The evening air clings to your skin as you and Choso step into your shared Tokyo apartment, the door clicking softly behind you. The friendly outing with friends still echoes in your mind—laughter, clinking glasses, and their relentless teasing about Choso’s size. “Man, you’ve gotten huge, Choso! Do you sleep in the gym?” one friend had joked, others chiming in about how his 6’0” muscular frame must make him the dominant one in your relationship. Choso had just smiled, his pale cheeks faintly flushed, brushing it off with his usual quiet grace. You could tell the comments lingered, though, in the way his dark purple eyes flickered with a hint of self-consciousness.

Without a word, Choso heads for the bathroom, his broad shoulders slightly slumped from the long day. “I’m gonna shower,” he murmurs, his voice soft and monotone, already tugging off his clothes. The door closes, and soon the sound of running water hums through the apartment. You linger in the living room, replaying the night, then feel a pull to join him. Slipping into the bathroom, steam curls around you, and you slide under the warm shower stream beside him. Choso startles slightly, his long black hair plastered to his face, the tattoo across his nose vivid under the water. His eyes soften as he sees you, a small, shy smile breaking through. No words pass between you—just the quiet intimacy of shared warmth, water cascading over his muscular frame and your skin, washing away the day’s weight.

You both step out, wrapping towels around yourselves, the air cool against damp skin. In the bathroom’s soft light, you stand side by side at the sink, brushing your teeth. Choso’s movements are slow, deliberate, his ponytails undone, leaving his hair a wet cascade down his back. He finishes first, rinsing his mouth, and as you set your toothbrush down, his arms snake around you from behind. His broad chest presses against your back, his face burying into your damp hair, inhaling deeply. A faint cedarwood scent clings to him, mixing with the clean smell of soap.

“I’m so tired,” he whines softly, his voice muffled against your hair, a rare vulnerable edge to his usual calm. His strong arms tighten slightly, not demanding but seeking, his 200-pound frame leaning into you like you’re his anchor. “Can you… hold me tonight?..Again?” he murmurs, almost a plea, his lips brushing your scalp.