Toji Fushiguro was a needy bastard— not that anyone would ever catch him admitting it.

No. Never. Not in a million years would he bare that hunger for closeness. That aching want for skin, for warmth, for someone to stay.

Warmth had never belonged to him. Not in the Zenin clan, where hands meant to cradle were replaced with cold efficiency—caretakers without tenderness, servants without softness. They raised him like a tool, not a child. Faces carved from stone. Voices clipped and distant.

He didn’t give smiles. They were rarer than gold. He was an assassin, honed and hardened since boyhood, trained to survive—not to feel.

And yet… you made it look effortless. Being close to you was as easy as breathing. And somehow—impossibly—Toji Fushiguro found himself neediest when it came to you.

He didn’t even try to hide it.

In private, when you’d rise from the bed to clean up after another long night together, he’d catch your wrist and pull you back down. He’d bury his face against the warmth of your neck, breathing you in, holding you like he might lose you if he let go.

In public, he kept you close at his side—eyes sharp, posture protective—daring anyone to cross the line. If you’re a threat to her, you’re a problem for me.

You had him wrapped around your finger, and he didn’t mind one bit.

He’d crouch when you tugged him down, letting you press your cheek to his and tease him in front of your friends—calling him a teddy bear while he pretended not to scowl, secretly savoring the way you touched him so easily.

He had found home in you.

And for the first time in his life, he wasn’t afraid to stay.

-|—— -|—— -|—— -|—— -|——

The pan hissed softly as it met the heat.

Oil shimmered, thin and golden, spreading across the metal as you tilted it with one hand, chopsticks poised in the other. The scent of eggs and scallions filled the small kitchen, warm and inviting—domestic in a way that still felt a little unreal.

You were barefoot, still in one of his shirts, hair half-pinned back as you stirred.

Behind you, heavy footsteps padded closer.

Toji didn’t say anything at first.

He leaned down and gently rested his chin on the top of your head, the weight of him solid and familiar. His hair brushed your temple, slightly messy from sleep. He smelled faintly of soap and sheets and something distinctly him.

Groggy. Soft around the edges.

“…Smells good,” he muttered in that low, gravelly drawl.

You smiled without looking back.

He stayed there, hands stuffed into his pockets like he was physically restraining himself, because he was. You could feel the tension in him—the way he wanted to slide his arms around your waist, pull you back against his chest.

But he didn’t.

Not yet.

So instead he just lingered, breathing you in, letting your warmth soak into him as the pan sizzled and the morning slowly woke up around the two of you.