#(jkkkk)

The front door clicked open hours later, the late afternoon light stretching long across the living room floor. Toji was sprawled on the couch, one arm slung over the backrest, pretending to watch a fight recap on TV when he’d mostly been listening for the sound of your keys.

You stepped inside with your tote bag and a plastic grocery bag in hand. Your tank top had slipped slightly off one shoulder, and that damn ponytail was still high and bouncy, a few strands loose from the walk home.

“I’m back,” you announced softly, like you always did. Then you hesitated. “Got your protein powder.”

Toji sat up slowly, eyes flicking over you. “Thanks.”

You blinked. He actually said thanks. No grunt. No silence. Progress?

You walked over and set the tub on the coffee table, then reached into the other bag. “I also… um, picked up something for you. It’s probably stupid, but I noticed you eat a lot of savory stuff so I didn’t want to get you something sweet in case you hated it.”

You pulled out a small paper container and held it out to him like an offering. Inside were crispy fried chicken karaage bites, still warm, sprinkled with green onions and a little spicy seasoning.

Toji stared at the container for a long second. Then at you.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he said, voice low and a little rough.

“I know. I just… wanted to.” Your cheeks were already warming. You set the container down next to the protein powder and started to step back.

Toji stood up.

He was suddenly much closer than the small living room required. You froze as he reached past you, picking up one of the karaage pieces with his fingers and popping it into his mouth. He chewed slowly, green eyes never leaving your face.

“It’s good,” he muttered.

Your shoulders relaxed a fraction. “Yeah? I’m glad—”

Before you could finish, his hand lifted. Big, rough fingers caught the base of your ponytail and gave it a gentle, deliberate tug.

Your breath hitched sharply.

The flush hit you instantly — hot, full-body, crawling all the way down your neck. Your lips parted in surprise as he kept that light grip on your hair, not pulling hard, just… holding. Testing.

“Toji—” you whispered, voice shaky.

“Hm?” He tugged again, a little firmer this time, tilting your head back just enough to expose the line of your throat. His gaze dropped there, dark and hungry. “You always get this red when someone touches your hair?”

“I-I don’t… usually people don’t—” You couldn’t finish the sentence. Your heart was hammering so loud you were sure he could hear it.

Toji let go slowly, but not before his thumb brushed the side of your neck. The brief contact burned.

He stepped back, jaw tight like he was forcing himself to create distance. The cold mask slipped back into place, but it was cracked now.

“Thanks for the food,” he said, quieter this time. “And the powder.”

You nodded, still flushed and flustered, fingers touching the spot where his hand had been. “You’re… welcome.”

He turned toward the kitchen like nothing had happened, but you caught the way his shoulders flexed and the subtle shift in his stance — like he was trying to hide exactly how affected he was.

You escaped to your room a moment later, ponytail swinging, heart racing, wondering what the hell had just shifted between you.

Toji leaned against the kitchen counter once you were gone, exhaling through his teeth.

One little tug and you’d looked at him like that.

Fuck. He was in deeper than he thought.

he's so sweet and comforting. he doesn't chime in or interrupt because he's actually listening to understand, not to respond.

he clings onto your every word, eye contact and all, and the attention makes you jittery. it makes your heart warm and your stomach does summersaults whenever his eyes stray down to your lips just to watch them move.

he's an amazing listener.

at least that's what he wants you to believe.

in reality, mark is waiting until you've dropped something juicy. something dark and defining. something that's molded you into the person you are today. for better or for worse.

you almost say it.

an off-handed comment. something that's not you. a sentence tinged with self-loathing, invisible to anyone who isn't watching closely.

but mark is.

he can spot it in the way your lower lip wobbles. in the way your eyes glaze over, that far off look, the gleam of your tears before you look away and awkwardly change the topic in an attempt to regain your composure.

the closer the two of you get, the more comfortable you become. mark shows up at your front door with a box of liquor and a triumphant smile, disarming you just enough to get you loose and talkative.

he lets you spill your guts, your drunken/tipsy slurring makes his heart race.

and finally, he catches something useful, something that makes his eyes light up.

you aren't sure if it's concern or pity.

it's none of those.

it's triumph.

because now he has something he can hang over your head and use against you in an argument. or whenever you find out who he really is and why you should keep him far, far away from you.

he'll use your trauma to keep you there with him.

you're damaged goods.

you think anyone will love you?

you have no one else but me.

HII! AHHH thank you so so much for reading and sending this message. I always read the comments or tags people leave behind and this community has truly been so welcoming!!!

I'm always torn between the angst or the fluff, always torn between which of the 141 I want to write. Each of them with such unique personalities that cater to a specific set of desire (I think)

Thank you so much for reading and please drop by any time to chat or talk about amnesiac!simon and how he'll twist and turn in an empty bed you once shared.

Because of course you give him the bed on his first night home from the hospital. You take the sofa, deciding it's best to give him space. It's dark when you peek an eye open and hear the slight hum of breath fall.

Simon had moved from the bed to sleep on the carpet beside the sofa. You decide to join him, stepping over his form -- a hand reaches for your ankle. You yelp and squint down at him.

"Stay." He mumbles. Your heart lurches forward.

"Always, Simon..." You whisper back, as he releases your ankle. It was instinctive right? He hadn't moved or gave any meaning that he was awake.

You crouch and place the pillow under your head, staring at the ghost of a man you once knew.

"I'll always stay."

Not even trying to fight him or butting heads but straight up ignoring and avoiding him.