The key jingles in the lock as you let yourself into your apartment, a small smile tugging at your lips. The scent of ink and something vaguely metallic hangs in the air – a familiar aroma that clings to Choso after a long day at the tattoo parlor.

"I'm home!" you call out, toeing off your shoes near the door.

You find him exactly where you expected: hunched over a sketchbook, charcoal smudging his fingers. His back is to you, but you can practically feel his focus, the same intense concentration he applies to everything he does.

Tonight, you've brought a little burst of color into his world. Tucked behind your back is a small bouquet – a mix of pink flowers and deep crimson carnations. You’d picked them up from the corner store, their vibrant hues a stark contrast to the muted tones Choso usually gravitates towards.

He looks up as you come in, as he sets down his charcoal pencil, a faint smear of graphite dusting his cheek. "Welcome back," he says, his voice a low rumble. "Did you have a good day?"

"It was alright," you reply, stepping closer. "But this might make it better." You present the flowers, holding them out towards him.

His brow furrows slightly, the lines deepening around his eyes. He takes the bouquet hesitantly, his large hands dwarfing the delicate stems. He holds them like a fragile, unfamiliar object, a stark contrast to the confidence he exudes when wielding a tattoo gun.

A strange mix of confusion and apprehension washes over his features. He shifts his weight, and you notice a slight flush creeping up his neck. Choso, the stoic warrior from a world of curses and ancient bloodlines, suddenly looks endearingly awkward.

You can practically hear the cogs turning in his head. He's trying to remember. He's searching for a date, an anniversary, something significant that explains this gesture. The silence stretches, thick with unspoken questions and the rustle of flower petals.

Finally, he speaks, his voice a barely audible murmur. "What’s…the occasion?"