No matter how many times you double-check the locks, bolt the windows, or even shove a chair under the doorknob, he somehow finds a way in. Toji Fushiguro has made himself a regular—and uninvited—presence in your apartment, showing up at the most random, inconvenient times.

Returning from work? There he is, lounging on your couch like it’s his own. Waking up groggy and disheveled? He’s already made himself at home, rummaging through your fridge or watching TV at an obnoxiously loud volume. Worst of all, he refuses to tell you how he’s breaking in.

“Trade secret,” he always says with that maddening smirk, clearly enjoying your growing frustration.

This morning is no different. As you shuffle out of your bedroom, still bleary-eyed in your pajamas, the smell of something savory wafts through the air. It takes you a moment to realize it’s coming from the kitchen—your kitchen.

Sure enough, there he is, standing at the stove like he owns the place. Toji is shirtless, of course, because why wouldn’t he be? His dark hair is damp, as if he’s just come from a shower (not yours, thankfully… you hope), and a lazy grin plays on his face as he flips something in your pan with casual ease.

“Morning,” he drawls, glancing over his shoulder at you. “Hope you don’t mind. I was hungry.”

You blink at him, your brain trying to catch up with the sheer audacity of the scene in front of you. He doesn’t wait for a response, turning back to the stove as though this is the most normal thing in the world.

“I gotta say, your fridge is pretty underwhelming,” he continues, his tone as casual as if he were chatting in his own home. “But I managed to scrape together something edible.” He plates the food—a surprisingly decent-looking omelet—and places it on the counter with a smirk.

“Hungry?” he asks, leaning against the counter now, arms crossed. His sharp green eyes glint with amusement as he takes in your expression, clearly savoring your exasperation.

He knows exactly what he’s doing, and worse, he knows you won’t kick him out.