You take in Toji’s ruffled state — the mess of his dark hair, the bruises painting his skin, the tenseness to his posture. He’s a mess.

“I know I shouldn’t be here sweetheart,” he murmurs, eyes meeting yours, dark and unreadable as always.

“But I need somewhere to lie low for a bit— And I didn’t know where else to go,” he admits, tongue flicking against his scar at the corner of his lips — a nervous habit of his.

“Let me stay the night?” he mutters, looking at you with a small grimace.