he’s your friend. you trust him. you say his name when you see him.

morning, choso.

his chest tightens every time. it fits there, in your mouth, like it belongs to you.

would you still say it like that if you knew what it did to him?

your friendship is easy. you text him late at night when you can’t sleep. you pull him into conversation when he’s too quiet in a group. you lean against him when you’re tired, press your fingers to his wrist when you need his attention.

you let him in.

so it only makes sense that he knows you better than anyone.

he doesn’t think it’s strange that he watches you leave your apartment every morning. or that he walks the same route. or that he knows how long you’ll pause before crossing the street. this is part of his day, too.

he doesn’t think it’s odd that sometimes, he gets close enough to touch the loose thread on the back of your coat. or the nape of your neck.

once, you dropped your phone and bent over to pick it up. if you had turned around then, he would’ve been right there, standing too close.

but it’s not stalking. he’s not obsessed. he’s just making sure you’re okay.

+++

choso likes keeping things.

it started small. innocent.

a receipt left on the table after lunch. a pen you let him borrow. a candy wrapper, the foil crinkled between your fingers when you pressed it into his palm. he didn’t mean to keep them. he just…never let them go.

then, a bit more personal.

a cherry chapstick left in his car. an earring—he remembers watching it fall, small and shiny and delicate. a tissue, blotted with lipstick.

none of it was on purpose.

but you leave so many pieces of yourself behind. you’re careless, in a way that only makes sense to him. he had to start paying attention.

the things he keeps now are less accidental.

a bracelet you thought you lost. a nearly empty perfume bottle. strands of your hair, pulled from his hoodie after you borrowed it. a bloodstained tissue, from the time you cut your finger cooking for mutual friends.

your voice in his head hours after you’ve spoken. your fingerprints burning his skin like you meant to leave them there.

a photo of you sleeping. that one’s his favorite. a little secret, tucked between pages of a book. a moment you don’t remember, but he does. proof.

he knows things about you that you’ve never told him.

he knows your passwords. your wifi login. how much money is in your bank account.

he knows what you search for late at night, when your body is warm and restless. he knows what you watch twice, what you turn the volume up on, what you come back to later. sometimes, he watches with you.

at the bottom of his drawer, there’s a single zip tie. red and sturdy, waiting. it isn’t yours.

but it makes him think of you.

it’s not wrong. he’s just keeping you safe.

+++

afternoons are harder.

your lunch breaks are less predictable than your mornings, but even your unpredictability follows a rhythm. sometimes you run an errand. sometimes you meet a friend. others, you stop into a cafe, settle by the window, scroll through your phone between bites.

today, it’s the latter.

he leans against a brick wall across the street, observing you through the glass. you’re alone, stirring sugar into your drink, the sleeve of your sweater pulled over your hand.

then some guy slides into the seat across from you.

choso doesn’t recognize him. doesn’t care to.

the guy says something. you laugh and tilt your head, play with the edge of your napkin as you talk.

he’s seen you like this before—warm, engaged, giving. he knows it’s nothing. he knows that. but the sight still twists in his chest.

it’s not about fear. he doesn’t worry about losing you. that’s impossible.

it’s about keeping you.

about being on the receiving end of that smile. your attention, your laughter—they belong to him. no one else deserves them. they don’t know what to do with them anyway. they don’t hold them the right way, don’t understand how dangerous it is to waste them.

if he walked into the cafe right now, crossed the room, took your wrist—would you let him?

he imagines it. leaning close, lips brushing your ear. let’s go home.

your breath catching. your body tilting toward him on instinct. your little nod.

but he won’t do that. you have to come first.

he remembers the last guy. the one who texted too much, who made you laugh too easily. the one who stopped showing up.

he got the message. you didn’t even notice he was gone, but choso did. he noticed every second that passed before you stopped checking your phone, before you moved on like he never existed.

how long before this one needs a message, too?

his hands flex in his pockets. he takes a step forward. but he exhales, lets it go. he turns before the thought can take root, before the want takes shape and he can’t push it down.

he walks away, but the feeling doesn’t.

+++

when evening comes, choso’s right back where he belongs, watching your apartment from a distance, waiting for your windows to light up.

you should be here by now. he’s been standing here long enough for his body to register the cold. long enough for his pulse to slow.

he waits. this is easy to do when it’s for you. when he knows that, eventually, you’ll come home.

it’s fine.

maybe you stayed late at work. maybe you lost track of time. maybe you ran into someone.

it happens.

his fingers tap against his thigh once, then again. then again. a pattern, his body tracking the time even if he doesn’t mean to.

twenty minutes.

a car passes. the street lamp flickers.

his jaw tightens, but his breathing stays even. it’s not impatience. not paranoia. just an understanding of how things are supposed to be.

thirty minutes.

the cold bites at his knuckles. his fingers flex. the rhythm on his thigh picks up.

forty minutes.

his hand stutters.

something’s wrong.

he doesn’t decide it. he doesn’t even process it. the knowledge just settles, heavy and absolute. like sensing a storm before the clouds roll in.

his hand slips into his pocket.

your key fits nicely between his fingers.

he crosses the street.

+++

your apartment smells exactly like you: floral, a little sweet, undeniably familiar.

he moves through your space, cataloging. your blanket on the couch, waiting for you. the unopened mail stacked neatly on the counter. a single glass in the sink. everything is where it should be.

but something’s wrong.

his eyes flick to your bookshelf. the order is off. books are misaligned, there are gaps where there shouldn’t be. choso’s not even sure you’ve touched these shelves before—they’re always perfectly neat, always the same.

his gaze dips lower. a box, tucked away. not well enough.

he hesitates.

then he crouches, pulling it out, fingers ghosting over the lid. he doesn’t know why he holds his breath as he lifts it.

the first things he sees make him smile, just a little. a matchbook from a bar you both went to. a concert wristband, still looped closed. he carried you on his shoulders that day. a pin he gave you once, the clasp slightly bent.

his hand skims over them. he’s always known you were sentimental, but seeing it like this—seeing himself in it—makes something in his chest loosen. he thinks you’re cute.

then, a polaroid. the two of you, smiling. a moment he remembers. he runs his fingers over your image.

underneath it, another. just him.

he stares for a second before setting them aside.

the hoodie string he thought got lost in the laundry, coiled in the corner. a cigarette butt, flattened at the tip. his brand.

when did you find out he smokes?

his hands move slower now, pulling each item from the box, laying them out beside him.

a receipt—his, not yours—crumpled, then smoothed back out. a lock of his hair, neatly tied with a ribbon. his scalp tingles like he can feel where it was taken.

more photos. him again, but he’s not posing this time. stepping off a curb. shopping for groceries. sleeping.

his heartbeat pounds in his throat.

his fingers graze a slip of paper, the ink faded but still legible.

choso is restless today. he doesn’t talk much, but his weight shifts when he gets impatient. his breathing changes when i touch him. he watches me more when he thinks i won’t notice. i always notice. i wonder if he knows how soft his voice goes when he says my name. i could listen forever.

his fingers press into his thighs, his breathing slows, his mind splintering at the edges.

it’s not the same as him. it’s not.

he reaches the last few items in the box.

a mirror, small enough to fit in his palm. his name in lipstick, smeared over the glass where a finger had brushed.

a knife. the one that should be at the back of his nightstand drawer.

the room presses in around him. his body stills. his thoughts feel slow, thick.

he’s missing something. he must be.

before he can decide what it is, the door unlocks.

choso stays frozen where he is. his breath pulls in his throat.

you step inside, closing the door behind you. your movements are easy. fluid. unbothered.

there’s no shock, no fear when you see him. no gasp or startled jolt. you don’t even hesitate.

you walk to the living room entrance and stop there. and instead of asking why he’s in your apartment, looking through your things, you just look at him expectantly.

his fingers tingle.

you shouldn’t be this calm.

his gaze moves over you, searching for a flicker of guilt, a flash of panic—something.

but you’re steady. unblinking. he feels like prey.

is this a test?

the silence stretches taut, and something inside him bends with it. part of him already knows where this is going.

he should say something. ask something, demand an explanation. how did you get those pictures? his knife? his fucking hair?

but his breath is caught somewhere between inhale and exhale.

you tilt your head. the corners of your lips curl upwards.

and then, lightly, “you found it.” your voice is sweet, but underlined with a tone he’s never heard before.

his stomach clenches. his fingers tighten around the box.

“i left it there for you.”

his mind fumbles for an answer, a reason this isn’t what it looks like. but nothing comes.

it’s exactly what it looks like.

you left it there. for him.

he should be horrified, but the pieces fit too well. the truth clicks too easily.

you’re just as bad as he is.

realization winds through his ribs like smoke. relief follows soon after, dark and cool.

he places the box down beside the scattered items with an exhale. his arms are looser now, his muscles relaxing.

he understands.

he stands and takes a step forward. then another, tilting his head, voice low. “say it.”

amusement glints in your eyes, your lips parting slightly.

“you first.”

him first.

choso doesn’t move, neither do you.

but something shifts—pulls—like gravity bending around you. his hands flex at his sides, his jaw working against the weight of the moment.

then, finally, he reaches for you.

one hand cups your jaw, the rough pad of his thumb grazing over your cheek. the other slides down, curling around the delicate skin of your wrist. he presses your pulse, just enough to tell you he’s here.

he lifts your hand, turning it, bowing his head in quiet worship. his lips brush the inside of your wrist, featherlight, careful.

warm breath fans over your skin, then his teeth, sending a tremor through you.

the scrape of enamel blurring into the glide of his tongue is overwhelming.

he feels the way your fingers twitch against his palm, hears the sharp inhale you try to bite down. his thumb rubs slow circles into your cheek.

he lifts his head, moves in, and then he’s kissing you.

it’s needy. built from tension too thick to hold any longer. heat and teeth and hands—one pressing your wrist behind your back, the other sliding to the base of your skull, pulling you close, closer.

you give it back to him. your free hand tangles into his hair, nails scraping. his hair ties come loose one by one, and you slip them down over your wrist. a quiet keepsake. for later.

the moment is raw and unsteady. his mouth explores, breathless against your jaw, then lower. his teeth scrape below your ear, testing, waiting for a reaction.

you press forward, not willing to stop this.

he exhales against you, then moves, walking you backward until the edge of your desk presses into your spine.

his belt slips from his waist in one motion. the leather slides over your skin, smooth as his hands work, looping, tightening, adjusting.

he pulls it snug, your wrists now pinned behind your back, the press of leather holding you in place.

he thinks of the zip tie in his drawer. red, uncut, waiting.

not tonight.

then he lifts his gaze, searching.

“you could stop me.”

it’s a door. you could stop him. he’s telling the truth. if you pulled away right now, if you said no, he’d let you go. taking was never the point.

but the thought of stopping him doesn’t even form properly.

how could you?

you don’t pull away. you don’t resist at all. instead, you tilt your chin up, watching him.

and then, a smile.

something inside him aligns, seamless and final. everything before this was waiting. his mind quiets. the constant restlessness, the gnawing hunger—gone.

you’re his. you always were.

he tightens his hold for just a second before taking a step back.

the sight of you, wrists bound, waiting for him—he just needs to see it. to convince himself it’s real, to prove that this isn’t just another fantasy unraveling in the dark. that he’s not imagining the way you’re looking at him right now.

he drags his gaze over you, memorizing. you look exactly how he imagined you would. better.

you shift, testing the belt. his eyes track the movement, feeling the pull of you. he exhales, slow and controlled, and moves back in.

his hands explore, pushing your shirt up, fingers pressing, tracing. his lips aren’t far behind. he takes his time, dragging teeth and intention over you. marking you.

his fingers slide lower, brushing your inner thigh. he watches the flutter of your lashes, the pull of breath in your throat.

then softly, “i should keep you like this.”

a pause. his fingers move higher.

“tied up.”

a flick of his fingers through layers of clothing.

“waiting for me.”

how long would you last like this? how long before you’d beg?

the longer your wrists stay bound, the deeper the inevitability settles into you. you lean into it, let it take root.

he drags a thumb over the waistband of your pants. he undoes the button. lowers the zipper.

you don’t help him. you can’t—and that’s the point.

his fingers press into your hips as he works the fabric down. your panties follow. you watch as he stuffs them into his pocket and drops to his knees before you.

his hands settle against your thighs, and choso lets himself feel the gravity of this. it’s hypnotic, the way you open up for him, the way you let him take what’s his.

he’s craved this. dreamt of it. and now you’re here. bound, vulnerable. every version of this moment was different—except for one thing. you always looked at him like this.

he half-expects to wake up still standing across the street, waiting for the glow of your windows.

but this isn’t a dream.

he dips down, pressing an open-mouthed kiss above your knee. then another, and another.

you want to touch him. to twist your fingers in his hair, to pull him closer, to feel his shoulders flex under your hands.

he takes his time. works his way up, teeth scraping, tongue flicking against sensitive skin. he closes his eyes as he breathes you in, but he doesn’t give you anything.

a sharp nip to the crease of your thigh. a lazy drag of his tongue there. he kisses right above your clit—so close, so fucking close, but not enough.

you whine. you need him.

he smirks. “you open up for me so easily.”

his tongue presses flat against you, slow at first, moving through the heat of you. you let out your first unrestricted moan.

then deeper. more.

he groans into you. “shit—” he drags his tongue through your slick again, his mouth starting to water. he savors your taste, taking his time, patient and thorough.

his mouth covers you completely, sucking, dragging you higher, working you open. you’re moving, pressing closer, needing more. the slow build makes you dizzy.

but just when your breath stutters and your thighs start to shake, he pulls away.

your head jerks, a whimper slipping out, raw need spilling over.

but he just slides his fingers through your opening, coating them, spreading it.

“you shouldn’t let me do this,” he says, but he’s already lifting his fingers to your face. his lips curve. “but you’d let me do anything, wouldn’t you?”

when you take his fingers into your mouth without hesitation, fire surges in his chest.

his pupils blow wide, his breath catches. he pulls his fingers out, spreading them over your lips, your jaw, rubbing wetness in, watching it shine under the dim light.

“so fucking pretty like this.”

he buries his face back between your thighs with a moan. his tongue moves rougher now, making up for all the time he’s spent wanting and waiting.

you can’t move, can’t do anything but sit there and let him have you.

the pleasure builds too fast, too sharp, and you realize—he’s dragging you over the edge whether you’re ready or not.

his hands, his mouth, his breath—you swear you can feel him everywhere. on your skin, under it. in your cells, unraveling you from the inside out.

he keeps you spread open, his tongue fucking into you until you break.

you come undone, sharp and shattering, your body arching and your vision flickering. he growls against you, greedy, drinking in every sound you make and every drop of your release.

you tremble, breath coming in jagged, desperate pulls, aftershocks rolling through you.

he doesn’t stop until he’s done. until he’s sure he’s tasted everything you have to give. only then does he pull back, breathless, flushed, his face slick with you.

his hands don’t leave you. one stays firm on your thigh while the other drags up your body—slow, possessive, tracing the marks he’s already left behind.

his lips follow the same path. butterfly kisses at first, soft and fleeting. a press of his mouth to your hip, your stomach, your ribs, his breath warming your skin.

by the time he reaches your chest, he’s standing again, crowding you. his mouth teases each of your nipples, then moves up to your collarbone, your throat, then your lips—deep and heady, like he’s sealing something in place.

you taste yourself. it should be filthy, humiliating. but the way he does it, the way he runs his tongue against yours with so much care, like it’s meant to be this way—you shudder, melting into it.

his hands move behind you. he unfastens the belt, unwinding it with slow precision. your arms drop, the tension leaving so suddenly that a tremor runs through them. before you can move, he catches your wrists, holding them gently.

“you okay?” his thumbs smooth over the tender marks.

you nod and smile, just slightly, but it’s enough. he takes in the gesture, tucks it into the little box in his mind reserved for you.

his grip on you changes—firmer, more intent. the next kiss is messy, the way he presses into you, the solid weight of him between your thighs.

you feel him, hard and thick, putting pressure on your core through his jeans. he rolls his hips once, and the friction pulls a moan out of you.

your fingers twist into his hair, pulling so tight it must burn, but he keeps moving against you. he whispers your name, a quiet, broken sound.

does he even hear himself? does he know how much weight it carries, how needy he sounds when he says it? what it does to you?

you push.

your teeth catch his lower lip, biting down hard. enough to hurt, enough to bleed. you drag your tongue over it, tasting him, wanting to thank him for giving this to you.

he moans, growing desperate and grinding into you again, gripping your thighs, holding himself back. “you make me insane.”

before you can answer, he moves.

he lifts you effortlessly, walking you through your apartment like he’s lived here forever. his mouth is everywhere—kissing, biting, tasting—as he presses you against a wall, a doorframe, and finally the bed.

he sets you down. his hands move to his shirt, pulling it over his head in one motion, muscles shifting under his skin. his pants follow, and then he’s back, sitting and reaching for you, drawing you into his lap and guiding your legs around him.

he moves one hand down to run his length through your slick, wetting himself up before easing you down onto him.

he’s thick, almost too much to take, and you whimper softly as his fingers slide up your sides, grounding you.

“you’re okay,” he coos. “you’re doing so well, pretty girl.”

he doesn’t rush you, doesn’t move at all to speed the process. he just watches you, takes you in, drags his hands over your skin like he finally has what he wanted.

his arms wrap around you when you eventually sink all the way down. he wastes no time rolling his hips, feeling you, reveling in the way you whimper at the stretch.

the position is deep, intimate, almost tender. but the way he holds you, the way he grips and takes and owns as he drags you down and snaps his hips up to meet you—there’s nothing soft about it.

you pull back enough to look at him, really look, and it makes your stomach churn.

he belongs to you. you love him. you love him too much. more than is reasonable, more than is safe.

you want him to know what this feels like—the unbearable ache, the madness, the constant need that grips you so hard you don’t know what to do with it.

before you even realize what you’re doing, your palm cracks against his face.

his head jerks to the side, his jaw tightening as something dark flickers in his eyes.

he stares, breath measured, holding something in his throat. the red on his cheek spreads like watercolor, stark against the black ink on his skin. a smile tilts at his lips.

”again.”

so you do it again.

his hand slides to the back of your neck as he lets out a breathless laugh, his other arm locking tighter around your waist, forcing you up and down, over and over again.

he’s fucking lost in it. in you, in this, in the way you give and take and ruin.

your body is stretched open, raw and aching, so fucking full, drunk on the way he claims you, the way he needs you.

then, lower, slurred against your skin, “please—baby, spit in my mouth.” half-lidded eyes lift to yours, and you realize he’s not just asking. he’s offering himself up.

you’re pulling his head back by his hair before he’s even done speaking.

his lips part, tongue barely peeking out, ready and waiting.

you let it drip into his mouth, and he groans like you’ve blessed him as he drags you into another desperate kiss.

it’s not enough. it’s never fucking enough. you need more.

“tell me you love me.”

it tumbles out, raw and unguarded. you both know it’s not a request—it’s a demand. a life sentence. a tether neither of you will be able to break.

his answer is instant. “i love you.” it lands like a vow, like a promise. like knowledge he was born with.

it floors you. tears brim in your eyes, and before you even process what he’s just given you—“i love you, choso.”

you love him. you love him. and that destroys him. his name belongs here, with you. always has.

his arms crush you, a vice around your body. like he could break you open and crawl inside, stay there forever. his thrusts turn brutal, desperate, unhinged, carving you into his shape.

he wants to say something, but nothing comes. just you, just this.

because the realization is too much.

because he never thought he’d hear this from you. never expected to be allowed to have this, to keep this.

because he’s been content just knowing you, quietly keeping you safe.

but this? this is something else entirely.

his grip tightens, almost desperate as his rhythm grows rough, erratic. your name spills from his lips like a prayer, over and over, his body going tight.

he moans freely against your skin, holding you flush to him as he buries himself deep, spilling into you. he’s locked around you, unyielding, trying to hold the moment in place, trying to stop time itself.

and it undoes you.

the warmth of him pressed into you, the way he swells inside you as he releases, the way he stays, like he belongs there—it sends you spiraling.

you tighten around him like a vice, gasping his name, sinking your teeth into his shoulder as your body locks up. your nails rake down his back, desperate, needing to mark him, keep him, to ruin him the way he’s ruined you.

his breath stutters, still drowning in his own pleasure, but he cradles your head, fucking you through it. “that’s it, pretty girl. let me feel it.”

and you do. you give him everything. every wave, every pulse, every broken sound as the feeling rolls through you. your body trembles in his arms, spent, oversensitive, but he just holds you, smoothing a hand down your spine, pressing slow, grounding kisses to your temple.

he pulls out of you, a slow retreat. the absence leaves you aching, still open for him, your combined juices leaking out.

time slows. your heart pounds against his. the heat between you lingers, warm and hazy. his fingers trace lazy patterns over your skin, letting you relax into him as you both come down.

once you’ve both settled, he lifts you off of him carefully, reluctant to let go. his hands guide you, breathing you in, smelling sweat and sex and something unmistakably yours.

his thumb drags down your back. he watches the way your body responds, still trembling, still open. he fits a pillow beneath your hips, shifting you into place.

he hovers, kissing you—over your shoulder, your spine, the side of your ribs, soft but weighted. his body follows, pressing you under him, where you belong.

“you’re not done yet.”

a shudder moves through you.

his lips press between your shoulder blades, lingering, exhaling before he pushes back into you.

the position lets him sink deeper than before. the stretch is slow, unrelenting, and you let out a low moan into the mattress.

his groan is rough, his voice wrecked. “you take me so fucking well.”

his pace builds—deep, ruthless. he’s everywhere, taking you apart, remaking you in his image.

you feel his teeth on your shoulder. his teeth on your neck. his tongue dragging fire over your skin.

you’re too sensitive. it’s too much. you reach back, trying to slow him down, but he’s faster. he grabs your wrists and pulls them behind you, dragging you upright into him like a puppet on strings.

your body bows into his. his breath is hot against your ear, his lips brushing over your jaw, your cheek, your throat.

his hands pull you down onto him again and again, pushing you beyond yourself.

fingers trace your collarbones, his thumb finding the soft dip in your throat before he wraps his hand around it. he doesn’t squeeze—not yet. but he feels the way you clench slightly around him.

“you like this?”

a whimper escapes you—not an answer, but enough of one. your hips rock back, body moving on instinct.

slowly, methodically, his fingers flex around your throat, measuring, testing.

then he closes his hand, cutting off everything but him.

your breath is gone.

everything stills. the world narrows—collapsing to the points where his hand meets your throat, where he’s buried inside you.

you clench around him hard as your limbs go weightless. a slow, creeping quiet drags you under, like slipping underwater.

you can feel your own pulse weakening under his hand. you can feel the numbness creeping up your spine, feel your eyes roll back, feel how completely you trust him to guide you.

he could kill you like this. is that what this is? a kind of offering? if he asked, would you give him even that? you both know the answer. he could demand your life right now, and you’d hand it over. just like he would if the roles were reversed.

he’s studying you, observing every reaction, watching you slip, mentally recording the sounds you make as you fight for air. his thumb strokes your jaw, coaxing you deeper.

and in the haze, you think:

he’s made you something sacred, something holy. a body to bow down to, a name to whisper between gasps. if this is devotion, you’ll kneel. if this is love, you’ll let it kill you.

everything is soft—your vision, your breath, your body. he’s siphoning the world away, tightening his hold even more. the floor drops out, and you’re falling, though you don’t know for how long or to where.

he lets go.

your body seizes as air floods your lungs, a shuddering inhale that rattles in your chest, half sob, half plea.

an orgasm overtakes you without warning or control, tearing a ragged cry from your throat. your vision flickers, your body spasms around him, but he doesn’t slow down.

“oh, fuck—” his voice is ruined. his hands keep you open for him as he fucks you straight through it. “keep fucking cumming for me, pretty girl.”

you try to squirm away, the pleasure making you hot, blinding you, too much.

“no—no, stay here,” he grits out. his palm spreads over your nape, forcing you down, shoving your face back into the mattress to take it.

he fucks you like a punishment, like a gift, dragging more sounds from your lips and tears from your eyes, letting you feel everything—every thick push, every deep stroke, every pulse of him inside you.

you were made for this. you were made for each other. shaped by each other’s hands, bound by each other’s will.

your body can’t decide if it’s too much or not enough, because somehow—somehow—you’re cumming again, clenching so hard around him he’s nearly forced out of you.

your body breaks open, pouring out and soaking the sheets, soaking him, feeling the delicious release as the force of it drags you under.

his breath stutters, his grip bruising as he chases it. he buries himself, spilling inside you, filling you and leaving something permanent behind.

his forehead presses against the back of your neck. his body stills, but his arms tighten around you, sealing you in the moment with him.

because this is it.

if you ran, he’d find you. if you fought, he’d break you down, drag you back, make you forget why you ever wanted to leave.

his fingers slide into your damp hair, pushing it off your forehead. he tilts your face just enough for his lips to brush your temple.

his breath is soft, warm when he whispers, “thank you, pretty girl.” you don’t know what you’ve done.

+++

you’re drifting. the world is muffled, distant, like sound traveling through water. your limbs don’t work, your mind doesn’t move. you just exist—empty, light, gone.

somewhere, you know choso is holding you. you can feel his warmth at the edge of your consciousness, an anchor you can’t quite reach.

but you’re safe here. his.

his hands shift, adjusting you away from the mess on the bed. you hum—more of a breath than a sound—pliant in his grip.

“baby?”

no response.

his thumb presses lightly into your jaw, trying to coax a reaction, but there’s nothing. your body is slack in his hold, breath coming too slow.

his stomach dips, sharp and visceral. his hands are calm when he cups your face, but his breath isn’t. his heart isn’t.

his fingers press against your wrist, searching for your pulse. still there. slow but steady.

but you don’t move. you don’t even look at him.

“baby, you with me?”

a hum, noncommittal, far away.

it’s not enough.

his throat tightens. his hands shake, just barely.

what if he went too far? what if you don’t come back?

the realization curls like smoke under his ribs.

he smooths your hair, tilting your chin up, a thumb stroking your cheek. “i need you to look at me, pretty girl.”

nothing.

“please.” his voice breaks on the word. he presses a kiss to the top of your head, breath shaky, exhaling slow. grounding himself before he grounds you.

“okay,” he murmurs, softer now, steadier. “okay, baby, i got you.”

his lips rest against your temple. he breathes you in. your breath, shallow and warm against his skin. the quiet rise of your chest against his. your weight, soft in his arms.

his stomach clenches. he shouldn’t love this, not like this, not while you’re gone. but part of him does—how tender you are, how easy you are to hold, how completely you’ve let him have you.

his thumb brushes over your parted lips. something possessive curls inside him, unshakable.

“you’re so fucking beautiful.” he kisses the words against your skin, the bruises on your neck, the fading heat where his grip had been. his lips ghost your forehead, your cheek, your jaw.

“need to clean you up, baby. can you move?”

nothing. you don’t even try.

you just burrow closer, pressing your face deeper into his chest, a quiet little sound slipping from your throat.

his breath catches. something pulls. twists.

you don’t want to move. you don’t want to leave him.

his fingers splay across your stomach, feeling the steady rhythm of your breath. he strokes a hand up your side, cups the nape of your neck, presses his lips your pulse point.

“you don’t have to.” he exhales. “i’ll take care of you.”

he lifts you, cradling you against his chest as he carries you to the bathroom. the warmth of the room contrasts the cold counter when he sets you down, but you don’t seem to register it.

unease tugs at his ribs, but he tamps it down, turning the faucet and watching steam rise from the bath.

when he settles you into the water, you lean into the warmth lapping at your skin.

something sharp lingers in his chest. he wants you back.

he strokes your hair back. his voice is soft, but there’s something dark beneath it.

“stay with me, pretty girl.”

choso washes you like he’s caring for something fragile. strong hands smooth over your arms, your back, your legs. each touch is a silent plea.

“breathe, baby.”

the words feel distant, like they’re coming through a thick fog, but something in you listens. you inhale, slow and deep.

“just like that. you’re safe.”

the haze clings to you, wrapped around your limbs. but beneath it, you feel him.

“you were so good for me,” he says, almost to himself. “so perfect.”

he wraps a fluffy towel around you, pulling you into his chest. your head tips forward, resting on his shoulder. a small shift, a silent seeking.

his stomach tightens. “i got you,” he says, voice softer now.

he carries you back, setting you on the bed. the world fades in and out, but the weight of your body is returning. the first thing you register fully is him.

he dresses you—clean panties, soft shirt. his touch is attentive, reverent, but his mind is restless.

he needs you back.

his hands are calm as he pulls the fabric over your head, but when your fingers twitch against his bicep, the lightest touch, something in him holds its breath.

“that’s it, baby.” his voice is raw, aching. “come back to me.”

the haze thins, peeling away in pieces. awareness pulls you in slowly, settling, anchoring.

you exhale. stretch.

choso watches, still, silent, breath held.

your lashes flutter. your gaze lifts.

and then you meet his eyes.

his whole body exhales, something releasing inside him.

“there you are.”

it’s quiet, almost a whisper, but his voice is full of something raw and undeniable.

the weight of what just happened settles in his chest.

it’s not regret.

it’s proof.

that you need him. that you trust him. that you belong to him.

you always have.

and when your fingers curl weakly into his shirt, holding him there, he wavers, unsteady.

you’re back. fully. you feel the soft fabric of the shirt against your skin, the scent of clean laundry, the steadiness of your own breath.

and him. always him.

choso watches you, unmoving, like you might disappear if he blinks.

your lips part, about to speak, but you don’t get the chance.

he’s kissing you. slow, deep, and final.

his lips move against yours like he’s sealing something permanent, like he’s branding you. a promise. there’s no hesitation, no question or room for doubt.

he feels it now, how irreversible this is. you were supposed to run. even if you wanted him, even if you eventually let him, you were supposed to pull away just once, just enough for him to know that there were lines between you. but there aren’t. you didn’t. you never even thought about it.

his fingers drift over the marks on you, pressing gently on them like he can make them deeper. “mine.”

you tighten your hold on his shirt, anchoring yourself to him, and when he pulls back, you whisper—”say it again.”

his breath hitches. then, lower, rougher, “you’re fucking mine.”

he kisses your jaw, your cheek, following the words with his mouth, speaking them into your skin like a prayer.

you exhale and nod, soft and small. you don’t even have to say anything. he sees it in your eyes.

you’re his.

something breaks inside him. something desperate, something he’s been holding back for so long that he didn’t even realize it had slipped.

he presses his forehead to yours, breath shaking, and then—

“you’re never leaving me.”

it’s too dark to be sweet, too honest to be a threat.

his eyes sting. and you see it, in the way his hands tighten around you, like he’s holding onto something fragile, something precious. not just you, but the knowledge that he has you now, that he can’t ever lose you. he’s afraid.

you could still ruin this. you could say something else, shift the balance, make it so he has to do something drastic.

but instead, you smooth your hands up his chest, over his shoulders, curling around his neck, grounding him.

“i never wanted to,” you tell him, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

his grip tightens. “you mean that?”

it’s a question. but you both understand that he’s not asking if you mean it.