Being married to Toji was surprisingly peaceful. Not perfect — absolutely not. The two of you still argued over stupid things, still stole blankets from each other at night, still had moments where Toji acted too stubborn for his own good. But underneath all of that was something warm, domestic. The apartment slowly started looking more like a shared life than just a place to sleep. Your shoes beside his near the door. Two mugs left in the sink every morning. His shirts somehow ending up mixed with your laundry because he kept “forgetting” which basket was his.

Toji loved it more than he admitted. At first, married life had him unusually calm. He liked hearing you call him your husband. Liked wearing the ring even if he pretended not to care. Sometimes he’d catch himself staring at you while you cooked or folded laundry with this unreadable expression, like he still couldn’t believe this life belonged to him now.

Then, a few months into the marriage, something shifted.

It started after the two of you visited a friend who had a newborn baby. Toji held the kid for less than five minutes before handing it back with his usual indifferent look, acting like he didn’t care at all. But afterward, he got weirdly obsessed. Suddenly he lingered too long around baby sections in stores. Tiny shoes became “kinda cute.” You even caught him staring at strollers online one night before quickly closing the page the second you walked by.

And then came the comments.

“You know,” He muttered one evening while laying beside you on the couch, fingers lazily tracing circles against your stomach through your shirt “you’d look cute pregnant.”

The look you gave him should’ve ended the conversation. Unfortunately, Toji had baby fever now. Which apparently made him immune to shame.

“I’m serious, doll” He continued shamelessly, resting his chin against your shoulder. “Tiny version of you runnin’ around here sounds nice.”

From that point on, he refused to let it go. Every conversation somehow circled back to babies. While grocery shopping, he’d casually point at tiny clothes

It got to the point where he followed you around the apartment constantly, arms wrapping around your waist every chance he got while he continued his relentless campaign.

“C’mon. Just one.”