You’re standing by the kitchen counter, your back to the living room. The sink is full of dishes from a dinner neither of you really ate. The argument had started over something stupid—a missed call, a forgotten errand—and spiraled into the same old wounds. Your father’s name had come up. His childhood, a topic he never discusses, had been thrown on the table like a weapon.

Toji is on the worn leather couch, his large frame taking up most of it. He’s not looking at you. His gaze is fixed on the dark television screen, his jaw tight. One hand rests on his thigh, fingers tapping a slow, restless rhythm against the denim.