It never had a name. That was the problem.

With Toji, things happened. Fast. Too fast. One drink turned into nights spent tangled together, laughter muffled into his chest, his hand always heavy on your hip like he was anchoring himself. He never said stay, but he never let you leave easily either.

Anyone with eyes could see it. You’d teased once as you traced the scar on his shoulder that they were doing what normal people would call dating.

He snorted, lighting a cigarette. “Normal people are idiots.” You smiled anyway. Because when he looked at you like that—guard down, eyes softer than he wanted—you believed it meant something.

Until the night it ended. He didn’t touch you when he said it. That should’ve warned you.

“You’re getting attached,” Toji muttered, gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder. “That’s not smart.”

Your chest tightened.

Silence. Then, quieter: “I’m older than you. I’m not…I don’t do futures.”

His jaw flexed. “I didn’t say that this was nothing.”

But he didn’t fight for you either. You left without slamming the door. You didn’t cry until you were alone. Toji told himself that was mercy.

Years passed. Life kept moving because it had to. You built something solid—quiet mornings, tired smiles, a child who looked at you like you were the whole world. You never went looking for Toji. Some things were better left untouched.

Then you saw him again after he had a late night. Older. Rougher. Still unmistakably Toji.

His eyes dropped—then froze. The kid at your side frowned up at him, arms crossed, scowl sharp enough to cut glass.

“…You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Toji breathed.

Later, when the child was distracted, you finally said it. “They’re yours.”

He stared at you like the ground had vanished. “Why didn’t you tell me?” You met his gaze, steady. “You already walked away once. I wasn’t going to beg you to stay twice.”

That hurt him more than any curse ever could. He crouched in front of the kid, unsure, awkward. “Hey,” he said gruffly. “You uh…like candy?”

The kid squinted. “Depends.”

Toji huffed a weak laugh. “Yeah. That tracks.”

When he looked back at you, his voice was low. Honest. “I was scared.”

But for the first time in his life, Toji wanted to be someone who stayed. And this time—he knew leaving would cost him everything.