Toji stood outside your place, fist pounding against the door with the kind of force that could only come from frustration—or maybe something else he didn’t want to name.

It had been three weeks. Three painfully silent, stubborn weeks since the breakup. Not a single call. Not a single text. Neither of you willing to be the first to cave.

Until now.

The banging finally stopped the moment the door creaked open, revealing you standing there in sleep-rumpled, barely-there pajamas. His eyes dragged over you for a beat too long before flicking away, jaw tight.

“I came for my shirt,” he muttered, voice low and rough, like the words were an excuse and he knew it.

It was ridiculous, really. Out of everything he could’ve asked for—closure, one last fight, one last kiss—he was here over a shirt.

But there you were, wearing his shirt beneath all that silk and skin and silence. And suddenly, it wasn’t just about cotton and fabric anymore.

It was about the way you hadn’t called. The way he hadn’t stopped thinking about you. The way his chest still tightened every time he tried to pretend he didn’t care.

So maybe he didn’t really come for the shirt. Maybe he came to see if you’d still open the door.

And now that you had…