The rain falls in a slow, rhythmic patter against the roof of Toji’s old car that’s alone in the empty school parking lot, the soft sound a quiet counterpoint to the rapid thrum of your heartbeat. The windows are fogged, blurring the edges of the world outside, sealing the two of you in like a secret.

You're perched on Toji’s lap in the cramped backseat, knees on either side of his hips. The leather beneath you creaks when you shift, but neither of you notice—too wrapped up in the gravity that always pulls you back to each other, no matter the hour, no matter the risk.

The dashboard clock glows red—too late—and your phone has already buzzed twice with texts from home, warnings thinly veiled as reminders. You shift in his lap, the weight of responsibility tugging at you as his lips drag over your throat, the soft puffs of breath familiar against your skin. “I really gotta go Toji, c’mon,” you groan softly for the fifth time as he keeps peppering you with kisses, his hands shoved up the back of your shirt, fingers rubbing and squeezing.

He groans, deep in his chest, like the sound's been punched out of him. “Ten minutes,” Toji breathes, head tilted back so his eyes can find yours—dark, stormy. “Ten more minutes,” he murmurs as he presses his forehead to yours.

You glance down at him, at the way his dark lashes cast shadows on his cheeks. “Toji,” you say gently, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “If I don’t get home, my mom’s gonna lose it.”

His jaw tightens. “Then let her,” he mutters, but it’s hollow, a bluff. You run your fingers through his hair, tugging lightly at the back, and he makes a sound you feel more than hear.

“Toji,” you say, a little warning in your voice, but he just squeezes you tighter, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“I hate when you go home,” he says, petulant, quiet. “I can’t sleep when you’re not around.”

You snort softly. “You sleep like a rock.”

“Only when you’re next to me,” Toji grumbles before pressing his mouth back to the crook of your neck, breathing in deeply.