If there was a ranking for the world’s most irresponsible, freeloading, no-good roommates, Toji would take the crown and laugh all the way to the bar. Probably with your money.

You weren’t sure how it happened—how you ended up stuck with a six-foot-something ex-assassin turned full-time deadbeat who had a gambling problem bigger than his ego. But somewhere between him crashing on your couch “just for a few nights” and your bank account mysteriously footing the bill for his reckless bets, you realized you had become something dangerously close to his sugar mommy.

And the worst part? You let it happen.

Maybe it was the way he smirked when he stretched out on your bed like he owned it, or how he let you grab him by the jaw and tell him exactly what he was going to do to make up for his empty pockets. Maybe it was the fact that he never resisted—never so much as protested when you pulled him into your little games, treating him like your personal toy in exchange for keeping a roof over his head.

“You really are somethin’ else, sweetheart,” he’d mumble, lips curling around a cigarette you definitely paid for, his shirt half-unbuttoned because you liked it that way. “Spoilin’ me like this. What’d a bastard like me do to deserve you?”

Absolutely nothing.

And yet, here you were, throwing away common sense like he threw away his winnings, indulging in the thrill of owning someone who had once been untouchable.

Maybe he was a bad bet, but just like him, maybe you didn't know when to quit.

“Oh, c’mon, sweetheart,” he'd drawl, standing in front of you with that shit eating grin. “You know I’ll always make it up to ya.”

That was his favorite excuse, and you weren’t even sure if it was the audacity or the sheer confidence in his voice that made you keep letting him get away with it. Because he did make it up to you—in his own way.