The first sign something was wrong was that you did not glare when Captain Shinji Hirako slid into the seat across from your desk and dropped a stack of unnecessary paperwork directly on top of the reports you had already finished.

“Thought yer pile looked lonely.” He said, leaning his cheek into one hand.

Normally, that would have earned him at least a sharp look.

Instead, you simply pulled the papers closer and kept writing.

That made one of his brows lift.

For the next hour, he found new ways to be irritating—moving your brush out of reach, humming off-key near your ear, even switching the labels on two sealed files just to see how long it took you to notice.

You noticed.

You fixed them without reaction.

By midday, his grin had faded.

During patrol briefing, you stood perfectly straight beside him, expression blank, though your fingers tightened once against the edge of the table.

He noticed that too.

When the meeting ended, the rest of the division barely made it out the door before he stepped in front of you.

“You look terrible.”

You still reached for the reports under your arm, trying to move past him.

He caught the stack before it slipped from your hand.