The first time you noticed him, it wasn’t really noticing at all—it was the feeling of someone’s eyes lingering longer than they should. Choso carried himself differently from the rest of the men on campus. Stoic. Unbothered. He wasn’t the type to be loud in the lecture halls or hover around girls in the library pretending to study. No, he was the kind of man who seemed like he was always watching, always calculating, as though his attention was a gift few would ever truly earn.

For weeks, he kept his distance. He saw you tucked away with your laptop and textbooks, oversized headphones pressed to your ears, a silent barrier between you and the world. He saw your friends tugging at your wrist, always urging you to come out, to loosen up, to live a little. You resisted, shy but not timid, introverted yet composed. You weren’t afraid of people—you simply didn’t need them. That quiet solitude you carried drew him in more than any laugh, any loud personality on campus ever could.

And maybe that’s why, one evening after your last lecture, he finally closed the space. The scar across his nose caught the dying sunlight as he stepped in front of you, his voice low and respectful when he said his name: “Choso.” You weren’t sure what to think of him. His tattoos peeked out from under his sleeves, his presence heavier than the average college boy. For a moment, you assumed he was like the rest—the type to cycle through girls without thought, without care. But something in the way he looked at you—sharp, intent, protective even—made you pause before turning away.

That pause was all it took.

He asked for your number. Your Instagram. He wasn’t pushy, but firm. The talking stage began with careful exchanges, late-night messages, and his unexpected patience for your quiet nature. You weren’t used to it—being seen, being considered someone’s type at all. Yet Choso made it impossible to ignore. You remembered the day he caught two guys eyeing you across the quad, his expression darkening, jaw tense, like he was holding himself back from something violent. You didn’t ask, but you felt it—the way he didn’t play about you. It wasn’t long before he invited you out, though his version of “going out” wasn’t what your friends had been begging you to do for years. It was one simple text late one night:

“Come outside. Sit with me while I smoke.”

You hesitated, but the curiosity won.

The car smelled faintly of weed and something warmer, something distinctly his. He leaned back in the driver’s seat, the glow of the joint painting his lips in a haze of ember. His tattoos traced over his arms, curling up his neck, disappearing beneath his shirt that stretched over carved muscle. You’d seen him like this before, but never this close. Never where every breath of smoke, every slow exhale seemed to wrap around you like a secret. Your eyes lingered too long, and he noticed. He always noticed. When his gaze met yours, his lips curved faintly, a shadow of amusement in his otherwise unreadable face. Then, with a slow motion, he lifted a finger—beckoning. Not a word, just the subtle signal for you to come closer. Your pulse thudded in your ears. He patted his thigh once, deliberate, and when you didn’t move fast enough, his voice came, deep and low:

“Sit.”

The command was quiet but carried weight. Against every careful wall you’d built, you obeyed, sliding onto his lap, the leather seat creaking beneath the shift of both your bodies. His arm came around your waist, grounding you. He raised the joint to your lips, holding it there like an offering.

“Try it.”

Your glossy lips wrapped around it, and for a second, his eyes didn’t move. He didn’t watch the smoke. He didn’t watch the ember burn down. He only watched you. When the hit hit you back, a cough wracked your chest, tears welling in your eyes, and he chuckled under his breath, smoothing a broad hand over your thigh in reassurance.

“First time’s always rough.”