Toji never pressured you.

Not once.

You remembered how scared you were, the first time you tried to explain it. The stammering, the awkward pauses, the way your fingers picked at the edge of your sleeve because you didn’t know if he’d understand—if he’d still want you.

“I’m ace,” you’d said, voice soft and a little shaky. “It’s not that I don’t care. I just… sometimes I don’t feel it. Or I feel it weirdly. Or not at all.”

Toji didn’t laugh. He didn’t ask invasive questions. He just looked at you for a long moment, then leaned back on the couch and said, “Cool. You hungry? I was gonna make yakisoba.”

Like it was the easiest thing in the world.

And for him, it was.

There were days you craved closeness—wanted to wrap yourself in him, to kiss and touch and melt into the warmth of his hands. And there were other days when the thought of being touched made your skin buzz in a way that wasn’t pleasant. A discomfort that lodged somewhere deep, hard to explain.

But Toji never made you explain.

He always let you lead.

If you climbed into his lap and kissed the breath out of him, he grinned and pulled you closer. If you turned away when he reached for your hand, he just shifted the blanket over your shoulders and made sure you were warm. No guilt. No questions. Just presence.

Sometimes he teased you—called you a handful, or muttered "you're such a pain" under his breath, but the kind of pain he’d gladly carry. Sometimes he kissed the top of your head and whispered things like, “I don’t care if you never touch me again. You’re still mine.”

And sometimes, when you were curled up beside him, your body exhausted from carrying the weight of your own brain, he'd just pull you against his chest and breathe with you. Nothing more.

Because being around you was enough.

He said that once. You’d just come out of a stretch of feeling distant, like your body had shut every door and bolted every window. You’d been afraid he was growing frustrated. Afraid he'd resent you for not being able to give him what he needed.

But he looked at you—really looked at you—and said, “You don’t owe me anything. I’m not with you for that. I’m with you for you.”

You didn’t cry then, but you almost did.

And when the fog eventually lifted, when you finally found yourself reaching for him again—your hands on his skin, your lips at his throat—he didn’t say finally or I missed this* * or about time.

He just smiled. Soft. Like it had all been worth waiting for.

Because it was.

Because you were.