Toji doesn’t say I love you.
He says You done being annoying now? when you kiss him five times in a row, while lifting you up so you can do it better.
He says Tch, move over, before tucking your legs over his lap.
He says Don’t touch the tab, I got it even when you know he’s down to his last few yen.
You say I love you enough for both of you, anyway.
You notice the money problem before he says anything.
He never lets you pay for anything flashy—Toji’s too proud for that. But the way he gets quiet in front of vending machines, the way he turns down takeout even when your shared fridge is empty, the fact that he pawned his things—except his sunglasses (the ones you once said made him look hot)—it’s all proof.
You corner him one day, arms folded, hair messy from sleep and irritation.
His eyes flick over to you from the couch. Shirtless. Legs spread. That unfairly sexy slouch he lives in.
“‘M not broke,” he mutters, mouth full of toothpick. “I’m just not wasting yen on overpriced pork broth.”
“Baby, you used to bathe in pork broth,” you say, stepping between his knees. “What happened, huh? Job fall through?”
He shrugs. His hands land on your hips automatically.
You soften, just a little. "Y’know I’ll cover it, right?"
He scowls. “Tch. Not your job to baby me.”
“Why not? You baby me all the time,” you smirk, dipping low to brush your nose against his. “You carried me all the way back from that warehouse in Kabukicho when I sprained my ankle and still stopped to buy me dumplings, remember?”
“…You cried, brat.” he mutters.
“So? You kissed my bruises, tough guy.”
He grunts but doesn’t argue. You win. He’s taking you on a ramen date tonight.
It’s almost midnight when you end up at your favorite hole-in-the-wall place in Shinjuku, wedged between a pachinko parlor and a 24-hour karaoke bar.
He scowls at your wallet when you slide it out.
"Do you want to eat or do you want to stand outside glaring at the menu like it insulted your mother?"
Toji just mutters something about “brats” and shoves his hands in his pockets. But you know he doesn’t mean it. Not when he pulls out your chair before slumping into his own. Not when he picks the garlic shoyu ramen because he remembers you like it. Not when his knee brushes yours under the tiny wooden table.
He eats like he’s starving. You slurp your noodles slowly, watching the steam curl against the night air outside the window.
Shinjuku’s neon glow spills across his jaw. You’re already thinking about kissing it.
"You're staring again," he mutters, not looking up.
You smile. "You're hot when you're broke."
You’re already two bites in when you groan dramatically and slump against Toji’s shoulder. “Ugh. I love you. And I love soup.”
He snorts. “Shoulda told the soup that instead of me.”
“Don’t be jealous of my other boyfriend,” you grin, licking broth off your chopsticks. “He’s hot, steamy, rich—”
Toji grabs your face with one big hand, coming from your other shoulder and smushes it. “You’re lucky I like you even when you’re being a little gremlin.”
You flash him a peace sign with your fingers, still trapped in his grip. “You love it. Admit it.”
He doesn’t respond, but his thumb brushes your cheek as he lets go.
You lean into his side again, warm, full, buzzed off salt and affection. Your legs swing a little under the counter seat.
Later, as you’re leaving, belly full and shoulders bumping with his, you spot them across the street.
A dad and his little girl.
She’s giggling, perched on his shoulders with her hands buried in his hair like it’s reins. He swings her legs a little as he walks. She squeals when he twirls.
It’s such a normal scene. So soft. So… unreachable, in your past.
“Nothing,” you say, brushing it off. “That just looks fun.”
But you feel the shift in his chest beside you, he turns back to take a proper look and is back at your side as you start kicking rocks.
You fall asleep in his bed with his arm around your waist, his breath against your neck, and your leg flung over his thick thigh like it’s your rightful place.
You’re lounging on his couch, one sock on, one sock missing, hair a mess, scrolling on your phone and harassing him just by existing in his space like a warm, annoying kitten.
"Babyyy" you call. "I want attention."
"You've had attention since you woke up."
"You ignored me in the shower."
"I carried you into the shower."
“Get dressed. Wear shorts.”
When you're out, he first streches like he slept for thirteen days straight, then looks at you, who just looks at him.
Your face said one thing: Where you taking me you broke anyway.
He crouches right in front of you, turns his back towards you.
You’re still in shock two minutes later when he jerks his chin to the side to look at you over his shoulder.
“Shut up. You said it looked fun.”
You slide onto his shoulders with clumsy amusement, thighs hugging either side of his head. His hands hook behind your knees.
Your laugh bubbles up before you can stop it. “You serious? Baby, I’m not five—”
He straightens to full height. You yelp. The street below you looks distant. His neck flexes under your hands.
“Yeah, and I’m not a damn jungle gym,” he snaps, but his grip doesn’t loosen. “But if you wanna be a brat about it, I’ll just run. See how long you last.”
Despite saying that, he first steadies himself, then starts walking slowly.
His massive hands slide up under your thighs, pulling you flush against his neck, legs dangling. It’s a little awkward. Wobbly.
You squeal, grabbing for his head.
"You're carrying me like a child?"
His grip’s adjusting, your balance is off. You’re squeezing his temples with your thighs while laughing hysterically.
“Baby—you’re gonna drop me!”
“You’re gripping my skull like a damn vice—stop kicking.”
“Why are you WALKING like that—?”
“It’s your fault for squirming.”
He moves like he’s stalking prey. Broad shoulders rolling under you, slow and dramatic, drawing attention. A little boy on the corner gasps. A teenager points. A middle-aged woman stares with horror.
Toji huffs. “You’re lucky I didn’t make you carry me.”
“I would, if I could,” you say between giggles. “You’re like three of your cheap fridges stacked on top of each other.”
Toji keeps walking. Through alleys, past convenience stores, under blinking signs. The city stretches below you in all directions.
He even stops by to buy something from a store nearby the road while you made contact with the cats on the roof, petting them when they flinch, when he reaches up a un-wrapped lolipop for you.
"You're insane" you murmur, taking it from his hand, dazed from height and heat and adrenaline.
He adjusts your leg, starts walking back home.
"You liked it. Yesterday. When you saw that guy with his kid."
"I just thought… maybe no one ever carried you like that. Not for fun."
The streetlights hit him just right. You stare down at his head, at his hair, at this ridiculous, massive, absurd man who pretends like he doesn't care.
“You’re a sap” you say softly, voice cracking.
You laugh through your tears and kick his chest. “Asshole.”
Back at home, you collapse onto the futon, dead weight, a moaning noodle of a girl.
“Dead” you whimper. “You’re dead. Carrying me killed you. You’re a ghost now.”
He looms over you, pulling his shirt off with one hand from behind his neck.
“Nah. You’re the one who’s gonna be dead if you keep talkin’, brat.” he says with that grin that always ruins you.
You tug him down by the waistband.
“I’m always talkin’, baby,” you say. “Still love me?”
He kisses your jaw, then your throat, then down to your collarbone.
