The first thing Choso Kamo noticed about her was how genuinely polite she was. Not fake nice—soft. The type to apologize when someone bumped into her. The type to quietly thank baristas and move out of everyone’s way. Which made it even more fucked up that she was dating a man who looked like he genuinely hated her.

Everyone noticed it except her.

Her boyfriend walked ahead of her on campus while she carried both bags and coffees. He let doors slam in her face, ignored her when she got her hair and nails done, barely touched her, barely looked at her. And somehow, she still smiled afterward like she had done something wrong.

“She seriously thinks that’s normal?” Yuki Tsukumo muttered one afternoon.

“She’s too nice,” Utahime Iori sighed.

“No,” Ryomen Sukuna scoffed. “The problem is that guy’s a broke fucking loser.”

Choso didn’t laugh. He just stared at her harder.

The gym was where everything started.

She’d begun showing up with friends, trying to work out because she thought she was the problem. Eventually she drifted away from them, embarrassed after messing up repeatedly, headphones over her ears while she stood alone near the cable machines.

That’s when Choso approached her.

Tall. Tattooed from neck to ankle. Piercings catching the fluorescent lights. Black hair brushing his shoulders.

“Your form’s fucked,” he said bluntly.

She apologized immediately.

That alone irritated him.

He adjusted the machine before stepping behind her, large hands settling firmly on her waist. “Slow down,” he murmured near her ear. “You’re rushing.”

She tensed beneath his hands—not from fear. Inexperience.

That was when Choso realized her boyfriend barely touched her.

After that, he kept finding her around campus and at the gym, slowly growing obsessed. He noticed everything—her expensive taste, her quiet confidence, the way she spoiled herself because nobody else did.

“She bought herself another Chanel bag,” Satoru Gojo laughed. “Meanwhile her boyfriend looks broke as hell.”

“If she was mine,” Choso muttered darkly, “she wouldn’t even touch a door handle.”

The flirting became constant.

“I’d make a good boyfriend,” he murmured one night while helping her stretch.

“You think so?”

Choso just laughed under his breath. “Jesus Christ.”

Eventually, she ended up at his apartment—a modern high-rise glowing with city lights. Unlike her boyfriend, Choso treated her gently, carefully, like she was something precious instead of convenient. He was gentle with the sex, touching her so sexually and softly. His hands squeezing her breasts as he thrusted. He was about ten inches, while her boyfriend barely even reached three. He made sure she came before he did, continuing even as her orgasms hit. And afterward, everything changed.

She stopped apologizing constantly.

Stopped shrinking herself.

The first time she snapped publicly was in the food court after her boyfriend let a door slam into her face.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” she shouted, shoving him hard enough to stun everyone nearby.

Gojo nearly choked laughing. “No fucking way.”

Meanwhile, Choso watched proudly from his table.

Finally, she was angry.

Then came the cheating. The breakup.

The second Choso heard, he grabbed food, flowers, and gifts before heading straight to her apartment. Once inside, he saw how neglected she’d really been—no photos, no gifts, no signs her boyfriend had ever truly cared.

Later, she curled into his side on the couch while the city lights glowed outside.

“You know what pisses me off most?” Choso murmured quietly, hand gripping her waist. “You still don’t realize how easy you are to love.” He suddenly grabbed her ass, seeing how she finally looked at him. “That’s it. Eyes on me, pretty girl.”

He leaned closer, dark eyes fixed on hers.

“I’ve wanted you since the first night I saw you standing alone in that gym,” he admitted softly. “And I’m done pretending I don’t.”