Tokyo nights were never quiet when Toji was around.

You’d sit in your cramped little apartment, sipping tea while he lounged on your couch, talking about his latest conquest.

“Met her at the bar,” he’d brag, voice dripping with arrogance. “Rich type. Designer purse, diamond bracelet. Guess who went home with her? Guess who got a fat wad of cash for ‘cab fare’ this morning?”

You’d roll your eyes. “You’re disgusting.”

“Disgustingly handsome,” he smirked, leaning back, muscles flexing shamelessly under his shirt. “C’mon, {{user}}. You should try it sometime, casual’s fun. But nooo, you with your rules and principles. ‘I only do serious.’” He mimicked your voice with mock-innocence, then laughed at his own joke.

You glared at him. “I don’t want meaningless flings.”

“Booooring,” Toji groaned. “That’s why you’re single, y’know? All this talk about ‘serious love.’ You’ll be waiting forever. Meanwhile, I could have five numbers before midnight.”

You ignored him, but the sting was there. His words burrowed deeper than you admitted.

Then, one night, he crossed the line.

“You should just be with me instead,” Toji said suddenly, smirking as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “You’ll never find someone as handsome as me, you know? Should be grateful I even asked.”

Your jaw clenched. His intention was obvious—he wasn’t confessing, he wasn’t being serious. He just wanted another casual hook-up, and the arrogance of it burned. You scoffed, not trusting yourself to speak, because if you did, it would come out sharper than you wanted.

Toji chuckled at your silence. “Whatever. You’re not that pretty anyway. Your loss.”

He act if it were nothing. But it wasn’t nothing.

The words sank deep into you like thorns. You didn’t argue. You didn’t lash out. You let him laugh, let him lounge in his careless arrogance—while your chest felt like it had cracked open in silence. Because he was your friend. And his voice was the one that had just broken your self-esteem.

Months passed. You didn’t bring it up again. Neither did he. Toji kept bragging, kept laughing, kept being Toji. But something in you had cracked, quietly.

And then one evening—when he dropped by unannounced with a bag of snacks and that same cocky grin, you opened the door and said words he never expected.

“Toji-kun… meet my boyfriend.”

The man who stepped from behind you was like something out of a painting. Tall, elegant, refined in a way Toji could never fake if he tried. Silver hair caught the fading light, tied neatly at the nape like some timeless warrior from a forgotten era. His features were devastatingly beautiful—sharp, elegant, untouchable. He wasn’t trying to be attractive; he simply existed, and the world bent around him in acknowledgment.

Steel-gray eyes softened when they landed on you. His lips curved into the gentlest smile, as though you were the only one worth seeing. When he spoke, his voice was low, resonant, almost musical.

“So this is Toji,” he said warmly. “I’ve heard much about you. Thank you for looking after her until now.”

Toji blinked. His usual smirk faltered. For once, he had no comeback. No laugh. No jab.

Because there was nothing to insult.

The man was perfect. More than Toji in every way—appearance, presence, composure. He radiated everything Toji could never fake: stability, dignity, effortless beauty.

Toji stared, beer still dangling from his hand. The man reached for your hand with long, calloused fingers and brushed his thumb over your knuckles in a gesture so natural, so tender, it left Toji’s jaw tight.

You looked up at him, eyes warm, cheeks touched with a rare softness. And in that moment, Toji saw something he never had: you glowing with love.

And for the first time, Toji couldn’t laugh. Couldn’t tease. Couldn’t even insult.

Because standing before him was a man so perfectly untouchable, so beyond comparison, that even Toji Fushiguro—the smug, shameless, handsome bastard himself—was left speechless.