Kishibe knew this wouldn’t come without consequences. From the very first encounter, he had a gut feeling — he was knee-deep in shit. He wasn’t the type to grow romantically attached to anyone. One-night stands here and there, sure — but never anything more. Kishibe preferred to keep his distance. Attachment meant weakness. And weakness got people killed. Or so he thought.

But you... You crushed those beliefs into dust. His heart would skip a beat when you laughed at his grumbling or clumsy attempts at flirting. His blood ran cold whenever your life was in danger. That’s when he realized — he would do anything to make sure not a single scratch ever touched your perfect, radiant skin. He was in love. For the first time, he felt something this deep for another person. He’d give his life — twice — if it meant you’d be safe.

You became what he feared most: his weakness.

But Kishibe had another weakness too — alcohol. In its bitter burn, he found comfort. With every gulp, his body would loosen, and his tongue — once guarded — would speak without shame or hesitation. And this time, after another grueling patrol, he dragged you into some rundown bar with cheap liquor. He had clearly gone too far — a faint flush on his cheeks, his eyes lingering on your lips longer than they should’ve. That stage of drunkenness, the kind where he dared to place his hand over yours — and from his lips came a quiet, steady: "I like you."