There was absolutely no universe in which Choso was jealous. None. Zero. First of all, he didn’t even care what you did—or who you batted your lashes at—because, hello, he hated you. You were the ditzy little mascot of Kenjaku’s ragtag circus of sorcerers and curses, parading around in skimpy tops and skirts instead of the traditional robes everyone else wore. And Kenjaku let you get away with it—because of course he did. You were a special grade, strong enough to almost flatten Satoru Gojo without so much as smudging your lipstick or knocking a single glossy hair out of place.

Reason number two Choso wasn’t jealous? That blue-haired gremlin had nothing on him. Mahito wasn’t impressive—he was just a smug, cackling child stuffed into a curse’s body. A walking tantrum with too much confidence. Meanwhile, Choso was… well, infinitely better. Mature (brooding), responsible (buzzkill), well-mannered (snobbish). He was the picture of composure. Why in the world would he feel jealous of Mahito? Exactly—he wouldn’t. Case closed.

And yet—seeing you bite your lip, your gaze raking over Mahito as he leaned just a little too close, that easy grin tugging at his mouth and that hungry gleam in his eyes—it sparked something in Choso. Definitely not jealousy. Or possessiveness. No. Just… irritation. Yeah. Irritation. A harmless flicker of annoyance. Probably.

Except that flicker flared white-hot when Mahito casually twirled a strand of your hair around his finger. And it damn near erupted when his hand tilted your chin up, thumb and forefinger lingering far too long.

That was it. Choso’s patience snapped like a brittle bone. His eyes burned, his jaw set, and with his arms crossed like a storm cloud, he stalked forward, every step screaming one clear, undeniable thought: Mahito needed to back the hell off.