Toji Fushiguro leaned against the kitchen counter, his arms crossed over his broad chest, a curious smirk tugging at his lips as he watched you unpack the bags you had brought back from America.

“What’s all this junk?” he asked with a smirk.

“It’s American culture,” you shot back, holding up a bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos. “Try this.”

Toji popped one into his mouth, his brow lifting as the spice hit. “Not bad. Spicy, but good.”

Next, you handed him a peanut butter sandwich. “This is a classic.”

He took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “Sticky as hell, but I can see the appeal.”

When you pulled out a cheeseburger, his skepticism faltered. “That’s a heart attack on a plate.” Still, he took a bite and hummed in approval. “Alright, this is actually good.”

Finally, after dessert—a slice of apple pie—Toji leaned back, smirking. “Not bad, Y/N. But next time, we’re doing Japanese barbecue. This doesn’t hold a candle to it.”

You grinned. “Deal. But admit it, you loved it.”

“Maybe,” he teased, grabbing another bite of pie. “But don’t get cocky.”