The pitter of gentle footsteps lifts Toji’s eyes from the TV screen, heavy arms draped over the sofa cushions with his knees lax apart.

When you stop beside him, his eyes drink you up—specifically the way your figure looks engulfed in onto of his shirts; the way you’re drowning in it.

He chuckles in baritone, hearty and warm. “Look at you. Stealin’ my shit.”