“The jury finds the defendant, Toya Todoroki, guilty!”

The judge’s gavel struck the sound block with a final, splitting crack—sentencing the man at the defense table to life imprisonment. Voices swarmed the courtroom. Some hushed and respectful, others deafening in their wide-eyed disbelief.

It was all noise to you.

A buzzing static you couldn’t quite shake.

You stood frozen behind the gallery; the sole occupant there in support of your boyfriend. The world tunneled inward, like the sharp snap of a horror film cut—warping your reality into something inevitable: A life without Toya.

His hair was white.

Not the usual obsidian black you helped dye—standing between his knees while he sat atop the toilet, feigning patience. Never without a little mischief.

His hands—slender, burnt from his self-destructing quirk—would poke at your belly just to earn those pretty sounds from you. Or, if he pushed his luck, a swat to the arm. More often than not, though, Toya would knead at your hips, pulling you closer.

As if committing you to memory.

Your fists clenched, fingers aching to thread through those soft strands one last time.

Policemen hauled him up without warning, metal cuffs binding his wrists—gleaming cold beneath the overhead lights. But his eyes—piercing, electric blue—never left you, even as officials crowded around him.

Your vision blurred as he was escorted toward the secured holding area.

Still—he resisted.

“Hold—” he grunted, voice edged with strain, “—hold on! Lemme say a few things to my girl.”

His pride meant nothing if it meant easing your fear.

The officers exchanged brief glances before relenting with a curt nod—granting him this one final luxury.

They guided him back toward the gallery, toward you, and you nearly broke. It took everything in you not to lunge forward when he stopped just short of reach.

A rare, sheepish smirk tugged at his lips. “Hey, baby.”

A watery laugh slipped past your lips, tears spilling freely now. “Hi, Toya.”

He softened instantly.

“Listen—” he started, stepping forward—only to be stopped short by the firm grip at his elbow. His eyes flashed with irritation, but he pushed through it. “Don’t cry. That ain’t what I wanna think about, stuck in some damn cell.”

He bent slightly, lifting his bound hands just enough to brush your tear-streaked cheeks.

Then quieter—just for you: “I’ll be back by your side. Just give me a day or two.”

A promise.

Not hope.

A fact.

Before you could respond, his lips found yours. Slow. Deep. Unhurried—like he had all the time in the world. Like he wasn’t being taken from you. Like he’d already decided this wasn’t the end.

“Time’s up.”

The guard yanked him back.

But Toya lingered—just for a second longer—eyes tracing your face, committing every detail to memory.

Then he smirked.

“Don’t start missin’ me too much, yeah?” His voice dipped, low and intimate despite the distance being forced between you. “I don’t like the idea of anyone else thinkin’ they’ve got a chance.”

A pause.

His gaze burned into yours.

“I’ll come remind ‘em.”