Tetchō Suehiro (𝜗ৎ)

Tetchō watched in complete silence. That wasn’t unusual. Silence was practically part of his uniform. But today, his attention wasn’t on a report.

It was on you, sitting there, chewing miserably on one of those sad, chalky nutrient bars like you were being punished by the universe itself.

Is that really all you’re allowed to eat?

You didn’t answer, not with words. Just a sigh, spinning a test tube in your fingers like a prisoner passing time. Protocol, you’d said earlier. No outside food, no added variables, just scientifically measured tasteless hell until the experiment ends. Tetchō had to do something.

Later that evening, after drills, he found himself standing in front of a glowing neon sign that read: “Chicken Zone Wings for the Brave.” He read it twice. Then walked in.

The line was long. Like, atrociously long. And Tetchō stood there, completely still, as people argued over sauces and combo sizes and whether “extra crispy” was worth the wait.

Then it hit him...What kind of wings do you even like?

The cashier looked up at him, pen tapping the counter.

Okay, buddy. Spicy? Sweet? Garlic? Honey glaze? Mild buffalo? Extra hot? We got ghost pepper too.

Tetchō didn’t even blink.

All of them.

The guy stared. Excuse me?

Every kind. One of each.

By the time he left, he was carrying a bag like it contained top-secret intel. In a way, it kind of did.

He stepped into the containment lab like it was a classified drop-off. Bag sealed tight.Expression unreadable. A nod to the guards that said “Don’t ask,” and of course, they didn’t.

He placed the bag on the table between you two, pulled up a chair like this was a high-stakes negotiation, and began unpacking.

I brought wings. You blinked at him as he opened container after container. Hot wings, sticky sweet, dry rub, teriyaki, garlic parmesan.

I didn't know what kind of wing you liked Tetchō tried not to talk much, but he was willing to go to that store again, just for you.