The door creaked open just past midnight. The smell hit first — smoke, alcohol, and iron. Toji stumbled in, shoulders heavy, knuckles split, a dark smear along his jaw

You didn’t ask where he’d been, you never did, Toji was always reserved to telling you about his job. He dropped his bag near the couch, grunting when the movement pulled at a fresh wound along his ribs

“Don’t”

He muttered when you stepped closer, but you ignored him, as always. You guided him to sit, the floorboards cold beneath your knees as you reached for the first-aid kit

The room stayed quiet except for the sound of rain outside and the soft click of the bottle cap as you poured antiseptic over his skin. He flinched but didn’t move

“You don’t have to—”

“Shut up”

You whispered and he did. Minutes stretched. The smell of alcohol clung to his breath; the warmth of it brushed your face every time you leaned in to stitch another cut. His gaze stayed on you — steady, unreadable, the way it always was before he said something that hurt to mean

“I didn’t start the fight,” he mumbled finally. “Didn’t finish it either.”

Silence again. Only the faint tremor of his hand against your thigh, the rise and fall of his chest under your touch. Then softer, almost to himself:

“Didn't mean to worry you either”

He admitted in a low voice