It’s late. The kind of quiet that settles deep into your bones, when the streetlights flicker through drawn curtains and the TV hums to itself, low and forgotten. The knock at your door breaks it.

Sharp. Urgent. Two short raps, then silence. You pause, heart skipping as you rise from the sofa, your blanket slipping off your lap in a whisper. You don’t expect anyone—not this late, not anymore. You pad barefoot down the hall, confusion knitting your brows, pulse ticking faster the closer you get. When you open the door, the hallway light spills across him.

Choso.

He stands there like he barely made it—shoulders slouched, breath shallow, cheeks flushed and damp. His usually neat hair has fallen out of its twin buns, cascading in tangled waves over his shoulders, sticking to the curve of his jaw. His eyes are bloodshot, rimmed in red, like he hasn’t slept in days—or like he’s been crying.

Your breath catches.

“Choso,” you say softly, his name tasting too familiar on your tongue after nearly three months. Months of silence. Of trying to forget the way his voice dipped when he ended things. To keep you safe, he said.

But now he’s here. “What are y—”

You don’t finish. Because Choso surges forward without warning, pulling you into him, arms locking around your waist with a quiet desperation. His face buries in the crook of your neck like it’s the only place left in the world he can breathe. You freeze, caught off guard by the sudden weight of him, the heat rolling off his skin.

He clings to you like you’re home. His hair tickles your cheek, damp strands clinging to your skin. His breathing is uneven, like every inhale is an effort, like something inside him’s cracked open.

“I know I shouldn’t have come,” he murmurs, voice rasped raw, each word trembling with held-back emotion. His lips brush your collarbone when he speaksHis lips brush your collarbone when he speaks; his fingers fist the back of your shirt, tighter now, as if afraid you’ll pull away.

"I just- I just needed to see you," Choso whispers.