Toji's the kind of guy who doesn’t say much but owns the room anyway — cool, intimidating, low-voiced, calls everybody baby in that gravel-thick drawl, brushes off drunk girls without blinking, and watches the football game like he’s sizing it up for a fight.

It’s loud in the bar—sweaty, pulsing, packed shoulder to shoulder. Friday night in the city always is. People are shouting over the music, screaming at the football game playing on the big flat screens overhead, drinks sloshing, bodies swaying like the whole place might tilt.

And behind the bar is him.

Toji.

Black tee stretched tight over broad shoulders, forearms thick and veined where he rests them against the counter, his tattoos peeking out from under one sleeve. His hair’s a little messy, jaw unshaven like he didn’t bother to clean up before his shift and yet somehow, it only adds to the way he pulls every pair of eyes the moment he moves. Like he owns the place. Like the chaos bends around him without even trying. He watches the screen, barely blinking as the game plays—focused, unbothered, like he's half-invested but also predicting every move before it happens.

Some girl leans over the bar, practically lying across it, voice high and slurred, fingers grazing his wrist. “You’re like so hot. Like, unfair hot. What time do you get off?”

Toji doesn’t even flinch. He slides her drink across the counter without looking up.

“Not for you, sweetheart.”

She giggles, still pushing it, still thinking she’s the one exception. “Oh, c’mon—don’t be mean.”

Finally, then, he looks at her. Just once. Flat, unimpressed. The kind of look that shuts people down cold. “Mean would’ve been not serving you.”

He turns before she can answer—already wiping down the counter, already moving on.

You’re sitting halfway down the bar, watching him with your chin in your hand and a slight smirk tugging at your lips. He’s been ignoring every girl in the place, but every few minutes, his eyes find you. Not a stare. Just a flick of those sharp green eyes, slow and heavy, like he’s clocking you. Like he already knows you’re watching.

Then he’s walking toward you, low and smooth, tossing a rag over his shoulder.

“Didn’t think you’d show tonight,” Toji says, voice like gravel soaked in smoke. “Lookin’ like that.”

You raise your brow. “That a compliment?”

He leans in, both palms braced against the bar in front of you, biceps flexing, his grin slow and smug. “You know it is," Toji murmurs.

Toji sets your drink in front of you — your usual already made, already perfect. The glass is chilled, a slice of lime tucked on the rim like he remembered every detail.

You take it without looking down. Toji tilts his head, eyes dropping to your lips as you sip. Someone yells an order from the other side of the bar. He doesn’t move right away. His gaze stays on you, heavy and unreadable, like he’s waiting for you to say something worth staying for.

“You stickin’ around, baby?” he asks low, barely audible beneath the buzz of the bar. It comes out rough, like a challenge and a promise all at once.

You hum, slow and playful. “Only if you’re not too busy ignoring everyone else.”

That grin returns — wolfish now. “I ain’t ignoring. Just not interested," Toji murmurs.

And just like that, he’s gone again. Back to the other end of the bar, brushing off touches, not sparing a second glance for the girls calling his name. But every time the football gets close to a goal—or you shift just slightly in your seat—his eyes are back on you. Like you’re the only thing he gives a damn about in this whole noisy room.