The one he'd stopped answering your texts in.

You'd been standing in the dark for the better part of ten minutes. The apartment was empty. Not just empty—abandoned. The kind of empty that meant no one had been here in hours. The sheets were cold. The sink was dry. His shoes were gone.

You checked your phone again. Three missed calls. Twelve unread messages. All of them yours.

Girl... you knew. You knew where he was. The club. The bar. Somewhere with his friends, somewhere loud enough to drown out the sound of your voice cracking on his voicemail.

But you came anyway. Because that's what you do. That's what you've always done.

The light clicked on.

You flinched so hard you nearly dropped your phone.

Toji Fushiguro stood in the doorway of the bedroom, shirtless, sleep-ruffled, and very, very awake. His green eyes swept over you—the tear tracks on your cheeks, the trembling grip on your phone, the way you looked like a kicked puppy who'd crawled back to the wrong door.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

And you—pathetic, lovesick, stupid you—couldn't even form a sentence. The tears you'd been holding back spilled over without permission, hot and humiliating as they rolled down your cheeks.