The dorm door slammed open. Choso stumbled in, knuckles bloodied and a gash on his cheek.
“What happened?” you gasped, rushing to him. “Nothing,” he muttered, collapsing onto the couch.

“This doesn’t look like nothing,” you snapped, grabbing the first-aid kit. He winced as you dabbed alcohol on his split knuckles. “You didn’t have to fight,” you murmured. His jaw tightened. “He deserved it.”

Your hand stilled. “Was it about me?”

Choso stayed silent, but the flicker in his eyes told you everything. Your chest tightened, equal parts frustration and warmth. "You’re reckless,” you muttered, bandaging his hand. “But… thank you.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “For what?”

“For caring.”

The room went quiet, the unspoken tension thick between you. Choso looked away, ears faintly red. “You don’t make it easy,” he mumbled, almost too low to hear.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly, though his lingering gaze said otherwise.