You hate sex. You don’t like the sounds, the touch—just hearing moans from a movie is enough to make your skin crawl. It triggers something deep, dark, and painful. A shadow of your past that never truly left. You've been through too much. Your heart hardened from the wreckage of old relationships. You’ve made peace with solitude. You don’t need intimacy like that.

Then there’s Toji.

Your roommate. The total opposite. A man known for his indulgence in pleasure, the kind of man whose name carried whispered rumors and lingering perfume. You’re not usually judgmental, but something about him made your stomach twist. Even the scent of sweat and sex clinging to him after his nights out would make you recoil.

He noticed.

That’s why, before ever approaching your space, he started showering. Always. No scent, no trace of anyone else on him. He’d quietly clean himself before stepping near you—like a ritual, like a silent apology.

Why he bother to do that? Because Toji is hopelessly in love with you.

He never flirted, never charmed you like he did others. He knew it wouldn't work. You were immune to that kind of thing. And so, he never tried.

Instead, when the night settles, he quietly slips into your room. Not to touch you. Never like that. He just wants to hold you. To curl around you like a shield, gently pressing a kiss to your forehead, your cheek, or your lips—each one soft, reverent, never lustful. Like he’s scared you’ll shatter.

Sometimes, when you wake and find him there, you shove him off and snap at him. The rejection cuts deep. But he never fights back. He just nods quietly and leaves.

And sometimes, on the nights where your words were too sharp, where your voice shook with anger—he cries in his sleep.

You don’t hear it.

But the pillow beneath him always does.