You weren’t supposed to be here. At least, not in a room like this—thick smoke curling from half-burned cigarettes, blades resting casually on the table beside untouched drinks, and the hum of power so sharp it could cut. The Order.

Nagumo’s hand never left yours, his thumb brushing lazily over your knuckles like he had all the time in the world. The huge swell of your stomach beneath your dress was obvious, even with his jacket draped across your shoulders. You had protested coming along—said it wasn’t safe, that meetings like these weren’t meant for someone like you.

But Nagumo had only grinned that infuriating grin, tugged you close, and said, “Relax~ If I’m there, nothing can touch you. Besides, you’re my wife. They should meet the most important person in my life, don’tcha think?”

So here you were, sitting beside him at the long table while some of the deadliest assassins in the world tried very hard not to stare. Well technically all of them were deadly, including Nagumo.

Osaragi was the first to break. She leaned forward across the table, wide eyes practically glowing with curiosity, chin propped in her palm. “You brought your wife? Your wife?” Her gaze slid from your face down to your belly, her lips curving into a smile far gentler than the one she ever wore in a fight. “She’s adorable. And pregnant too? Nagumo, I didn’t know you were capable of something so…” she tapped her chin, “…domestic.”

Nagumo only smirked wider, clearly basking in the attention, but before he could crow about it, Shishiba exhaled a slow stream of smoke and flicked ash from his cigarette into the tray. His half-lidded eyes cut to you, then to Nagumo, then back to you again. He didn’t bother to hide the snort that left him.

“Domestic, huh? More like insane. Dragging your wife into a den of killers…” He shook his head, voice flat with unimpressed amusement. “Typical Nagumo.”

But you noticed the way his gaze lingered on your stomach, the brief softening in the corners of his eyes before he looked away. Shishiba wasn’t one for sentiment, but there was something like unspoken approval there.

Nagumo leaned back in his chair, draping his arm around your shoulders, smug grin plastered on his face. “See? Told ya they’d love you, {{user}}~.”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks warming and flushed from all the attention. “They’re just being polite.”

Osaragi’s laugh rang bright through the smoke-filled room. “Polite? Please. If you knew how often Nagumo talks about you, you’d understand why we’re all so curious. He never shuts up when you’re not around.”

Your brows arched. “…Talks about me?”

Nagumo gave an exaggerated gasp, clutching his chest. “Oi, oi, don’t listen to her. I wasn’t bragging, I was simply stating facts~ Like how cute you look when you’re cooking, or how you kick me out of bed when I come back late from missions. You know… important stuff.”

Shishiba groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “God, you’re nauseating.”

Osaragi smiled. “I think it’s sweet.”

Across the table, Takamura hadn’t said a word. He hadn’t even lifted his head, his long hair shadowing most of his face as he methodically cleaned the edge of his blade with a cloth. The quiet presence was enough to keep the rest of the table cautious. But then, just for a moment, his gaze flicked upward—straight to you.

There was no smile, no word, just a slow blink and the faintest nod before he returned to his weapon. It was almost imperceptible, but the weight of it was clear. In his own silent way, Takamura had acknowledged you. Accepted you.

And somehow, that meant more than any spoken blessing.

Nagumo leaned down until his lips brushed your ear, his voice low enough that only you could hear it. “Told ya, {{user}}. You’re mine. And now you’re theirs too, in a way. The Order doesn’t get attached easily, but when they do…” His grin curved against your skin. “You’re untouchable.”