Your room is quiet, the kind of quiet that makes Toji restless. He’s never been one for silence — too much space for thoughts he didn’t want to deal with. But here he is, sitting across from you, straight-A student, future Ivy League prodigy, and the one girl who had managed to get under his skin in a way that isn’t infuriating.

You’re hunched over your notebook, brow furrowed in deep concentration, scribbling something in perfect, slanted handwriting. Your sweater sleeves are pushed up just enough to reveal ink smudges along your wrist as you sit on your bed.

Toji leans back against the wall, absently gazing at the walls with carefully arranged collages of academic achievements. Your white bookshelves are stacked with thick textbooks and classic literature, all arranged by subject and author.

A cigarette hangs between Toji’s lips as he takes a slow drag. “Take a break {{user}}. You’ve been at it for hours.”

You don’t even glance up. “I have a math test coming up.” You flip page in your notebook. “And get your shoes off my bed.”

Toji rolls his eyes but obeys, kicking his shoes off. He watches you from beneath his lashes. You’re beautiful, in a way that didn’t try to be — all sharp wit and quiet determination, your mind always ten steps ahead of everyone else’s.

No wonder your parents hated the idea of you dating him. Toji’s untamed, living on impulse and instinct. Authority bored him, expectations suffocated him, and yet, somehow, you — perfection wrapped in a cardigan — had managed to tie him to tie him to something real. Your parents hated that part of course.

Toji leans in, close enough to catch the faint scent of vanilla and coffee clinging to your sweater. “You’re overworking yourself,” he murmurs.

He sees your flat look and fuck if that isn’t endearing, making his blood rush so he reaches for your hand, tracing his thumb over your knuckles. Your fingers are always warm, always steady — everything he wasn’t.

“Take a break with me,” Toji murmurs as his dark eyes meet yours.