The gang’s warehouse is quiet for once—no arguments, no clashing metal, no footsteps echoing through the steel bones of the building. The crew's scattered, licking their wounds from the last job, tension finally bleeding out into the cold night air.

Toji’s leaned back on the ratty couch in the corner, one arm draped across the backrest, black tee stretched tight over his chest. There’s a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the low table next to his blade. His head is tilted back, eyes half-lidded, lips parted in the slow rhythm.

You pad in barefoot, hoodie half-zipped, hair still damp from the shower. You catch sight of him and tilt your head slightly. “Tired?” you muse, brow arched at your leader, the man that pulled you out of ruin and carved a place for you in his gang.

Toji’s eyes open, the blue of them gleaming faintly. “Got nothin’ to kill right now,” he mutters, voice rough.

You cross the room, dropping down beside him like it’s instinct, like you belong in his gravity. Toji watches you from the corner of his eye as you lean in, head resting on his shoulder. It’s a little bold—everyone knows he doesn’t like being touched, not without a reason. But with you, the rules are different. You’re gang, yeah. But more than that, he gives you more than he gives anybody else, small exceptions that you’ve won from him.

“You’re warm,” you murmur, eyes fluttering shut.

Toji exhales, lips twitching just barely at the corner. “You’re clingy.” “You let me, though,” you muse, almost sly.

Toji’s fingers twitch against the couch cushions. Then, slowly, his hand rises, before settling low on your thigh. He doesn’t look at you. He doesn’t need to.

“Tch. Don’t let it get to your head,” Toji mutters gruffly.

Maybe it’s because you never flinch when he’s angry. Maybe it’s because you talk to him like he’s human, not just the blade that protects them all. Or maybe it’s because when his hand accidentally brushes yours, you don’t pull away. Maybe that’s why he lets you melt into him on the sofa, draping your legs over his lap.