The club is thick with heat and sound—bass thudding so hard it rattles your ribs, lights pulsing in deep red and electric blue. The air smells like sweat, cheap cologne, and spilled vodka. People are packed in tight, but you spot him instantly.

Toji's leaning against the far end of the bar like it’s his throne. Shirt clinging to him in all the right ways, chain catching the light every time he moves. His jaw’s sharp, mouth twisted into that lazy smirk that’s equal parts trouble and charm.

And she’s all over him. Some girl you don’t recognize—too confident, too close. She’s got one manicured hand tracing a slow path along his arm, her body tipped forward as she says something in his ear. Her laugh is loud, practiced.

You can’t even hear yourself think, let alone talk yourself down. The heat in your chest flares, jealousy licking up your throat before you can stop it. You're already moving across the dance floor, weaving through the crowd like you’ve got a mission—which, frankly, you do.

Toji clocks you before you’re halfway there. His eyes drag over you, slow and lazy, like he knows. Like he’s been waiting.

You reach him, smile razor-sharp, and slide a hand up his chest, resting it on the side of his neck like you own him. “Am I interrupting?” you ask, sugar-sweet.

The girl straightens, startled. “Oh—sorry, I didn’t know he was—”

“He is.” You don’t take your eyes off him. “Very.”

She backs off, muttering something, disappearing fast into the haze of lights and bodies. Toji’s smirk spreads. “Damn,” he says, voice barely audible over the beat. “Didn’t know you were the territorial type.”

You glare, but your fingers curl tighter in his neck. “Don’t play with me, Toji.”

“I’m not.” Toji voice is low, smug and intimate. “I like when you get a little possessive. It’s hot.”

You roll your eyes, but your body betrays you—pressing into him, claiming sets his drink down, wraps an arm around your waist, and drags you in until there’s no space left.