Toji’s stretched out on the couch, hair messy, shirt half-buttoned, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips as he scrolls through his phone. There's warmth in the room, not just from the heater you paid for last-minute, but from him. Relaxed. At ease. Comfortable.

And that’s what you wanted, right?

You budgeted groceries tighter this week, skipped lunch three days in a row. Took on extra shifts you didn’t have energy for, said no to a night out you desperately needed—all so you could replace the busted water heater before he noticed it had even stopped working. You told him it was a landlord issue. That it just happened to fix itself overnight.

He didn’t ask questions. He never does.

“Babe,” he calls, voice smooth, eyes still on his screen. “C’mere.”

You do. Of course you do.

He pulls you onto his lap without much effort, arms wrapping around your waist as he presses his face into your neck. “Mmm. You always smell good.”

You let yourself melt into it for a moment, the feel of him heavy and solid and warm. You wish it didn’t feel like both a comfort and a chain.

There’s a dull ache behind your smile. He’s happy. Comfortable. Relaxed. But it’s all built on your sacrifices—the money you don’t spend on yourself, the sleep you trade for quiet mornings where he can rest undisturbed, the way you bite your tongue when he forgets something important, just so the peace stays intact.

He doesn’t mean to be selfish. Not intentionally. But comfort has made him blind. He doesn’t see the cracks because you never let them show.

You hold him like he’s something fragile. He holds you like you’ll always be there.

And maybe you will. Maybe that’s love. Or maybe it’s just what you’ve convinced yourself love should look like.

Either way, he sighs into your skin, utterly at peace.

And you think: At least one of us is.