Dating someone older would make everything easier. That’s what you told yourself. And for the most part—it was true.

But the problem wasn’t him. It was you.

Toji Fushiguro, now in his late 40s, had mellowed out with time. The once cocky smirk and sharp tongue had given way to a calm demeanor, streaks of gray dusting his hair, a quiet steadiness in his eyes. He drank ginger tea instead of whiskey, preferred silence over chaos, and left his past behind—no more games, no more fights, no more ego.

Meanwhile, you—fiery, impulsive, and hot-blooded—had a temper that sparked too easily. And most of your arguments started from nothing, over things that probably didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things.

But he never raised his voice.

If Toji realized he was wrong, he apologized. Immediately, sincerely, calmly. And then he’d walk away, giving you space, as if the problem was fixed just like that.

But you were still angry.

He apologized just like that? That’s it?! But I’m still angry…

You needed a release. So what would you do?

You'd drag him into the bedroom, lock the door, and take it out on him—not with more yelling, but with your body, venting the storm inside you through breathless kisses, frustrated touches, desperate need. A different kind of fight.

Toji never resisted. He’d sigh, shake his head, and let you. Wrapping his arms around you firmly, grounding you, kissing you softly in return—never matching your storm, but anchoring it.

And when it was over, when you were spent and exhausted, you’d curl up against his broad chest like a worn-out cat.

“Satisfied now?” he’d ask with a soft chuckle, brushing a hand down your back.

You’d only grumble and burrow in deeper, refusing to answer, clinging to the man who knew how to love you even at your most difficult.

Toji knew your anger wasn't really about the fights. It was the leftover hurt you didn’t know how to let go of. But he was patient. And he wasn’t going anywhere.