so we can all agree that shoto tilts his head when he's confused (or trying to eavesdrop) right? less like an excited puppy dog and more like a curious feline
like during class and aizawa's droning voice isn't pairing with what's on the board, so he's squinting and sliding his head this way and that
or when he's watching you train and there's something going through that pretty, lopsided head of his cause something about your form is off by just a tad, but he's still trying to figure that out
or even when you're sitting on the couch together with your legs curled up to your chest, him mirroring you, faces inches apart as he dotingly listens to you talk about your day, head cocked to the side
"you okay?" you'd ask with a confused half-laugh
he blinks and lifts his head upright, brows dipping together. "what? yes."
"okay, just- you look lost."
he stares at you blankly for a long stretch of seconds that gets your face hot
Azzi had laid down with a sigh, it was the first time she was visiting Dallas in the summer, first time seeing Paige after a month, and first time she could actually catch some sun.
The winter had been cold, brutally cold—and left her paler then ever. She wanted to get a little more bronze before heading back to cloudy Storrs in a week, so when she had some free time and Paige was busy lifting, she thought it would be a good time to tan.
The apartment building Paige lived in was nice, extremely nice to say the least. It came with everything you could imagine,—including a rooftop pool along with some areas for lounging.
The afternoon sunlight beamed down hard, the sun falling directly onto her warm body.
The small purple bikini being the only barrier between her and rays gave a perfect opportunity to tease Paige.
She held a hand over her eyes to shade the sun while unlocking her phone,
Going to messages and snapping a quick pic of her body laid out in the heat of Texas.
She hit send without thinking twice, knowing Paige would have a heart attack the second she saw it.
***
After a brutal lifting session, Paige was ready to go home to her girlfriend.
Her and Azzi only had limited time together, so she canceled most actives for the week, just not being able to get out of the workout today.
As she neared the end of her set, Arike still yelling about everyone needing to “Push harder”, she felt a buzz in her pocket.
Knowing that she was on DND and the only contact allowed to send notifications being Azzi, she pulled out her phone quickly.
Expecting a stupid update from her like normal, something along the lines of “I just saw a squirrel” or “Just ate a bagel” She didn’t hesitate to open her phone up knowing her teammates were right next to her.
But fuck, she should’ve.
A photo of Azzi laid out in golden hues on a tanning chair, the sun draping over her curves only covered by a light lavender swimsuit filled her phone screen.
Paiges heart stopped at the sight, “fuck” Escaping her mouth involuntarily.
hearing the word, Dijonai glanced over at her phone, seeing the photo of Azzi, “Damnnnn, okay I see you P”
Paige looked over at her quickly locking her phone, the heat in her cheeks showing in a rosy hue, “shut up, you didn’t see anything.” she spat out,
The conversation caused the rest of the girls around them to wonder what was going on,
“What was it?” Nalyssa asked her girlfriend, knowing she’d get an answer.
“Just Paige over here gettin’ some very skimpy pics from her girl while she’s away, pretty crazy if you ask me”
“Okay Bueckers. I respect it,” Nalyssa said, knowing that Paige would only get more flustered.
Paige dragged a hand over her face, wishing the conversation would shift, “Can we move on? Please?”
But that wasn’t before Arike stole Paiges phone from behind her, unlocking it knowing the password was Azzis birthday.
As soon as she did she was met with the the photo, “DAMNNN!”
Paige ran to go get her phone, but Arike quickly passed it to Nalyssa.
She pretended to inspect the photo, rubbing her chin like an idiot, “I mean, second best to my girl, but still pretty good”
Paige snatched the phone before it could be passed around anymore. “I hate all of you.”
The girls burst into laughter while Paige quickly threw her bag over her shoulder.
“Leaving so soon?” DiJonai teased watching the blonde leave.
Paige didn’t turn back, instead holding out a middle finger which caused the laughter to only grow.
****
Azzi laid on Paiges bed, dressed in some loose clothes from after her shower, knowing Paige would be home any mintue.
The door opened, and in walked a very pathetic looking Paige.
“What happened baby?” Azzi aksed as the blonde flopped down on the bed.
“I was bullied.” Paige mumbled into the comforter
Azzi buckled lightly, “happens when your a rookie huh?”
Paige moved her head onto Azzis chest, the warmth still lingering from her shower.
Then getting an idea, remembering the photo. She sprung up.
“Take this off” She said while tugging at Azzis shirt.
Surprised but intrigued Azzi met her eyes, “What?”
“Take off your shirt…and your pants actually.”
“Jeez, is romance dead?” Azzi said laughing, knowing damn well her shirt would be on the ground in a minute.
Paige shrugged, “Ive been through it today.. and it was kinda your fault. So you owe me.”
“Oh really, and how was it my fault?” Azzi teased,
“I’ll tell you after.”
“After what?”
“You’re the worst.”
Azzi leaned up to kiss her, pulling her in.
****
Paige strolled into practice the next morning with a certain pep in her step.
One that only came with a night of pleasing her girlfriend,
As soon as she opened the door, Arike eyed her down,
“Someone’s happy this morning.” She teased, playing with a band in her hand.
She rolled her eyes setting down her water.
“Shut up”
Arike gasped, putting a hand over her chest, “that is no way to talk to your vets, rook.”
This caused a few of the girls laugh at the banter, it being to most interesting thing that would happen this morning.
contains jealousy, soft domestic fluff, playful teasing, shy but charming behavior, kissing, hand-holding, gentle intimacy, flowers and plants, mild language, mentions of funerals, pining
The bell above the door jingled as you stepped into the familiar warmth of the shop. The air was thick with roses and lilies, that faint green wetness of cut stems in water.
You’d been here countless times before—the little family-run place where arrangements for services were always prepared with a level of care you trusted.
Usually, the older woman you knew would be waiting for you behind the counter, smiling kindly as she wrapped bouquets.
But today, someone else was there.
A man, tall, easily six foot, stood behind the counter. He wore a plain black t-shirt beneath a well-worn apron, dark slacks, and thin gloves. His hair, long and loose, spilled down past his shoulders in brown strands that framed a face both sharp and strangely delicate.
He didn’t look up right away. He was bent over an arrangement, tying a ribbon around a cluster of white lilies. His movements were careful, deliberate, as if each flower mattered.
You stopped in the doorway, hands folding loosely in front of your black suit. The sleek lines of it, the weight of your low bun, all suddenly felt too severe in the face of this unexpected softness.
“One moment,” he said quietly, voice deep and low, almost like velvet rasping.
You blinked. That voice didn’t match the apron, the delicate task. It felt like it should belong to someone who carried steel, not stems.
Finally, he straightened. He looked at you then—eyes dark, quiet, haunted but warm in a way you couldn’t name. The world seemed to still, the air heavy with damp petals and something else.
“These are for tomorrow, aren’t they?” he asked. His gaze lingered, as if confirming you matched the name on the order. His tone was soft, careful, not blunt but weighted.
“Yes,” you managed. “For the funeral service. I was told they’d be ready.”
He gave a small nod, then slid the arrangement forward with both hands. “I made sure the lilies stay closed until the morning. They’ll last through the service.”
You reached for them, and for a fleeting second, your fingers brushed his gloved ones. His touch was steady, not rushed. When you looked up again, he was still watching you—unreadable, but not unkind.
“You’re not who I usually see here,” you said, letting the faintest curve of a smile touch your lips.
“My mother runs the shop,” he answered simply. “I help, when she needs it.”
Something about the way he said it, so quiet, almost reluctant, pulled at you. The suit on your shoulders suddenly felt heavier, the silence between you full of unspoken things.
You exhaled softly, adjusting the bouquet in your hands. “Well. You do beautiful work.”
For the first time, his expression shifted, just slightly. The corner of his mouth softened, like he didn’t quite know how to take a compliment but wanted to.
“Thank you,” he murmured. His hair slid forward, dark silk against his cheek as he bowed his head. “It matters.”
And god, standing there in all black, you couldn’t remember the last time you’d found someone in this line of work who looked absolutely mesmerizing.
He watched you a little too long, his fingers resting lightly against the counter as if the flowers weren’t enough of a barrier between you. His voice stayed low, hesitant but honest.
“I wouldn’t have thought you’d work in this kind of service,” he said finally. His gaze flicked briefly to the neat lines of your black suit, the careful bun, then back to your eyes. “You look so.. soft.”
A soft laugh escaped you before you could stop it. Soft? In all black? You shifted the bouquet in your hands and stepped closer, closing the distance between you and the counter.
“Well,” you murmured with a smirk, tilting your head just slightly, “I didn’t expect to find you here either.”
That made him pause. The faintest ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth, as if your teasing disarmed him. His hair, a layered wolfcut that brushed against his jaw and neck, shifted when he dropped his eyes for a moment, almost shy.
“I suppose we’re both unexpected,” he said quietly.
You leaned an elbow against the counter, bouquet balanced easily in your other hand. “Guess so. You arrange lilies like someone who’s been doing it forever. Not exactly what I imagined when I thought of the woman I usually see in here.”
He let out a breath, almost a laugh, but softer, more like disbelief. He glanced toward the back of the shop where his mother usually was, then back to you.
“She taught me,” he admitted. “But she says I take it too seriously.”
You arched a brow. “Too seriously? Or too beautifully?”
That caught him again, his eyes softened, lashes lowering for a moment as if he didn’t know what to do with your words. When he looked at you again, it was with that same quiet intensity that made the air between you feel a little heavier.
“Maybe both.”
You smirked again, straightening up. “Well, keep taking it seriously, florist. I’ll be back.”
He didn’t move, didn’t say anything for a heartbeat too long, then, almost under his breath, so soft you might have imagined it: “I’ll be here.”
The next day you pulled up with a bigger car, needing more arrangements than usual for tomorrow’s service. You slipped out, straightening your jacket, the neat lines of your all-black suit sharp against the soft green front of the florist’s shop.
The bell jingled as you opened the door, only to feel it thud against something solid. Your eyes widened. He stood just behind the door, one hand braced against his back where you’d slammed it into him.
“Oh my god—sorry.” The words tumbled out in a rush as you pressed your palm over your mouth to stifle the laugh threatening to break loose. The other hand instinctively landed on his back, right where the door had hit.
He turned his head toward you, strands of his dark hair sliding forward across his cheek. And to your surprise—he smiled. A real, small, curved smile that made him look less like a shadow and more like a man caught off guard in the gentlest way.
“Well, well, well,” he said softly, voice low and warm like yesterday.
You bit back another laugh, shaking your head. “That’s what I get for barging in like I own the place.”
His lips parted like he wanted to answer, but he only huffed a quiet breath and straightened, stepping aside so you could enter. The apron still tied at his waist, gloves already on, he looked like he’d been in the middle of work again—hair loose, shirt sleeves pushed to his elbows, the faintest trace of green pollen dusting his arm.
“I didn’t expect to see you so soon,” he said, watching as you moved toward the counter.
You gave him a smirk over your shoulder. “Funerals don’t exactly wait. Besides, maybe I just wanted to test if you’d arrange today’s lilies too beautifully again.”
Choso’s expression flickered, caught between shyness and that quiet intensity you’d noticed yesterday. He lowered his gaze for a moment, then murmured, almost as if confessing, “I… did. For you.”
The words hung in the air, fragile, careful, but heavier than they should have been.
You let out a soft laugh, more to ground yourself than anything. “Then I guess it’s a good thing I brought a bigger car.”
He finally looked back at you, eyes deep and unreadable, though the faint smile tugging at his mouth gave him away.
“Guess so.”
Before either of you could say more, footsteps sounded from the back room. The familiar older woman, apron tied neatly, silver hair pulled back, appeared in the doorway with her usual warm smile. “Oh, I see,” she said knowingly, her eyes flicking between you and the tall figure at your side. “You’ve met my Choso.”
You turned your head slowly, eyes dragging up and down the man still standing beside you, close enough that the warmth of him brushed against your arm.
“Choso, hm,” you murmured, tasting the name out loud with a smirk.
The reaction was immediate, his shoulders tensed slightly, and a faint flush crept up his cheeks, softening the sharpness of his features. He glanced down at you, then away, as if the floor tiles suddenly demanded his full attention.
“Rude of me,” he admitted quietly, voice rougher now. “I didn’t tell you my name.”
You tilted your head, eyes still on him. “You didn’t.”
His mother chuckled under her breath as she moved past, gathering the arrangements you’d come for. “He’s a quiet one,” she said, almost conspiratorial. “But he does good work, doesn’t he?”
“He does,” you answered, not looking away from him, enjoying the way that blush lingered.
Choso shifted, his hair falling forward as he ducked his head, but the faintest smile curved at his lips—like he wasn’t used to this kind of attention, but didn’t entirely mind it coming from you.
His mother disappeared into the back again, humming to herself, leaving the two of you by the counter. Choso cleared his throat, still faintly pink across his cheeks, then gestured toward the far side of the shop where several arrangements sat neatly in rows. “…These are the ones for tomorrow,” he said softly.
You followed him, bouquet in your arms shifting as you walked. He stopped by a long table where vases and wreaths were set out, each carefully balanced—lilies, white roses, a few sprays of eucalyptus and baby’s breath tucked in between. Every stem had its place, every ribbon tied with precision.
“They’re beautiful,” you murmured, stepping closer. Your fingers brushed a petal. “You did all this?”
He nodded, eyes dropping briefly to his gloves as though embarrassed to admit it. “Most of it. My mother finished some of the smaller pieces, but these were mine.”
You tilted your head, looking from the flowers to him. “You said yesterday you take it too seriously. I think you just take it right.”
That earned you a faint exhale—almost a laugh, almost a sigh. His wolfcut framed his face as he glanced at you, the light from the front window softening the sharpness of his jaw.
“I wanted them to look respectful,” he said carefully, searching for words. “Something the families can… hold on to.”
You studied him for a moment longer, then smiled. “Choso, if this is what you call ‘too serious,’ then I hope you never stop.”
His blush deepened, though he ducked his head again like he didn’t know what to do with the warmth in your tone. Still, the faintest smile tugged at his mouth, just enough for you to see it was real.
You reached toward one of the larger wreaths, fingers curling around the edge of the stand, but a gloved hand brushed yours before you could lift.
“I’ll take it,” Choso said, voice firm but still quiet.
You raised a brow. “You don’t have to do it all yourself.”
“I don’t mind.” He adjusted the wreath easily, his height and broad frame making the effort look almost effortless. “You should just hold the door.”
For a moment you considered teasing him, but the serious way he looked at you made you pause. There was no arrogance in it, only a quiet insistence, like he’d already decided his role here was to carry the weight for you.
“…Alright,” you said finally, smirking faintly as you stepped back. “If that’s what makes you happy.”
The corner of his mouth twitched—just barely. “It does.”
So you moved to the door, pushing it open and holding it wide as he passed, arms full of white flowers and pale ribbon. The sight of him—black t-shirt stretched across his shoulders, apron tied at his waist, hair spilling forward as he angled the arrangement through the frame—made something in your chest tighten.
When he returned for the next one, you were still there, leaning lightly against the doorframe with your arms crossed.
“You’re really not going to let me touch a single one, are you?”
“No,” he said simply, stepping past you again, this time with a cluster of tall vases balanced carefully in his grip. His tone was soft, but unyielding. “Not when I can do it.”
You huffed a quiet laugh, watching him disappear toward your car. “Choso, you’re either very sweet or very stubborn.”
“Both,” he answered from outside, voice carrying back to you.
And damn if that didn’t make you smile.
By the time he set the last arrangement carefully in the back of your car, Choso straightened, brushing his gloves together as if to rid them of imaginary dust. A loose strand of his wolfcut clung to his cheek, the afternoon light catching against it.
You leaned one shoulder against the car door, smirk tugging at your lips. “Hm,” you drawled, eyes sliding over him slowly, “you look good doing this. Maybe I should hire you as my professional carrier.”
That got him. His brows lifted just a little, and then, to your surprise, a quiet chuckle slipped past his lips. He took a step closer, closing the space between you in that deliberate way of his—measured, but sure.
“Professional carrier?” he echoed, voice low, velvety, almost amused. “You’d get bored of me quickly.”
You tilted your chin, not moving away, enjoying the way his height seemed to shadow you as he neared. “I don’t think I would.”
His dark eyes searched yours, the faintest blush warming his cheeks even as the ghost of a smile curved his mouth.
“…Maybe I wouldn’t either,” he said softly.
The air between you thickened—floral sweetness from the arrangements clinging to your clothes, his warmth radiating so close you could feel it. For a man who carried himself with such quietness, he suddenly felt very hard to ignore.
You let the silence linger for a beat before reaching out and giving the back of his hand a light slap against his arm. The sound was soft, teasing.
“You little flirt,” you smirked, eyes narrowing just enough to make him catch the edge of your amusement.
Choso’s blush deepened, but he didn’t retreat. If anything, he let the warmth stay on his face, a subtle curve to his lips as he shifted his weight closer. His eyes held yours for a moment before he spoke. “…What kind of coffee do you like?” he asked, voice low but careful, like the question mattered more than it should.
You arched a brow, still leaning against the car. “Coffee?”
He nodded once, almost shy, fingers brushing the hem of his apron.
“I don’t like coffee,” you admitted finally, lips quirking as you watched his expression.
For a second, he blinked, as though recalibrating—then, quietly, almost to himself, a little breath of relief slipped out.
“…Good,” he murmured.
Your smirk widened. “Good?”
He looked at you again, eyes soft but unwavering now. “Means I don’t have to guess what order to bring you.”
Choso shifted closer, one hand bracing on the car beside you as he leaned his weight against it. The movement brought him into your space fully, his hair falling forward in loose strands, eyes steady on yours.
“Then tell me what you like,” he said softly, almost a rumble. A pause, then the faintest curve touched his lips. “I would guess you like sweets.”
Your smirk deepened, head tilting just slightly as you looked up at him. “Sweets, hm? You think I have a sweet tooth?”
He nodded once, slow and certain. “You seem like someone who would.” His voice dropped lower, quiet but intent, like every word was carefully chosen. “Something soft. Gentle.”
The corner of your mouth twitched, and you let out a small laugh, brushing your fingers over the car’s frame between you. “You’ve been watching me that closely?”
His gaze flicked briefly to your hand, then back to your face, unflinching. “Only enough to notice.”
The words lingered in the air, heavier than the casual exchange they should have been.
You let the quiet stretch, his words hanging between you. The weight of his arm braced on the car, his height shadowing you—it was enough to make you want to test him.
“Alright,” you said finally, tilting your head, eyes glinting with mischief. “Since you’re so curious. I like tea. And chocolate. The darker, the better.”
For a moment, Choso just looked at you like he was committing it to memory. His lips parted, then pressed together again, his gaze flicking briefly to the side as though he needed to ground himself before he spoke.
“…Tea,” he echoed softly, as if tasting the word. His eyes met yours again, steady and unwavering now. “And chocolate.”
Your smirk tugged wider. “You gonna write that down?”
He shook his head, slow. A strand of his hair slid against his cheek, but he didn’t move it away. “No. I don’t forget things that matter.”
Something in his tone made your chest tighten. You hadn’t expected a simple answer to feel so heavy. You raised a brow, trying to lighten the moment. “Careful, Choso. Sounds like you’re planning on spoiling me already.”
The faintest smile curved his lips. “Maybe I am.”
The silence between you hummed, warm and heavy, until footsteps creaked on the wooden floor inside the shop.
“Choso?” his mother’s voice floated out, cheerful as ever. Then she peeked around the doorframe, wiping her hands on her apron. Her eyes flicked from her son, still leaning close, arm braced against your car, to you, lips curved in a knowing little smile. “Oh,” she said lightly, “you’re still out here.”
Choso shifted, straightening just a fraction, but he didn’t back away completely. A faint flush crept across his cheekbones.
“I was helping,” he said, almost defensively.
“Mhm.” Her smile deepened, clearly amused, before she turned her gaze to you. “Thank you again for trusting us with your arrangements. My son has a good eye, doesn’t he?”
Your lips curved, eyes sliding toward him deliberately. “He does. Very good.”
That blush of his only deepened. His mother chuckled softly, shaking her head before slipping back inside. The door swung shut, leaving just the two of you again.
You exhaled a small laugh, tilting your chin at him. “Guess I should let you get back to work, hm?”
Choso hesitated, dark eyes steady on yours. Then, softly, “I’ll see you again?”
It wasn’t a question so much as a quiet hope. You smirked, pulling the car door open. “You will.”
And as you slid into the driver’s seat, bouquet beside you, you caught one last glimpse of him in the mirror—still standing there in his apron, watching you leave with that faint, unshakable blush.
Five days later, the faint sound of footsteps echoed across the polished floor of your building. You didn’t look up at first, your focus fixed on the stack of documents spread across the counter but then came a familiar voice, low and velvety, curling into the air like smoke.
“Good morning,” he said softly, words carrying that understated warmth.
You froze, pen hovering above paper, before you caught the trace of his cologne drifting toward you—clean, faintly woody, something that clung to him naturally.
Slowly, you lifted your head. And there he was. Arms crossed loosely over his chest, apron gone now, dressed simply but still looking like he’d stepped out of the shop only moments ago. His wolfcut framed his face, the dark strands falling around his jaw in a way that made his sharp features somehow gentler.
A smile tugged at your lips before you could stop it. “Oh, hey, handsome. What are you doing here?”
His mouth curved into the faintest smirk. “My mother dared me to deliver it. Said it’s too much for you to carry alone.” His tone was soft, but threaded with a dry kind of humor.
Before you could answer, he stepped closer, setting something down on the counter with deliberate nonchalance. A single lily, carefully placed into the small glass vase that always sat near your paperwork. He didn’t even look at it as he arranged the stem, as though it was the most casual thing in the world.
“My car,” he added, glancing at you from under his lashes, “is full of your stuff.”
Your gaze lingered on the lily before drifting back to him, smirk curling your lips again. “If you wanted to see me, you could’ve just said that, y’know.”
He chuckled quietly at that, straightening up, the sound warm but short-lived. You pushed the papers aside and moved, heels clicking against the floor until you stood just in front of him. The height difference made you tilt your chin slightly, your eyes never leaving his.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he murmured, his voice dropping lower, the words mocking but not cruel. He tilted his face toward you as he said it, closing just enough distance that you could smell the cologne more clearly now, feel the quiet heat radiating from him.
For a man who always seemed so reserved, the glint in his eyes was something else.
And there you were, standing in black against the pale light of morning, with a lily on the counter, realizing this was the first time he’d crossed into your world instead of you stepping into his.
You rounded the counter, trailing your fingers lightly across the wood as you passed, and gestured toward the front doors.
“Come on then, florist,” you said, the smirk tugging at your lips impossible to hide. “Show me this mountain of flowers you claim to have brought me.”
Choso followed at your side, his long stride unhurried, his hands slipping into the pockets of his dark slacks. When you pushed open the door, the morning air swept in—cool and fresh, with the faintest chill of dew still lingering on the street. Parked just outside was his car, its back loaded to the brim with arrangements in pale boxes, ribbons spilling softly against the glass.
He paused before stepping out, glancing around the quiet street, then turned his head slightly toward you. “Are you always alone?” he asked, voice as soft as it always was, but edged with curiosity.
You tilted your chin at him, your hand resting on the doorframe. “No,” you said with an amused little huff. “It’s because it’s so early. I’m not even open yet.”
Something shifted in his expression at that—his brow furrowed just a little, as though the thought of you here by yourself in the dim morning light didn’t sit well with him. He nodded once, slow, but his eyes lingered on you longer than they needed to.
“Still,” he murmured, voice dropping, “seems quiet.”
You stepped out ahead of him, heels clicking against the stone as you approached his car. The arrangements inside were immaculate, each one balanced carefully, not a single stem out of place. You leaned on the edge of the car, looking them over with a low whistle.
“You weren’t exaggerating,” you said, glancing over your shoulder at him. “This really is too much for me to carry.”
He came to stand beside you, close enough that his sleeve brushed yours as he reached into the trunk. The movement was unhurried, steady, like everything he did was. He lifted one of the larger wreaths easily, arms flexing under the weight, and glanced down at you.
“That’s why I came,” he said simply.
Your lips curled, eyes flicking between the flowers in his arms and the faint blush painting his cheeks as he looked away again. “You mean that’s why your mother sent you.”
The faintest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but he didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped closer, the wreath still in his grip, and leaned just enough to bring his face near yours.
“Maybe,” he murmured, voice velvet-smooth. “Or maybe I wanted to see for myself.“
The words lingered between you, sweet and deliberate, as the street stayed quiet around you. And for once, the arrangements weren’t the only beautiful thing being delivered that morning.
The two of you moved slowly back toward the building, the cool morning air slipping in around you. Choso had taken the largest arrangement first, balancing it carefully in his arms. You reached for another, but he shot you a look, steady, almost stern before you even touched it.
“I said I’ll carry them,” he murmured.
You raised your brows, smirking as you fell into step beside him. “What are you, my professional porter now? You know I do have arms.”
He didn’t glance down, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Doesn’t mean you need to use them.”
“Mm. Bossy,” you teased, brushing your hand lightly against the door as you held it open for him again. The arrangement barely cleared the frame, but he didn’t falter, moving with that same deliberate care he seemed to put into everything.
Inside, the building was hushed, light just beginning to pour through the tall front windows. He set the wreath down gently on a side table, straightening and flexing his fingers once before turning back toward the car. Without a word, he headed out again, and you followed, your smirk never fading.
“So tell me then, florist,” you said as you walked at his side, your voice laced with humor. “Since you’re insistent on doing all the heavy lifting, what exactly do you want to know about me? I can see the questions brewing.”
He glanced down at you then, eyes dark, steady, almost unreadable. But his voice was soft when he spoke. “…Your job,” he said. “It seems heavy. Why choose it?”
You blinked at him, not expecting the seriousness of the question. “Heavy, sure. But someone has to do it. Someone has to make sure the families feel cared for, that it doesn’t all feel cold. I guess I like being that person.”
He nodded slowly, his hair brushing against his jaw as he looked forward again. “That makes sense.”
You tilted your head, watching his profile as you walked. “And what about you? Always been arranging flowers with your mother?”
His steps faltered for a moment, just slightly, before he shook his head. “…No. Not always.” A pause, then he added, quieter, “But it’s peaceful.”
When you reached the car again, he lifted another heavy box before you could so much as extend a hand. He caught your amused look, cheeks flushing faintly as he turned back toward the building.
“Peaceful, hm?” you said, your smirk curling. “That’s funny. You don’t look very peaceful carrying all this on your own.”
Finally, he glanced at you again, and for the first time that morning, the faintest hint of humor touched his lips.
“Maybe I don’t mind the weight.”
You walked beside him as he carried another arrangement inside, the quiet between you filled with the faint rustle of leaves and the soft sound of your footsteps. He set the box down carefully on a stand near the wall, straightened, and lingered instead of heading right back out.
For a long moment, his gaze lingered on the neat stack of papers you’d abandoned earlier. Then his eyes found yours again.
“Doesn’t it feel lonely?” he asked suddenly, voice low but steady. “All that grief around you.”
You tilted your head, lips tugging into a small smirk. “What, are you worried I’ll get sad and wilt like one of your lilies?”
His brows lifted slightly, but he didn’t back down. “No,” he murmured. “I just think you deserve more than silence.”
Something about the way he said it—so simple, but so certain, made your chest pull tight. You blinked, then let out a dry laugh, shaking your head. “You’re dangerously close to asking me out, Choso.”
“I am,” he said plainly. No hesitation, no wavering. His voice was soft, but the weight behind it was undeniable.
That made you laugh again, short and sharp, because it was so him, quiet, almost shy, but with this unshakable directness. “And here I thought florists were supposed to be subtle.”
He stepped just a little closer, close enough that you could see the faint blush brushing his cheekbones, close enough that his cologne curled warmly between you. His height shadowed you, his hair brushing against his jaw as he tilted his head down.
“Maybe I’m not subtle when it matters,” he said softly.
You arched a brow, smirk sharpening as you looked up at him. “You think standing too close is going to scare me off?”
He leaned just an inch closer, eyes steady, mouth twitching with the faintest ghost of a smile. “You think mocking me is going to stop me?”
Your laugh slipped out, softer this time, caught somewhere between amusement and disbelief. The heat in his gaze, the quiet stubbornness—none of it moved away. And for once, you found yourself at a loss for words, your smirk faltering into something warmer as the silence stretched.
Choso lingered near the counter, arms still crossed loosely over his chest, his dark eyes steady on you. For a man so quiet, the weight of his attention always felt heavier than words. His lips parted like he was about to say something, then pressed together again, as though he was choosing carefully. Finally, with that low, velvety voice of his, he spoke.
“Come with me to the fair tonight,” he said, tone deceptively casual, but the slightest curve at his mouth betrayed him. “I’ll buy you chocolate-covered strawberries.”
Your brows arched, a smirk curling as you tilted your head. “Hm. To the fair?”
He nodded once, slow, deliberate. His hair shifted with the movement, a dark strand falling forward against his cheek. “There’s one by the river. Lights, music, too many people. But…” He hesitated, then leaned just a fraction closer. “I think you’d like it.”
You crossed your arms, mirroring his posture, your eyes locked on his. “So you’re bribing me with sweets. That’s your grand strategy?”
His lips twitched into something close to a smile. “You said you like chocolate. I remembered.” His voice softened, quieter now, as though the admission itself was more intimate than the invitation.
You huffed out a laugh, shaking your head. “You don’t even know if I have plans tonight.”
“I asked,” he countered smoothly, eyes flicking down to your mouth for the briefest second before finding your gaze again. “Not if you’re free.”
For a moment, the silence stretched between you, filled only by the faint hum of the building settling around you. He stood close enough that you could smell his cologne again, faintly woody, faintly warm, blending with the subtle sweetness of the lilies still on your counter.
You let your smirk sharpen, leaning just slightly forward. “You sound awfully confident for someone who still blushes when I say his name.”
His cheeks flushed immediately, but he didn’t step back. If anything, he leaned in too, lowering his voice until it was almost a whisper. “And you sound awfully amused for someone who hasn’t said no yet.”
That made your chest tighten in the best way. Dry humor or not, you couldn’t help the quiet laugh that slipped from you, soft and low. “You’re bold, florist.”
“Maybe just stubborn,” he said, his faint smile still lingering. “So. Will you come?”
The single lily he’d placed earlier caught your eye, bright against the starkness of your papers, almost like it was watching the moment unfold. And you had to admit—his timing, his persistence, his quiet warmth—it was hard to look away from.
You tilted your head, letting the silence linger just a heartbeat longer before you let your lips curve into a wicked smirk.
“I will,” you murmured, stepping closer so the space between you grew thinner. “Just because you are very, very cute, Choso.”
His name rolled off your tongue like a challenge. The faintest hitch of breath escaped him, a flush ghosting across his cheekbones, but he held your gaze steady. Then, with a rare boldness, he let the corner of his mouth tug upward into a smirk of his own.
“I am flattered,” he said softly, and the way his voice dipped made the words sound less polite and more dangerous.
Before you could retort, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. With deliberate slowness, he unlocked it, thumb brushing across the screen, then held it out to you. His dark eyes glimmered as he did, steady, almost daring. “Type in your number.”
The phone was warm from his hand as it slid into yours. You arched a brow, smirk never fading. “Bossy again,” you teased, your fingers dancing lazily over the screen before finally entering your digits. “You always this commanding, or just with me?”
“Just you,” he answered without hesitation. The weight of it, the certainty, made the air between you shift hotter, thicker.
You placed the phone back in his palm, deliberately brushing your fingers against his as you did. “Careful, florist,” you murmured, your voice low, velvet-edged. “You keep talking like that, and people might start thinking you’re dangerous.”
He leaned in just a fraction, close enough that his cologne and warmth wrapped around you, his smirk deepening. “Maybe I am,” he said quietly.
For a moment, neither of you moved, your eyes locked, heat sparking in the narrow space between your bodies. It wasn’t just teasing anymore—it was the kind of tension that promised the fair tonight might be anything but simple.
The bell above the door jingled as Choso finally left, his car pulling away with the rest of your flowers unloaded and waiting inside. The room fell silent again, save for the shuffle of papers and the soft ticking of the clock.
But your eyes kept straying—again and again—back to the single lily sitting in its small vase on your counter. Its white petals stood out stark against the black of your documents, delicate and alive in the middle of all that formality. Every time you looked at it, you felt your lips curve into a smirk you couldn’t quite fight down.
Hours slipped by like that—clients, calls, the shuffle of work—but underneath it all was that same quiet hum in your chest, tugging you back to the flower, tugging you back to him.
Finally, as the late afternoon light slanted through the windows, you caved. You pulled your phone from your pocket, thumb hovering for just a moment before you typed:
You never told me what time to be ready.
The reply came faster than you expected.
Whenever you’re ready. Send me your address. I’ll pick you up.
You stared at the screen for a moment, your smirk deepening into something sharper, hotter. Direct, no hesitation—just like the way he’d looked at you this morning, like he already knew you weren’t going to say no.
Your fingers tapped across the screen, sending him your address. And for the first time that day, your heart kicked a little faster as you set the phone down beside the lily, the two of them side by side—one delicate, one electric—both impossible to ignore.
The sun had just dipped low enough to turn the sky a muted gold when you finally stepped outside. Gone was the black suit and neat bun—tonight it was just you in fitted jeans, a white t-shirt that clung in all the right places, and your leather jacket thrown over your shoulders. Your hair fell loose, the soft curls catching the light as you shut the door behind you.
Choso was waiting, leaning casually against the side of his car. His hair framed his sharp features in the fading light, dark strands moving gently with the breeze. He straightened the moment you appeared, pushing off the metal with a slow grace. His eyes traveled over you once, unhurried, and something flickered there, approval, maybe even hunger but his face kept that calm composure he always carried.
Without a word, he extended a hand toward you. You arched a brow, smirking, but slipped your palm into his all the same. Instead of leading you straight to the car, his grip firm yet careful as he spun you slowly in front of him, his gaze lingering openly this time.
“Very pretty,” he said softly, the words smooth but weighted. His mouth tugged into that small smirk of his as he stopped you with a gentle pull, bringing you back toward him.
Before you could fire back, he slipped an arm loosely around your shoulders, pulling you into a half hug that pressed his warmth into your side. It wasn’t a full embrace—more casual than that—but the deliberate closeness, the way his chest brushed against your arm, had heat sparking low in your belly.
You tilted your chin up at him, lips curving. “I just like to adjust to my surroundings,” you teased, eyes glinting.
His gaze dropped to your mouth for half a second before meeting your eyes again. That faint flush crept over his cheekbones, but he didn’t back away—instead, he held the hug for just a breath longer than necessary before finally letting you go.
“Then I’ll have to keep up,” he murmured, pulling open the passenger door for you with a subtle bow of his head, as if daring you to mock him for the old-fashioned gesture.
And from the look in his eyes, you knew the night was only going to wind tighter from here.
The hum of the engine filled the silence between you as Choso guided the car smoothly out of the city. The soft glow of streetlights streaked across his profile—sharp jaw, steady hands on the wheel, that quiet composure he wore like a second skin. The radio murmured something faint, but you barely noticed it.
You stretched your legs, shifting slightly so your hip leaned closer to the middle console. The brush of your arm against his was casual enough, but the effect wasn’t. His knuckles twitched on the gearshift, and when you glanced over, the faintest flush had risen to his cheekbones.
“Relax,” you teased, lips curling into a smirk. “I’m not going to bite. Not unless you ask nicely.”
His mouth twitched, caught between a grin and restraint, and he shook his head once, eyes fixed firmly on the road. “You don’t make anything easy, do you?”
“I’d get bored if I did.”
The drive settled again, quiet but threaded with something warmer, thicker. When the road opened up into a long stretch, his hand slipped back from the gearshift—only this time, instead of resting it on the console, he reached for yours. His fingers, long and careful, slid over your hand and laced between your own. And when the next gear change came, he shifted with both your hands still intertwined, his touch firm but gentle, as if he’d done it this way all along.
Your brows lifted, a laugh slipping past your lips. “Oh, so now I’m helping you drive?”
His eyes flicked toward you for half a second, glimmering with something you hadn’t seen in him before—mischief. His mouth curved into a smirk that carried all the quiet confidence his voice rarely betrayed.
“No,” he said softly, irony thick in the word. “I just wanted to hold your hand. But sadly…” his tone dipped into a mock lament, exaggerated just enough, “…I drive a manual car.”
The “sadly” made you laugh, sharp and genuine, and he grinned at that—really grinned, teeth flashing, eyes crinkling at the corners before he turned his attention back to the road.
And still, he didn’t let go of your hand.
The car slowed at the last red light before the fairgrounds, the glow of neon lights already flickering in the distance. Choso kept your hand where it had been resting in his, but this time he lifted it, turning it slightly in his palm. His thumb brushed over your knuckles before he tilted your fingers just enough to inspect the shape of your nails in the dim glow of the dashboard.
“Precise,” he muttered, almost to himself, his voice that low velvet rumble you’d already grown addicted to.
You smirked, head tilting as you watched him study your hand like it was one of his careful arrangements. “Always.”
The light flipped green, and he shifted smoothly, your hand still caught in his grip. Once the gear clicked into place, instead of returning it to the console, he brought both your hands down into his lap, settling them there with an ease that made your chest spark. He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other relaxed and entwined with yours against the solid warmth of his thigh.
You let out a soft laugh, leaning just slightly into his space as your lips curved into something sharper. “You look sexy even driving.”
That earned you a laugh, real and unrestrained. His teeth flashed, his head shaking once as if to hide how flustered he was. “Yes, do I?” he said, glancing at you quickly, his grin breaking through the usual quiet seriousness he carried.
You leaned in just enough to let your hair brush against his shoulder. “Very.”
The fair loomed closer, lights spilling color across his windshield, but he didn’t let go of your hand—not even once.
The lot was buzzing, rows of cars lined up beneath the glow of spinning ferris wheel lights. Music and laughter spilled faintly through the night air, growing louder the closer Choso pulled into a space. He cut the engine with one hand, but your grip in the other didn’t ease.
“I get anxious when there are too many people,” you admitted quietly, your voice softer now, a rare glimpse of honesty slipping through your teasing edge.
Choso glanced down at your entwined hands, then back at you. A soft huff of air—half laugh, half snort—escaped him. “I can tell. Your hand’s sweaty.”
“Choso!” You shot him a scandalized look and made to tug your hand back, but his grip only tightened, fingers locking firmly with yours.
“I was joking,” he said, lifting his free hand in mock surrender, though the smirk tugging at his mouth betrayed him.
You tsked under your breath, rolling your eyes at him, but you didn’t pull away again.
He leaned a little closer, his dark eyes steady on you even as the neon glow painted his skin in shifting color. “I’m there with you,” he murmured, softer now, his teasing gone. “And you will stay by my side the whole time. If it’s too much, we leave again. Simple as that.”
For a moment you just looked at him, the sincerity in his tone catching you off guard. The noise of the fairgrounds pressed in faintly through the windows, but it was muted against the steady heat of his hand around yours.
“Bossy again,” you said at last, smirking faintly to cover the way your chest had tightened.
He squeezed your hand once, then pushed the door open, stepping out into the night.
The cool night air hit as soon as you stepped out of the car, carrying the scent of fried food and spun sugar from the fairgrounds. Neon lights shimmered across the pavement, the ferris wheel towering above everything like a glowing crown.
Before you could get your bearings, Choso was already at your side. He didn’t hesitate—his hand found yours again, long fingers threading through firmly, the warmth of his palm grounding against the hum of noise all around.
You looked up at him, smirk tugging at your lips. “Still not letting go?”
He glanced down, the corner of his mouth curving. “I told you. You’re staying by my side.”
The crowd thickened the closer you walked, people spilling across the path in every direction. You could feel the press of bodies, the rise and fall of voices, but his hand tightened around yours every time someone brushed too close. He cut a path easily, tall frame parting the space just enough for you to move with him.
“You’re making me feel like a kid being walked to school,” you teased, though your fingers squeezed his in return.
“Then I’ll keep walking you,” he answered without missing a beat, tone even but his eyes flicking to you with a quick glint of amusement.
That earned a quiet laugh from you, the sound nearly swallowed by the music and shouts from the games, but he heard it. His smirk deepened as he steered you past a cluster of people, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand like he was reminding you he‘s there.
The fairground lights reflected in his dark eyes when he looked at you again, and for a moment, it was hard to tell if it was the chaos around you making your pulse jump, or just the way he hadn’t let go once.
The two of you wove deeper into the fairgrounds, the air heavy with the scents of roasted nuts, fried dough, and the sharp sweetness of candied apples. Strings of colored bulbs arched overhead, flickering against Choso’s profile, the light catching in his hair. His hand never left yours, steady, protective, guiding.
At the first stretch of food stalls, he slowed. His eyes flicked over the gaudy signs, then back to you, and that faint smirk tugged at his lips.
“Let’s get you your strawberries,” he said, voice smooth but threaded with irony, like he hadn’t forgotten for a second what he’d promised. “And then.. let’s head to the river. Sit down there, away from all this.”
The way he said it made it sound less like a suggestion and more like he’d already pictured the two of you there, the noise of the fair muffled behind you, just the river and the glow of lights left.
You arched a brow, leaning closer as the crowd pressed past. “Hm. Straight to dessert and then sneaking me away somewhere quiet? Very smooth.”
His dark eyes glimmered at that, unbothered by your teasing. “I don’t like wasting time.”
Your smirk deepened, your thumb brushing over the back of his hand as he pulled you toward the chocolate-dipped fruit stand. And for a man who always claimed to be quiet, you realized his actions spoke louder than anything—direct, careful, already thinking about the moment after the chaos.
The stall was lit by a string of golden bulbs, the trays lined with skewers of strawberries dipped in glossy chocolate. The vendor handed them over, and Choso didn’t hesitate—he passed yours into your hand first.
“Like a gentleman,” you teased, smirking at the way his lips curved, the faintest blush coloring his cheekbones.
His smile was small, but disarmingly sweet, softening all the sharp edges of him. For a moment he just stood there, watching you with that quiet attention he always carried, before he turned and grabbed a cold soda bottle from the counter for himself.
“Come on, woman,” he muttered, voice low but amused as he slid the bottle into his pocket and placed his other hand firmly at the small of your back. The gentle pressure guided you forward, out of the crowd, the heat of his palm lingering through the leather of your jacket.
You laughed under your breath, casting him a side glance. “Bossy again.”
This time his smirk tilted wider, almost cocky in its quiet way. “You keep saying that,” he murmured, steering you toward the path that led down past the fairgrounds, “but you never stop following.”
The press of his hand stayed at your back, protective, insistent, as the noise of the rides and laughter started to fade behind you—replaced by the steady rush of the river ahead, where the lights reflected in rippling gold across the dark water.
The two of you slipped away from the hum of the fair, the grass crunching faintly beneath your shoes as you made your way to the river’s edge. The lights from the ferris wheel shimmered faintly across the water, but here it was quieter—moonlight catching the ripples, painting the surface silver.
Choso set his soda down in the grass and lowered himself beside you, his knees bent, one arm resting loosely over them. You dropped onto the grass with less ceremony, leaning back on your hands, chocolate strawberries in your lap.
Your eyes skimmed the silver trail of the moon across the water, then you tilted your head toward him, a teasing smirk tugging at your lips. “That’s too romantic for me.”
He glanced at you sideways, hair falling over his cheek, lips twitching. “Is it?” His voice carried that low velvet tone, quiet but threaded with amusement.
You leaned in slightly, offering the words like a challenge. “Mm. I’m not the type to swoon over moonlight on the water, Choso.”
He huffed a soft laugh, shaking his head. “Good.” He reached forward, plucked one of the strawberries from your hand with surprising ease, and bit into it. The chocolate cracked softly, and when he swallowed, he added, “I didn’t bring you here to make you swoon.”
You raised a brow, amused. “No? Then why?”
He turned his head fully this time, eyes catching yours in the faint glow of the moonlight, and said simply, “To see what you look like when you’re not working.”
The words hung there, quiet and heavy, threading through the soft night air. And despite yourself, the smirk on your lips deepened.
The chocolate was already softening against your fingertips when you plucked one of the strawberries off the stick. Holding it out between you with a laugh, you wiggled it slightly in front of him.
“My offering,” you declared, grin tugging at your lips.
Choso leaned back on one hand, the other lazily holding his soda against his knee. He gave you a slow grin, dark eyes glittering under the moonlight. “I don’t want it.”
You gasped, dramatic. “Choso, it’s melting in my fingers. If you don’t take it, I swear I’ll make you lick them clean.”
That earned you a quiet snort, a small puff of laughter from deep in his chest, but he didn’t move right away. His gaze stayed locked on yours, playful but steady, like he was testing how far you’d push. “Don’t tempt me,” he muttered.
You narrowed your eyes, still holding the strawberry out, your grin widening. “Oh, I’m tempting.”
Finally, with a low exhale, he leaned forward. His long hair slid slightly over his cheek, brushing his jaw as he closed the space between you. And instead of just taking the strawberry quickly, he wrapped his mouth around it with deliberate slowness, biting it right from your fingers.
His eyes stayed on yours the whole time, dark and soft, puppy-like in the way he tilted his head slightly, lashes low.
The heat of his lips brushing your sticky fingertips made your breath hitch for just a moment. You masked it with a laugh, leaning back on one hand. “You’re ridiculous,” you teased.
He chewed quietly, swallowed, then smirked at you. “You fed me. You can’t call me ridiculous now.“
“No,” you corrected him softly, voice teasing. “You let me feed you. That’s different. And now…” you lifted your hand a little, turning it so the moonlight caught the smudge of chocolate across your skin, “…I still have chocolate on my fingers.”
His brows knit faintly, like he knew exactly where this was going, but he didn’t move—just watched as you brought your hand closer to your mouth.
With deliberate slowness, you dragged the tip of your tongue along your fingertip, licking the sweetness away. Then the next, and the next, until you’d cleaned the last trace, your eyes never once leaving his.
Choso froze, his soda forgotten in the grass. The faint night breeze stirred his hair, strands falling across his cheek as he tilted his head just slightly, like he was trying to read you—if you were mocking him, daring him, or both.
A laugh escaped you, soft and low. “You have such puppy eyes,” you murmured, almost under your breath, but the words still carried across the small space between you.
His lips parted, a faint hitch of breath slipping out, and the blush that climbed his cheekbones betrayed him even as his gaze stayed locked on you. He shifted a little closer, forearm brushing against his knee, his body language quiet but intent.
“I don’t,” he muttered, though the protest lacked conviction.
You tilted your chin, smirk tugging at your lips again. “You do. Exactly like right now.”
The look he gave you then, dark, steady, wide-eyed despite the flush—only proved your point. And you could see it in the way his fingers flexed against the grass, the tension in his jaw, that he was two seconds from either looking away or leaning in closer.
Choso’s jaw tightened, his gaze flicking away for a second as if the river suddenly demanded his attention. The moonlight caught the blush painting his cheekbones, betraying the calm front he was trying to maintain.
“I don’t,” he said again, softer this time, almost stubborn.
You laughed under your breath, low and velvety, leaning a little closer so your shoulder brushed against his. “You absolutely do. You’re giving me that look right now. All wide-eyed and soft, like you’re waiting for me to hand you another strawberry.”
His lips pressed into a thin line, but the smirk tugging at the corner gave him away. “You’re imagining it.”
“No,” you countered easily, shifting your weight onto your hand so you could lean closer into his space, voice dipping into something teasing, deliberate. “I’d know those eyes anywhere. Sweet, desperate, like you’re trying so hard not to let me see how much you want something.”
He let out a quiet snort, shaking his head, but his eyes betrayed him when they flicked to your mouth before darting away again. “You don’t stop, do you?”
“Not when it’s this fun,” you whispered, grin curling wider. You lifted the empty skewer, wagging it playfully at him before setting it aside. “Maybe next time I’ll make you admit it. Puppy eyes and all.”
Choso exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose for a second as though you were testing the last of his patience, but when he looked at you again, there was a spark behind the dark calm of his gaze.
“Keep pushing,” he muttered, his voice lower now, the smirk finally breaking across his face. “See what happens.”
You plucked another strawberry from the skewer, its chocolate already glossy in the moonlight, and held it out between two fingers. Your smirk widened as you tipped your head, voice dropping into a velvet tease.
“Here,” you said sweetly, offering it to him. “For the man with the puppy eyes.”
Choso’s blush flared instantly, a warm flush that spread high across his cheekbones. His brows drew together like he wanted to argue, to deny it again, but instead he leaned forward.
Instead of taking the berry neatly, his long fingers wrapped gently around your wrist, steady and sure, holding you in place. His dark eyes lifted to yours for the briefest second, the glint there betraying how much your teasing got to him—then he bent down and bit the strawberry clean off, teeth sinking through the chocolate with a soft crack.
You felt the faint brush of his breath against your skin, the warmth of his mouth so close to your fingers, and for a moment your own pulse tripped.
When he pulled back, chewing slowly, he still hadn’t let go of your wrist. His head tilted slightly, hair falling across his face, and you caught the way his lips twitched, fighting a smirk he clearly didn’t want you to see.
“See?” you whispered, grin curling. “Even the way you take food from me is puppy-eyed.”
He huffed through his nose, shaking his head as he finally released your wrist, his ears faintly pink now. “You’re impossible,” he muttered, but the half-hidden smile gave him away completely.
The night stretched soft around you, the fair’s noise a distant hum, the river’s silver reflection painting Choso in a light that didn’t quite suit his sharp edges. He sat there beside you, broad-shouldered and quiet, but the way his eyes flicked toward you, the faint blush still lingering, gave him away every time.
You, of course, didn’t let up.
Every strawberry you handed him came with another quip, another smirk, another teasing jab about his “puppy eyes.” And each time, he tried—really tried—to keep his composure. But the way his lips twitched, the way his ears turned pink, the way his gaze kept slipping and then snapping back to you—he couldn’t hide it.
At one point, he leaned closer to take another strawberry, chocolate catching at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t notice, chewing with that same stubborn calm, but you did.
Your smirk softened into something sly as you leaned in, brushing your thumb gently against his lip. The chocolate smeared warm under your skin before you wiped it clean.
“There,” you said quietly, your voice dropping softer, almost tender despite the tease. “Can’t have you looking messy.”
Choso froze, lashes lowering, his breath catching for the briefest second at the unexpected touch. When he looked at you again, it wasn’t with indignation or even fluster—it was with that same quiet intensity that made your chest pull tight.
“Thank you,” he murmured, voice low, almost reverent.
You grinned, leaning back just enough to break the tension. “Cute and polite. What a dangerous mix.”
He shook his head, the faintest laugh slipping from him, but the blush that spread across his face told you everything you needed to know: you could keep teasing him all night, and he’d never stop being soft for you.
The grass was cool under your palms as you leaned back, watching him try—so hard—to muster something bolder. Choso shifted closer, his knees brushing the edge of your thigh, his dark eyes heavy on you. The way he leaned in was deliberate but unpracticed, like he wasn’t used to letting himself chase what he wanted.
You caught the flicker of tension in his jaw, the faint hesitation in the way his fingers flexed against the grass. And because you couldn’t resist, your smirk deepened, sharp and velvet-soft all at once as you leaned in too, closing the space by just a fraction.
“You look yearning,” you whispered, the words a tease and an accusation in one, your lips curving just enough to let him know you were enjoying every second of it.
For a heartbeat, he froze. His lashes lowered, his breath came quieter, and then he looked at you, straight at you with none of that soft fluster left in his voice.
“I know,” he whispered back, tone hushed but steady. His mouth tilted into the faintest smirk, so subtle you almost missed it. “Maybe that’s the whole point.”
The reply was so blunt, so utterly un-Choso, that you couldn’t help the soft laugh that slipped from you, low and teasing. Your face hovered close to his, the moonlight catching in your hair as you shook your head.
“Dangerous, florist,” you murmured, brushing past his cheek with the barest hint of a smile. “You almost sounded smooth just now.”
His ears pinked instantly, though he didn’t lean back, didn’t break eye contact. He only huffed a quiet laugh through his nose, as if conceding that you’d caught him again, and let the heat between you hum unchecked.
The grass bent beneath your palms as you leaned closer, your smirk widening when you caught the tightness in his jaw, the way his eyes couldn’t quite leave yours. His boldness was there but you could see how hard he was working to hold it.
“You really look like you’re starving,” you whispered, voice low and velvet-slick.
Choso’s lips parted, his breath catching almost imperceptibly, and for a long beat he just looked at you. The moonlight carved his face into shadow and softness, that faint blush still painting his cheeks. Finally, he exhaled slowly, the corners of his mouth tugging into a small, reluctant grin.
“Maybe I am,” he admitted softly, his voice a rumble meant only for you. Then, with that same quiet boldness, he tilted his head just slightly. “But maybe you like it that way.”
The words sent a flutter deep in your stomach. You leaned in further, close enough that your noses almost brushed, the heat of his breath mingling with yours. His lashes lowered, his hand flexing against the grass as though he didn’t know where else to put it.
“Cocky,” you whispered, but the word trembled with amusement.
He gave a soft huff, mock-surrender in his tone. “You started it.”
Your hand rose before either of you could think better of it, slipping into his hair, fingers curling at the nape of his neck. His strands were soft, sliding through your fingers as you tugged him the rest of the way in. His breath caught against your mouth, and for a heartbeat it was just the tension—the almost, the weightless pull before gravity tips.
When he finally spoke, it was barely audible, his voice cracking with quiet sincerity. “Be gentle with me.”
Your chest tightened, your smirk softening into something warmer, and then you kissed him. Softly. Not rushed, not teasing—just the press of your mouth against his, slow and certain, as if you’d both been waiting for exactly this.
And under the silver wash of the moonlight, the whole world seemed to still around you, leaving only the taste of chocolate and the sweetness of his lips against yours.
The moment your lips touched his, you felt him still, almost as if he was testing the reality of it. Then, slowly, he hummed into the kiss—a low, quiet sound that vibrated through his chest. His hand came up, large and warm, cupping your cheek with a gentleness that made your stomach flutter even harder.
His thumb brushed against your skin as he tilted your face toward him, deepening the kiss carefully, unhurried but unmistakably wanting. His mouth moved against yours with more heat this time, a little bolder, his breath spilling warm across your lips as he leaned closer, closing the space between your bodies.
You could feel the faint tremor of restraint in him, the way he kissed you like he wanted more but refused to rush, as though savoring every second mattered more than giving in to the urgency.
Your fingers threaded deeper into his soft hair, tugging lightly, and the sound it pulled from him, a muffled groan against your mouth, made your pulse spike. Still, he stayed slow, his hand cradling your face like you were breakable, even as the kiss grew hotter, heavier, more certain.
When he finally pulled back for air, his breath warm and uneven. His thumb traced along your cheekbone, his voice rough but soft when he whispered, “I could do this all night.”
His breath ghosted over your lips, warm and uneven, his thumb still stroking idly across your cheek. You smirked, voice hushed but teasing, velvet-smooth in the night. “Nobody is stopping you.”
Choso froze for just a second, his lashes lowering as though the words hit deeper than you intended. Then he let out a quiet laugh through his nose, soft and almost disbelieving, before closing the distance again.
This time his mouth claimed yours with less hesitation, a little hungrier, though still unbearably gentle. He kissed you like he was testing every angle, every way your lips moved against his, like he couldn’t quite believe you were letting him.
His hand slipped from your cheek to cradle the side of your neck, his long fingers spreading along your skin as he drew you in closer. The warmth of his palm, the slow pressure of his mouth deepening against yours, it all left you a little breathless, your heart racing in a way you couldn’t tease your way out of.
When he pulled back just enough to breathe, his forehead leaned against yours, his voice low and roughened. “You’ll regret saying that,” he whispered, his smirk barely there but his eyes so soft it almost hurt.
And then, before you could quip back, he kissed you again, slower this time—like he intended to take you up on your offer, one unhurried kiss at a time.
Choso’s lips lingered against yours, warm and unhurried, as if he had no intention of letting you go. When you finally pulled back just enough to speak, your voice came out low, breath brushing across his mouth.
“The only thing I regret,” you whispered, smirking faintly even as your chest fluttered, “is not seeing you earlier in your mother’s shop.”
His dark eyes opened slowly, lashes heavy as he searched your face like he needed to make sure you meant it. The hand at your neck tightened just slightly, not possessive, but steady, grounding.
For a moment, all he did was breathe you in, your words sinking into him. Then, a quiet huff of laughter slipped past his lips, brushing warm against yours.
“You would’ve made it impossible to focus,” he murmured, his tone still soft but threaded with something tender. “I’d have forgotten the flowers.”
You grinned, tilting closer until your nose brushed his. “Would’ve been worth it.”
The smirk tugged at his mouth again, a little crooked this time, the kind that betrayed how undone he really was under the calm surface. He leaned in, his forehead pressing to yours, his voice husky when he whispered, “You’re too much.”
And then he kissed you again, slower, deeper, like he wanted to make up for every time you hadn’t walked into that shop and seen him waiting.
The grass was cool beneath you both, the moonlight throwing silver trails across the river. Choso’s hand was still warm against your neck, his forehead resting lightly against yours. For a moment, neither of you spoke, just listened to the distant hum of the fair and the softer rush of water.
Finally, you tilted your head a little, brushing your lips against his cheek as you whispered, “Do you want to stay here longer… or go?”
He hesitated, his thumb stroking idly over your jaw as though he was stalling for time. His voice, when it came, was low and sweet, almost shy. “We can stay. But if you want to go home, I’ll drive you. Whatever you want.”
You pulled back just enough to smirk at him, eyes glinting in the pale light. “And what if I want you to stay over?”
That made his ears go pink instantly, the blush creeping high across his cheekbones. He blinked at you, lips parting like he hadn’t expected you to throw that out so casually. “Stay over?” he echoed, his voice soft, uncertain in a way that tugged at your chest.
You laughed quietly, leaning in to poke a finger against his chest. “Don’t look so panicked. I didn’t mean in my bed. Not yet.”
Relief flickered across his face, chased quickly by an embarrassed smile. He rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand, dark hair falling over his eyes. “Only if…” His voice dropped, amused now, as he let the faintest grin curve his mouth. “…your couch is big enough.”
You barked out a laugh, pressing your forehead against his shoulder to muffle it. “Oh my god, you’re ridiculous.”
He hummed softly, pleased to have made you laugh, his arm sliding around your back in a half-hug. “Just being a gentleman.”
You tipped your head up again, smirking. “A gentleman with puppy eyes. Who apparently needs an oversized couch.”
“Exactly,” he said, mock-serious, though his smile betrayed him completely.
You pushed yourself up from the grass, brushing stray blades from your jeans as the moonlight caught in the loose waves of your hair. Choso watched you with that same wide-eyed softness, his long legs still folded beneath him.
Then you extended a hand, palm open, your smirk tugging at your lips. “Come on, pretty boy, let’s go.”
For a second, he just stared—like the words alone had knocked the air out of him. A faint flush crept high across his cheekbones before he slipped his gloved hand into yours. His fingers curled around yours firmly, his height unfolding as he rose with you in one smooth motion.
“You’re going to kill me with that name,” he muttered, his voice low but amused.
You tugged him a little closer once he was standing, smirk widening. “Then I’ll keep saying it.”
Choso huffed a laugh under his breath, shaking his head, but he didn’t let go of your hand. Not even when you bent to grab the empty soda bottle, not even when you started walking back toward the glow of the parking lot. His grip stayed steady, protective, the kind of quiet claim he didn’t need to put into words.
The hum of the car filled the quiet as you pulled onto the main road, the chaos of the fair fading behind you. The world outside was dark and hushed, just the glow of streetlights streaking across the windshield.
Choso’s hand was still twined with yours on the console, his thumb absently stroking along your knuckles. At one stoplight, you shifted your legs and noticed a stray piece of grass clinging to your jeans. Before you could brush it off, he leaned over, hand moving gently to your knee.
He plucked the green strand away, his fingers lingering just a little longer than necessary. His touch was featherlight, so careful it almost made you ache.
“You are such a gentle person,” you said softly, turning your head to look at him in the dim light. Your lips curved into a smirk, but your voice had lost some of its teasing edge—it was quieter, almost reverent. “I love this.”
Choso’s grip on your knee stilled for a beat. He glanced at you quickly, then back at the road, the tips of his ears reddening under the faint glow of the dash. “…Gentle,” he repeated, his voice low, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard it right.
“Yeah.” You squeezed his hand where it rested with yours. “Don’t act like you didn’t know. You try to look all stoic, but you’re soft everywhere that counts.”
He let out a small, almost disbelieving huff of laughter, his shoulders loosening as he kept his eyes on the road. “You’re the only one who would say that to me.”
“And I’ll keep saying it,” you promised, smirking again.
His fingers tightened gently around yours, his voice softer now, almost shy. “…Then I’ll keep being that, just for you.”
The butterflies in your stomach stirred all over again, the warmth of his hand on yours and the ghost of his touch on your knee lingering as the city lights began to glow closer in the distance.
The road stretched long and dark, lit only by the soft glow of lamps as they blurred past the windows. Choso drove with that same quiet steadiness he carried everywhere, your hand still caught in his, his thumb idly brushing against your knuckles like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.
After a while, his voice slipped into the low hum of the car. “I don’t talk much,” he admitted, almost apologetic.
You turned your head toward him, smirk curving softer at the edges. “I like when you talk. You have a beautiful voice. And you’re soft spoken. Your mother raised you perfectly.”
His ears flushed red, and he hummed low in his chest, the sound almost embarrassed. “Hm.”
The quiet stretched for a few beats, warm and easy, until you leaned in a little closer, mischief sparking again. “Tell me about your red flags.”
He glanced at you, the faintest smile tugging his lips. “Red flags?”
“Yes,” you said firmly, brushing your thumb over his hand. “If I’m going to let a florist drive me home, I need to know the dangers first.”
That earned you a soft laugh, and then he went quiet for a moment, considering. His brows furrowed, and when he spoke again, it wasn’t teasing—it was honest, raw in its softness.
“I get jealous,” he said finally, his voice barely louder than the hum of the engine. “Very jealous. It’s… not something I’m proud of.”
You raised a brow, your smirk tugging wider. “Jealous, hm? Noted.”
He sighed, shaking his head with a faint, rueful smile. “In general, I feel things too much. Anger, sadness, all of it. I try to control it, but… I’m emotional in every way. I don’t always know how to hide it.”
Your chest tightened, not from worry but from how openly he’d said it. You tilted your head, watching the streetlights flicker over his face. “Those aren’t red flags.“
He flicked a glance at you, eyes dark and searching, then quickly looked back at the road. His fingers tightened around yours, his voice low, almost a whisper. “You don’t make fun of me for saying it.”
You grinned, leaning in until your shoulder brushed his. “Oh, I’ll make fun of you for a lot of things. Just not that.”
His quiet laugh filled the car, soft and a little disbelieving, but the smile that lingered on his face after didn’t fade.
The steady hum of the engine filled the pause between you, broken only by the occasional turn signal clicking softly. Choso’s grip on your hand was warm and firm, his thumb still tracing slow circles across your skin, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.
After a few minutes, his low voice cut through the quiet again. “…What about you?”
You tilted your head toward him. “What about me?”
His lips quirked into the faintest smirk, though his eyes stayed on the road. “Your red flags.”
You let out a soft laugh, leaning in until your shoulder brushed his arm. “Oh, you want dirt on me now?”
He nodded once, serious in that soft, steady way of his. “Fair is fair.”
You pursed your lips, pretending to think hard. “Hm. I’m bossy.”
“I know,” he said immediately, earning a sharp grin from you.
“And a little reckless sometimes.”
His smirk widened, just barely. “I figured.”
You angled closer, your voice dropping lower, teasing. “And I might make fun of people I like just to see them blush.”
That earned you a soft huff of laughter, his cheeks tinting pink in the glow of the dashboard. He shook his head once, but his voice was warm when he muttered, “I noticed.”
The admission lingered in the air, your heart giving a little flutter at the way he said it—not irritated, not defensive, just quietly accepting that you had already gotten under his skin.
You let your smirk soften into something gentler. “Guess we’re both a little dangerous then.”
Choso’s grip on your hand tightened, his voice dropping lower as he answered, “Guess so.”
And as the streetlights gave way to the familiar turns toward your neighborhood, the warmth between your palms felt heavier than any red flag could ever outweigh.
The car slowed as you guided him toward your street, the familiar row of darkened houses coming into view. Choso’s hand never left yours, even as he downshifted smoothly, the engine purring low before he eased into a stop in front of your building.
He killed the ignition, and for a moment the silence pressed in—just you, him, and the soft tick of the cooling engine. His gaze flicked toward you, almost shy now that the night was winding down, and then he gave your hand a final squeeze before letting go to step out.
You unlocked the door, flicking on the hall light as you led him inside. Choso followed close, shoulders brushing the frame as he ducked in. He paused the second he stepped into your living room.
His eyes widened—soft, almost boyish in their surprise.
There were plants everywhere. Potted ferns on shelves, a trailing ivy curling down from the top of a bookcase, succulents lined neatly on the window ledge. A vase of half-wilted tulips still sat on your coffee table, catching the glow of a small lamp.
Choso’s lips parted, his gaze sweeping slowly around the room. You caught the way his expression shifted—stoic composure cracking into something tender, something almost giddy beneath the surface. “You have plants,” he murmured, his voice low, full of quiet wonder. “So many…”
You leaned against the wall, smirking at his reaction. “What? Surprised I don’t keep my apartment all cold and sterile like my office?”
He shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips as he moved deeper into the room, careful not to brush against anything. “No. I just… I like this.” He bent slightly, brushing a finger over the broad leaf of a monstera by the window. His touch was so careful it almost made you laugh. “It feels alive here.”
The warmth in his voice, the soft curve of his smile—it made something stir in your chest. He looked so at ease among the greenery, like he’d found a piece of home he hadn’t expected.
And when he finally turned back to you, eyes warm and cheeks faintly flushed, he looked happier than you’d seen him all night.
Choso moved slowly through your living room like he’d stepped into something sacred. His long fingers brushed over leaves and stems as if he might bruise them if he pressed too hard. He lingered by the ivy, following the way it curled down the bookcase, then crouched briefly beside the cluster of succulents on the window ledge, tilting his head to examine them like they were rare specimens.
You leaned against the doorway, arms folded, smirk tugging at your mouth. “You look like a proud dad in a greenhouse,” you teased.
That earned you a soft huff of laughter, though he didn’t look away from the plants. His hand hovered over the tulips on your coffee table, brushing one bent petal back into place as though the flower would stand taller for him.
You stepped closer, your voice dipping softer, almost thoughtful. “You need something to keep alive when you work with death every day.”
That made him still. His shoulders shifted faintly, as though the words had struck deeper than you meant them to. Slowly, he turned his head to look at you. The soft lamplight caught the angles of his face, but his eyes looked almost reverent.
“…Yes,” he said finally, his voice low and hushed. “You do.”
You shrugged one shoulder, pretending nonchalance, though your chest felt tight under the weight of his gaze. “Plants, flowers, whatever works. It’s balance. Keeps the air from getting too heavy.”
Choso straightened, moving toward the monstera by the window. He touched one of the broad leaves, careful as ever, and nodded once, almost to himself. “It makes sense now. Why you keep them.”
“Don’t tell me you’re impressed by my watering schedule,” you teased, but your tone came out gentler, the edge softening.
His lips curved into a faint smile, and this time he looked at you fully, his expression open and unguarded. “I’m impressed by you.”
The words landed between you, quiet but certain. And for a man who hardly talked, they were heavier than anything else he’d said tonight.
Choso drifted further into the room, his tall frame folding down again as he crouched beside the low shelf by the window. The smaller pots sat there in neat rows—rare finds you’d collected over the years. His fingers hovered just above a variegated monstera leaf, tracing the marbled green and white without quite touching.
“These are beautiful,” he murmured, his voice low and reverent. He tilted his head, hair sliding across his cheek as his gaze softened. “You take really good care of them.”
You stepped closer, the floor creaking lightly under your weight. For a moment you just watched him—the way his broad shoulders seemed to soften as he studied something fragile, how out of place his sharp profile should have looked among delicate greenery and yet how perfectly it fit.
“I take good care of everything,” you said finally, your voice carrying that velvet edge of amusement, but there was something honest under it too.
His eyes lifted, catching yours across the room. The lamplight glinted against his pupils, but it was the warmth in them that made your chest tighten. He didn’t say anything right away, just looked at you, long enough that the silence turned intimate, thick with meaning.
When he did speak, it was softer than before, almost like he was confessing. “Yeah. I can tell.”
He stood slowly, one hand brushing along the edge of the shelf as he straightened to his full height again. For a second he seemed unsure what to do with himself, his fingers flexing like they still wanted to touch the leaves.
Then, almost shyly, he admitted, “I’ve never seen plants cared for like this outside my mother’s shop.” His lips quirked faintly, a rare smile tugging at his mouth. “It feels good. Peaceful.”
And standing there with your home full of living, breathing green, you couldn’t help but feel the same.
You closed the distance between you, your footsteps soft against the floor. He was still standing by the window, caught half in shadow, half in the pale spill of lamplight. Without thinking, your hand lifted, brushing gently across his back—broad, solid, warm even through the fabric of his shirt.
“Is everything okay?” you asked, your voice low, softer than your usual teasing.
Choso turned his head slightly, as though the touch itself had startled him, then relaxed beneath it. He glanced at you over his shoulder, and for a moment you thought he might dodge the question. Instead, he smiled—small, a little crooked, but real. “Yeah, yeah. Of course.” His tone was soft, reassuring, but there was a flicker of something more in his eyes—like he wasn’t used to anyone asking.
Before you could press, he moved. His arm slipped easily around your waist, pulling you closer until your side fit against his. The motion was unhurried, instinctive, like he’d been holding himself back all night and finally let himself bridge that last bit of space.
The warmth of his body seeped into yours, his height shadowing you as his hand rested firm against your back.
“You always look like you’re taking care of everything,” he murmured, his breath brushing the top of your hair. “Maybe someone should take care of you too.”
His arm stayed warm and steady around your waist as you tilted your face up to him, smirk tugging at your lips.
“If you offer yourself, I wouldn’t mind.”
The words seemed to ripple right through him—his eyes widened slightly, a flicker of surprise breaking through the calm he tried so hard to keep. For a heartbeat, he didn’t speak, just searched your face as if making sure you meant it. Then his voice came, low and hesitant, almost disbelieving.
“I would like that, if you would let me.”
The softness in his tone caught you off guard, but you didn’t let it show. Your smirk only deepened as your hand slid lightly along his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breath. “I would. Why not? It‘s interesting.“
His brows pulled together, like he didn’t know how to process the weight of your words, his thumb stroking absent circles into your hip without him noticing. “You think?” he asked, voice quiet, full of uncertainty but with a spark of hope buried beneath it.
You leaned closer, your breath warm against his jaw as you met his gaze head-on. “You don’t?”
He blinked, lips parting, caught between honesty and restraint. His blush rose high across his cheekbones again, but he didn’t look away this time—he held your eyes like he was clinging to them. “I do,” he admitted finally, his voice barely more than a whisper.
And with your body pressed into his side, the plants around you swaying softly in the lamplight, the answer felt like more than a simple confession—it felt like the start of something unfolding between you, fragile but unstoppable.
The night slowed once you finally let him guide you toward the bedroom, his hand never leaving yours. The soft glow of the lamp lit the edges of the room, throwing gold against the plants on your dresser, the pale sheets waiting for you both.
Choso hesitated at the edge of the bed, as if the idea of crossing into your space was something sacred. But when you tugged him down beside you, he followed without question. The mattress dipped under his weight, and suddenly he was close enough that you could feel every careful breath he took.
He didn’t push, didn’t even try to, he just turned to face you, his hair falling loose around his face, his dark eyes searching yours in that quiet, reverent way. One of his hands lifted, tentative at first, then surer as his palm cupped your cheek.
The kiss he gave you was slow, unhurried. The kind of kiss that tasted like patience, like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth. He hummed low in his chest when you leaned into it, his thumb stroking over your cheekbone as if to remind himself you were real.
His other hand traced gentle paths along your side, sliding up your arm, brushing the back of your neck, always soft, never demanding. Every touch felt deliberate, almost worshipful, like he was piecing you together one slow caress at a time.
You curled into him, your fingers threading into his hair, pulling him just a little closer. He sighed into the kiss, pressing his forehead to yours before scattering softer ones along your jaw, your temple, the line of your shoulder. Each kiss was careful, as though he feared being too much, yet each one left you feeling wholly claimed.
That night, there was nothing rushed, nothing heated beyond what your hearts already carried. Just his steady presence, his slow touches, his lips reverent on your skin. He didn’t take—he gave. Quietly, carefully, as if worshiping you was the only thing he’d ever wanted to do.
And when sleep finally tugged at you, he was still there, arm around you, his breath steady against your hair, holding you as though he had no intention of ever letting go.
The morning light crept in slow, pale and golden through the curtains, spilling across the bed where Choso lay half on his side, half on his back, his arm still draped over you. His hair was mussed, strands falling into his face, and the warmth of his body had lingered through the night like a heavy blanket.
You shifted closer, brushing your lips softly over his, just enough to coax him awake. He stirred, lashes fluttering before he hummed low in his throat, stretching languidly against the sheets like a cat finding its place in the sun. His body curved toward yours, the hum melting into a sigh.
“Hmm… sorry,” he whispered, voice rough and rasped from sleep.
You cupped his face with both hands, your thumbs brushing the faint pink that still lingered on his cheeks. “Sorry? For what?” you asked, smirking faintly at how heavy-lidded and soft he looked.
His eyes opened just enough to find yours, still glazed with sleep, and he breathed out, “For falling asleep. I didn’t intend to.” The words cracked, deep and husky, his voice carrying that morning rasp that made your stomach flip.
You laughed quietly, leaning your forehead against his. “Choso, that’s the last thing you should apologize for.”
He blinked at you, still half-dreaming, and let out a sheepish sound, somewhere between a hum and a chuckle. His arm pulled you closer, tucking you against his chest as though he thought you might vanish if he let go.
Three months slipped by like water between your fingers, but not a day of it felt wasted. Somewhere between the late-night drives, the quiet mornings in your kitchen, and the countless hours spent sprawled together on your couch, Choso had finally asked you—softly, almost nervously—to be his girlfriend. You remembered the way his voice had trembled, the way he avoided your eyes until you’d kissed him senseless as your answer.
Since then, life had shifted in the sweetest ways.
He made a habit of sneaking flowers into your work space—sometimes a small arrangement left in your office, other times a single bloom tucked into a vase on your counter, always carefully chosen. Lilies when he knew you had a difficult day ahead, daisies when he wanted to see you laugh at his “subtlety.” You pretended to roll your eyes, but the truth was you never stopped smiling at the sight.
And Choso, for all his quiet softness, proved himself endlessly layered. Jealous, yes—sometimes comically so. You’d catch him stiffening when someone looked at you too long, his jaw ticking, his hand always finding your waist or your hand, grounding himself in your presence. But he never crossed the line into possessiveness. Instead, he turned it into action, treating you like his entire world.
He adored you in ways big and small: carrying heavy boxes before you could lift a finger, brewing your tea the way you liked it, memorizing every detail about your day without being asked. He teased you gently, mocked you when you were too smug, but always followed it with that soft, sheepish grin that made your knees weak.
And when he was at ease, when the nerves slipped away, he could be devastatingly charming. The kind of funny that crept up on you—dry little comments, unexpected wit, that rare but brilliant grin when he knew he’d gotten you good.
Still, even three months in, there were moments when he’d look at you and blush like he had the first night. Like he couldn’t believe you were his. His hands would linger a little longer, his voice would dip softer, and all that jealousy and heat and quiet devotion wrapped itself into something you’d never had before.
You’d had men before, but never like this. Never someone who could be shy and soft one moment, and hot as hell the next. Never someone who made you feel both cherished and desired, like a queen in her own little kingdom.
And you knew, without a doubt, that you’d never been happier.
It was late afternoon when you spotted him—Choso leaning against the hood of his car outside your building, arms crossed, hair falling into his face. He looked every bit the picture of brooding patience, but the sharp set of his jaw told you he wasn’t as calm as he wanted to seem.
You’d only been chatting with a client a little longer than expected, but when you finally walked up, his eyes immediately cut to you, dark and unblinking. He didn’t say anything, but the faint twitch of his brow said it all: he hated waiting while someone else had your attention.
“Baby,” you teased as you came up to him, tilting your head. “You’re doing the jealous face again.”
He huffed through his nose, looking away like he wasn’t going to admit it. That was all the confirmation you needed. You stepped right into his space, your hands coming up to frame his face.
Before he could protest, you peppered quick kisses across his cheeks, his jaw, the bridge of his nose—each smooch louder and more exaggerated than the last.
“Choso stop being jealous,” you murmured between kisses, grinning against his skin.
Choso’s lips parted, his breath hitching before he broke into the softest, most unguarded sound—a half-laugh, half-groan as he tried to lean away but didn’t get far. “Stop—you’re making me—” His words dissolved into a muffled chuckle, the flush spreading high across his cheekbones.
“Look cute?” you finished for him, pulling back just enough to meet his flustered eyes. You smirked, brushing your thumb over his hot cheek. “Aw, yes. So cute.”
He covered his face with one large hand, his shoulders shaking as he tried to swallow another laugh. But when he peeked at you through his fingers, that boyish grin broke through—wide, warm, and impossible to hide.
And just like that, the jealousy melted into something else entirely, leaving him soft, bashful, and all yours.
You caught his hand as he tried to hide his face, pulling it down gently and leaning in again. This time you covered him with even more smooches—quick, exaggerated kisses all over his cheeks, his temple, the corner of his mouth.
“Such a pretty broody babyyy,” you cooed against his skin, your lips brushing his jaw as you smirked.
That finally broke him. With a laugh caught halfway in his throat, Choso’s hand came up fast, warm as it caught your jaw. He tilted your face up to his, his grip firm but not rough, and before you could giggle again, he kissed you for real.
It was slow but certain, the kind of kiss that silenced everything else. His mouth moved against yours with deliberate care, not rushed, not playful—just deep enough to remind you how much he meant it.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm and uneven. A quiet chuckle slipped from him, softer than you’d ever heard, his voice rasping low as he murmured, “Stop this.”
But his lips were curved in a smile, and the way his thumb stroked over your jaw said he didn’t really want you to stop at all.
He didn’t let go of you right away. His hand stayed warm against your jaw, thumb brushing lightly along your cheek as though he was memorizing you all over again. His breath was still unsteady, his blush still pink under the fading light, but his eyes were steady—dark, soft, and full of something he didn’t bother hiding anymore.
You smirked, your lips brushing his once more, lighter this time, playful. “You’ll never stop being my broody little baby, you know.”
His mouth twitched like he wanted to argue, but instead he leaned in, kissing you again, short, sweet, and final, like punctuation. Then he pulled back with that same crooked smile you’d learned meant he was secretly happy.
“Get in the car,” he murmured, his voice hushed and warm. “Before I forget how to be a gentleman.”
You laughed, rolling your eyes, but the butterflies in your stomach gave you away as you let him guide you toward the passenger side. He opened the door for you, his hand brushing your lower back in that careful way that was becoming second nature.
The drive home stretched ahead of you, the night still young, the city lights waiting. You glanced at him as he rounded the hood of the car—tall, handsome, still pink from your teasing—and felt that sharp, dizzy tug in your chest.
Whatever this was between you, it wasn’t slowing down. And something told you, the real chaos hadn’t even started yet.
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ full already? didn’t think so. my masterlist’s right here.
Summary : You give Tom Riddle a gift on Christmas. Touched by the gift, he feels a warmth he’s never felt before.
Genre: fluffy!
༺═─────────────────── ═ ༺
Christmas at Hogwarts was a time of wonderful magic, with songs and laughter ringing the halls. Yet in the library, where the only sounds were the sizzle of a low fire and the rustle of paper, Tom Riddle sat by himself.
You held an attractively wrapped present and walked eagerly up. You placed it on the table in front of him and said, "Merry Christmas, Tom." His dark eyes narrowed as he looked up. "What is this?"
“A gift," you said, twitching under his eyes."Open it ," After a moment of hesitation, Tom carefully peeled back the paper to discover Wonders of the Wizarding World, a beautifully printed book.
You said carefully, "You always read serious things." I thought you might want something a little different. Something that makes you question.
Tracing the glossy text, his fingers lingered on the cover. Silently, almost to himself, he remarked, "I don't usually receive gifts."
"Well," you said, smiling slightly, "you do now." For a minute, a strange thing flickered in his eyes as he saw you. At last he said something. He said, "Thank you," with surprising warmth in his voice.
A flurry of calmness passed over you, and the corners of your mouth lifted. "Tom, have a Merry Christmas." Tom looked over the book's pages that night as snow flew past the castle's windows, each one filled with fantastical scenes and items that caught his imagination.
He felt something new, a strange warmth spreading in his chest for the first time in years.
and he couldn't help but wonder if there was someone in this world who considered him as more than just a name or as someone with desire as he thought of you—your bravery, your kindness. Tom Riddle attempted to imagine what it could be like to be fully understood for the first time.
༺═─────────────────── ═ ༺
A/N: ahhh guysss hope you enjoyed this !! i think this turned out super cute all tho it was simple 🤍 Happy Holidays loves! Enjoy the holidays and have fun!!
I know this was a request from my asks at one stage and was so wholesome I kept it in my drafts. Reader-chan helps the jojos relax by making them some cookies 🥺
It's just dumb fluff lol
Johnathan Joestar
You had been tending to your betrothed's wounds dutifully since that fateful night of his father's passing, however, his task wasn't complete and Jonathan had been training with Baron Zeppeli to hone his Hamon technique.
You were so proud of his progress and determination, how he bore his cross and still maintained his kind demeanor, and so you had made up your mind to support him in any way that you could. From your observations you could see how the recent events had been taking their toll on him and as such you decided to bake him his favorite cookies and deliver them to him in person during one of his breaks.
The sun filtered through the kitchen window, casting a warm glow on the flour-dusted countertops. You’d spent the afternoon preparing a batch of buttery shortbread cookies, shaping each piece with care. As you pull them from the oven, the inviting scent wafts through the house, mingling with the crispness of the cool air outside.
Just then, Jonathan entered, his tall frame filling the doorway. His eyes widened at the sight of the cookies.
“Is that…?” he began, a hint of excitement in his voice.
You nodded, holding out the plate.
“I made these for you. I hope you like them!”
He carefully took one, studying its golden edges, and with a soft smile, he bit into it. The buttery flavor melted in his mouth, and he closed his eyes, savoring the taste.
“They’re perfect,” he said, his voice warm and sincere. “Just like you.”
You felt your cheeks warm at his compliment, and you couldn’t help but smile back. “I’m glad you think so.”
He reached for your hand, gently squeezing it. “You always know how to make my day brighter. Thank you.”
You leaned in, resting your head on his shoulder as he continued to munch on the cookies, a sense of peace settling around you both.
Joseph Joestar
The aroma of melting chocolate and caramel filled the air as you pulled a tray of chocolate chip cookies from the oven. You’d added a twist this time—chunks of caramel and pecans mixed in, knowing Joseph’s penchant for surprises... and snickerdoodle cookies.
As the sweet scent wafted through the house, you heard the familiar sound of Joseph’s footsteps approaching. He bursts into the kitchen, his face pulled into that usual grin.
“What’s cooking, good looking? Smells delicious!”
You couldn’t help but grin. “I made cookies, but I added a little something special.”
He raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. “Oh? Let me see!” He took a cookie from the sheet , still hot from the oven and bit into it, pulling in air through his mouth as he chewed, “Whoa! You really went all out this time!” He chewed enthusiastically, the sweet and salty flavors dancing on his palate. “This is incredible!”
You laugh, pleased with his reaction. “I’m glad you like them!”
He grinned wider, his playful nature more pronounced as he nudged you with his elbow. “I knew you were talented, but this is next level! You should be my partner in crime in the kitchen more often.”
“Maybe I’ll let you help next time,” you teased, playfully bumping his shoulder, "but only if you promise not to eat all the cookie dough before it's baked.
Kujo Jotaro
Late nights and early mornings had painted shadows under Jotaros' eyes. It was difficult juggling the irregular hours of his work and the dangers he was always wary of from dealing with the threats of being part of the Joestar lineage.
It was one of the very rare times that he had been home, and you had wanted to give him the peace and warmth he deserved, the kind that can only be created in moments of calm domesticity. The kitchen was quiet except for the gentle crackle of the oven as you pulled out a tray of sugar cookies, their golden edges perfectly crisped. You arranged them neatly on a plate, admiring the simple, classic shape.
You heard the heavy footsteps of Jotaro approaching, his presence always commanding and stoic yet providing a sense of comfort and safety you didn’t experience with anyone else.
He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, looking intrigued. “What’s that?”
“Just some sugar cookies,” you replied, holding the plate up with a smile. His expression softens just slightly, curiosity overcoming his usual stoicism. “Did you really make these?”
You nodded, offering him a cookie. He took it, examining it closely before biting in. The sweetness hit his tongue, and you watched for his reaction. He paused, and for a moment, you thought he might not say anything.
But then, he looked at you, a subtle smile tugging at his lips. “Not bad. You’ve got skill."
“Really?” You beamed, encouraged by his praise.
“Yeah,” he replied, a hint of pride in his voice. You could see his mind was searching, trying to place the familiarity that induced a sense of nostalgia in him.
“Its a hint of nutmeg... I got the recipe from your mom the other day...” You leaned in, your shoulder brushing against his, a soft smile playing on your face, “I’m glad you like them.”
He looked at you, a flicker of warmth in his eyes. “I don’t say it often, but… you do good things. You’re good.”
Your heart swelled at his words, and you found comfort in the precious quiet moment shared together.
Higashikata Josuke (4)
The smell of freshly baked biscotti filled your cozy kitchen as you pulled a tray from the oven. Josuke was just finishing up a game he was playing, the quiet of the house being punctuated by stifled groans and a playful jibe thrown in here and there aimed at his teammates online.
It was a long process to make them, but you'd made sure to follow the recipe perfectly, adding nuts and a hint of almond flavor, knowing Josuke’s love for Italian treats. It might have been easier to have gotten them from Tonio, but you wanted a personal touch.
You had set the cookies on the counter, and just as you did, the door swung open, revealing Josuke, his usual lively energy lighting up the entire area. “What’s that smell?” he asked, his eyes wide and his smiled wider.
“I made biscotti!” You replied, unable to hide your smile. “I thought you might enjoy some.”
“Biscotti? For me?” He stepped closer, practically bouncing on his heels as he grabbed one. He took a big bite, and his eyes lit up. “Whoa! These are awesome!”
You watched as he devoured another piece, his joy infectious.
“I’m glad you like them! I tried to get them just right.”
He leaned against the counter, his smile warm and genuine. “You always know how to make me happy. This is my favorite!”
You couldn’t ’t help but blush at his enthusiasm.
“You really mean it?”
“Of course!” he exclaimed, pulling you into a side hug. “You’re amazing! I’m lucky to have you.”
He kissed your cheek, his smile softening as he reached for another biscotti, and started to make coffee for the two of you. "You spoil me, know..." he said, hands busy with the Espresso maker.
"Good, you deserve to be spoiled."
Giorno Giovanna
The expansive kitchen of the villa was filled with the rich aroma of dark chocolate as you carefully prepared a batch of cookies, each one a small piece of art, drizzled with even more melted chocolate and sprinkled with chopped pistachios.
You couldn’t wait for Giorno to see them; his gentle appreciation for the things you did for him always made your heart flutter. He was accustomed to the finest things and could have what he wanted at whim, but all of that paled in comparison to what your gestures meant to him.
As you finished arranging the cookies on a plate, Giorno walked in, his elegant demeanor somehow enhancing the everyday scene. It was always like that with him... he had the ability to make the most mundane of things beautiful by his presence alone, although he maintained that that was what you had done every day.
His gaze fell on the cookies, and a soft smile spread across his face. “What’s this?”
“Dark chocolate and pistachio cookies, just for you,” you say, holding out the gold-rimmed plate. His eyes gleamed as he picked one up, the rich chocolate and blushing green pistachios,enticing him.
It was so endearing... the way he lit up at desserts, no one would have guessed the intense appreciation he had for sweets by his stoic demeanor. He took a bite, and his expression melted into delight. “This is exquisite,” he says, genuinely impressed. “You’ve outdone yourself.”
You felt the warmth spread through you at his praise. “I wanted to make something special for you.”
He placed the cookie down and stepped closer, brushing a thumb across your cheek. “You always know how to bring sweetness into my life. Thank you.”
He leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss against your lips, and you had felt your heart race with affection. “Let’s enjoy these together, shall we?” he suggested, his eyes sparkling with appreciation and love for you.
Jolyne Cujoh
There was nobody else like Jolyne, at least nobody that you knew. It was so rare to encounter that level of strength and softness in one person, and life with her was better than you could have ever imagined. Your lives were now the picture of domestic bliss, and given the circumstances that had brought you together and all you had fought through, this was the closest to heaven you could come to.
Among her many endearing qualities, Jolyne was fond of citrusy sweets. You’d just finished baking a batch of orange-flavored cookies, their zesty aroma filling the air like a burst of sunshine. The bright color of your confectionery creations seemed to mirror Jolyne’s vibrant personality, and you couldn’t wait for her reaction.
When Jolyne stepped into the kitchen, her expression shifted from curiosity to excitement as she caught the scent. “What’s cooking? It smells incredible!”
You hold up a plate, grinning. “Orange sugar cookies! I thought you might like them.”
She gasps, her eyes lighting up. “You made these for me? Awesome!” She reaches for one, taking a big bite, and her face lights up with delight. “Oh my god, these are amazing!”
“I’m glad you like them!” You laughed, watching her enjoy the cookies. Jolyne leans against the counter, her demeanor playful as she nudges you with her shoulder. “You really get me. It’s like you can read my mind.”
“Just lucky, I guess,” you replied, feeling your heart flutter. She wiped a crumb from her mouth and leaned in closer.
“You’re the best, you know that? Here, try one!” She broke off a piece and playfully fed it to you, kissing you soon after.
Johnny Joestar
The scent of warm apple cinnamon cookies filled the air, wrapping you in a cozy embrace as you took them out of the oven. You’d put so love and care into each one, knowing how much comfort Johnny found in familiar flavors.
When Johnny walked into the kitchen, he stopped in his tracks, his arms wrapping around your waist from behind you “What’s that smell?” he asks, his lips close enough to your esr you can feel his breath on your neck.
“Just some apple cinnamon cookies,” you replied, turning around in his arms, holding the plate in front of him. He looked closer, the sweet scent drawing him in. He picked up a cookie and took a bite, closing his eyes as the flavors hit him.
“These are amazing,” he murmurs, his voice filled with nostalgia. “Reminds me of... simple times.” You smiled, feeling a warmth in your chest. “I thought they might bring back some good memories.”
He glanced at you, a gentle expression coloring his face. “You always know how to lift my spirits. Thank you.” He wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into a gentle embrace. “Let’s enjoy these together,” he says, his tone tender, his touch filled with affection.
Gappy (Josuke 8)
You pulled a tray of soft, chewy mochi cookies from the oven, the aroma wafting through the kitchen, filling it with warmth and comfort. You’ve made them just the way Josuke likes—soft, with a hint of cinnamon.
As you set the cookies on the counter, you heard footsteps approaching. Josuke entered the kitchen, drawn by the inviting scent of freshly baked cookies. His expression shifts from curiosity to joy as he sees the soft, chewy mochi cookies arranged on a plate.
“Did you make these?” he asked, a hint of affection in his voice.
You nodded, smiling. “I know you're rediscovering your palate, so I thought I’d make a batch just for you.”
He picked one up, inspecting it for a moment before taking a bite. His eyes closed in satisfaction as the soft texture melted in his mouth, with hints of cinnamon and chocolate chips blending perfectly.
“These are amazing,” he said, his tone filled with genuine appreciation. “You really know how to spoil me, you know that?”
You laughed, feeling a happy warmth settle in your chest. “Only because you deserve it.”
He looked at you, a soft smile blooming on his handsome face, and reached out to take your hand.
“Thank you. It’s little things like this that make me realize how lucky I am to have you.”
You averted your gaze at the intensity of his, feeling the weight of his words. “I’m just glad you like them.”
Without letting go of your hand, he broke off a piece of cookie and held it up for you. “Here, try it! You’ve got to taste your own masterpiece.”
You smiled and took the bite he offered, kissing his fingertip as you savored the sweetness alongside him. He watched you with a warm gaze, brushing a stray crumb from your lip with his thumb. “You’re the best, you know that?” he said softly as he leaned in to press a gentle kiss to your forehead.
