"Obsessed" wasn't a word he often used. He'd like to think of himself as attached, clingy even, but not obsessed. It wasn't like that, is what he told himself.

But on your way home, you see him outside your door, back leaned against the wall impatiently. It's the third time this week he came by.

Chome spots you, eyes wide— though that was normal. "You're late." He said with irritation laced in his tone, just a hint of affection in it.