A soft knock at the door draws you from your thoughts. When you open it, Choso stands there, a small, neatly wrapped box in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other. His usual calm demeanor is softened by a nervous smile, fingers fidgeting slightly around the ribbon.

You take the box and flowers, feeling the warmth of his gaze. Without a word, he falls into step beside you as you leave. The city streets feel quieter, the bustle softened by the comfort of his presence. Every so often, he adjusts his scarf around your shoulders or gently guides you past an uneven sidewalk, his protective instincts subtle but constant.

You walk to a small, cozy café, the kind where the scent of fresh pastries drifts through the air. He keeps a careful distance, but never too far, hands occasionally brushing yours as if testing the waters. Outside, a light wind tugs at the edges of your coat; he instinctively steps closer, shielding you without a word.

Seated across from each other, the box of chocolates rests between you. He finally speaks, voice quiet but earnest.

“I… made these for you. I hope you like them.”

And in that single sentence, the nervousness, the care, and the affection he rarely shows are all laid bare, sweeter than any chocolate on the table.