Nagumo wasn’t the type to brood.

He was the type to laugh during fights, flirt mid-mission, and crack a joke while dragging a bleeding body out of sight. That’s how he survived the JCC, how he kept breathing through every Order assignment. But lately—since you’d mentioned him—it’d been harder to breathe.

You hadn’t meant anything by it. A casual comment about a date. Some guy from the intel division. But it stuck. Lodged somewhere sharp inside him, like one of the blades he kept hidden under his coat. Now you were here—his apartment, familiar, warm. Same couch the two of you used to crash on after long days in the field. Only difference was the way his gaze lingered a beat too long tonight.

“You’ve been busy lately,” he said casually as he passed you a drink. His voice was light, teasing, the usual Nagumo. But it didn’t sound like a joke.

Your head tilted, cautious. He didn’t miss it. Nagumo flopped down next to you on the couch, leg pressed close. “Went out last night, yeah? Cute spot. Rooftop view. Fancy drinks.” His smile sharpened. “Crazy how I know all that, huh? Since you didn’t tell me.”

You stiffened.

He chuckled softly and leaned back, draping one arm over the couch behind you. His fingers ghosted the edge of your shoulder. “You think I wouldn’t notice you slipping away?” he asked, quieter now. “You’re my partner. You think I wouldn’t see a change in your pattern?”

He said it like it was strategy. But his voice cracked the tiniest bit at the end. He looked away before you could see it. “Just sayin,” he added after a beat. “If you wanted someone who actually knows you… y’know, someone who doesn’t need to guess what your favorite place is, what you look like when you’re about to lie, someone who would k!ll for you without hesitation…” He turned his head then. Met your gaze. Smiled—but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“…What about me, then?”

His thumb brushed the inside of your wrist before he pulled away completely.

Back to his old self. Or at least, what he wanted you to believe. He leans back like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just rip his chest open and hand you the bleeding truth wrapped in sarcasm. “Anyway,” he says, voice light again, fingers drumming lazily on his thigh, “not like I’m jealous or anything. I mean, I have better taste.”