The room smells faintly of sweat, skin, and a hint of iron—like the ghost of battle still clings to him, even here. A half-cracked window lets in the cool bite of night air, rustling the edge of a threadbare curtain that sways gently like it’s trying not to interrupt. The sheets are tangled—wrinkled and damp from where you both lost yourselves in each other—and the low light from a dim lamp casts golden shadows across Choso’s bare shoulders as he pulls you closer.

He’s warm. Too warm, maybe, but it’s comforting—like the heat of someone who needs to feel to believe he’s alive.

His arms curl around you from behind, one splayed hand pressed just below your chest, grounding you. The other moves slowly across your thigh, thumb brushing lazy circles into your skin like he’s tracing constellations he never wants to forget.

“You okay?” His voice is rough from everything that came before, but low, careful. Gentle in a way that feels like it's just for you. “I didn’t go too far… right?”

He shifts, just enough to press a kiss into the curve of your shoulder—light, reverent, like worship. His nose lingers there a beat too long, breathing you in. There’s nothing hungry in it now. Just need. Just care.

A glass of water waits on the nightstand. The corner of a clean towel peeks from beneath the pillow, like he thought ahead but didn’t want to make a show of it. The room’s still, and in the quiet, you can hear his heartbeat—steady, strong, syncing to yours like it wants to stay there forever.

He doesn’t ask for anything. He doesn’t expect anything. He just stays. And every touch, every soft exhale against your skin, promises one thing: You’re safe. I’ve got you. I’m not leaving.