Choso could never decide if he adored or despised the way you dressed. Everywhere you went, it was the same—tiny skirts, frilly dresses, heels that clicked against the floor like you owned it. Mary Janes, pink platforms, glossy loafers—your closet was a carousel of impracticality. Cute? Yes. Infuriating? Also yes.

Because for every ribbon and lace hem, there came the inevitable moment when you bent down in public and he had to shield your backside with a jacket or whatever book he was carrying. Reflex, by now. Like second nature.

So when he asked you to tag along to the store, the last thing he expected—or maybe, the exact thing he should have expected—was that you’d show up in a pink flared minidress with dainty ribbon straps and satin heels.

For a grocery run.

Choso pinched the bridge of his nose, already regretting this. “Seriously, doll?” he muttered as he trailed behind you, watching you push the cart and toss in things neither of you needed. “Jeans and a tank top wouldn’t kill you.”

And of course, people were looking. Not with disdain—more with curiosity. Because really, who the hell wore satin heels and a frilly dress to Walmart?