Chapter 4: The Kitchen Confrontation
The kitchen light buzzed, a dying insect trapped in the fixture. Mizuki stood with her back to the sink, her fingers curling around the cool porcelain edge. She could still smell them on the air—the burnt sugar scent of Sukuna’s cologne, and layered underneath, the sharp, clean perfume Megumi always wore. It was in the curtains. It was on the spoon she’d just picked up.
Sukuna rummaged in the fridge, his broad back blocking the light. “You’re quiet,” he said, not turning around. “Boring quiet, not peaceful quiet.”
“I’m thinking,” Mizuki said. Her voice sounded thin, even to her.
“Dangerous pastime.” He emerged with a beer, cracking it open on the counter’s edge. The hiss was aggressively loud.
She watched his throat work as he drank. She remembered the sound he’d made last night, a low groan she’d felt through the wall more than heard. She’d lain stiff in the guest bed, staring at the ceiling, telling herself it was the anime, it was just the TV. The rhythmic thudding had been someone moving furniture. It had to be.
“Where’s Megumi?” she asked.
“Shower.” He leaned against the counter, those crimson eyes flicking over her. “Why? You miss her?”
The sarcasm was a blade, always turned toward her. She took a breath. “Sukuna. Last night. After I went to bed.”
He took another swig. “Yeah?”
“I heard… noises. From your room.”
One eyebrow arched. “Old building. Pipes knock. The neighbor’s a fat fuck who drops his weights at midnight.” He grinned, all teeth. “What, you think I was having a party without you?”
He was so smooth. So practiced. The knot in her chest, the one that had been tightening for months, pulled until she couldn’t breathe around it. “It wasn’t pipes.” Her words came out in a rush, soft but desperate. “And it’s not just the noises. It’s… it’s everything. The way she looks at me. The way she’s always on you. She’s wearing your shirt right now, Sukuna. The black one with the torn collar. I bought you that shirt.”
He looked down at his own chest, as if just noticing. “She gets cold.”
“She’s not a child.” Mizuki’s hands were trembling. She pressed them flat against her thighs. “You carry her to bed. You feed her off your fork. You look at her like… like she hung the goddamn moon. You never look at me like that. Not anymore.”
For a second, something flickered in his eyes—not guilt, but a flash of warning, like the sudden silence before a thunderclap. Then it was gone, buried under a wave of casual cruelty. “Here we go,” he sighed, rolling his eyes. “The pathetic jealousy routine. I told you, she’s my sister. My blood. You’re just some girl I’m dating. Get your priorities straight, Mizuki.”
Just some girl.
The words hung in the air, more final than a slap. The truth she’d been dodging finally stood bare in the flickering light. She was a placeholder. A audience.
The bathroom door down the hall opened with a soft click. Steam billowed out first, carrying the scent of Megumi’s body wash. Then she appeared, a silhouette in the haze, padding barefoot into the hallway. The oversized black shirt—his shirt—draped to the middle of her thighs. Her hair was damp, spiky points clinging to her neck. She didn’t glance at Mizuki.
Her blue eyes found Sukuna and immediately softened, her lips curving into a possessive little smile. “Kuna-nii,” she said, her voice a sleepy murmur. “The towel’s all wet. I couldn’t dry my hair right.”
She walked into the kitchen as if Mizuki were a ghost, crossing the space to stand directly in front of her brother. She turned, presenting her back to him, and leaned her damp head against his chest. “Do it for me?”
Sukuna didn’t hesitate. He set the beer down. He picked up the dishtowel hanging on the oven handle—the one Mizuki had folded that morning—and began to rub Megumi’s hair with a rough, familiar tenderness. His fingers worked through the short spikes, his other hand resting casually on her shoulder, his thumb stroking the bare skin of her collarbone.
Megumi hummed, cat-like, pressing back into him. Over her head, Sukuna’s eyes met Mizuki’s. There was no apology there. No shame. There was a challenge. A dare.
This was the picture. This was their normal. Mizuki was the smear on the lens.
“You’re getting the floor wet, you brat,” Sukuna said, his voice dropping into a tone Mizuki never heard—warm, teasing, intimate.
“You’ll clean it up, nii-chan,” Megumi replied, twisting to look up at him. Her shirt gaped, and she made no move to close it. “You always do.”
The world snapped into a terrible, clear focus. The humming light. The scent of steam and perfume. The way his hand had slid, just last night, up a bare thigh that was not Mizuki’s. The wet sounds she’d tried to explain away. It was all here, in this brightly lit kitchen, performing itself in front of her without a hint of disguise.
Mizuki took a step back. Her hip bumped the counter. The pain was distant, irrelevant.
Sukuna saw the movement. “What?” he asked, the warmth evaporating. “You got a problem with me helping my sister?”
Megumi turned her head, just slightly, resting her cheek against Sukuna’s sternum. Her blue eyes, cold and utterly calm, locked onto Mizuki. A tiny, triumphant smile played on her lips. She said nothing. She didn’t have to.
The last of Mizuki’s resolve, the last of her love, curdled and went silent. The knot in her chest didn’t loosen; it dissolved into a hollow, aching void. She wasn’t jealous anymore. She was a witness. And she was done.
“No,” Mizuki said, her voice suddenly, terribly calm. “No problem at all.”
She walked out of the kitchen. Her steps were even on the linoleum. She didn’t look back. She collected her bag from the hook by the door, her coat from the chair. From the kitchen, she heard a low laugh—Megumi’s—and the rustle of the towel. Sukuna didn’t call after her.
The front door closed behind her with a soft, final click. Outside, the afternoon air was bracing and clean. She stood on the step, breathing it in. Inside, the flickering kitchen light went on buzzing, and the living room TV murmured to an audience of two, warm and tangled and complete.