything from timeless classics to bold independent designs. Sunlight spilled through the front windows and softened the polished counters. Sukuna looked deeply offended by the existence of eyewear.
You pulled a tray from beneath the counter.
“Any style preferences?”
“No.”
“Okay. Any colors you hate?”
“All of them.”
“Shapes?”
“Glasses-shaped.”
You stared at him.
He stared back.
You smiled sweetly. “You’re being very helpful.”
“I’m a helpful man.”
“You are a nightmare.” He leaned one elbow on the counter, bending slightly closer to your height. “And yet you’re still smiling.”
“That’s customer service.”
“Liar.” You ignored the flutter in your chest and pulled a sleek black rectangular frame from the board. “Try this.” He took it with two fingers like it was contaminated.
He put it on.
You tilted your head.
He looked in the mirror.
“No.”
“You didn’t even look for two seconds.”
“I looked.”
“It’s not bad.”
“It’s hideous.”
“It’s not hideous.”
“I look like I own a failing tech company.” You snorted. He removed the frame and dropped it onto the tray. You grabbed another pair, this one with a slightly rounder shape and a deep tortoise tone. “What about these?” He put them on, stared at himself, and grimaced.
“I look like someone’s divorced father trying to date his yoga instructor.” Your mouth fell open.
“Mr. Itadori.”
“What?”
“That was oddly specific.”
“It’s true.”
“It is not.”
“You’d swipe left.”
You glanced at him.
He glanced at you.
You looked away first.
“I’m working.”
“You didn’t answer.”
“I’m not answering that.”
“So yes.”
“No, I—try these.” The next pair was a warm translucent brown. He put them on.
You paused.
He looked at himself.
“No.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“They’re a little soft on you.”
“Soft?”
“Gentler.” His eyes moved to yours through the lenses. “I’m not gentle.”
“No kidding.” He removed them immediately. “Next.” You went through frame after frame.
A matte black pair.
“Serial killer accountant.”
A silver pair.
“Government witness.”
A thick acetate pair.
“Art school dropout with emotional problems.”
A rimless pair.
“I look like I tell people to circle back in emails.”
A bold blue pair.
“I would rather drive blind.”
“You cannot say that in an optometry office.”
“I just did.” You laughed so hard you had to lean against the counter.
He watched you again, his mouth curved slightly now, like he had started saying ridiculous things just to see if you’d keep laughing.
That made your face warm.
Which made him smug.
Which made you annoyed.
Which made him more smug.
Finally, you walked to the far wall and paused.
There was one frame you had been thinking about the entire time.
It was a beautiful pair: dark, angular acetate, strong but refined, with a subtle warmth in the finish that would sit well against his skin and tattoos. Not too trendy. Not too safe. Masculine without trying too hard.
You pulled it from the board carefully.
He eyed it. “That better not be ugly.”
“You’ve called everything ugly.”
“Because everything was ugly.”
“You called one pair a government witness.”
“It looked nervous.”
You held the frame out.
“Try this one.”
He took it.
Something about him changed when he put it on.
Not drastically.
But enough.
The strong lines suited his face perfectly, balanced the sharpness of his jaw, and made his crimson eyes look even more striking. The frame didn’t soften him exactly. It sharpened him in a quieter way. Made him look dangerous but polished. Like trouble with a dinner reservation.
You stared.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed.
He looked at himself in the mirror first, then at you. “Well?” You swallowed. “You look…” You paused, hating how honest your voice sounded. “Handsome.” His smirk appeared slowly.
Like he’d been waiting all day for you to make one mistake.
“Handsome?” You lifted your chin. “Professionally speaking.” He turned fully toward you, hands sliding into his pockets. “Professionally,” he repeated. “Yes.”
“So if you were off the clock?” Your heartbeat stumbled.
You gave him a look. “Then I’d still have enough sense not to answer that.” He leaned slightly closer. “That means better than handsome.”
“No, it means I’m not losing my job because you finally found a frame that doesn’t make you look like someone’s divorced father.” His grin widened. “Careful, sweetheart.”
You froze.
Sweetheart.
He said it like velvet dragged over a blade. “Careful?” you echoed. “You keep talking to me like that, I’ll start thinking you like me.”You rolled your eyes, though your face was hot. “You’ve been here an hour and threatened a contact lens.”
“And you’ve laughed at me for most of it.”
“You made it easy.” He looked back into the mirror, adjusting the frame slightly on his nose. “I do look good.” And there it was.
The cocky line. Delivered with absolute sincerity.
You couldn’t help your smile. “You’re very humble.”
“I’m forty years old. Humility sounds exhausting.”
“You’re really forty?” His gaze slid toward you. “How old did you think I was?” You hesitated one second too long.
He laughed under his breath.
“Careful.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking something.”
“I was thinking you have very healthy skin.”
He stared at you.
You stared back.
Then he laughed again, deeper this time.
“Healthy skin,” he repeated.
“You’re welcome.”
“You’re terrible at flirting.”
“I’m not flirting.”
“Liar.” You took the frame from him to write down the model information, trying very hard not to smile. “Okay. Let me price everything out for you.” He leaned on the counter again, watching you work at the computer.
You entered the frame, lenses, anti-reflective coating, high-index material, blue light filter, and the office’s premium lens option because with his prescription and that frame, it genuinely made sense.
The total appeared.
You stared at it for half a second.
Then glanced up at him.
He noticed immediately.
“What?” You turned the screen slightly. “So with the frame, prescription lenses, premium anti-reflective coating, and thinner lens material, your total comes out to…” You told him.
His face went still.
Very still.
Then his eyes narrowed.
“For glasses?”
“Yes.”
“For one pair?”
“Yes.”
“Do they cure death?”
“No.”
“Will they make me younger?”
“No.”
“Will they make you stop laughing at me?”
“Probably not.”
“Then why the hell are they that expensive?” You bit your lip. “The frame is a high-quality independent line, and the lenses have premium coating. You don’t have to do all the options, but I do recommend the anti-reflective since you drive at night.” He looked at the screen again like it had insulted him.
“That’s a car payment.”
“It is not.”
“It’s close.”
“What kind of car do you drive?” He ignored that. “I should go blind.”
“You should not go blind.”
“I’ve made it this long.”
“While blaming street signs, restaurants, and other drivers?”
His mouth tightened.
You leaned slightly against the counter, softening your expression.
“Listen,” you said gently. “You don’t have to get them if you don’t want to. But you did say the headaches are getting annoying, and the doctor thinks glasses will help. You also looked really good in the frame.”
His eyes flicked to yours.
You didn’t mean to do it.
Not fully.
But your face softened. Your eyes widened slightly, your lashes lowering just enough, your mouth curved into something small and patient and sweet.
You gave him the look.
Not intentionally manipulative.
Mostly.
The look that said, I’m trying to help you, but also you know you want to.
Sukuna stared down at you.
His jaw flexed.
“You do that on purpose?”
“Do what?”
“That.”
You blinked.
His eyes narrowed. “Those eyes.” You blinked again, slower this time.
His expression darkened with irritation—not at you, exactly, but at himself. “Manipulative little thing.” Your mouth opened. “Mr. Itadori.”
“What? You think I don’t know when I’m being robbed?”
“You are not being robbed.”
“You are standing there with those big pretty eyes telling me I look handsome, and now I’m about to pay an absurd amount for glass.”
“Technically plastic.”
“That makes it worse.” You tried not to smile. “You don’t have to.” He stared at you for another long second. Then, with a deeply annoyed sigh, he pulled out his wallet.
The credit card landed on the counter between you.
Heavy. Black. Ridiculous.
“Run it before I regain sense.” You looked at the card, then back at him.
“You’re sure?”
“No.” You laughed softly and took it.
As you processed the payment, he watched you with an expression that should’ve made you nervous.
It didn’t.
It made your stomach flutter again.
Which was worse.
You handed him the receipt.
“Your glasses should be ready in about a week. We’ll call you when they come in.” He took the receipt and folded it once. “A week.”
“Usually.” His gaze dropped to your name tag again. “You’ll be here?” You paused. “Probably.”
“That wasn’t a yes.”
“My schedule changes.” His eyes lifted. “Convenient.”
“I’m not avoiding you.”
“You might.”
“You’re very confident for a man who got bullied by contact lenses.”
His grin flashed.
“There she is.” You looked down quickly, pretending to organize the tray. “Have a good day, Mr. Itadori.”
“Mr. Itadori,” he repeated, distaste curling his mouth. “That is your name.”
“Sounds ugly when you say it.” You glanced up.
He was already walking backward toward the door, receipt tucked between his fingers, the full force of his attention still on you.
“Call me Sukuna next time.” You crossed your arms. “Next time?”
He smirked. “When I come pick up my expensive plastic.” Then he turned and left, ducking slightly beneath the doorway.
The office felt quieter when he was gone.
You stood behind the counter, staring at the door like an idiot.
Dr. Kusakabe appeared beside you five seconds later.
“So,” she said calmly.
You jumped. “Oh my God.” She looked toward the door, then back at you. “Contacts didn’t work?” You cleared your throat. “No.”
“I heard him call one a coward.”
You covered your face.
Dr. Kusakabe smiled. “Interesting patient.”
“You abandoned me.”
“I delegated.”
“You sent me into war.”
“You survived.”
Barely.
A week later, the lab order arrived in a neat little package.
And unfortunately, embarrassingly, pathetically—you recognized his name immediately.
Ryomen Sukuna Itadori.
You told yourself it was because he was memorable.
Which was true.
A six-foot-seven tattooed man losing an emotional battle with a contact lens was not the kind of thing a person forgot easily.
But that didn’t explain why you smoothed your hair before calling him.
Or why your stomach flipped when the phone rang twice and his voice answered, low and impatient.
“Yeah?”
“Hi, is this Sukuna?” There was a pause.
Then, “Depends who’s asking.” You rolled your eyes, smiling despite yourself. “This is Y/n from your Optometrist office. Your glasses are ready for pickup.”
Another pause.
Shorter this time.
“Y/n.” The way he said your name made the office lights feel warmer.
You turned away from the front desk, lowering your voice slightly.
“Yes.”
“You there today?”
“I am.”
“What time do you leave?”
“That sounds unrelated to your glasses.”
“It’s very related.” You pressed your lips together. “We close at six.”
“I’ll be there before six.”
“Great. We’ll see you then.”
“We?” You blinked. “The office.”
“I didn’t buy them from the office.”
“You kind of did.”
“No. I bought them from your eyes.” Your mouth fell open.
“Sukuna.”
“What?”
“That was terrible.”
“It worked.”
“It did not.”
“You’re smiling.” You immediately stopped smiling, even though he couldn’t see you.
“I am not.”
“Liar.”
Then he hung up.
Just like that.
No goodbye.
No thank you.
No reasonable adult ending to the phone call.
You stared at the receiver for a second before setting it down.
From behind you, your coworker leaned around the corner.
“Was that the hot angry glasses guy?” You looked at her. “Don’t call him that.”
“So yes.”
You walked away.
At 5:42 p.m., the front door opened.
You knew it was him before you looked up.
The office shifted somehow, like the air itself made room.
Sukuna stepped inside wearing black again, because apparently he was allergic to color. Black shirt, black pants, black boots, silver watch, tattoos visible along his forearms. His hair looked freshly cut, pale pink and neat, and his face wore the exact expression of a man prepared to be inconvenienced.
Your coworker whispered from behind the edging machine, “Oh my God.” You shot her a look.
Sukuna’s eyes found you immediately.
His mouth curved.
Not a full smile.
Worse.
Recognition.
“There you are.” You reached beneath the counter for his tray. “Here I am.” He approached slowly, glancing around the office. “No plastic enemies today?”
“Not unless you want to try contacts again.” His face darkened. “Don’t be cruel.” You laughed and opened the glasses case. “They came out really nice.” He leaned on the counter, looking down at the frame.
“They better.” You took the glasses out carefully and unfolded the temples. “Okay. Put them on and look straight ahead. I’ll check the fit.”
He took them from you.
For a second, his fingers brushed yours.
Barely.
Nothing.
Still, warmth moved up your wrist.
He put the glasses on.
And then went completely still.
You watched his eyes shift.
Across the room.
To the frame boards.
The signs.
The texture in the floor.
The little printed card on the counter.
His brows pulled together.
“What the hell.” You smiled. “You can see?” He looked toward the window. “This feels wrong.”
“It’s new.”
“The floor is too close.”
“That’s normal at first.”
“The wall is sharp.”
“Yes.”
“Everything is sharp.”
“That is usually the goal.” He turned his head slowly, eyes narrowed behind the lenses. “I hate it.”
“You don’t hate it. Your brain just needs to adjust.”
“My brain is fine.”
“Your eyes were not.”
He looked down at you.
Then frowned.
“What?” You tilted your head, assessing the fit. “They’re sitting a little crooked.”
“They are not.”
“They are.”
“My face isn’t crooked.”
“I didn’t say your face was crooked.”
“You implied it.”
“I implied the frame needs adjusting.” He leaned down slightly, bringing his face closer. “Then adjust it.” You reached up carefully.
He went very still when your fingers touched the temples of the frame.
You adjusted one side gently, checking how it sat along his ears and across the bridge of his nose. The office sounds faded a little—the hum of machines, the faint music overhead, your coworker pretending not to watch from behind a display.
Sukuna’s eyes stayed on you the entire time.
Too focused.
Too awake.
With the glasses on, his gaze looked even clearer. More direct. Like he could see straight through all your little professional habits, all your polite smiles, all the ways you tried to pretend he didn’t fluster you.
You stepped back.
“How does that feel?” He looked at you. “Still weird.”
“That’s normal.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it is.”
“I don’t like normal.”
“I’m shocked.”
He smirked.
Then he turned toward the mirror.
For once, he didn’t immediately insult the glasses.
He stared for several seconds, expression unreadable.
You watched him carefully. “Well?” you asked.
He adjusted them slightly on his nose. “I look good.” You exhaled a laugh. “That’s your review?”
“It’s accurate.”
“Anything else?”
“I can see why you told me I looked handsome.” Your face warmed. “I was doing my job.” He turned from the mirror. “No, you weren’t.” You busied yourself wiping the lenses with a microfiber cloth, even though they were already clean.
“You should wear them full time for a few days so your eyes can adjust. If anything feels off after a week, come back and we can recheck the adjustment.” He stepped closer to the counter. “What if something feels off tonight?” You looked up slowly.
He was smirking.
You sighed. “Then you wait a few days.”
“What if I’m impatient?”
“I believe that.”
“What time do you get off?”
You froze.
Your coworker made a sound from across the room and immediately pretended to cough.
You shot her another look.
Sukuna didn’t even glance her way.
His attention stayed fixed on you. “Sukuna,” you said, trying to sound professional.
He leaned on the counter.
“Y/n.”
“You’re a patient.”
“I bought glasses.”
“From the office.”
“From your eyes, remember?”
“That line was still bad.”
“You remembered it.”
You opened your mouth.
Closed it.
He smiled like he’d won. “You’re forty,” you said, because apparently that was the most intelligent defense your brain could produce.
His brows lifted. “You mentioned.”
“I’m twenty-four.”
“I noticed.” You gave him a look. “That sounds suspicious.”
“It means I’m not blind anymore.”
“Oh my God.” He chuckled, low and shameless.
You crossed your arms, trying desperately not to smile. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re avoiding the question.”
“What question?”
“What time do you get off?” You looked toward your coworker, who suddenly became fascinated by organizing lens cleaner bottles.
Traitor.
You turned back to Sukuna.
“I get off at six.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s five fifty.”
“Yes.”
“I can wait ten minutes.”
“I didn’t say yes.”
“No,” he agreed. “But your eyes did.” You pointed at him. “Do not blame my eyes for your decisions.”
“I already bought the glasses.”
“That was different.”
“It was expensive.”
“You’re going to hold that over me?”
“For at least a month.” You laughed despite yourself.
His smirk softened into something that felt almost warm.
Almost.
“I’m asking for your number,” he said plainly. “And dinner.”
“Dinner?”
“Usually people eat it.”
“I know what dinner is.”
“Good. Then we’re already compatible.” You shook your head. “That is not how compatibility works.”
“How would you know? You haven’t had dinner with me.”
“You’re very confident.”
“You called me handsome.”
“One time.”
“Once was enough.” You leaned against the counter, studying him. With anyone else, this would’ve been too much. Too forward. Too cocky.
But Sukuna had the strangest balance to him.
He was arrogant, yes. Irritating, absolutely. Dramatic beyond reason. But there was something oddly honest beneath it. He didn’t fumble. Didn’t hide. Didn’t pretend his attention was anything other than what it was.
He wanted to see you.
And now, unfortunately, he literally could.
You glanced at the glasses.
“They really do look good on you.”
His expression shifted.
Smug, but pleased.
“Careful.”
“I mean professionally.”
“Liar.”
“You say that a lot.”
“You lie a lot.”
“I do not.”
“You’ve been pretending you don’t like me since last week.”
Your mouth fell open.
“I have not.”
“You have.”
“I barely know you.”
“You know I’m handsome.”
“You know, if I had known that compliment would become your entire personality, I wouldn’t have said it.”
He leaned closer, voice dipping.
“Yes, you would’ve.”
Your breath caught.
Only slightly.
Not enough for anyone else to notice.
But Sukuna noticed.
Of course he did.
His smirk returned slowly.
“There it is.” You narrowed your eyes. “There what is?”
“You like me.”
“I think you’re entertaining.”
“I’ll take it.”
“You’re also annoying.”
“I’ll take that too.”
“And dramatic.”
“I’m passionate.”
“You lost to a contact lens.”
“It cheated.” You laughed, soft and helpless, and his eyes warmed behind the lenses.
For a second, he didn’t say anything.
He just looked at you.
Actually looked.
The teasing stayed, but something quieter settled beneath it. Something that made the small space behind the optical counter feel too intimate, too close, like the whole office had dimmed except for the two of you.
Then he ruined it by saying, “You look even better now.” You blinked. “What?”
“With the glasses,” he said, tapping the side of his frame. “I can see you better.” Your coworker made another choking sound.
You shut your eyes briefly. “That is so corny.” He grinned.
Big. Sharp. Shameless.
“Oh, I’m not done.”
“Sukuna, please don’t.”
“Maybe later tonight,” he continued, completely ignoring you, “I can see you even better when it’s dark.” You stared.
He looked devastatingly proud of himself.
You stared harder.
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“It does if you want it to.”
“That was awful.”
“You’re smiling.”
“I’m horrified.”
“You’re smiling while horrified.”
“You are forty years old saying things like that in an optometry office.” He shrugged. “And you’re twenty-four laughing at them.”
“I’m laughing because they’re bad.”
“You’re laughing because you like me.”
“You are impossible.”
“Yet you’re still here.”
“I work here.”
“For another eight minutes.” You hated that you laughed again. He reached into his pocket and slid his phone onto the counter, unlocked and open to a new contact.
Smooth.
Too smooth.
Infuriatingly smooth. “Number,” he said.
You looked at the phone.
Then at him.
“You’re very demanding.”
“You like that too.”
“Do not start.”
“Then type.”
You hesitated for only a second before taking the phone.
His gaze stayed on your hands as you entered your number, saving your name simply as Y/n.
Before handing it back, you added a glasses emoji beside it.
He looked at the contact.
Then at you.
“A glasses emoji?”
“So you remember who I am.” His eyes moved slowly over your face. “I’ll remember.” Your heart did something embarrassing.
You cleared your throat and stepped back. “Wear the glasses as much as possible. Clean them with the spray, not your shirt. Don’t leave them in your car. Come back if they need adjusting.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The words should not have sounded like that.
They should not have settled low in your stomach.
You pointed at him again. “Behave.” His smile turned wicked. “You keep saying things that make me want to do the opposite.”
“You are a menace.”
“And you gave the menace your number.”
“A moment of weakness.”
“I’ll exploit it respectfully.”
“That sentence is concerning.”
He picked up the glasses case and tucked it into his jacket pocket.
Then he turned toward the door.
For one wild second, you thought he might leave without saying anything else.
But of course he didn’t.
Sukuna stopped at the entrance, looked back over his shoulder, his new glasses catching the warm afternoon light.
“I’ll text you.”
“You better not send another bad line.”
His grin widened.
“No promises, sweetheart.”
Then he left.
The door chimed softly behind him.
You stood there, cheeks warm, pulse ridiculous, staring after him like a fool.
Your coworker appeared beside you immediately.
“So,” she said.
You kept staring at the door.
“Don’t.”
“He was hot.”
“Don’t.”
“He was extremely hot.”
You covered your face.
“And the glasses?” she added. “You did that.”
You groaned.
Your phone buzzed in your pocket.
You froze.
Slowly, you pulled it out.
Unknown number.
The text read:
This is Sukuna. I can see now. Bad news for you.
Another text came in immediately after.
You’re even prettier in high definition.
You stared at the screen.
Then burst out laughing right there behind the counter.
Your coworker leaned over your shoulder.
“Oh, he’s horrible.” You typed back before you could talk yourself out of it.
That was terrible.
His reply came seconds later.
Dinner at 7? I’ll wear the glasses you bullied me into buying.
You smiled so hard your cheeks hurt.
Then you texted:
Fine. But if you call anything on the menu hideous, I’m leaving.
Three dots appeared.
Then:
No promises.
Another beat.
Wear those manipulative eyes.
You laughed again, shaking your head as you locked your phone.
And for the rest of your shift, every time you glanced toward the door, you imagined him walking back in—too tall, too cocky, too dramatic, wearing the glasses he swore he hated and looking far too handsome for your peace.
The terrible part was, you were already looking forward to seeing him again.