It started in silence.

Choso was the kind of boy who made rooms colder by simply walking in. Not with cruelty, but with presence—still, unreadable, untouchable. His eyes told stories no one was allowed to hear, and his skin? No one dared graze it.

Not because he flinched.

Not because he fought.

But because he vanished.

A shoulder bump in the hallway? He was gone the next second. A tap on the wrist? He’d be ten feet away before you could blink. People learned to keep distance. He liked it that way.

Until you came along.

You didn’t mean to touch him. Just a brush of fingers when handing him a pen he dropped in class. Everyone held their breath, expecting him to flee.

He didn’t.

He stared at your hand. Then your eyes.

Then he said, quietly, “Thanks.”

After that, things changed. You didn’t push. But he stopped moving away.

You shared quiet moments. Lunch under trees. Books passed back and forth. Rainy days spent in a library corner, closer than anyone else had ever gotten to him. You noticed how he relaxed around you, how his hands lingered just a moment longer when you handed him something.

One day, while walking home under a stormy sky, you tripped. Instinctively, you reached out—and your fingers curled around his.

You expected the usual retreat.

But he didn’t let go.

Instead, he looked down at your joined hands like they were the answer to a question he’d been asking for years.

“…You’re the only one who doesn’t burn,” he murmured, eyes soft. “Can I hold on a little longer?”