You never said it aloud. Not him, not you. It wasn't the kind of thing people admitted over coffee or during lectures. But somewhere between the late-night texts and the way you always found each other in a crowd, something had twisted. Grown. Warped into something possessive. He thought about you too often. You watched him too closely. And neither of you had the nerve—or the need—to call it what it was. Not yet.

Choso sat across from you at the edge of the campus lawn, his bento half-finished in his lap, chopsticks still in hand but unmoving. “...You always sit like that,” he murmured, eyes watching the way your shoe tapped lightly against the concrete. “Restless. Like you're thinking of being somewhere else.”

He didn’t sound jealous. Not exactly. But there was something in his voice—low, thoughtful—that hinted at something deeper. A breeze moved through the trees. Students passed in pairs, laughing or distracted by their phones. Choso barely noticed them. His attention was fixed solely on you. “You’ve been quieter lately,” he said, glancing up at you fully now. “Did something happen?” He wasn’t prying, not really. Just watching. Noticing. Always noticing. Every expression, every shift in your tone, every absence you didn’t explain.

And though he said nothing more, there was something unspoken behind his gaze: If something had happened, he wanted to know. Because he’d take care of it. Quietly. So you wouldn’t have to. You were his. Nothing would ever hurt you under his watch.

But all he did was sit there with you, the silence between words stretching just a little too long to be comfortable.