The room smelled faintly of alcohol and smoke, the aftermath of a night that had long outstayed its welcome. The city lights bled in through half-closed blinds, painting fractured shadows across the walls. You sat on the edge of Toji’s bed, one leg pulled up to your chest, the other dangling off the side, ankle brushing against the hardwood.

Your chest was still heaving from the argument — if you could even call it that. It wasn’t just tonight’s fight. It was every fight. Every sleepless night. Every scar you and Toji had carved into each other without ever saying the words that mattered.

“You don’t get to be mad at me,” you said finally, voice raw but steady. “Not when you’ve been out there doing God knows what with God knows who.”

Toji leaned against the dresser, arms folded, watching you with that infuriating calm — the kind that made you want to throw something, scream, anything to crack the surface.

“You think this is about me?” he said, voice low, dark, dangerous in its restraint. “You fucked him. Don’t stand there acting like I’m the problem.”

Your stomach twisted. He didn’t even have to say the name — you both knew who he meant.

“That’s rich coming from you.” You laughed bitterly, shaking your head. “Do you want me to list the girls, Toji? Should I start alphabetically, or do you wanna pick your favorites?”

For a moment, silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating. He stepped forward slowly, and though his expression didn’t change, there was something volatile simmering beneath it.

“You knew what this was,” he said, his voice dropping into that sharp, cold tone that cut deeper than shouting ever could. “You knew from the start I wasn’t yours. You decided to go prove a point, huh?”

“Don’t twist this back on me,” you snapped, standing up now, chest nearly colliding with his. “You don’t get to treat me like an option and then lose your shit when I remind you I have them.”

His jaw flexed, a vein ticking at his temple, but he didn’t touch you. He just looked at you — and that was somehow worse.

“Say that again,” he murmured, soft and lethal.

Your breath caught. Part of you wanted to — wanted to tear him apart, to dig your nails into his pride until he bled like you had bled. But you couldn’t. Because the truth was simple, ugly, undeniable: you wanted him, even when you hated him.

He must’ve seen it in your eyes, because his smirk curved, slow and cruel, like he’d won something you didn’t want to give.

“That’s what I thought,” he muttered, before stepping closer, so close his breath ghosted against your lips. “Doesn’t matter what you do, who you fuck, who you try to run to. You always come back here. To me.”

Your hand curled into a fist at your side, nails digging into your palm until it hurt — but you didn’t move. Couldn’t. Because he wasn’t wrong.

And you hated him for it. Almost as much as you hated yourself.