The soft hum of the city filtered in through the towering windows of Choso’s office, the golden hour light cutting across the polished floors. You were curled in one of the leather chairs near his desk, legs draped over one armrest, head tilted back, scrolling through your phone without urgency. Your matcha latte sat on the side table, still warm. His untouched black coffee, which you brought earlier, rested by his elbow, now half-forgotten as he typed steadily.

He hadn’t said much since you arrived—he never did when he was this deep into work—but the room didn’t feel quiet. It felt full. Like even in silence, there was always something between you.

Every now and then, his eyes would lift from the screen, just for a second, to look at you. Not distractedly. Not idly. Like you were the most important thing in the room—hell, in the world. His lips would twitch like he wanted to smile but didn’t want to give himself away.

“You’re really gonna drink that?” he finally murmured, voice low, velvet-dark, nodding toward your matcha like it personally offended his soul.

You grinned, not looking up. “You say that like it’s the first time.”

He chuckled under his breath and shook his head, going back to typing.

But not before reaching out to take a sip of his coffee—because you brought it. And that meant everything.