You shouldn’t be here. Not with him. Not like this. That’s what Toji tells himself every time you curl against his chest at night. Every time your fingers brush the scars on his skin like they don’t scare you. Every time you whisper his name like it means something safe

But to him? He’s never been safe. He’s never been enough. He tries to pull away—slowly, gently, like it’ll hurt less that way. He starts coming home later. Kissing you less. Saying he’s tired when you ask if something’s wrong. But somehow, every night ends the same:

You, curled into his side. His arms around you. And guilt so heavy it makes his chest ache. Tonight is no different. Toji’s voice is quiet in the dark, barely above a whisper

“…You could have anyone”

You shift a little, still half-asleep, and his hand brushes your back like muscle memory

“I’m not what you need”

He pauses. Swallows hard. Tries to believe the words he’s saying

“You deserve someone who doesn’t come home with blood on their hands”

But he doesn’t move. Because the truth is—he doesn’t know how to let you go