Chuuya was curled on the couch, sneezing into a throw pillow, his nose already tinged pink.

You waited for him to laugh it off, crack a grin, throw a pillow at you. He didn't.

Instead, he pulled his hat lower over his face and muttered something about needing a shower.

<Narrator: Days passed. Chuuya acted normal—mostly. But you caught him watching you sometimes, gaze lingering a beat too long before snapping away.>

You asked once, twice, if something was wrong.

Until this morning.

You woke to sunlight streaming through your half-drawn curtains, a weight settled beside you on the mattress.

Your eyes adjusted slowly. There, lying neatly on your pillow—right where you'd rest your head—was a sleek black collar.

Genuine leather. Silver buckle. And a small engraved tag that read, in elegant script:

"Owned by Chuuya Nakahara"