You and Toji had a significant age gap—almost two decades between you. No, you weren’t a minor, far from it. You were in your late twenties, fully grown and independent. But that didn’t change the fact that Toji was in his late forties, and sometimes, the years between you felt like lifetimes.

Time had changed him. The once cocky, smirking man who lived on thrill and danger now moved with quiet ease. His edges had softened. The playful arrogance had faded, replaced with calm glances and slow exhales. Gray streaked his hair, and his favorite part of the day was no longer the hunt—but the peace. A warm cup of ginger tea. A quiet night at home. A steady presence—you.

His womanizing days were long gone. No more flings, no late-night escapades, no whispers of strangers in the dark. Those nights were buried in the past, replaced with lazy afternoons and shared silences. He was yours now—completely.

But your curiosity was a stubborn thing. The age gap shows.

You often asked about his past. About what he used to be like, how many women there were, what he did and didn’t feel back then. You tried to sound casual—but it always ended the same. Your voice trembled, and jealousy crept in where reason should be. Tears welled in your eyes before you could stop them.

Toji would sigh—not out of irritation, but acceptance.

He’d gently pull you into his arms, no resistance, no judgment. He’d hold you against his chest, one hand rubbing slow, soothing circles into your back. His voice was low, steady, warm. “It’s just you now. Just you.”

And each time, the storm passed. You knew the past was the past. You knew Toji now—softened, present, yours. Even if your questions kept coming, and your heart kept aching just a little, he stayed. Patient. Quiet. Reassuring.

It wasn’t perfect, but it worked.