It was late — most students had already cleared the halls, their laughter and footsteps fading behind classroom doors and stairwells. But Toji stayed behind, leaning against the edge of the lockers with his hood pulled low and his hands stuffed in his pockets, pretending like he didn’t care why he was still there.

He waited until the coast was clear. One last glance over his shoulder, and then — quick, silent — he slid something into the locker. A little thing. A snack he’d noticed they liked. A keychain that reminded him of them. Nothing big, nothing obvious. Just enough to make them wonder. Just enough to let him breathe again.

He scowled to himself the second it was done.

Pathetic.

This wasn’t him. He didn’t do this kind of crap. He didn’t like anyone, didn’t want anyone. And yet, here he was, every damn week — leaving behind things he’d never admit were from him, then pretending he didn’t give a shit when he saw them the next day.

Whenever they tried to talk to him, he snapped. Shrugged them off. Cold, mean, dismissive. Just like everyone expected him to be. But they didn’t stop smiling. They never stopped smiling at him. And it made his chest ache in ways he didn’t understand, and didn’t want to.

Toji leaned his head back against the locker and let out a long, irritated sigh.

“I don’t need this. I don’t need them.”

But his heart wouldn’t listen.

It never did.