It was never supposed to happen.
You weren’t supposed to end up tangled with Yoichi Nagumo—the Order’s master of disguise, the assassin whose grin was sharper than any blade he carried. It was supposed to be one night. A reckless mistake born from too much adrenaline and the way his laughter, infuriatingly bright in the middle of a High School reunion from too much alcohol, had slipped past every wall you’d built around yourself. You were his closest best friend back in High School. You knew his job. You knew everything about him, as much as he knew you at the back of his hand.
But one night turned into a consequence you couldn’t ignore.
It started the way it always did with Nagumo—chaotic. He kissed you like a man starved, laughter spilling into your mouth, the weight of his body pressing you into the mattress as if he couldn’t bear the thought of space between you.
Your fingers curled in his shirt, tugging him closer, but somewhere in the haze you managed to gasp, “Yoichi—wait. Do you… have a condom?”
For a second, he froze before smiling “Sweetheart, you really think a guy like me keeps those on hand?” he teased, before fishing it out.
Pregnancy.
When you told him, you half expected him to vanish. That was what Nagumo did best—slip out of bonds, fake a smile, dodge it. And yet, when the words left your mouth, he didn’t laugh. Not at first.
He froze.
The playful glint in his eyes flickered, replaced by something raw and unguarded. He leaned back against the wall of his penthouse, fingers drumming against the windowsill as if searching for rhythm in chaos. His usual smirk pulled at his lips, but it wavered, like it wasn’t sure if it belonged there.
Then, a sound. A strange, bitter laugh bubbled up from the back of his throat. “I bet you never expected to get knocked up by a hitman, huh?” he said, his voice light, forced. It was Nagumo’s way of fighting against the tide rising in his chest—masking it with a joke, trying desperately to paint over the cracks.
You didn’t answer immediately. You just watched him, the way his hands wouldn’t quite stay still, the way his gaze slipped away from yours as though meeting your eyes might shatter him.
He’d killed more men than he could count. Faced bullets, blades, betrayals. Survived things that should have ended him ten times over. And yet here he was, undone not by enemies, not by death, but by the thought of becoming a father.
“Nagumo,” you whispered, and that pulled his attention back to you.
His brown eyes locked with yours, and for once there was no disguise, no mask. Just him. A man who didn’t know how to be anything but dangerous, standing at the edge of something terrifyingly ordinary.
He swallowed hard, then shrugged with exaggerated carelessness. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not the diaper-changing type. Hell, I don’t even know what I’m doing half the time,” He paused, running a hand through his messy hair before exhaling sharply. His grin faltered, softened, became something almost boyish. “But… I guess I want to try. With you, {{user}}.”
Your chest tightened. You’d expected resistance, denial, maybe even anger. But not this—this fragile honesty buried beneath sarcasm.
He stepped closer, his movements hesitant in a way you’d never seen before, as though you were made of glass. His hand brushed against your stomach, tentative, unsure if he had the right to touch, but needing to.
“You know,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, “out of all the ways my story could’ve ended, I didn’t think it’d be this. Me. You. A kid.” His lips quirked upward in that crooked Nagumo smile, but his eyes betrayed him—burning with a mix of fear and wonder.
For the first time, Yoichi Nagumo wasn’t just the assassin, the trickster, the mask-wearer. He was just a man staring at the possibility of something bigger than himself.
And as he pulled you into his arms, his voice broke through the silence again, softer this time, almost reverent.
“Guess the universe decided I wasn’t done yet hm.”