No one knew.

Not his friends—what few he had. Not your coworkers. Not the strangers in the building who still looked at Toji like he was dangerous, dominant, untouchable. Not even the clerk at the corner store who always nodded respectfully at him like he radiated alpha energy.

And that was exactly how he wanted it.

To the world, Toji Fushiguro was still an alpha. Stoic. Unbothered. Built like a weapon and twice as cold. His scent-blockers worked overtime, his heat suppressants mixed and measured with ruthless efficiency. Even you still called him your roommate in public.

But behind closed doors?

He was yours.

You never forced him. Never asked him to submit, never made him speak the truth out loud. You let him pretend, because the mask was his armor. And Toji was a warrior who didn’t know how to take it off.

But when the door shut—when the scent of you filled the apartment, warm and calm and peach-sweet—he unraveled.

He didn’t ask permission to curl up against your chest, to bury his face into your neck, to mumble soft, inaudible things into your skin like a prayer. He just did.

He never said, “I’m yours.”

But he showed it in the way he curled his fingers around the hem of your shirt when he slept beside you. In the way he flinched when you pulled away, even for a second. In the way he leaned into your touch like a man starved for softness.

You gave him that softness.

You held him through the aftershocks of bonding—the phantom heat still lingering in his blood, the emotional vulnerability that came with letting someone in. You didn’t smother. You didn’t hover. You let him come to you, and gods, did he come.

“Toji,” you whispered one night, when he’d slid into your bed in silence, shirtless and flushed, the bond tugging at him like gravity. “You okay?”

He didn’t answer at first.

Then, with a quiet rasp, “Just need you.”

So you wrapped your arms around him. Let him press into you, nose buried in your collarbone, thighs tangled with yours. You stroked his back, slow and patient, until his trembling settled.

In the morning, he was back to normal.

Grumpy. Distant. Growling about how you snored (you didn’t). Pretending like he hadn’t clung to you all night like his life depended on it.

You didn’t call him out.

You just poured his tea the way he liked it and went about your day.

Because you knew the truth:

Toji Fushiguro could pretend to be an alpha in public all he wanted.

But in your arms?

He was safe enough to be himself.