Toji Fushiguro
Until you stop waiting.

“I never asked you to love me. Don't act surprised when I don't love you the way you wanted.”

Toji Fushiguro had never been a particularly affectionate husband.

He wasn't the type to bring home flowers just because he thought of you. He didn't leave sweet notes on the kitchen counter, kiss your forehead before leaving for work, or ask about your day with any real interest. If you wanted something, you had to ask. If you were upset, you had to explain. And even then, his response was usually a shrug, a dismissive remark, or a simple “You'll be fine.”

But Toji's cruelty went beyond neglect.

He had a way of making you regret bringing up the things that hurt you. A conversation that began with you quietly explaining your feelings would somehow end with him accusing you of being ungrateful, overly sensitive, or impossible to please. He rarely acknowledged what he'd done. Instead, he'd pick apart your words, twist your intentions, and make the entire argument about your reaction rather than his behavior.

“Here we go again,” he'd mutter whenever you tried to talk about your marriage. “You ever get tired of finding shit to complain about?”

Sometimes, he'd deliberately ignore you for hours after an argument, walking past you as though you weren't there. If you tried to resolve things, he'd tell you to leave him alone. If you gave him space, he'd accuse you of acting cold. There was never quite a right answer, only whichever one irritated him least.

Toji had always been a man of few words, but lately, it felt as though he had none left for you.

He came home late. Sometimes he didn't come home at all until the following morning. His phone was always buzzing, his attention always elsewhere, and whenever you tried to spend time with him, he acted as though you were asking for something unreasonable.

You had learned not to question the unfamiliar perfume on his jacket, the unexplained absences, or the way he would turn his phone facedown whenever you entered the room. You had learned what happened when you asked too many questions.

He'd give you that cold, humorless stare.

“Since when do I have to report everything I do to you?”

And if you pressed him, he'd turn the accusation around.

“What's the matter? You don't trust me now? After everything I do for this house?”

The hypocrisy was almost laughable. Toji expected complete loyalty from you while refusing to offer the same honesty in return. He disliked you making plans without telling him, yet saw no reason to explain where he'd been all night. He grew irritated when you gave other people your attention, even though he could go days without giving you any of his.

He had a talent for making his expectations sound like common sense and your objections sound unreasonable.

You had learned a great many things about being married to Toji Fushiguro.

Most importantly, you had learned how to stop expecting anything from him.

And yet, some small, foolish part of you still remembered the man you had married. The man who had once pulled you closer without being asked. The man who had looked at you as though, despite everything wrong with his life, you were one thing he wanted to keep.

You wondered sometimes where that man had gone.

You wondered whether he missed you, too.

You never asked.

✦────────────────────✦

It was nearly midnight when the front door finally opened.

Rain had been falling for hours, leaving the windows streaked with water and the house wrapped in a quiet that felt almost suffocating. You were sitting at the dining table, a book open in front of you, though you had been staring at the same page for the better part of twenty minutes.

Dinner sat untouched beneath a cover on the counter.

You had made Toji's favorite meal.

You weren't entirely sure why.

Perhaps old habits were harder to break than you wanted to admit.

The sound of his keys hitting the entryway table interrupted your thoughts. A moment later, Toji appeared in the doorway, dressed in his usual dark clothes, his expression carrying the familiar exhaustion of a man who had spent the entire day doing whatever he pleased.

His eyes moved briefly toward you.

“Still up?”

It wasn't quite a question. He sounded mildly surprised, though not particularly interested in the answer.

He shrugged off his jacket and tossed it over the back of a chair. His gaze wandered toward the kitchen, where the faint scent of dinner still lingered.

“You cooked?”

You closed your book.

Toji glanced at the covered dishes, then back at you.

“Should've told me. I already ate.”

The words came easily. Thoughtlessly. He didn't notice the hours you'd spent preparing everything, or the way you'd kept checking the time, telling yourself that perhaps tonight he'd come home early.

He didn't notice because, for a long time, he hadn't needed to notice.

You had always been there.

Always answered when he spoke. Always made room for him beside you. Always waited up, even when he never asked you to.

And whenever you dared to complain, he'd remind you that nobody had forced you to do any of it.

I never told you to wait.

I never asked you to cook.

I never said you had to stay awake.

Somehow, every act of love you'd offered so freely became your own foolishness to answer for.

Toji started toward the stairs, already reaching for his phone.

Then he stopped.

The silence behind him was different tonight.

Usually, you'd say something. Ask him how his day went, remind him that his food was getting cold, or quietly tell him that you'd missed him. Even when he gave you little in return, you'd tried to bridge the distance between you.

Tonight, you said nothing.

He looked back.

“What's wrong with you lately?”

His brows drew together slightly. There was irritation in his voice, but beneath it sat something less familiar: uncertainty.

“You've been quiet.”

He waited a moment, expecting you to explain yourself.

When you didn't immediately respond, he let out a short breath and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.

“Look, if you've got something to say, just say it. I'm not in the mood to guess.”

It was such a Toji thing to say. He could stand in the middle of a room full of hurt and still fail to recognize what he'd done to cause it.

And if you finally told him, he would probably insist that you were making a big deal out of nothing.

If you cried, he'd grow impatient.

If you raised your voice, he'd tell you to watch your tone.

If you went quiet, he'd accuse you of giving him the silent treatment.

No matter how carefully you chose your words, he always seemed to find a way to make you wish you'd kept them to yourself.

He looked at you for another second before his eyes shifted toward the table.

Then, almost reluctantly, he asked, “You were waiting for me?”

The question hung between you.

For the first time that evening, his expression changed. Only slightly. A faint crease appeared between his brows, and his jaw tightened as he glanced at the untouched dinner again.

He seemed to be putting something together, though whether it was the food, the late hour, or your unusual silence, even he couldn't have said.

“...You didn't have to do all that.”

He said it like a defense. Like he needed you to know that you weren't supposed to expect anything from him.

But he didn't leave.

Instead, Toji pulled out the chair opposite yours and sat down, leaning back with his arms folded across his chest. His gaze settled on you, more attentive now than it had been when he first walked through the door.

“What's going on?” he asked again, quieter this time.

A pause.

“Did I do something?”

For a man who rarely apologized, the question was almost an admission.

Almost.

But even now, there was something frustratingly familiar about the way he asked. He wanted an answer, but only if it was one he could accept. He wanted you to explain what was wrong without making him feel responsible for it.

And the moment you accused him of hurting you, he would likely grow defensive.

“Christ, I can't do anything right with you, can I?”

He might drag a hand down his face and scoff, as though your pain were an unreasonable burden he'd been forced to carry.

“You want me home early, I come home early. You want attention, I sit here and talk to you. What else do you want from me?”

He would list the bare minimum as though it were an extraordinary sacrifice. He would remind you of the roof over your head, the things he paid for, and every practical responsibility he'd fulfilled, as if none of those things could coexist with the hurt he had caused.

And if you told him you wanted to feel loved, he might stare at you with that familiar, unreadable expression.

“Then maybe you married the wrong man.”

The words would come easily.

They always did.

Outside, the rain continued to fall. Between you sat a cold dinner, an untouched book, and all the little disappointments neither of you had ever learned how to talk about.

Toji waited.

He wasn't good at waiting. He wasn't good at this, either—sitting across from his own wife and realizing he didn't know what she was thinking anymore.

For years, he'd mistaken your patience for weakness and your forgiveness for permission. He had become so accustomed to getting his way that he'd never stopped to consider what would happen when you finally stopped trying to please him.

Now, your silence unsettled him in a way your tears never had.

He could argue with anger. He could dismiss complaints. He could wait for an apology he had no intention of giving.

But he didn't know what to do with a wife who no longer seemed interested in convincing him to care.

His gaze remained fixed on you, his expression hardening when you didn't immediately answer.

“Don't sit there looking at me like I'm some kind of bastard,” he muttered. “If you're unhappy, then say it. I'm not going to beg you to talk.”

Even now, he couldn't resist turning your hurt into an insult against himself.

Even now, he expected you to make this easier for him.

✦────────────────────✦

He had spent so long assuming you would always be there that he had never considered what it would mean if you stopped waiting.

He'd taken your love, your patience, and your willingness to forgive him as guarantees. He'd convinced himself that you would never leave, because you had stayed through every cold remark, every broken promise, every lonely night.

And now, for the first time in a long time, Toji Fushiguro was afraid of an answer he hadn't even heard yet.