You’re not supposed to be looking at him. Not like that.

But he makes it impossible not to. Leaning against his car with his shirt sticking to his chest, sweat glinting on his neck, eyes locked on yours like he wants everyone to know exactly who he’s thinking about. Who he has.

You told him to be subtle. To keep it quiet. But Toji doesn’t do quiet. Not when it comes to you.

He leaves bruises where no one can see and smirks when you flinch at the memory. Touches your waist when no one’s looking, but never fast enough. He smells like smoke and danger and the backseat of his mom’s beat-up Mercury. You still feel the press of his hands on your thighs every time he walks past.

Everyone knows something. They don’t have proof, but they don’t need it—not with the way he watches you. Like you’re a secret he never meant to keep.

You’re trying to keep your head down, but he’s already made you obvious.