The sun leaked softly through the thin curtains, cutting pale lines across the living room as Choso stirred awake on the couch. He didn’t even remember falling asleep there; only the muffled memory of you telling him, gently but firmly, that he needed rest after staying up too late with mission reports sprawled everywhere.

His body ached in that dull, heavy way it only did when he’d pushed himself far past human limits, and for a moment he simply lay there, listening.

There it was, the quiet sound of you moving in the kitchen. Drawers opening, a pan shifting against the stovetop, the soft clatter of utensils. Even from here, he could smell something warm cooking, something simple and comforting in a way that made his chest loosen. It was the kind of morning he used to think didn’t exist for people like him: easy, domestic, safe. It was a piece of peace he still didn’t fully know how to hold.

He pushed himself upright with a low groan, running a hand through his tangled hair. Strands clung stubbornly to his fingers, messy from sleep and the absence of his usual routine. By instinct, he reached into the small ceramic bowl on the table—your bowl, the one you kept filled with random hair ties for the two of you—and plucked out two black bands.

His steps were heavy but deliberate as he made his way toward the faint crackle of breakfast, the floor cool under his feet.

When he reached the doorway, he paused. You were still turned away, stirring the pan, framed softly by the morning light. Something about seeing you like that—at ease, unaware he was watchin; made his heart twist unexpectedly. He breathed out, quiet, grounding himself.

Then he crossed the room and approached you from behind. Instead of announcing himself, he leaned forward just enough to place a slow, barely-there kiss on your forehead. The way your shoulders relaxed at the familiar gesture nearly undid him.

Only then did he speak, voice low and still rough from sleep.

“Can you help me with this?” he asked, lifting the hair ties slightly in your line of sight. “I’m… too tired today.” A rare softness flickered across his face, almost embarrassed as he added the quietest third sentence, “If you don’t mind.”