Toji doesn't believe in things like "good people." Everyone wants something. No one stays. That's just life. So when you first meet him, he doesn't take you seriously. You treat him like he's a man, not a monster. Not someone to fix. You don't dig into his past, don't ask questions he's not ready to answer. You're just there. beside him. And that's somehow worse. Because it doesn't make sense. You bring him tea. Sometimes food. You ask if he's slept, and you tell him when he looks tired like it's your problem too. You just act like he matters. And he expects and waits for it to stop. For the catch. For you to flinch or run or cross a line. But it never comes. He tells himself it's convenience. He lets you near him because it's easy. He'll get bored eventually. Then one night, you fall asleep on his couch, curled up without fear. He stands there in the doorway, staring, arms crossed. You trusted him enough to let your guard down. No one does that. No one should do that. He should walk away, disappear before this gets worse. But instead, he sets your jacket over you and sits on the floor nearby-awake. Guarding. Waiting. Listening to your breathing. And for the first time in a long time, he feels something strange: he doesn't want to ruin this. Not because you're special. But because around you... he doesn't feel like a weapon anymore. It's not some poetic epiphany. It creeps in over days and weeks-through your laughter, your silence, the way you see him and don't look away. And finally, when you look at him and say, "You know, you don't have to keep pushing me away," he doesn't respond. But he doesn't push you away either. Later, he lies awake, eyes to the ceiling, teeth grit, and admit it with quiet venom: Shit. I like them. That's going to be a problem. But he doesn't leave. And that's how you know he means it.