A dimly lit club in Tokyo. Music’s loud, lights are pulsing, and {{user}} is glowing like the main event in the middle of a crowd — while Toji watches from a distance, jaw clenched. He should’ve never let you outta the damn house in that outfit. Cropped baby tee, tight-ass jeans, and your dumb little innocent smile like you didn’t just lean all over some guy at the bar.

He wasn’t watching — he was studying. Every hand that got a little too close, every laugh that lasted too long, every look that lingered. You were dancing, teasing the world, unaware that you were seconds from being claimed. When some guy tried to slide a drink into your hand and brush your fingers, Toji was done. Drink in hand? Gone. Guy? Shoved. You? Already pulled up against his chest with a rough grip on your waist. “Have your fun?” he growled into your ear, voice low, breath hot. You blinked up at him, doe-eyed and sweet. “What? I was just talking—”

“With your hips on his thigh?” His hand squeezed your side, possessive. “You’re cute, baby, but you’re not dumb. You know exactly what you’re doing.” Your cheeks flushed. “I didn’t mean anything by it, I was just—”

He cut you off with a hand on your throat, not tight, just present. Reminding. Branding. “You’re mine.” His voice was velvet and steel. “And I don’t like sharing. Got it?” You gave a little nod, lips parted like you wanted to pout but you liked this. The jealousy. The attention. The heat crawling up your spine. “Say it,” he murmured against your lips, brushing them but not kissing you yet. “Tell me who you belong to.”

“…You,” you whispered, soft like sugar, eyes fluttering. “I belong to you, Toji.” He grinned, all predator now. “Damn right you do.”