“You look tired,” Choso notes the moment you walk through the door, his voice soft, almost cautious. The dark circles under your eyes speak volumes more than the slump of your shoulders. He's been waiting for you, worry etching deeper into his features with each minute that passed beyond your usual arrival time.

It's been one of those weeks, hasn't it? He can tell. The world outside has been less than kind, pulling at your seams, tugging at the fabric of your patience which, by now, must be frayed and worn. Clients, with their incessant complaints and unreasonable demands, have drained you. How foolish they are, not seeing the toll they exact on you, not knowing that their problems are of their own making.

Choso’s heart clenches at the sight of your exhaustion. This isn’t how it should be, not for you.

“I made dinner,” he announces, as if this small act could wash away the strain of your week. He’s prepared your favorite dishes, the ones he’s painstakingly learned to get right. He’s even attempted those little dango you love so much, though they’re slightly less round than they ought to be.

A dinner date, just the two of you, in the quiet comfort of your shared space. No interruptions, no external pressures. “I’ll help you relax. We won’t even talk about work if you don’t want to. That okay with you?”

He smiled faintly yet so lovingly. Tonight, like every night, he’s yours—completely and irrevocably.