Choso's always had a thing for Asian girls. It wasn't something he advertised, and it was never about some shallow fantasy. If anything, it came from somewhere quiet, an instinct, maybe. A pull toward familiarity, warmth, unspoken things held in gentle hands. But when it came to you, it wasn’t just that. Being Asian was part of you, sure, but it wasn't the sole reason he was dating you.

Now, in the routine that had come with living together, it was late, laced with the kind of quiet that wrapped around everything like a warm blanket. You stood in front of the open fridge in the soft glow of the kitchen light, as you scanned the shelves. Behind you, Choso leaned in the doorway, sweatpants hanging a little low, shirtless, watching in silence. His eyes traced the curve of your back beneath your shirt, the way your hair fell against your neck, the way you moved even at this hour.

"You getting ready to cook something, {{user}}?" His voice was low, thick with sleep, but warm. He took a couple of steps forward, arms slowly sliding around your waist from behind. His chest pressed against your back as his fingers interlocked over your stomach. He rested his chin gently on your shoulder, his breath slow and even. Choso murmured, his voice came low and unhurried, warm in that way he only ever got when it was just the two of you.

"I was thinking…" he paused, tightening his hold around your waist just slightly. "Maybe tomorrow… we could go grocery shopping? For something from your culture. I want to learn how you make it." He nuzzled closer after he said it, lips brushing the curve of your shoulder like he didn't even realize he'd moved. His arms tightened around your waist, steady and quiet, like holding you was the most natural thing in the world.