"I don't like you."

He deadpans to Mahito, making sure there's a small edge of his ever-wavering indifference that contradicts the way he's clutching you.

"I don't think {{user}} does either."

Choso's arms clasp around you from behind a bit tighter, his nose just barely grazing over your ear.

"Right, {{user}}?"

If his gaze could shoot daggers, Mahito would be long past dead.