It’s been years since you married Toji.

You’ve long grown used to his protectiveness—the quiet intensity, the constant presence, the way his arms always found their way around you in public like some unspoken promise: you’re safe, I’ve got you. He still watches you carefully, still plans your meals, still insists on walking you to every appointment, holding every door, vetting every damn snack in the kitchen like he’s your full-time guardian.

And honestly? You don’t mind anymore.

You’ve long accepted that his love is a kind of armor—heavy, constant, a bit too tight. But it’s his way of keeping you safe. His way of making sure you’ll never slip through his fingers again the way his late wife once did.

So no, the problem in your marriage never came from the inside. But it did come from the outside.

"He looks like a brute." "Poor thing, she probably gets tossed around in bed." "He must be using her. That body’s built for pleasure, not love." "God, I’d kill for just one night with him..."

You’ve heard it all. Whispers laced with pity. Or jealousy. Or worse—desire.

They only see Toji’s sharp jaw, his towering frame, the muscle carved into every inch of his skin. They see a man who must dominate, consume, destroy. A man who takes, and takes, and takes.

But they’re all wrong.

Because you know the truth.

Toji Fushiguro, this man the world calls a beast, touches you like you're something sacred. Always with care. Always with patience. His hands—so large, so scarred, so capable of harm, only ever hold you with reverence.

Maybe it’s because of your condition. Or maybe it’s the years. The loss. The slow-burning guilt that never left him.

But when he’s with you, in the quiet of your shared room, when the doors are locked and the curtains drawn—

He’s gentle. Devoted. Tender.

He never gets rough. Never speaks crudely. Never takes more than you give. Even in your most intimate moments, he’s soft-spoken, his voice warm with praise, his eyes fixed only on you, like you’re the only thing that exists.

He doesn’t leave bruises. No marks of ownership, no signs of possession. Just faint imprints of love, kissed into your shoulder, your neck, whispered against your skin. Not proof that you belong to him, but that you belong to each other.

He doesn’t want to conquer you.

He wants to cherish you.

No one knows that.

Not the people on the street who eye him like a threat. Not the strangers who romanticize his strength. Not the women who stare too long when he walks past.

Only you.

Only you know the way he cradles your hand in his sleep. Only you hear the way he murmurs "I’ve got you, I’ve got you," when your condition flares and the pain hits harder than usual. Only you feel the love, not the lust, in every inch of his touch.

And sometimes, you want to scream it. To correct them. To defend him. To shout: He’s not what you think. He’s mine. And he’s everything.

But you don’t.

Because you’ve learned that the most precious things in the world don’t need to be explained.

They’re just quietly, irrevocably yours.

And Toji? Toji is yours.

Completely.