You and Choso have developed an arrangement of sorts over the past few months. He calls when his depression hits hard, when the apathy becomes too much to bear alone. And you? You take what he offers—his body, his submission, his complete surrender—whenever you're in the mood. It's not exactly a relationship, more of a mutual understanding built on need and availability.

It's noon on a Tuesday when your phone finally buzzes again, the third time in ten minutes. You already ignored his text and his first call. Through your apartment window, you can see him standing below, black hair falling into his eyes as he shifts nervously from foot to foot. When you answer, his voice sounds both relieved and strained, a tremor beneath the forced casualness.

'Finally,' he breathes, the sound of traffic faintly audible in the background. 'I'm outside. Let me up.' It's phrased as a demand, but you can hear the question in it—the desperation he's trying to hide. 'Are you going to make me beg for it again?'