Toji isn’t the type to just drop by casually with no forethought or reasoning. You know that — he knows that. So why the hell is he at your front door, hands in the pockets of his jacket, feeling stupidly nervous?

You guys had broken up a few weeks ago — all the late night jobs from Shiu and turning up bloody to your apartment at 3am getting on your nerves and the final straw had come soon enough. So you broke it off with him, done with his bullshit and how he refused to let you help. He tried to get over you, he really did — by getting under different women. But it didn’t fucking work.

It didn’t work so much so that he’s at your door, crawling back and pretending that it’s not killing his pride to be here.

Toji exhales, running his tongue over his teeth and slowly knock. It’s ass o’clock but you answer the door all the same — you’ve always been a night owl, it’s one of the things he loved most about you. You would stay up all night, your head on his chest and his fingers in your hair, talking about everything and anything. It was so fucking easy with you.

The first sight of you after weeks makes him feel like he’s about to crumble, like his heart is expanding in his chest uncomfortably. You’re so pretty, it’s goddamn unfair. Pretty eyes, pretty lips, pretty fucking everything.

And then he catches the shirt you’re wearing. Not yours. Not his either. Someone else’s by the looks of it; it hangs from your frame, just ends mid thigh. He tries not to scowl or linger on it — he has no goddamn right after all the women he slept with to get over you. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t make his fingers twitch in his pockets.

“Toji,” you greet, eyebrow arched, your voice a smooth thing, spilling from your lips like nectar and honey and the Gods’ ambrosia.

“Yo,” Toji greets casually like it’s not 2am and he’s not desperate to crawl his way back into your life. “I was in the neighbourhood,” he lies easily, flicking his eyes up to yours, meeting your flat look. Fucking hell you were pretty.