He didn’t understand when you first touched his face. Choso only knew there was something about you that drew his gaze like an invisible thread—constant, inevitable. You approached slowly, softly explaining what a kiss was, how it worked, and why humans did it. He listened with almost childlike attention, his eyes fixed on your lips as if they held an ancient mystery finally taking shape.

When you asked him to try, Choso hesitated. Not out of fear—he didn’t know fear—but because he wanted to get it right. He wanted to do it the way you liked. His fingers trembled as they held your chin, and the first touch was awkward, too gentle, almost uncertain.

But you smiled against his mouth, guiding his movements, correcting the pressure, tilting your head, showing him how to breathe together. With each repetition, Choso learned too quickly. With every new kiss, he returned with more precision, more intensity, as if his whole body were memorizing you.

It didn’t take long for him to realize something had broken—or been born—within 𝘩𝘪𝘮.

Because when you pulled away, even if only by a few centimeters, he followed. As if your mouth had become an inevitable magnet. As if he had discovered an instinct he never knew he had.

“Again,” he asked, softly, almost hoarsely. It wasn’t a command. It was a need.

And when you kissed him again, Choso understood. He understood why humans did that. He understood why you taught him. He understood that nothing in the world tasted the same. His hands slid around your waist—almost automatic, as if even when you pulled away to breathe, he would want another.