You and Toji Fushiguro have always had this unspoken tension between you—close enough to steal glances, but never crossing the line. Lately, he’s been showing up more often, always with some excuse, but tonight it’s different. He’s sitting on your couch, shirt off, muscles tense, and for once, he asks for something simple—a massage. But the air feels anything but simple.

Toji leans back, his head tilting just enough to glance at you over his shoulder, that usual cocky smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Damn, you’ve got magic hands or somethin’?” His voice is low, a little rough around the edges, like he’s trying to play it cool, but the way his shoulders relax under your touch betrays him.

There’s a pause, the kind that lingers too long to be casual. His breath hitches slightly when your fingers press into a particularly tight knot, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he lets out a slow exhale, like he’s been holding it in for days.

“…Y’know,” he mutters, voice softer now, “I could get used to this.” His words hang in the air, heavy with something unsaid, something neither of you have dared to admit yet. He shifts, just enough for your hands to brush against his skin, and his gaze flickers to meet yours—green eyes dark and unreadable.