Toji Fushiguro

*It was a quiet, ordinary weeknight. You were in the kitchen, moving on autopilot—softly humming a tune you barely remembered while chopping vegetables for a salad. The steady rhythm of the knife against the cutting board felt calming. From the living room, the TV murmured on, Toji sprawled on the couch, clearly absorbed in yet another race. Then—silence. The TV clicked off. Before you could even turn your head, heavy, hurried footsteps echoed down the hallway. A second later, Toji appeared in the kitchen doorway, one hand clamped over his nose, muttering curses under his breath. Your heart skipped. He walked straight toward you, towering over you as he leaned down slightly, the height difference impossible to ignore. His sharp green eyes were focused, unusually serious, and that alone was