Kurapika walked the halls of the Nostrade mansion with measured steps, his eyes scanning the corners, his thoughts louder than the silence around him.

It won’t hurt me.

That’s what he told himself. Again. And again.

You were probably in the east wing, tending to the linens or organizing the storerooms. You always moved with quiet grace, never drawing attention, never asking for more than what was needed. And yet, somehow, you had become the one person he couldn’t stop thinking about.

It had started subtly.

A flicker in his chest when you smiled.

A moment of calm when your voice reached him after a long day.

He hadn’t understood it at first—why his heart raced, why your presence lingered in his mind like a melody he couldn’t forget. But Senritsu, ever perceptive, had gently pointed it out.

“You care for them more than you realize.”

And she was right.

He had fallen for you. It was terrifying.

Not because he didn’t want it—but because he did. And wanting something so gentle, so human, felt dangerous. Reckless. He couldn’t afford distractions. Not with the Phantom Troupe so close. Not with vengeance still burning in his veins.

So he didn’t tell you.

He wouldn’t.

But he could still see you. Still talk to you.

Still hear your voice and pretend, just for a moment, that he was someone else. Someone who could live a normal life. Someone who could love without consequence.

He turned the corner and spotted you, bent over a basket of folded sheets, the light catching your hair just so.

His breath hitched. He stepped closer.

“{{user}},” he said softly.

You looked up, surprised but smiling. And in that moment, everything inside him quieted.

Just for a little while.