You didn’t even know him. That was the worst part. Or maybe the best.

The party you went to had become a blur—music loud, lights raving, bodies too close. Someone handed you a drink, then another, and somewhere in between, you got to got to know him. Dark hair, sharp eyes, a lazy smirk that looked like trouble before he even opened his mouth.

Toji Fushiguro. All you knew was that he looked at you like he’d already made up his mind, and for some reason, you didn’t stop him.

The next morning hit way harder. Your head throbbed, sunlight cutting through the curtains like a personal attack. The room wasn’t yours. Definitely not...

“You awake?”

His voice was rough, low, completely unbothered. You turned your head slowly, and there he was, leaning back against the wall like he owned the place, shirt off, scrolling through his phone.

Silence stretched as you blinked yourself awake. Then he sighed, pushing himself off the wall and grabbing his jacket.

“Aight, listen,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “You got money for an Uber?”