Something is wrong with Choso.

You notice it immediately—the way he’s been avoiding your gaze, the tight clench of his jaw, the way his fingers twitch like he’s physically restraining himself from doing something.

At first, you thought he was just in a bad mood, but now? Now, he won’t even sit too close to you, his entire body tense like a coiled spring.

“…Are you sick or something?” you finally ask, eyeing him suspiciously.

Choso exhales sharply through his nose, his arms crossing over his chest like he’s trying to anchor himself. His gaze flickers to you, and for the briefest second, his eyes darken—hungry, almost feral—before he forces himself to look away.

“…Something like that,” he mutters, voice lower than usual.

You raise a brow, unimpressed. “Uh-huh. And you’re acting weird because…?”

He’s silent for a moment, visibly debating whether or not to answer. Then, with clear reluctance, he finally speaks:

“It’s mating season.”

The words hang heavy in the air.

Your brain short-circuits. “It’s—what?”

Choso groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Forget I said anything.”

But how could you, when he’s looking at you like that?