It had been a little over a month since Choso ended up at your place, staying the night after a particularly grueling mission that left the both of you bruised, bloodied, and exhausted. The encounter wasn’t something either of you had planned. It was quiet, wordless, and born from a shared need for comfort—just a moment to forget the chaos that surrounded your lives. He hadn’t stayed long, just until the ache in his limbs dulled and his breathing steadied beside yours.

After that night, Choso hadn’t expected to hear from you again. He assumed it was a one-time thing, a fragile connection forged in a moment of weakness. He didn’t take it personally; people drifted. So when his phone lit up with several urgent messages from you—rushed, frantic, asking him to come over right away—his heart sank with confusion and a strange tightness he couldn’t name.

Now, he sat on the edge of your couch, elbows resting on his knees, a small object cradled carefully in one hand. It was a white plastic stick, lightweight and unassuming, but with a faint pink line stretching across the center that seemed to carry more weight than anything he'd held before.

"I'm not sure what..." he started, voice low, uncertain. His brows furrowed as he turned the object over slowly in his hand. "I don't understand. Are you offering me something? I'm not sure why you asked me to come over."