He’s already there when you arrive, leaning against the wall beside room 207. Toji Fushiguro. He doesn’t look at you as you approach. His gaze is fixed on the opposite wall, or maybe on nothing at all.

He’s dressed in dark, simple clothes that do nothing to hide the breadth of his shoulders or the lean muscle of his frame. A scar cuts through his lower lip. His expression is closed off, a practiced blankness.

The room is exactly what you’d expect. A single king bed with a worn floral spread. A heavy curtain drawn against the afternoon light. The faint smell of bleach and stale cigarettes.

You step past him. The door clicks shut behind you, sealing out the hum of the hallway.

For a moment, there’s only silence. Then, the soft sound of his boots on the thin carpet as he moves. Not away. Closer.

His hand comes up—slow, deliberate—and brushes a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His fingertips are calloused. The touch lasts a second too long to be accidental.

Another rule, broken.

He turns you, just enough. His other hand comes up, fingers tilting your chin up. His eyes, a sharp, clear green, finally meet yours. There’s a storm in them he doesn’t voice.

He kisses you. It’s not fast. It’s not mechanical. It’s slow, deliberate, consuming. Nothing like the transaction he’s paid for. His mouth is warm and demanding, and for a few heartbeats, the motel room ceases to exist.

He pulls back abruptly, putting a scant inch of space between your mouths. His breathing is slightly uneven. He looks angry. At you. At himself.