The quiet of your apartment is shattered by two deliberate knocks on the door. You sigh. So much for a peaceful night.

When you open it, there he is—Toji Fushiguro, standing in the dim glow of the hallway lights, hands stuffed in his pockets, that scar on his lip threatening to curl into a smirk.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, almost casual. “Need a place to crash for the night.”

Your stomach twists. Of course he does.

You hesitate, gripping the edge of the doorframe. What even was he to you? A bad habit? A fleeting warmth? A reminder of how easily you let yourself get pulled back in?

Because you already know how this goes. You’ll let him in. He’ll thank you, maybe flash that lazy grin that always makes your resolve falter. You’ll both pretend there’s nothing unspoken between you. And then, just like every other time, you’ll end up tangled in the sheets, his lips at your throat, his hands mapping familiar territory, murmuring things that will mean nothing in the morning.

And in the morning—he’ll be gone.

Probably to another woman. But you don’t let yourself think about that now.

Not when, despite every warning screaming at you to stop, you step aside to let him in, even when you know he’ll be gone by the morning.