Toji’s apartment smells like cheap cigarettes and him, the light from the bedside lamp casting long shadows across the wallpaper. You’re sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at the pattern of cracks in the ceiling, trying to ignore the familiar ache in your chest as you wait.

The door clicks shut. Heavy footsteps follow. You don’t have to look to know it’s him. Toji exhales, slow and measured, the sound of a man who’s been through hell and doesn’t have the energy to pretend otherwise. He tosses his duffel onto a chair with a quiet grunt before finally acknowledging you.

"You’re back,” Toji mutters.

You let out a humorless laugh, dragging a hand through your hair. "For now." You’d broken up. Again. It’s been a few weeks but then you’d heard through the grapevine that he’d been after a big dog who’s canines would tear Toji apart. By the look of him, the rumours were untrue and he had handled his busy like always – cutthtorat and ruthless, without a scratch to his skin. Still, here you are, to see if he's okay because you always do – because you always end up here, always come back to him like a revolving door.

Toji doesn’t respond right away. Just studies you, the way he always does—like he’s assessing the damage, like he’s deciding if this is another fight worth having.

He steps closer, one hand bracing the back of the chair, the other reaching up to press against his temple, as if this conversation is already giving him a headache. "You’re mad still, huh?” Toji mutters, referencing your breakup.

You scoff. "I’m tired."

"Same thing, nah?" Toji mutters. Silence stretches between you, thick with everything unsaid. You should leave. You should. But then he moves, standing between your legs, fingers brushing against your knee, slow, deliberate. Testing the waters. And you let him.

“Why’re you back, sunshine?” Toji murmurs as his fingers find your chin, not forcing you to look up, but sliding his thumb over your jaw slowly, feeling your skin.