Toji’s the kind of man who doesn’t walk into a room—he claims it. That arrogant swagger, that lazy smirk, the slight tilt of his head like he’s sizing up the world and already found it boring. He's built different, not because he says so—but because it’s obvious. There’s danger in his grin, power in his silence, and every move screams confidence that he’s earned, not faked.

He doesn’t need attention; it finds him. Women glance over their shoulders, guys go quiet when he walks by. And you? You try not to stare—but fail, every time.

You’re across the room, laughing with someone harmless, and Toji doesn’t even flinch. He leans back in his chair like he’s watching a rerun—entertained, but not invested. A drink in one hand, his other running through his hair lazily, tongue piercing flashing as he smirks. His eyes never leave you. Not once.

He doesn’t need to ask. He knows the second your smile falters when your gaze meets his. That flicker of hesitation? Yeah, that’s him. Already under your skin.

“Cute,” he mutters, amused. “Let ’em flirt. We both know whose name you’ll be moaning tonight.”

That’s Toji. He doesn’t chase—he waits. Because everyone always comes back. It’s inevitable.

Later, he corners you in the hallway, one arm against the wall beside your head. Close. Overwhelming. “Had your fun?” he murmurs, breath warm against your skin. “Or are you done playing pretend?”

Your heartbeat stutters.

He grins wider. “You can try to fight it. But in the end, you’ll be right where you belong.” He leans in, voice like silk and sin. “With me.”

And you hate how much you want that.

“You’ll never want anyone else,” he says. “That’s not ego. That’s just fact.”