ꜰɪɴᴅɪɴɢ ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ • ꜰᴜꜱʜɪɢᴜʀᴏ ᴛ.
The phone rang twice before Toji picked up. "Yeah," he grunted, voice rough with sleep. On the other end, the automated voice of the bank reminded him—again—that his mortgage payment was overdue. You watched from the kitchen doorway, bare feet cold against the hardwood, as he hung up without another word and tossed the phone onto the couch. His shoulders were tense beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, the muscles in his back shifting as he dragged a hand through his hair. Outside, the morning light spilled through the blinds in uneven stripes, painting the room in alternating bands of gold and shadow. Toji exhaled sharply through his nose, the sound almost lost beneath the hum of the refrigerator. You padded across the room, the hem of his old shirt—the one you’d stolen months ago—brushing against your thighs. “We’ll figure it out,” you said, pressing your palm between his shoulder blades. His skin was warm through the fabric, the tension there coiled tight enough to snap. He turned, catching your wrist with surprising gentleness. His thumb traced the delicate bones, a habit he’d picked up since the first ultrasound. “Shouldn’t be your problem,” he muttered, but the edge in his voice was dulled by the way his gaze dropped to your stomach, barely rounded beneath the oversized shirt. You snorted, nudging him with your hip. “Like hell it isn’t.” The words were light, teasing, but the look he gave you—something between exasperation and reluctant affection—made your chest tighten. Domesticity suited him in ways neither of you expected. The way he’d started leaving the bathroom window cracked open because you complained about the steam, how he’d quietly switched to decaf after the doctor’s warning about caffeine. Small things, almost unnoticeable unless you knew where to look. “C’mon,” you said, tugging him toward the kitchen. “I found a coupon for that grocery store you like.” Toji let himself be pulled, his fingers lacing with yours. His hands were rough, calloused from years of holding a weapon, but the way they cradled yours was careful, deliberate. Like you were something fragile. Like you were something precious. The fridge door creaked as he opened it, surveying the contents with a frown. “We’re out of eggs.” You leaned against the counter, watching the way his brow furrowed. “We can get some later,” you said, reaching past him to snag the last yogurt cup. He let you take it without protest, though you caught the way his eyes lingered on the empty shelf. “You’re eating for two,” he said finally, voice gruff. You grinned, peeling back the lid. “And whose fault is that?” Toji’s mouth twitched, something almost like a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He reached out, brushing his thumb against the corner of your mouth where a dab of yogurt had caught. “Mine,” he admitted, low and satisfied, like it was the easiest confession in the world.
The notification chimed right as you were mid-sentence, complaining about the lack of pickles in the fridge. Toji’s phone lit up on the counter between you, the calendar alert bold and unignorable: Dr. Nakamura – 2:30 PM. You barely had time to register the way his expression darkened before he was moving, snatching your sneakers from the shoe rack by the door and hurling them at you with startling precision. They landed in your lap with a soft thud.
“Fuck,” he muttered, already shrugging into his jacket, the leather creaking softly. “How the hell did you forget?”
You blinked, staring at the shoes in your lap like they might explain his sudden urgency. “It’s not until—”
Toji didn’t let you finish. He crossed the room in two strides, hauling you up by the elbow with one hand while snagging your purse off the couch with the other. “It’s fucking 2:15,” he growled, steering you toward the door like a particularly stubborn shopping cart.
You dug your heels in, laughing despite yourself. “Toji, it’s literally a ten-minute drive—”
“And you take twenty to put on shoes,” he shot back, shoving your sneakers onto your feet with more efficiency than gentleness. The laces dangled untied as he straightened, his palm pressing flat against your lower back to herd you forward. “Move.”
The door slammed behind you with enough force to rattle the frame. Outside, the afternoon sun was bright, almost obnoxiously so, glinting off the windshield of his car like a dare. Toji didn’t bother unlocking it—just yanked the passenger door open and all but deposited you inside, his grip careful even as his expression soured. “Seatbelt,” he ordered, already rounding the hood.
You fumbled with the buckle, still laughing. “You’re being ridiculous—”
The engine roared to life before you could finish, cutting you off with a growl of its own. Toji’s knuckles were white around the steering wheel, his jaw clenched tight enough you could see the muscle jump. “It’s the third time,” he muttered, more to himself than you, as he peeled out of the driveway with enough force to press you back into the seat. “Third fucking time you ‘forget.’”
The neighborhood blurred past, houses and mailboxes smearing into streaks of color. You braced a hand against the dashboard, more out of habit than necessity—Toji drove like he fought, all calculated aggression and razor-sharp reflexes. “It’s just a checkup,” you tried, but he cut you off with a sharp glance.
“Just a checkup,” he repeated, voice flat. The car lurched around a corner, tires squealing. “Like last time was ‘just a checkup’ when your blood pressure was shit. Like the time before that was ‘just a checkup’ when the doc said you weren’t drinking enough water.” His fingers flexed against the wheel, leather creaking under the strain. “You don’t get to ‘just’ anything anymore.”
You opened your mouth, then closed it. The anger in his voice wasn’t the hot, explosive kind—it was the slow-burning sort, the kind that simmered under the skin for days. The kind that came with remembering.
Toji exhaled sharply through his nose and reached across the console, his palm settling over yours where it rested on your thigh. His grip was tight, almost punishing, but his thumb brushed slow circles against your knuckles. A contradiction, like always.
The clinic parking lot was half-empty when he screeched into a spot near the entrance. Before you could unbuckle, he was out of the car, wrenching your door open with enough force to make the hinges protest. “Walk,” he ordered, but his hands were already sliding under your arms, hauling you up with effortless strength.
“I can walk,” you protested, even as your feet barely touched the ground before he was steering you toward the glass doors. The receptionist barely looked up from her computer as you stumbled inside, Toji’s grip the only thing keeping you upright. “Hi,” you managed, breathless. “We’re—”
“Fushiguro,” Toji snapped, already digging his wallet out of his back pocket with his free hand. “2:30.”
The receptionist blinked, her gaze flicking between his scowl and your disheveled state. “Right,” she said slowly, tapping at her keyboard. “Room three, down the hall. Dr. Nakamura will be right with you.”
Toji didn’t wait for directions—just dragged you down the hallway like a man on a mission, his strides long enough you had to jog to keep up. The door to room three was slightly ajar; he shouldered it open without ceremony, depositing you onto the exam table with a grunt.
“You’re lucky I love you,” Toji muttered, one hand braced against the exam table as he loomed over you, his other hand already reaching to untangle the stethoscope cord Dr. Nakamura had left dangling nearby. His fingers brushed your collarbone as he draped it around his own neck with a practiced flick, the metal disc swinging like a pendulum between you. The absurdity of it—him pretending, even for a second, to play doctor—made you snort.
The sound drew his gaze, sharp and assessing. “What?” he demanded, but the corner of his mouth twitched, betraying him.
“Nothing,” you lied, swinging your legs lightly against the table’s edge. “Just wondering when you got your medical degree.”
Toji’s fingers found your pulse point without hesitation, his thumb pressing just below your jaw. “Right now,” he said, deadpan, but his touch gentled as he traced the flutter of your heartbeat. The door creaked open before you could retort, and Dr. Nakamura stepped in, her eyebrows climbing at the sight of Toji with the stethoscope still hanging around his neck.
“Am I interrupting?” she asked dryly, setting her clipboard aside.
Dr. Nakamura’s question hung in the air for a beat too long, her amused gaze flicking between Toji’s stethoscope-clad defiance and your poorly suppressed grin. Toji didn’t budge—just leveled her with a look that had made lesser men flinch. But Dr. Nakamura had delivered enough babies to know intimidation when she saw it, and this wasn’t it. This was something far more interesting: a man out of his depth, clinging to control like a lifeline.
“Nope,” you chirped, nudging Toji’s hip with your foot. “He was just about to give it back.”
Toji’s jaw twitched, but he relented, slinging the stethoscope off his neck with a grunt and thrusting it toward her. Dr. Nakamura accepted it with a knowing hum, her fingers brushing the diaphragm absently. “Good,” she said, “because I’d hate to report malpractice.” Her tone was light, but the glance she shot Toji carried weight—a silent acknowledgment that his antics weren’t fooling anyone, least of all her.
i was genuinely SO locked in when writing this but at the same time i only wrote this at 2am each day 😭😭😭. i know it’s kinda all over the place and i got lazy to the end, this is my first fanfic i’ve wrote since 6th grade so please bare with me, all support and helpful critique is appreciated! lmkkk if i should do a part 2!
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