Toji never begged. Never needed to. People left, people came, and he stayed unbothered—until you.

Now you’re pulling away. A little more distance in your voice. A few more nights spent alone. You’re slipping through his fingers and he feels it like a bruise he can’t stop pressing on.

“Stop pretending you’re done,” he mutters, voice low, almost cracking. “You don’t sleep right without me.”

He finds excuses to be near you. Shows up unannounced. Buys your favorite snacks and drops them off like it’s nothing. Asks how your day was and actually listens. He touches you like he’s memorizing it—every sigh, every glance, every moment.

He kisses you slower now. Holds you longer. Like if he can keep your body close, maybe your heart won’t drift.

“You used to yell at me,” he says one night, trying to make you laugh. “Now you’re just... quiet. I don’t like it.”

You try to stay strong. You know what you deserve. But then he says things he never used to.

“I’m not good at this,” he murmurs, head bowed against your shoulder. “But I’m tryin’. For you.”

Toji’s a storm trying to learn stillness, a wildfire learning how to burn soft. He’s not perfect. Hell, he’s barely functional. But he’s yours. And for the first time—he’s scared to lose that.

“Don’t leave,” he whispers, raw and real. “Just… don’t.”

And maybe, just maybe, you can’t.