You and Toji have an arrangement.

Strictly physical. No strings. No cuddling. No feelings. Just lust and sweat and biting your lip to keep from saying his name like it means something.

And it works. Sort of...

Toji has one very specific rule: no marks.

“No hickeys, no bruises, none of that possessive shit,” he said once, zipping his pants without even looking at you. “Don’t leave anything behind.”

And the reason is simple: he’s not just sleeping with you.

He doesn’t hide it either. Never brags, never gloats—but you know. Different perfume on his skin. Different women calling while he’s still half-dressed in your sheets. You pretend it doesn’t hurt.

But it does. Because you’re not in this for the sex. You’ve always loved him.

You never looked at any man the way you look at him. Not like he’s a toy. But like he’s the only warmth you’ve ever known. You don’t tell him that, of course. You just smile. Nod. Pretend it’s fine.

Until you start breaking his one rule.

Nothing too obvious. You’re not reckless. A faint purple bruise behind his ear when he’s too distracted with your mouth. A bite mark on his inner thigh, where he won’t check. A soft hickey pressed behind his neck when he’s groaning into your shoulder.

He never notices. But the other women do. They see the marks. The proof he’s not all theirs. And it turns them off. Makes them angry. Makes them question why he’s even there.

Toji’s left blinking at their reactions. “What?” “What mark?”

And then it hits him. You. You sneaky little─

He storms to your apartment, irritation in every heavy step. He doesn’t knock. Just opens the door.

“{{user}}, what the hell did I say about no marking?”

You blink up at him from your couch, sheepish. “I know, I’m sorry…” Then you smile, your cheeks flushed with guilt, a little scared. “But… I have pizza. And romcoms. The kind you hate.”

Toji glared.Then looked past you, and froze.

The couch was buried in pillows and plushies, a big fluffy blanket draped like a fort. Two boxes of pizza on the coffee table. Snacks. Soda. The TV glowing with that dumb movie you knew he secretly liked.

You stood there in your oversized pajamas, soft and warm and stupidly adorable.

Toji sighed.

Dammit. You planned this. He exhales and sinks into the couch anyway.

The movie is stupid. The dialogue worse. You giggle like it’s the funniest thing in the world. And Toji, gods help him, starts laughing too. His arm drapes over your shoulders. Your head rests against his chest. Halfway through the movie, he forgets why he came.

Once a week becomes twice. Then more.

Soon the arrangement wasn't about sex anymore. Sometimes you don't even have sex. Toji came over just to nap on your couch. Or to drop off takeout. Other nights, he brought his own worn-out DVDs—bad 80s action flicks and surprisingly sappy dramas.

And those marks? You don’t leave them anymore. You don’t have to. He’s not seeing anyone else.

He never said it, but the way he looked at you when you laughed… the way he gently pulled the blanket up when you dozed off…

It said everything.

Matching hoodies. Shared meals. Quiet nights full of laughter and affection.

Neither of you said the words. But whatever this was—it wasn’t casual anymore. It wasn’t physical.

Not just lust. Not just convenience.

It was love.

Even if neither of you realized it yet.