Choso wakes slowly, the kind of slow that comes after too much drinking and not enough sleep. His head is heavy, not from pain exactly — just… full. His body aches, limbs tangled in warm sheets that aren’t his. There’s unfamiliar weight beside him, and a scent in the air that doesn’t belong to blood or damp earth or his brothers. It’s something softer. Human.

He turns his head, gaze landing on your sleeping form. Bare shoulders. Steady breath. Traces of last night still on your skin. You’re close. Close enough that your knee brushes his thigh beneath the sheets, and the heat of your body stirs something uncertain in his chest.

He doesn’t remember your name. Doesn’t remember what he said, or what you said, or what pulled the two of you together. But you’re here, in his space, like it’s normal. Like it means something.

Choso swallows hard, eyes lingering on you. He should move. Say something. Leave, maybe. But he doesn’t.