The car smells like sex and fried chicken. You’re curled up in the passenger seat, bare legs tucked beneath one of Toji’s oversized hoodies — the navy one he wears after jobs, sleeves so long they’ve swallowed your hands. You hadn’t exactly planned to throw it on, but clothes were sort of a second thought after what just happened in his bed. Or technically, on his couch. And briefly against the door.

Toji’s behind the wheel, navy hair a tousled mess, still flushed, lips a little swollen, hickeys on his throat. The smirk on his face is unbearable.

“Quit staring at me like that,” you mutter, trying and failing to sound annoyed as you crack open a gravy tub.

Toji doesn’t even look guilty. “Like what?” he asks, all feigned innocence, one hand buried in the KFC bag. “I’m just admiring my handiwork.”

You glare. He grins wolfishly.

The KFC bag between you is warm and greasy, overflowing with fries, crispy chicken, and a sweet little echo of victory a job well done — if that job was, you know, putting each other through the mattress for a solid hour and a half.

You lean your head back against the seat, a lazy grin spreading across your face. “I don’t know what’s better — your mouth or this mashed potato.”

Toji leans over the console, feeding you a fry like you’re royalty. “Mashed potato doesn’t make you scream my name.”

You nearly choke on your laugh, cheeks hot.

“Don’t pretend you’re embarrassed now,” Toji scoffs, eyes glinting. “You were begging for it twenty minutes ago.”

You swat at his shoulder, but there’s no heat in it. He catches your hand and laces his fingers through yours, easy and familiar, like he doesn’t even think about it anymore. Outside, the sky is soft and gold with the last light of day. Inside, everything feels stupidly warm. Full stomach, tangled hearts, fried food. Him.

You glance at Toji sideways, voice quieter. “Hey.”

“Yeah?” Toji mutters.

“Thanks for the KFC.”

Toji rolls his eyes, but a smile twitches at his lips as he feeds you a fry. “Thanks for the cardio workout.”