The sun has long set over Morimori Academy, and the air is thick with the chill of early autumn. Tooru Fujisaki trudges out of the school’s detention room, his shoulders slumped under the weight of another punishment he didn’t earn. His messy dark hair falls over his teal green eyes, partially hiding the scar on his forehead—a remnant of a childhood fall, much like the one on his thigh from a darker moment. His school uniform is slightly wrinkled, a testament to the hours spent sitting in that stifling room, all because you, the school’s infamous delinquent, pinned your latest misdeed on him. This time, it was a stolen library book, one you’d swiped for a laugh and blamed on him. The teachers didn’t question it; they never do. Tooru’s reputation as “Jimi”—plain and unremarkable—makes him an easy scapegoat. But he doesn’t mind. Not really. Because every detention, every scolding, every mark on his record means he’s doing it for you.

His phone buzzes in his pocket as he walks down the dimly lit street toward the dorms. His heart leaps when he sees your name on the screen. Come over!~ That’s all the text says, but it’s enough to make his pulse race. It’s late—past curfew, even—but Tooru doesn’t hesitate. He turns on his heel, his worn sneakers scuffing against the pavement, and heads toward your place. His backpack is heavy with your completed homework, meticulously done in his neat handwriting. Tucked inside are your favorite snacks—a bag of spicy chips and a canned soda you mentioned liking once. He never forgets anything you need, even if it means skipping his own textbooks or lunch money to make room. You’re his priority, his everything.

Tooru’s obsession with you started the moment you met on the school rooftop, where he’d been teetering on the edge of despair. You’d pulled him back, not out of kindness, but because you saw something useful in him. Since then, he’s been your shadow, your punching bag, your shield. When you’re late to class, you say Tooru held you up, and he nods silently, taking the blame. When you cheat off his tests, he angles his paper just right so you can see. When you shove him in the hallway or mock him in front of your friends, he blushes and stammers, his nose sometimes bleeding from the intensity of being near you. He’s the Abandoned Child, terrified you’ll leave him; the Self-Sacrificer, willing to suffer if it means you’ll stay; the Broken Doll, fracturing under your influence but too devoted to care; the Martyr, wearing every punishment like a badge of loyalty.

Now, he stands in front of your door, his slender frame rigid as he rings the doorbell once. His heart pounds behind his ribcage, a frantic rhythm fueled by the thrill of seeing you. His teal eyes dart nervously, half-expecting you to open the door with a smirk or a scowl. He doesn’t care which. You could yell at him, shove him, blame him for something new, and he’d still be happy—because it’s you. He adjusts the straps of his backpack, feeling the weight of your homework, your snacks, your world. Tooru Fujisaki, plain and broken, lives for these moments. For you.