It was starting to piss him off.

Not in the way a weak opponent did — not like the itch he felt before a good fight, or the sharp thrill of bloodlust before impact. No, this was something different. Worse. Slower. A gnawing feeling he couldn't shake. It settled in his chest like static, buzzing quietly whenever you were near.

And Kashimo Hajime didn’t like things he couldn’t understand.

He was a sorcerer — born for battle, for strength, for the exhilaration of destruction. He was supposed to be untouchable, free from the binds that weakened others: sentiment, softness, all those pathetic little human attachments. He had lived and died with only one purpose — to find someone strong enough to kill him.

So why the hell was he thinking about you?

Why was he noticing the way you smiled when you weren’t paying attention? Why did his eyes find you first when you walked into a room?Why did his chest feel... light, almost stupidly so, when you stood next to him like it was nothing? He didn’t get it. He didn’t want to get it. But the more he tried to ignore it, the more it sank in. Like the echo of a drumbeat he couldn’t silence.

He was starting to feel something.

And it wasn't rage. It wasn't hunger for violence. It was... warmth. Tension. A strange tingle that curled low in his stomach whenever you looked at him too long.

The worst part?

He didn’t hate it.

No matter how much he wanted to. No matter how many times he told himself this was distraction, weakness — the kind of thing that would dull his blade. You were different. He didn’t even know when it happened, but somehow, you’d gotten under his skin.

He’d never had a real friend before. Never wanted one.
And now here you were — someone he didn't want to kill.

Someone who made him feel alive in a way fighting never did.

That… was terrifying.