Echo

Masterlist:

Rengoku Kyojuro:

Unspoken Sparks: 1 2 3 4 More coming soon...

Gyutaro Shabana:

Cheer Up, Inkblot!

Levi Ackermann:

Under Your Skin: 1 More coming soon...

Choso Kamo:

Fogbound: 1 2 More coming soon...

Requests:

Platonic Tsugoku Reader: 1 2

Info:

Fandoms

Demon Slayer

Karneval

Attack on Titan

Black Butler

Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood

Jujutsu Kaisen

Black Clover

Code Geass

Psycho-Pass

Cowboy Bebop

One Punch Man

Death Note

Noragami

To Your Eternity

The Devil is a Part-Timer!

Haikyuu (Post timeskip)

My hero academia

Trigun

Dr Stone

Love and Deepspace

JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure

Nier: Automata

Genshin Impact

Homestuck

Danganronpa

Kuroko’s Basket

Mass Effect

The shift is subtle at first, like the slow souring of milk, barely there, until suddenly the taste in your mouth has changed and there’s no going back. His comments get shorter, colder. Sarcasm replaces curiosity. Chores that used to be occasional annoyances are now full-scale inconveniences. Taking out the trash becomes a trial. Carrying groceries in from the car is a martyrdom. All the while, Choso is doing more. Quietly. Without being told. Not because he wants recognition - he doesn’t - but because it feels like the least he can offer.

And that, more than anything, seems to be what rankles. It isn’t about jealousy, not in the typical sense. Choso hasn’t crossed a line. There’s no flirtation in the air, no hidden touches or shared secrets. But there’s something about the way Choso sees you that your boyfriend can’t stand. The way his gaze lingers when you smile. The way he listens with that calm, unwavering stillness when you speak, like your words are a thread anchoring him to the room.

Those are the things your boyfriend used to notice, or maybe never did. Choso doesn’t speak about it. He doesn’t mention the change, doesn’t question the sharp glances or the stiff shoulders or the sudden chill in the room when your boyfriend enters. But he notices. He notices how the air grows taut when he and your boyfriend are in the same space, how you try a little harder to smooth things over with your voice, with your presence, with that quiet grace of yours that doesn’t deserve to be taken for granted. And each time your boyfriend recoils from the effort you make, brushes you off, answers with a grunt or not at all, Choso feels it like a splinter under his skin. Still, he keeps it to himself.

Because who is he to interfere? A guest, no more than a stranger. Someone without history, without context, living on borrowed time in someone else’s home. No matter how clearly he sees it, this rift growing in real time, widening inch by inch, it’s not his place to name it.

It’s not his boat, and he doesn’t want to be the one who rocks it.

He tells himself it’s not his place. You gave him shelter when he had nothing, no history, no direction, not even a name to call his own. You opened your door without hesitation, without conditions. You let him exist in your space, trusted him to share in your quiet routines, offered warmth when the world had left him cold. And for that alone, he owes you more than he can ever say.

He has no right to pass judgment. No right to scrutinize the cracks in your relationship, even if they’ve become impossible not to see. Even if they feel so wide now, he sometimes wonders how you still walk across them without falling through. You don’t question a lifeboat when you’re still drying from the wreck.

So he keeps his head down. He keeps busy. He cleans up after dinner, folds blankets with gentle hands, places a cup of tea where he knows you’ll find it when you’re tired. Not to insert himself. Not to impress. Just to give something back. To make up for the weight his presence has added to your already complicated life.

But if he were being honest, truly honest, he’d admit that it’s more than that now. Somewhere along the way, between shared silences and soft conversations, you’ve gotten under his skin. Not in some loud, consuming way. Not a crush, not an obsession. It’s quieter than that. Slower, it settles deep, just taking root.

He listens for your laughter now without realizing it, like the warmth of it might answer a question he didn’t know he was asking. Your scent lingers after you pass him in the hallway, soft, floral, and something unmistakably you, and it stays longer than it should, embedding itself into his thoughts. And your smile… god, your smile. It’s like sunlight in a room that had only ever known shadow. He doesn’t think he’s done anything to deserve it, but he wants to. He wants to be the kind of person who could. He tells himself it’s just gratitude, just admiration.

But that lie grows harder to hold onto every time your boyfriend speaks to you like your words are chores. Every time you offer kindness and meet indifference. Every time you try, so clearly try, and get so little in return. Choso doesn’t interfere. He never says a word, it’s just not his place.

But he watches.

From the kitchen window, dish towel in hand, he sees you with your boyfriend across the room. You’re talking, your voice light, hopeful, offering up a bit of yourself like a peace offering. He can tell it’s something small, something from your day, something you wanted to share just to feel close again.

But your boyfriend doesn’t look up. Doesn’t shift. He stays slouched on the couch, thumb scrolling his phone, jaw clenched like conversation is a burden. His replies are dry, one-worded, if they come at all. And then, something sharper. A quiet, pointed remark. Not loud enough to start a fight, but enough to land like a blow if you were listening closely. Choso sees how it hits you, the second where your voice falters, your smile thins. You recover quickly. Too quickly, but he saw it.

He doesn’t know what came before. He doesn’t know the full history behind the distance you now have to cross just to reach the person sitting three feet away from you. But in that moment, when your boyfriend’s eyes flick to him with something cold and narrowing, it becomes clear. This tension isn’t just long-standing, it isn’t incidental, this is about him.

It clicks when your boyfriend glares after a moment of quiet ease. You had said something small, playful. Choso had smiled, soft, unthinking. Not even at you, just because the moment had felt warm. And that’s all it took. The look that followed was unmistakable, possessive, bitter… Meant for Choso, not you. Seconds later, your boyfriend shut down entirely. He turned away from your voice, picked up his phone again, and let your words fall flat against the silence. That glare wasn’t about suspicion. It was resentment, a warning. And suddenly, the air in the apartment feels heavier than it ever has, like a door just clicked shut in a hallway that used to feel open. Still, Choso doesn’t leave, doesn’t shrink away. He keeps moving through the space gently, steadily, but he wants to be here, because of you.

Even if it’s getting harder, so much harder, to pretend that’s the only reason why. Choso, still uncertain about the stirrings of his own feelings, finds himself genuinely concerned for you more and more each day. When your boyfriend acts out, whether it’s a sharp word, a cold shoulder, or a barely concealed glare, Choso quietly tries to be the calm in the storm. He offers small comforts, a steady presence, hoping it might ease the weight pressing down on you.

One afternoon, the tension in the apartment thickens until it breaks in a quiet, heated argument. Choso isn’t paying attention to the words themselves, he barely understands the specifics of what’s being said, but his ears prick up, tuned instinctively to the rise and fall of voices, the silence that screams just as loud. He listens for a sound he dreads, a strike or a shout, but thankfully it never comes. Still, he knows this is another fight about him, though he can’t yet say why. You raise your voice, something rare, firm and unwavering. It catches Choso’s attention fully, breaking through his usual detachment. You’re defending yourself, questioning your boyfriend with a mix of frustration and disbelief.

 “Why is this such a big deal?” you demand, voice trembling but resolute. “I thought you loved my kind heart. You know there’s nothing happening between me and Choso.”

Then comes a detail that stops Choso cold: “And you have access to the security camera in the living room - you watch me through it!”

That revelation hits him harder than anything else. Choso hadn’t known there was a camera, hadn’t even suspected. The idea of being watched like that, even in your own home, leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He doesn’t need memories of his past life to understand how wrong and controlling that feels. The words fade, swallowed by the tension in the room. All Choso hears next are your exasperated breaths, the quiet urging.

“Wait,” you say softly, pleading almost, and then the slam of the front door as your boyfriend storms out.

Choso watches you, back turned to him, your gaze fixed on the door your boyfriend just disappeared through, there’s a heaviness in your shoulders, a quiet resignation that chills the air between you. He doesn’t fully understand what you’re feeling, but something deep inside him tightens, a desire to protect you growing in him, to shield you from pain. Under your breath, you mutter something barely audible, Choso leans in, straining to catch the words.

“What’s even the point of this anymore…”

The ache in your voice is clear and - for a moment - Choso wonders if it’s about him, if you’re questioning whether he belongs here at all.

He turns away quietly, the weight settles in his chest but he hurries back to the dishes, the clinking of plates and running water his only shield against the storm still swirling in the room.

You disappear through the door without another word, and it clicks shut softly behind you, a sound that lands heavier than any slammed door could. The apartment falls into a hush, filled only with the quiet drip of water from the faucet and the distant echo of your footsteps fading down the hall. Choso stands frozen at the sink, a dish towel clenched in one hand, his breath held without realizing, you’d gone after him, of course.

He doesn’t know why that unsettles him so much, maybe because it leaves him here alone, with the ghosts of your argument clinging to the air. Maybe because a small, selfish part of him wanted you to stay, he feels awkward in the silence, almost lonely, like he’s trespassing in a space that’s shifted around him, leaving him stranded. Then, the door opens again.

He hears it before he sees it, and a rush of relief surges unbidden through his chest. You came back. He dries his hands, trying to push down that sudden, stupid hope, and steps carefully out of the kitchen to meet you, only to stop short, it’s not you. Your boyfriend rounds the corner instead, and Choso nearly bumps into him. He’s closer than Choso expected, and shorter too, enough that he has to tilt his chin up slightly to meet Choso’s gaze. His expression is twisted with something simmering and ugly, anger, insecurity, blame, and the air between them sharpens like a blade.

“You need to leave,” your boyfriend says flatly, voice low but laced with venom. “I’m done with this. She was never like this before you.”

Choso blinks, taken aback, chest tightening. “Like what?” he asks, careful, soft, but his words feel stiff in his throat.

“Like this!” Your boyfriend gestures vaguely toward the apartment. “Snapping at me. Defending you. We used to be fine before you showed up. She was perfect.”

Choso feels something flare low in his chest, not fear, not confusion, but indignation, hot and rising. It prickles at the edges of his composure, a flicker of something that tells him this isn’t just about him doing the dishes or folding blankets. This man is accusing him of breaking something that was already cracked, but Choso knows better now. He saw the way you stood up for yourself. The frustration in your voice, the hurt in your posture, that wasn’t because of him. That wasn’t new.

“You don’t get to blame me,” he says quietly, voice steady, but his gaze doesn’t drop. “I didn’t do anything but exist here. You don’t like that she sees the difference.”

Your boyfriend’s eyes narrow, and for a second Choso thinks he might swing at him, but all he does is scoff, mutter something under his breath, and push past him with a shove to the shoulder that doesn’t move Choso an inch.

Choso is still standing in the hallway, trying to process what just happened, when he hears it - the sharp crack of ceramic shattering against tile.

His head jerks toward the sound, heart leaping into his throat. He rushes into the kitchen to find one of the mugs he’d just washed, your favorite, he remembers, the one with the little chip in the handle you always say gives it character, now broken in two at your boyfriend’s feet. Water and shards scatter across the tile like spite.

Your boyfriend stands above the mess, breathing heavily. He doesn’t even look sorry. Choso’s jaw tenses. He takes a slow step forward, fists clenched at his sides, not in preparation to fight, but to keep himself from doing something he might regret.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Choso asks, voice low, almost calm. Too calm.

Your boyfriend turns, eyes wild, an ugly smirk on his face. “What does it look like? Cleaning up after you. Figured if you’re gonna take over everything else, I might as well help.”

Choso breathes through his nose, trying to stay grounded, the way he sometimes watches you do when you're frustrated. “You didn’t have to break anything.”

“Didn’t have to,” he mocks, stepping closer, squaring up to Choso like he doesn’t notice - or care - that he’s got to look up to meet his eyes. “You don’t belong here. You think doing the dishes makes you part of this? Makes her look at you like that?”

“I don’t think anything,” Choso replies, his voice tight. “But I’m not the one she’s fighting with every night.” That does it.

Your boyfriend shoves him, hard this time, two hands to the chest, but Choso barely stumbles. He takes the hit without flinching, only stepping back enough to keep his balance. The tension explodes in the small space like a clap of thunder.

Choso doesn’t hit back, doesn’t yell., but something in his eyes hardens. He plants his feet and stares your boyfriend down with a quiet, seething calm that speaks louder than any punch could. “Stop,” he says simply.

Your boyfriend’s breathing is ragged now, fists still clenched, but his bravado starts to falter in the face of Choso’s unmoving presence, Choso might not remember who he was before he woke up in your home, but something instinctual rises now; something solid, immovable. A quiet wall of restraint and readiness.

“I’m not here to fight you,” Choso says, softer now, but there’s iron in the words. “But I won’t let you treat me, or her, like this.”

The kitchen falls into a tense, vibrating silence, and in that stillness, footsteps echo down the hall again. You're coming back. As the front door creaks open and Choso instinctively glances toward it, toward you, your boyfriend moves.

A sharp crack splits the air as his fist connects with Choso’s cheek.

Choso’s head turns with the blow, hair shifting slightly from the force, but he doesn’t stumble or fall. He slowly brings his gaze back, eyes dark and unreadable. You round the corner just in time to see it, and the sound that leaves you is barely a breath:

Meanwhile, you’re in your room, lying on your back, dramatically star-fished across the bed in what could generously be described as a quiet panic.

You held hands. Held. Hands.

And not just an accidental brush of fingers. No. He initiated it. He looked at you like that. And then your students had appeared. Your hands fly up to your face in embarrassment and groan into your palms. It felt like a date, it did! You both dressed nice. You talked about your lives. He bought your food. He ate your cookies like they were the most delicious things he’d ever tasted, even though you’d barely survived the baking trauma.

But what if he was just being nice? What if that’s just who he is?

…No. No, no- that smile. That couldn’t have been nothing, could it?

You sit up abruptly, knees pulled to your chest, and stare at your bedroom wall like it holds answers. You want to believe it was a date, you really want it to be. Your heart flutters just remembering the look on his face when you handed him the cookies. Or how he insisted on spending more time with you. And how he said, so effortlessly:

“It’s not often I get to spend time with you after hours.” You’re a mess of hope and nerves and warmth. The kind of happy-confused that makes sleep a distant dream.

You had no idea how long a Sunday could feel until today. The morning had been fine, brunch, a little cleaning, your usual routine. But, after that... everything reminded you of him. Your half-finished cookie supplies. The outfit you wore yesterday, now folded neatly away. The faint scent of cherry blossoms that somehow clung to your jacket. Your fingers hovered over your phone more times than you could count. Each time you thought ‘Should I text him? Would that be too eager? Too clingy?’

You didn’t want to come off like you were chasing him. But the silence? It was maddening. After all, yesterday happened. You weren’t imagining it. You couldn’t have been. Eventually, you caved in the most casual, not-casual way you could manage and sent him a text:

“How’s your evening going? :)”

Then attached a picture of your dinner: “(It’s not much, but I tried to make it pretty.)”

It takes about fifteen minutes for the reply to come in which you try not to overanalyze the delay. Then your phone lights up.

Kyojuro:

Delicious! Looks great! I ended up eating out tonight, at a place near my apartment.

A picture of his food pops up, a beautifully plated dish with fancy garnish on a dark polished table. You zoom in slightly, instinctively taking in the clean aesthetic—the gentle lighting, the expensive-looking plate. Not something you’d expect him to grab for a quick bite, but... well, maybe he just enjoys the occasional treat. You stare a second longer than you meant to. Still, you smile because it’s him, he answered and so warmly at that! You write another message:

“Looks very fancy! Hope it was good. Have a good evening, Kyojuro.”

And then, a minute later:

“Always good after a day like yesterday :)” “Goodnight! <3”

You stare at the screen.

The heart emoji isn’t the exaggerated heart-eyes or the playful sparkly one, it’s just the simple, red heart, but its effect is huge, it hits like a tidal wave. You gently set your phone down on the bed, blink slowly, then pick it back up and check again. Still there. Your cheeks burn and you bury your face in a pillow.

Because you’re overthinking again. Because that heart didn’t need to mean anything. But oh, how badly you want it to.

Monday started with chaos. Your alarm never went off- or maybe it did, and you’d just silenced it in a half-dream without remembering. Either way, by the time you rushed into the school building, breathless and slightly dishevelled, the first period had already started and your classroom was on the verge of full rebellion. The students groaned when you appeared in the doorway, disappointment clear.

"Awwww, we were about to declare it a free period!" one of them whined.

You shot them a look, breath still catching up with you. "Nice try."

The rest of the morning passed in a blur. Lessons resumed, you regained control of your class, but something felt... off. There was a buzz in the air. Students kept whispering behind their notebooks and glancing at you with sly smiles and far too much interest for a Monday morning. Your ears burned, they know.

You tried not to let it rattle you. After all, what was there to know, really? A coffee. A walk. Some cookies. A heart emoji. A hand-hold in a park full of gossip-gremlins…

Okay. Maybe it was worth whispering about. By lunch, you were mentally exhausted and hoping for a quiet moment alone in your classroom. That hope was dashed by a knock on your door; light, uncertain.

“Come in,” you called automatically.

The door swung open to reveal Kyojuro, looking more boyish than usual with his bento tucked under his arm and his hair slightly mussed from the wind. He looked almost... relieved to see you.

“There you are,” he beamed. “I thought maybe you weren’t coming in. Didn’t see you in the staff room, I guess I assumed the worst!” Your whole body flushed, suddenly all too aware of him in the context of beige school walls and fluorescents. This is work. This is your colleague. This is the man who sent you a heart emoji and held your hand under cherry blossoms.

You cleared your throat, flustered. “No, no, just... overslept. My alarm betrayed me.”

“I’ll scold it later,” he said brightly, settling into the chair across from your desk like it was second nature. You both unpacked your lunches, slipping easily into familiar conversation. It felt like breathing - casual, comfortable - but there was something different today. The words were still light, but each one carried a weight behind it. A look held a little longer. A smile lasted a little too warmly. You had just relaxed into the new rhythm when he hit you with something that made your stomach flip.

“I, uh, intercepted this today.” He reached into his bag and pulled out a scrap of paper, folded and re-folded into a dense little square. “Caught a student trying to pass it in third period.” He handed it over and curious, you unfolded it, and then froze.

The first line was written in looping, messy cursive: “Did you hear the history teacher and biology teacher are dating?”

Beneath it, in a different hand: “Nah, I heard they’re already married. Their kid’s in their final year here!!”

You stared at the page, stunned. Several more replies followed, each more exaggerated than the last. One accused Kyojuro of being a secret prince. Another said you were both spies in a forbidden romance. One student had just drawn a doodle of a baby with flaming hair. Your fingers slackened and the note fluttered to your desk.

“W–wow. They, uh... escalated that quickly,” you managed, picking it back up to scan the rest. Maybe you could match the handwriting to someone. Or maybe you should just burn it and never speak of it again.

Across from you, Kyojuro chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, I was expecting some whispering. But a secret child? That’s impressive. I don’t even remember the wedding.” You snorted despite yourself. “Same. I hope the honeymoon was nice.”

“Where do you think we went? The Bahamas?” You looked up to see him grinning, eyes soft. Teasing, yes, but something more.

You shook your head, laughing. “Honestly, probably somewhere with food. You’d never survive a trip without at least five meals a day.”

“Hey,” he said, mock wounded. “Four, minimum.” The moment lingered. Warm and close and utterly removed from the rumour-riddled note sitting between you. You didn’t want to say it aloud, but part of you was weirdly... relieved. That they knew. That maybe this wasn’t just some secret, fragile thing you had to keep tucked away. Maybe it was real enough to be noticed. Even if it came with ridiculous doodles and whispered conspiracies.

Neither of you addressed the lingering tension.

Not when Kyojuro had first walked into your classroom at lunch and settled across from you like he belonged there. Not when your knees accidentally brushed under the desk and neither of you pulled away. Not when your conversations took on a more hushed, slower tone, carefully tiptoeing around something unspoken.

You just enjoyed it. This closeness. The warmth of him near, the way his eyes softened when you spoke, like he was listening to something important even when you were talking about what you packed for lunch. It was... nice.

Too nice, maybe, because the more time you spent in this suspended little bubble, the more dangerous it felt to stay there in the middle of a workplace, your workplace, where gossip bred faster than mold in a forgotten lunchbox.

And as if summoned by the thought, the bubble popped when Tengen Uzui strutted into the room like he owned it.

"Lunch party in here, huh?" he grinned, dropping into a spare seat uninvited.

You tensed, startled by the sudden presence of someone else, someone loud. Kyojuro, to his credit, took it in stride, greeting Uzui with a bright, “Tengen! You're always welcome.” Not that Uzui needed the invite.

He immediately started steering the conversation into some story about one of his students but your brain struggled to keep up now that the dynamic had shifted. The gentle, private air had vanished, replaced with the vibrant noise of normality, and yet a thread of that earlier tension still thrummed beneath your skin. You were grateful for the reprieve. Too much of whatever had been building between you and Kyojuro might’ve melted you into your chair. Still, you weren’t prepared for what came next.

Tengen turned to you suddenly, leaning on the desk with a fox-like grin.

“So, I heard something interesting today.”

You glanced at him warily. “…What kind of interesting?”

“Oh, nothing major,” he said, voice lilting with mischief. “Just that the students are saying you two-” he pointed between you and Kyojuro, “-have something going on.” He waggled his eyebrows, like that alone could coax a confession out of you. Your mouth opened, and then closed. Your brain stalled. How were you supposed to respond to that? It wasn’t a yes, not exactly. But it wasn’t a no, either. And if you said too little, Uzui would sniff out the truth just for the fun of it. But Kyojuro stepped in smoothly, catching your hesitation.

“Nope,” he said brightly, hands folded on the table like this wasn’t his fourth emergency deflection of the day. “Just friends.” You glanced at him quickly, but he was already looking your way. And when Tengen’s gaze turned away for a second, Kyojuro winked at you, quick, reassuring, a little playful.

Your heart did a small, dizzy somersault.

“Aw man,” Tengen groaned, flopping back dramatically. “That’s disappointing. It’s been ages since I had something juicy to harass anyone about. Obanai doesn’t flinch anymore! He just growls.” He crosses his arms over his chest, pouting.

“I’m sure your harassment technique needs updating,” you muttered, finally finding your voice again.

“Don’t tempt me. I’m excellent at pestering people into romance,” he smirked. “It’s an art.”

Kyojuro laughed, light, easy, and utterly unaffected. The conversation drifted back to staff room nonsense and student complaints, just enough time to recover before the bell. You got up to show them out, holding the door as Tengen swaggered through, humming to himself.

Kyojuro followed behind him, offering you a soft, “Thanks for the lunch company,” as he passed. And then, without looking at you, without slowing his step, he reached out, just slightly, and gave your hand the gentlest squeeze.

It had been a few weeks since you got together and being in a relationship with Gyutaro had its ups and downs. He wasn’t exactly the smoothest or most expressive person, but in his own way, he was incredibly thoughtful. He thought of you constantly and not in some performative way, but in the quiet, meaningful gestures that spoke volumes. He’d bring you little gifts when he could, things he found that reminded him of you: a hair clip shaped like a crescent moon, a sweet bun you once mentioned liking, a folded-up napkin doodled with a little scribble of the two of you holding hands. He never made a big deal of it, just handed them over gruffly, muttering something barely coherent, ears tinged pink.

In the mornings, when he cooked, he always made enough food for three: you, him, and Ume. He never said it outright, but you could tell he was trying to make you part of their little home, folding you into the life he shared with his sister.

Ume, of course, loved it. She teased you both relentlessly in that typical younger sibling way, all smirks and exaggerated fake-gagging noises, but there was a glint in her eye every time she caught you two sneaking glances or brushing hands. She gave Gyutaro grief, but truthfully? She was just happy he had someone.

But then, there was the other side of Gyutaro, the part of him that made things... harder. He was jealous.

Not just “cute jealous”, not the kind where he pulls you close when someone flirts, or grumbles a bit when you compliment a celebrity. No, it was the kind that sparked the moment another guy so much as looked at you, the kind that made his shoulders stiffen, his eyes narrow, his jaw clench, a silent, brooding intensity that told you loud and clear: he didn’t like it.

And at first? You did think it was kind of cute. The way he’d get all pouty and possessive. The way he’d glare at anyone who seemed too interested, only to soften again when you kissed his cheek and told him not to worry. But over time, it stopped feeling cute, it started to feel heavy. Because it wasn’t just the glares. If you didn’t immediately pull away from whoever had his jealousy flaring, if you didn’t play along with whatever silent expectation he had, he’d sulk. Not dramatically, he’d just… disappear. Slip away without a word and leave you wondering what you’d done wrong. You’d find him later, lurking somewhere with a stormy look on his face, arms crossed, eyes darting anywhere but at you.

And sometimes, you couldn’t just escape. You couldn’t always abandon conversations in the middle or pretend to be rude just because a guy happened to exist nearby. But Gyutaro didn’t seem to see it that way. Every time, it was like he expected you to prove something, that you weren’t interested, that you would shut it down, even when there was nothing happening in the first place. The pressure of it started to wear on you. It wasn’t just insecurity anymore; it was distrust. Like deep down, he thought the only thing keeping you loyal was him being around. Like if he wasn’t right there, you might just fall into someone else’s arms and that wasn’t going to fly.

Because you weren’t going to spend the whole relationship proving your innocence to someone who should already know your heart. You loved him. You showed it every day. But love couldn’t survive if it was always being questioned.

So the next time he slunk off, again, after yet another harmless encounter, you didn’t just brush it off. You followed him and this time, you were ready to talk about it.

You found him behind the bike sheds, pacing this time, low muttering under his breath like he was chewing on the memory of what happened, jaw clenched so tight it looked painful. His back was to you, shoulders hunched, fists tight at his sides. He’d been simmering out here alone, stewing in that stormy head of his.

“Gyutaro,” you called softly.

He didn’t turn around. Didn’t say anything. But you saw the way his shoulders twitched, he heard you and was listening. Just refusing to acknowledge it, like if he didn’t speak, he wouldn’t have to deal with what came next. You walked closer, not pushing too fast, not wanting to set him off, because with Gyutaro anger came before honesty. He didn’t fold; he flared. And it took effort not to take that personally. When you stopped a few feet away, you spoke. “We need to talk.”

He let out a low, mirthless laugh, still not facing you. “What, now I’m in trouble for walking off?”

“No,” you said calmly. “But I’m not going to pretend it doesn’t bother me.” That got him to turn, not fast, not dramatic, just enough that you could see his expression, jaw tight, eyes sharp. Defensive already.

“You want me to smile while some guy’s starin’ at you like he’s undressing you with his eyes?” His voice was rough, bitter. “Should I shake his hand too? Offer him a drink?”

You crossed your arms, keeping your tone level. “I want you to trust me.”

He scoffed. “Trust you? It’s them I don’t trust.” You stepped closer, not backing down. “I know how guys can be. I’m not stupid. But I’m with you, Gyutaro. I keep choosing you. You think I don’t notice when you disappear? When you sulk off like you’re being punished? That’s not okay. It makes me feel like you don’t trust me.”

His expression twitched, flickering from anger to something else, not softer, just... less certain. He rubbed at the back of his neck like the conversation was crawling under his skin.

“It ain’t like that,” he muttered. “It’s not about trust.”

“Then what is it?”

His eyes darted away, jaw working. “I get pissed off, alright? I see some guy looking at you like you’re easy, like you’re his to take and I wanna break his nose. And then I think, maybe he’s right. Maybe you’ll realize you could have better.”

“That’s not your call to make,” you snapped, before you could stop yourself. “You don’t get to decide what I want. I’m not some prize someone’s gonna snatch up when you’re not looking. I’m a person and I’m with you because I want to be.” He looked at you finally, not avoiding, not dodging, and there was fire in his eyes now, not shame. His breathing was heavier, but the rage had started to crack, just enough to see the real fear underneath.

“You don’t get it,” he said low. “People don’t look at me and see someone worth anything. They see trash. Dirt. A freak. So yeah, maybe I lose it sometimes. Maybe I can’t stand the idea of someone else even trying to take you from me. But don’t act like it’s ‘cause I think you’re the problem.”

You took a deep breath, stepping right into his space now. “Then stop treating me like a flight risk. If you’re scared, fine. Say it, but don’t act like I’m doing something wrong for breathing near another guy. That’s not fair, Gyutaro.”

His lips pressed together hard, but he didn’t push back. Didn’t lash out. He stood there, tense, barely keeping his anger in check, but you could tell he was listening. That somewhere under all that fury, he heard you.

“…I’ll try,” he said, voice low, grudging.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t poetic. But from him, it was a promise.

You nodded, letting out the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “That’s all I’m asking.”

You leaned into him, and for a second he hesitated, always slow to take comfort, but then his hands settled on your back, firm, grounding, protective.

After that, things didn’t magically fix themselves, but they shifted. When guys got too close, he still bristled. Still stared them down like he was one second from snapping. But now he stayed. He didn’t run. He’d take slow breaths, jaw clenched, fists tight, but he stayed. And that meant something. He was trying, you could see it.

You knew he didn’t have an easy time showing vulnerability. The world had taught him that softness was weakness, and weakness got punished. So he guarded himself with sharp teeth and snarled words, but you knew better. You’d seen who he was underneath all that. And you weren’t trying to fix him. You weren’t naïve. You knew one relationship couldn’t undo a lifetime of being treated like less. But you could be someone who showed up. Who told him, again and again, that he was worth something. That you weren’t looking for an upgrade. That you didn’t want better, because to you, he was better.

And it went both ways. You weren’t above jealousy either, not when girls who used to ignore him suddenly found their smiles around him. But you practiced the same mindfulness you asked of him. You didn’t lash out. And Gyutaro? He noticed. He always glanced at you, even mid-conversation, like he was silently asking are you good? It was messy, raw, imperfect.

You blinked, pausing. Looked around. How did he even see that?

Another correction came not five minutes later. “Watch your spacing. Bottom left.”

You turned, giving him a slightly wide-eyed, incredulous look. He didn’t even glance up from what he was doing. Just jerked his chin toward something behind you.

You turned.

There was a mirror. A huge, wall-mounted thing behind your station. Perfect view of your entire setup from where he was sitting.

He wasn’t magic, he was just watching… Constantly. Your stomach flipped a little, not unpleasantly. You turned back to your lines and adjusted your wrist angle.

You didn’t hear him correct you after that.

At some point, Levi pulled back from the guy’s back and cleared his throat. Just once. Sharp enough to snap the guy out of his pain trance. The dude groaned, lifting his head like it weighed forty pounds, then slowly pushed himself up on his elbows to look over his shoulder at the mirror.

His eyes lit up. “Yo! That looks sick, man!”

He grinned, wide and a little delirious, eyes flicking between the mirror and Levi like he’d just won a medal.

Levi just raised one brow. “That’s just the outline.”

There was a beat of silence. You could see the exact second that registered.

“Oh.”

Levi didn’t elaborate. Just turned to his tray and held out a juice pouch like this happened every day. Which it probably did. The guy took it with both hands like it was a holy relic, already looking a little green around the edges. He sipped it gingerly, trying very hard not to cry, shoulders hunched and legs slightly shaking as Levi went back to prepping the next round of ink.

You couldn’t help it, you were watching the whole thing unfold with a kind of morbid fascination. Then Levi’s eyes slid to yours, deadpan.

He didn’t say anything, just jerked his head toward your station.

A silent get back to work.

You jumped a little and turned immediately, hunching back over your fake skin like it owed you money. Linework, focus, no distractions. Even still, you smiled to yourself, Levi was intense, kinda scary. But he paid attention. More than most.

Once the shading was done, the guy left, walking gingerly, like his spine had been replaced with glass. He looked pleased, though, tender and sore but happy. Levi gave a noncommittal nod as the door closed behind him, already peeling off his gloves. Then he came over.

You tried not to tense up, tried to stay cool as he approached your little corner, but the way your fingers fumbled slightly with the stencil in your hand said otherwise. You’d been setting it down just as he stopped beside you, watching. And, maybe because of that or maybe because you rushed it, you peeled it off too fast. The stencil reveleaed was patchy, uneven and faint at the top edge, like it got stage fright.

Levi tilted his head, not unkindly, just observant, sharp as always.

“Leave it on longer next time,” he said. “And take it off slower. You act like you’re trying to give them a wax.”

You laughed under your breath, sheepish. “Right. Got it.”

You grabbed the stencil spray and started wiping it off, careful not to look at him too much. He was still standing there. Still watching. You placed a fresh stencil, slower this time, letting it sit properly before removing it with more care. He didn’t say anything right away. Just looked over your lines again, his eyes skimming the fake skin. You suddenly became very aware of every tiny wobble, every place the line dipped just a little, especially that one section where he’d corrected your wrist. It was like every flaw lit up under his gaze.

He hummed.

Then finally, “You’ve got some good weight control.”

You blinked. “Oh. Thanks.”

“But,” he continued, tapping a finger near one of the lines, “keep an eye on your wrist. On curves you stiffen up a bit.” Your eyes followed his gesture, sure enough there was a little break. Barely noticeable, but yeah, it was there.

“And make sure you’re stretching the skin properly,” he added, pointing out another spot where the line had gone a little uneven. “Or this’ll happen everywhere.”

You nodded quickly. “Oh, yeah. I thought I was, but it keeps happening.”

“It's mostly a practice issue.” He shrugged, then reached past you to grab one of the practice sheets you hadn’t used yet. “Forget the stencil stuff for now. It’s all well and good to practice placement, but get the basics down first.”

“Right,” you said again, quieter this time. “Got it.”

He gave a brief nod, something almost approving, and turned away just as quickly, back to sorting his station like he hadn’t just pointed out your weak spots with surgical precision. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding and leaned back over the skin.

Back to basics, again.

Still, that “good weight control” was going to sit with you for the rest of the day like a trophy.

For the rest of the day, Levi works on smaller tattoos for different people, and you start to notice a pattern, he gets a lot of attention. Not just for the tattoos, though those are flawless. It's him, too. His face. His whole… thing. People flirt, or at least they try. They lean in, laugh a little too hard, ask dumb questions just to keep him talking.

Levi doesn’t care.

Doesn’t smile, doesn’t play along, barely even makes eye contact once the stencil’s on. He finishes the tattoo, wraps them up, and gets them out like he’s allergic to lingering.

You’re adjusting your grip again, finally starting to get the hang of stretching the skin just right, when the shop’s front door creaks open. You glance up and immediately feel the air shift. A woman walks in, she's tall, blonde. Her hair is so dirty it’s actually caked flat against her scalp, and even from across the room, she’s setting off your internal alarms. She heads straight for the reception desk where Petra is taking stock, clipboard in hand. You can’t hear all of it, but the tone is obvious. She’s asking for a walk-in. Petra’s being polite, patient, telling her that walk-ins aren’t done here. The woman doesn’t seem interested in listening. After a minute, she just pushes right past the desk like Petra’s invisible.

Levi straightens up before she even reaches him. His hands go behind his back like he’s just casually standing, but you see it. The tightness in his shoulders, the way his jaw tenses. He’s bracing.

She stops in front of him. He barely comes up to her shoulder, but somehow still looks taller.

“I want something under my arm,” she says, already starting to lift it like she’s about to flash the placement. Levi stops her with a single raised hand.

“I won’t be tattooing you today.”

She freezes, arm half-raised, then slowly crosses them instead.

“And why is that?” she asks, unimpressed. Like she’s waiting for him to backtrack. He doesn’t.

“You don’t have an appointment, you’ve been disrespectful to my staff, and you do not have the necessary hygiene for me to safely give you a tattoo.” He pauses, then adds, without a flicker of hesitation, “I also don’t want to.”

The woman lets out a loud, incredulous guffaw like she can’t believe what she’s hearing. Honestly, neither can you, you’re still trying to figure out if this is really happening. A few more heated words get tossed around, sharp and petty, before she finally storms toward the door, shouting that she’ll never return and they’ve lost a valuable customer. Levi doesn’t dignify it with a response.

He just watches her go, arms crossed, shoulders squared, calm in that unnerving way that makes it clear nothing she said touched him at all. Your eyes catch on the set of his posture, the stretch of muscle across his back under the black cotton of his shirt, and you have to blink yourself out of it before you get caught staring.

But the buzz of your machine dies, paused without you even realizing it.

He notices, because of course he does. Turns just enough to side-eye you, one brow twitching like a silent get back to work.

You fumble, hunch back over your fake skin like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch him grabbing the mop and a spray bottle. He moves to the exact spot the woman had been standing, running the mop across it with slow, purposeful strokes. Like he’s scrubbing away a stain only he can see.

It’s weirdly impressive, how seriously he takes it. How he backed Petra up without even blinking. You glance at her, she’s behind the counter, watching him with her chin in her hand, the softest expression on her face. Honestly, if you weren’t terrified of being caught slacking again, you’d probably be watching her watch him.

Instead, you pick up your machine and try to focus. And fail a little.

The man turns to you, incredulous. “Met?! Who is this?!”

You give a casual shrug like it’s not a big deal. “I don’t know. He was on the street, said he had amnesia.”

The man stares at you, unblinking. “And you believed him?”

“Well, yeah?” you say, as if it’s obvious. “He looked confused. And he’s not like, a weirdo or anything.”

Choso glances away, unsure if that’s a compliment.

“Not a weirdo?” The man’s voice pitches up in disbelief. “He’s naked in your apartment!”

“He just had a shower!” you reply, walking into the room with a towel over your shoulder like this is perfectly normal.

The boyfriend turns to Choso, gesturing at him like he’s Exhibit A in a court case. “Do you not see how this looks? To me? Your boyfriend?”

That makes Choso pause. Boyfriend? Oh. That explains the yelling. He gets it now- kind of. This man thinks something’s going on. That he walked into something he shouldn’t have.

Choso raises his hands slightly, unsure of what to say.

“Do you just let strange shirtless men stay over now? Is that your new charity project?”

You roll your eyes. “Actually, yes. I volunteer at the shelter, remember? You’ve met people I’ve helped before.”

The man opens his mouth, then closes it again, frustration crackling in the air like static. Choso shifts uncomfortably, still damp, still underdressed, and starting to feel like he’s stepped into the middle of a drama he didn’t audition for.

But he can’t help it - he’s watching the way you stand your ground. Calm, collected, maybe a little annoyed, but not apologetic. And oddly, that brings him some peace.

“This is temporary,” you say, voice firm now. “He needed help. I helped. If you have a problem with that, we can talk about it later. But don’t yell at him.”

The boyfriend gives Choso one more glare before storming past, muttering something under his breath.

Choso watches him go, then turns to you. “So… that was your boyfriend.”

“Unfortunately,” you mutter as if you don’t expect him to catch it.

Choso tilts his head. “Is it always like that with him?”

You sigh. “Only when he thinks someone else might be prettier than him.”

That startles a laugh out of Choso, low and soft. It feels strange, but good, like something real in a day full of confusion.

“…Thank you,” he says, after a moment.

You wave it off. “Go finish drying off. I’ll see if I have anything you can wear that doesn’t scream ‘I woke up in an alley.’”

Choso nods slowly, turning back toward the bathroom. As he closes the door, he catches his own eye in the mirror again, prettier? He supposes he has some charm to some people, but ultimately doesn’t really get it.

Choso finishes drying off, dragging the towel slowly through his thick, still dripping hair. The bathroom is warm, filled with the soft fog of the shower, but his thoughts are far from calm. He studies his reflection again, his skin flushed from the heat, the strange markings on his face, the tired but oddly sharp eyes staring back at him. The steam has faded just enough that he can really see himself now.

“Choso…” he whispers it again under his breath, testing the shape of it like it might slip away if he’s not careful. It fits in his mouth like it belongs there, old, but true. That one scrap of memory anchors him. It’s not much, but it’s his.

A light knock interrupts his thoughts.

He turns toward the door and cracks it open. Steam curls out, and there you are, on the other side, holding some borrowed clothes. You smile when he opens the door, casual, kind, like none of this is strange.

You hand him the towel first, your fingers brushing his, warm and real. He takes it, then hesitates.

“I… remembered my name,” he says, quietly. “It’s Choso.”

He doesn’t know why saying it aloud makes him nervous. Maybe it’s because it’s the first real thing he’s had to offer you. Maybe it’s the way you’ve looked at him so far, not like a stranger, but like someone who might matter. And maybe he doesn’t want to mess that up.

He closes the door again softly. There’s a beat of silence.

Then he hears it: a sharp, happy gasp, your unfiltered excitement breaking through the quiet like sunlight cracking through storm clouds.

“Oh my god,” he hears you say from the other side of the door. Your voice has that breathless lift of someone connecting dots, of something suddenly making sense. You shuffle off quickly, your footsteps light, like you're floating with joy. Like his memory, this tiny scrap of a name was something you’d been rooting for too.

Choso blinks at the door.

And then, for the first time since waking up on that unfamiliar bench, for the first time since realizing he had no past to cling to, he smiles.

It’s small. Almost shy. But real.

The heat of the shower is gone now, replaced by the strange, growing warmth in his chest. The apartment, though unfamiliar, feels safer by the minute. And you who offered him a couch, a shower, a cup of tea without asking for anything in return, you feel like the start of something good.

Choso pushes the smile - and everything it stirs - deep down where it won’t distract him. He dries off quickly and gets dressed. The shirt you gave him is snug around the shoulders and chest, the sleeves clinging a bit too tight to his arms. The pants barely fit at the waist. Whoever these belonged to, they were clearly smaller than him, less broad.

He catches himself in the mirror again as he adjusts the shirt. The clothes aren’t uncomfortable exactly, but they don’t feel like his. Still, they’re dry, clean, warm. They smell like detergent and a little like someone else. Choso quietly guesses they belonged to your boyfriend.

There’s a twinge in his spine at the thought, something strange and sharp. Not pain, not quite jealousy, but something. It pricks at him like a distant memory he can’t place. He doesn’t have the emotional vocabulary yet to understand what it means, so he shakes it off and makes his way out of the bathroom.

The apartment feels cozier now. It smells faintly of tea and citrus. The hum of soft music plays from a phone speaker somewhere in the kitchen, and the light filtering through the windows has gone warm and golden. He follows the faint murmur of voices and turns into the living room.

You’re on the couch, legs tucked under you, chatting with your boyfriend. Choso recognizes him instantly—the same man who’d nearly exploded when he opened the door earlier.The guy has a smile on his face as he chats with you but Choso can sense it’s off, the guy’s posture is stiff, jaw set a little too tight.

The moment Choso steps into view, your boyfriend’s eyes narrow. His whole demeanor shifts like a cloud covering the sun, expression souring as if just the sight of Choso had reminded him of something unpleasant he’d desperately tried to forget.

It’s not subtle.

You, on the other hand, brighten immediately. You give Choso a small smile, warm and casual, as if you hadn’t just spent ten minutes trying to calm someone else down. “Hey,” you say, patting the back of the couch. “There you are. You clean up well.”

Choso nods and steps in quietly, unsure if he should sit or stand, unsure what’s expected of him now. Your boyfriend doesn’t greet him, just stares, still tense, his eyes darting over the borrowed clothes.

“Those are mine,” the boyfriend mutters, clearly annoyed.

You ignore the jab with a practiced sort of ease. “You haven’t worn them in a year,” you say lightly. “Figured they’d be better used than gathering dust.”

Choso watches the exchange, unsure what to do with the knot forming in his chest. He's still lost, still floating in unfamiliar territory—but standing in your apartment, in this too-tight shirt, facing a man clearly unhappy with his presence, something inside him starts to spark again.

It isn’t memory.

Her head perked up instantly. “Kyojuro?” she called out, standing before they could even respond. “He’s back?”

The Kakushi looked a little startled, nodding quickly before bowing and continuing on their way.

She barely heard them. Mitsuri was already moving, heart fluttering with excitement as she bounded toward the main gates of the mansion. A bright smile bloomed on her face as she ran. Her sandals slapped lightly against the stone, hair trailing behind her like ribbons in the wind.

“I knew he’d be back soon!” she said to herself with a little laugh, eyes shining. “He didn’t even send a crow this time, the goof.”

She rounded the last corner, the gates coming into view. Her pulse quickened, not out of fear, but joy.

And there he was.

Just inside the entrance, his familiar figure framed by the golden morning light.

“Kyojuro!” she called out, her voice full of warmth as she waved. “You’re back!”

She didn’t notice anything amiss at first. How could she? From a distance, it just looked like him, standing tall, flame-patterned haori catching the breeze, returning like always.

Her steps slowed slightly as she drew closer, the distance between them narrowing. But her smile remained.

Her pace slowed.

“Kyojuro?” Mitsuri called again, softer this time.

He hadn’t moved. Not even a smile in return. And Kyojuro always smiled. Even after a hard battle, even when he was exhausted he smiled. It was the first thing he gave to her, always.

But now?

Her run faltered into a jog, then a few uncertain steps. Her sandals scraped lightly on the gravel as she came to a near-stop a few feet away, her breath catching in her throat.

Something was wrong.

His haori was torn near the shoulder, scorched and dust-streaked. His posture was upright, as always, but strained. The usual proud flame that seemed to live in his chest... flickered low. His eyes were distant, not cold, not angry, just... far away. Burnt out.

“Kyojuro?” she said again, quieter now, confused, concern curling at the edges of her voice.

He looked at her then. Just barely. And that one glance was enough to shake something loose inside her. There was pain in his eyes. Not the pain of a wound, Mitsuri knew that kind, had seen that. This was deeper. Rooted.

“Kyojuro, what happened?” she stepped closer, lifting a hand, almost reaching out to touch his arm, her smile now gone, her brows furrowed. “Did something go wrong on the mission? Are you hurt? Are the others-?”

He still didn’t speak. His lips parted once, slightly, but no words came.

Instead, his hand slowly opened.

In his palm sat a small trinket. A charm. Handmade. Frayed at the edges.

Yours.

Mitsuri blinked, not understanding at first. Her gaze flicked between the charm and Kyojuro’s face, searching for meaning. Her mind scrambled for explanations, for reasons, for anything!

And then it hit her.

Her knees gave out before the thought even finished forming, her body dropping hard onto the stone path. She didn’t feel the impact. Just the cold.

“No...” she whispered, eyes wide, staring up at him with a trembling mouth. “No, no... Kyojuro, tell me this is a mistake. Tell me they’re okay. Tell me this isn’t-”

But he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

His silence was the final confirmation. Not cruel. Not distant. Just broken.

Mitsuri let out a choked sound, something small and strangled, and then it tore free from her completely. A wail, raw and aching, echoed through the courtyard as she leaned forward, her hands trembling against the stone.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

You were just a kid.

Kyojuro slowly lowered himself to one knee, the motion deliberate, reverent. He reached out and gently took Mitsuri’s hand, the one closest to him, clenched against the ground, and turned it over, pressing the trinket into her palm.

Her fingers curled around it instantly. Both hands closed tight, as if her touch could somehow bring it back to warmth.

She bent forward with it, arms clutching it to her chest, her forehead pressing down against the cold stone slabs. Her shoulders heaved with every sob, her cries no longer sharp, but hoarse and exhausted, pouring out of her like water through a broken dam.

Kyojuro didn’t say anything at first. He simply rested a hand on her back, large and warm, his thumb gently brushing over the fabric of her uniform. A gesture meant to comfort. But even that felt hollow now.

What could he say? What words could he possibly offer when the pain she was feeling was a mirror of his own?

And so he stayed silent, head bowed, eyes closed against the sting behind them. He stayed there with her, shoulder to shoulder in the weight of loss.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, his voice broke the stillness.

“I should have been stronger.”

It came out low, cracked, like flame trying to reignite in the ashes.

Mitsuri’s head snapped up, her tear-streaked face flushed with anguish and fury. “No!” she cried, the word sharp and unyielding. “No, that’s not what she would have thought!”

She knelt upright, fists clenched around the charm so tightly her knuckles turned white. Her voice shook, thick with grief, but there was steel underneath it. “That’s not how anyone thinks, Kyojuro! Do not blame yourself-”

Her tears were still falling, fat and fast, cutting trails down her cheeks, but she looked at him fiercely now. “She wouldn’t want anyone to.”

The words rang out between them, fierce and full of truth, even through the heartbreak.

And he knew.

She was right.

Even in her last breath, you would never have wanted your death to become anyone else’s burden. Not Mitsuri’s. Not his.

Especially not his. So he just nodded, slow and solemn, his hand still on her back. The silence that followed wasn’t empty this time.

You immediately head for your wardrobe, rifling through clothes at a frantic pace, throwing options onto the bed one after the other until the perfect outfit starts taking shape.

Then, in the middle of planning everything out while you’re making yourself a quick dinner, it hits you like a bolt of lightning: You should make him cookies or brownies! Something he can snack on!

The man loved to eat, and after how much he adored the flame charm you made for him, this felt like a no-brainer. He deserved it.

Easy enough, right? …Right?

Three hours later, your kitchen looked like an absolute crime scene. Batches upon batches of cookies were scattered around  -  some misshapen, some that just didn’t taste quite right, and at least one batch where you were pretty sure you’d mixed up the salt and the sugar, but now couldn’t even tell which one.

You were desperately close to giving up, but you pressed on, teeth gritted with stubborn determination.

You poured everything you had into one final batch, your last shot. Your Hail Mary. And, miraculously, they came out perfect.

Golden, soft, sweet, just the right amount of chew and crunch. Finally, you had something you were proud to give him.

You packed them carefully into a cute little bag, tied a neat ribbon around the top, and placed it on the kitchen counter  -  your chest swelling with a weird, giddy mixture of nerves and pride. Tomorrow was going to be something else.

You could already feel it.

After your cookie triumph, you finally pick your abandoned skincare routine back up. Exfoliating, toning, moisturizing, you treat your skin like a precious jewel, determined to look your absolute best for tomorrow. You even paint your nails a soft color, smiling to yourself as you admire the tiny detail.

It takes a while to fall asleep, the excitement bubbling in your chest makes it almost impossible to settle, but eventually, you drift off into dreams filled with golden hair and bright smiles.

Morning is a complete blur.

You wake up at 7:30 sharp, your mind already buzzing. Shower. Makeup. Hair. Outfit. Everything carefully done but styled to look effortless, casual but a little special, just enough that if someone was paying attention, they’d notice the extra effort. You’re just beginning to overthink everything. Was it too much? Should you change?  Then a knock at the door snaps you back to reality, your heart leaps. You hadn't even realized it was already 11.

You grab your bag, the little package of cookies, and rush to the door, throwing it open with a little more enthusiasm than intended.

And there he is.

Kyojuro stands waiting for you with his usual bright, endless smile. Except, it falters slightly when he sees you. Not in a bad way,  if anything, his eyes widen, his grin growing even wider in real time like he can’t believe what he’s looking at.

"You look beautiful," he says, voice so sincere it knocks the breath right out of your lungs.

Then, his gaze falls to the little bag of cookies, and you catch the way he tries very hard not to get ahead of himself and assume they’re for him. You laugh softly, feeling lighter at his reaction, and hand them over.

"These are for you," you say shyly.

Kyojuro’s whole face lights up like you’ve handed him a treasure chest, but he dutifully stashes them away for now  -  like he’s saving something precious for later.

You lock the door behind you and follow him to his car. Sliding into the seat, you immediately breathe in the smell of him  -  the car is saturated with something strong and earthy, a little smoky, but with just a touch of sweetness, like cedarwood and honey. He gets into his seat, turning that megawatt smile on you again, and immediately starts gushing about a new place he found  -  a bakery with a little attached coffee shop.

He’s so excited about it, hands animated as he talks, and you can’t help but think  -  That’s so him.

You smile, settling in for the ride, heart already warm before the day has even properly begun.

Arriving at the bakery is almost... intense.

It's clearly a high-end place - the kind you couldn’t dream of visiting regularly on a teacher’s salary. The elegant design, the fancy menu, the well - dressed patrons, everything about it feels luxurious.

The thought flutters through your chest again, is this really just a casual hangout? This feels like a date.

You bite back a hopeful smile as Kyojuro leads you to a small, cozy table for two near the window. You settle in together, sliding into the plush seats and picking up the menus, your heads bent close as you chatter about your favorite sweet treats.

The conversation is as easy as ever, the words flowing effortlessly between you  -  warm, light, comfortable. Even when silence falls for a second, it’s peaceful, not awkward. 

Kyojuro, ever the gentleman, takes careful note of what you want and rushes off to order for both of you, returning almost immediately, as if he can’t bear to be away from you longer than necessary.

You drift onto the topic of school, not exactly the most date-like conversation, but you don’t even mind, not when it’s him.

You both animatedly talk about your students  -  the troublemakers, the stars, the hilarious stories you would never tell anyone but him. You even share your hopes for the upcoming semester, and Kyojuro listens so intently you feel like the most interesting person in the world.

There’s no time to sit around worrying about unrequited love when this is what it feels like just to be near him, when he looks at you like you matter.

The only thing that can pull you out of the magic is... how absolutely good he looks today. He’s swapped his usual professional slacks for fitted dark jeans, a black button - up with a subtle pattern stretched across his broad chest, the top couple buttons undone just enough to hint at the strength beneath. His hair is half-up, half-down, but a little neater, a little more styled, like he tried today. Like he cared.

You can't help yourself  -  it just slips out:

"I haven't seen you in casual clothes before," you blurt, leaning on the table slightly. "It’s quite similar to your work clothes... Are you always so well - dressed?"

Kyojuro blinks at you, looking momentarily surprised, before a sheepish grin breaks over his face. He scratches the back of his neck - that rare, adorable moment of shyness making your heart flip.

"Oh! I mean, I do wear regular things, like sweatpants and t-shirts," he admits, laughing. "But today I wanted to put in a little effort! It's not often I get to spend time with you outside of school hours."

Your mind screams.

Effort, he put in effort- because it was for YOU.

You barely manage to respond, your voice a little breathier than normal. "And yourself... You look very pretty today!" he says brightly, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. You flush deeper when a few people around your table glance over, hearing his volume. But you quickly push it aside, focussing only on him.

"Thank you," you murmur, smiling bashfully. "Same here. I didn’t want you to think I always look as frumpy as I do at work."

You laugh a little, poking fun at yourself, but Kyojuro doesn’t even blink.

"Nonsense!" he says, utterly sincere. "You look beautiful at work too."

You don't even have time to recover before he’s pulling out the little bag of cookies you made him. Your heart stutters in panic - oh no, what if they're terrible compared to this high-end bakery stuff? Before you can stop him, he eagerly shoves one into his mouth with a joyful hum.

The whole room jolts slightly at the loud, enthusiastic noise he makes.

You can’t help it  -  you double over laughing, your chest aching with how cute he is.

Kyojuro beams at you, chewing happily, looking at you like you’ve handed him the greatest treasure in the world.  You share a private moment, just the two of you in your own little bubble, even while the bakery staff start sending not - so - subtle glances your way, politely trying to hint that maybe you’re disturbing the peace a little.

Eventually, after much laughter (and many cookies), they have to almost chase you out with polite but firm smiles, neither of you can stop grinning the whole walk back to the car.

You’re only a few steps from Kyojuro’s car when he suddenly slows to a stop. You blink up at him, curious, and follow his gaze as he motions toward a nearby park. The cherry blossom trees are in full bloom, petals swirling and dancing in the light spring breeze. It looks almost like a dream.

"Let's go for a walk," Kyojuro suggests, that easygoing laugh bubbling up from him like it's no big deal. "It's only been a couple of hours, I'm not ready to let you go yet."

Your heart leaps straight into your throat. Not ready to let you go? He wants to spend even more time with you?

You nod enthusiastically, feeling almost giddy as you follow him across the street and into the park. The world feels different here, softer, slower. The air is fragrant with blossoms, the ground dappled in pink and white where the petals have fallen like snow.

You walk together through the quiet beauty, and the conversation somehow grows deeper  -  moving past the easy topics of work and sweets and into something more raw, more personal. Kyojuro tells you about his time studying abroad, about how he knows three, almost four languages fluently. How he has a younger brother he adores, who's currently studying to follow in their father’s footsteps. He smiles warmly as he talks about his brother’s quiet passion for music, but there’s a sadness underneath when he mentions how little choice their father gives him.

You can’t help but ask questions, drawn in by the glimpse he gives you of his life  -  but when you gently prod about the family business or whether he ever wanted to take it over, Kyojuro skillfully dodges. But before you can press further, he’s laughing again and steering the conversation back to you.

When Kyojuro Rengoku asks you questions, he really listens  -  every answer you give feels like it matters. He asks specific things, thoughtful things, that have you actually pausing to think, to smile, to reflect.

You are mid-answer when you glance at him, and your breath catches in your throat.

There are a few stray cherry blossom petals tangled in his hair - but he doesn't notice, he’s too busy looking at you like you hung the stars in the sky.

He doesn’t even try to hide it when he realizes you’ve caught him staring. He just smiles softly, and keeps walking beside you, like it's the most natural thing in the world to look at you like that. You turn your gaze upward, cheeks hot, pretending to admire the trees again. The branches arch high above, heavy with blooms, the petals falling around you like a fairytale.

You’re thinking about how lovely the day has been, how right everything feels, when - you feel it.

A warm hand, slipping into yours.

Your fingers startle at first, but then, instinctively, your hand tightens around his. His palm is rough and steady, his thumb brushing softly over the back of your hand, as if he’s done this a hundred times before. As if this is where your hand was always meant to be. Neither of you say a word. The world keeps moving around you, but for a moment, it’s just the two of you, walking together under a shower of cherry blossoms.

You and Kyojuro drift through the park, hand in hand, neither of you speaking. The silence is sacred - too perfect, too fragile. It feels unreal that just a few weeks ago you were colleagues who barely knew each other, and now this feels as natural as breathing.

Cherry blossom petals flutter around you, the world reduced to the soft pink rain and the warmth of his hand slipping into yours. Every step you take together seems unspoken promise: that this moment, this quiet connection, could last forever.

Until- 

A loud gasp behind you shatters the spell.

You freeze. Kyojuro freezes. Turning, you see a pair of students from your school standing at the edge of the path, eyes wide, mouths agape, pointing at you.

Your heart leaps into your throat. You start to pull your hand away from his, your cheeks burning. But Kyojuro doesn’t let go. Instead, he swivels, face still bright with that easy smile, and lifts his free hand in a gentle wave at the students. The wide-eyed teens whisper furiously to each other before bolting away, phones in hand, clearly on a mission to spread the gossip.

You crouch down, hiding your face in your hands, utterly mortified. Behind your fingers, you can feel Kyojuro’s other hand rubbing softly, reassuringly, the heat of him seeping through to calm your panic.

His voice is low and tender. “Did you… not want this?” he asks, concern threading every syllable.

You yank your hands away and stand up, breath catching. “No! It’s not that,” you stammer. “I-I just thought we’d keep it under wraps for a bit… I wasn’t even sure it was actually a date until five minutes ago!”

You glance down at his hand in yours, then back at his face, worry flickers across his features and you feel the guilt prick at your heart.

He offers you a sad but understanding smile. “I’m sorry. I should have asked what you wanted first.”

Determination surges through you. You lift his hand firmly, sliding your fingers around his. “Let’s keep going,” you declare. “This hasn’t changed anything.”

Choso tilted his head, clearly confused. “Pick you up? Why would I do that? Wouldn’t that be kidnapping?”

You snorted, caught between amusement and concern. “That’s not—okay, wow. That’s not what that means.”

He stared blankly. You sighed and straightened up. “Alright, buddy. What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I woke up in this town. I don’t remember anything…except that I’m looking for someone.”

You hesitated. Most people would walk away. But you volunteered at a local shelter, and helping people was sort of your thing—especially lost ones. And this guy looked like he’d wandered out of a war.

You made a split-second decision that your future self would either thank you for or curse completely.

“…Alright, listen,” you said. “You can crash at my place. Just until you figure things out.”

Choso looked confused again, but nodded. “Okay. Thank you.”

As you walked side by side, you noticed the way he glanced at you—like you were the first familiar thing he’d seen all day.

Stepping into your apartment, Choso immediately noticed how warm it felt—not just in temperature, but in atmosphere. It was decorated nicely, lived-in without being cluttered. His eyes moved over a vase of fresh flowers sitting beside a small Lego statue, the incongruity somehow making perfect sense. On a nearby shelf, a stick of Old Spice leaned against a cluster of elegant perfume bottles. He didn’t question it. None of it was his business.

Still, something about this space settled his nerves. The world outside had felt strange—tilted, too loud, too empty all at once. But here… here felt safer. Not whole, but less broken.

You set your bag down and motioned toward the couch. “Go ahead. Sit wherever.”

Stiffly, he lowered himself onto the edge of the cushion, like he wasn’t sure he had the right. His eyes wandered again, taking in the little touches—books with cracked spines, tiny cute ornaments tucked between potted plants basking in the sun through your window.

You disappeared briefly, then returned with a steaming mug. You handed it to him gently, and he stared at it like it might be part of a ritual he’d forgotten. He held it for a few seconds, letting the warmth seep into his hands, before placing it on the coffee table without a word.

You didn’t push. Instead, you sat across from him, legs curled up beneath you, and asked softly, “What’s your name?”

He hesitated. His mouth opened. Closed.

“I don’t know.”

“…Okay. Do you remember how old you are?”

Again, nothing. His brows furrowed like he was trying to pull answers out of a fog that refused to clear.

“Where you came from?”

A beat. Then a small shake of his head. “It’s like… trying to grab smoke.”

You nodded, your expression calm, nonjudgmental. “That’s okay. We’ll figure it out.”

Choso looked at you then, really looked at you, and for a second his chest ached with something he couldn’t name. He didn’t know why, but this moment—this room, your voice, the quiet presence of your kindness—felt like the first solid thing he’d touched since waking up.

You rest your chin in your hand, eyes narrowing thoughtfully as you study him. There’s a weight in the air now—a shared silence filled with uncertainty. After a moment, you nod to yourself, settling on a plan.

“Okay,” you say gently. “First thing’s first—we’ll try to get some help. I’m going to take a photo of you, if that’s alright? Just for a report to the police and to call around some local hospitals. Maybe someone filed a missing persons case or there’s a facility wondering where you went.”

He looks uncertain but nods slowly. You pull out your phone and take a quick picture—nothing too close, just enough to capture his face and the details someone might recognize. He doesn't ask to see it. Maybe it doesn’t even occur to him.

You make a few notes on your phone before gesturing toward the hallway. “There’s a bathroom down there—first door on the right. Go ahead and take a shower. I’ll keep making calls while you’re in there.”

Choso hesitates for only a moment before rising, quietly padding away.

The bathroom is small, clean, and scented faintly with eucalyptus from a diffuser tucked into the corner. He closes the door behind him and moves toward the mirror, flipping on the light. It's the first time he’s seen himself since waking up in that unfamiliar town.

The man staring back at him is a stranger—almost. His hair is a wild, matted mess, and his eyes look worn, shadowed, but there’s something there now. A flicker of life. Of recognition. The markings beneath his eyes catch his attention next, odd lines on his skin that feel like they shouldn’t be there… but then, just for a second, they seem to shift.

Not physically, not quite. But something about them moves—in his memory, in his mind.

And then the thought rises, unbidden and powerful:

“My name is… Choso.”

He grips the edges of the sink, the words grounding him in something real. Something true.

The rest of the shower passes in a blur—water too hot, steam curling against the mirror as he scrubs away dried sweat and dirt he hadn’t even noticed before. When he steps out, a towel slung around his waist, he finally registers how filthy his clothes had been—dusty, stained, like he’d walked through a war zone.

He cracks the door open, intending to ask you for something clean to wear.

But the moment he steps into the hallway, he nearly runs into someone—tall, unfamiliar, and definitely not you.

The man looks just as surprised, pausing mid-step with a bag of takeout in one hand and a confused scowl beginning to form.