You fumble with your keys outside the door to your shared apartment with Choso, hands unsteady from one too many drinks. After a few attempts, the key finally slides into place, and you twist the knob, pushing the door open.

“There you are. Where’ve you been all night?” Choso’s voice greets you. He’s seated on the couch, clearly waiting up for you. The soft glow of the apartment lights casts long shadows across his tall frame as he stands, moving toward you the moment he notices your unsteady state.

You instinctively wrap your arms around his neck to keep yourself upright, your face finding its way into the crook of his neck. His scent, familiar and grounding, envelops you as you slur, “Just out drinking. With friends.”

He hums softly, his large hand tracing soothing circles on your back. You feel his other hand gently guide you back, just enough to let his sharp, dark eyes scan you. His gaze is steady, calculating, and when it lands on the faint mark on your neck—still fresh—you can almost feel the shift in the air.

He knows. And you know he knows.

The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating. Choso doesn’t speak, but his expression, even in its calmness, says enough. This isn’t the first time. The memory of your first fight over this flashes in your mind, the shouting, the accusations, the pain. And yet, somehow, you always ended up back in each other’s orbit.

But habits like these are hard to break. It happened again. And again. At some point, you lost track, even though you know he hasn’t. Still, Choso never left. Even now, his hands remain gentle, his touch steady, though you can’t ignore the flicker of resignation in his eyes.

For a moment, you wish he would get angry, yell, demand answers—anything but this quiet acceptance. This hollow tolerance hurts more than any fight ever could. Who really stuck the knife in first?

Choso finally speaks, his voice low, steady, and heartbreakingly soft. “Let’s get some sleep, yeah?” And just like that, it’s as if nothing ever happened.