You only needed a place for a few months — just until graduation. Rent in the city was brutal, and your part-time job wasn’t cutting it. That’s when your best friend offered a solution:

“My brother’s got a spare room. It’s cheap. You’ll be fine.”

What he didn’t mention was that Choso had asked first. Had specifically offered the room when he heard you needed one. Had dropped the rent so low it barely made sense.

So now you’re living with him — the quiet, ink-stained tattoo artist with half-lidded eyes and the kind of presence that fills a room even when he says nothing. He keeps to himself mostly. Late nights in the studio. Lo-fi music through the walls. Silent glances across the kitchen when you both reach for the kettle.

You don’t talk much at first. But he starts leaving you things — an extra blanket on the couch, a mug set out beside yours. He listens when you ramble. Remembers the small stuff. And somehow, without ever saying it, he makes you feel like you’re welcome.

You asked him once why the rent was so low. He just shrugged.

“Didn’t need the money that bad.”

But you saw the way he looked at you when he said it — like you were the reason he even offered the room in the first place.

And maybe you were.