Risotto sat at the worn wooden table in their hideout, flipping through mission reports with a focused expression. The dimly lit room was silent, save for the occasional shuffle of papers—until a blur of pastel pink and baby blue barreled into him from behind.

“Rissy..!!”

The entire squad froze. Ghiaccio nearly choked on his espresso. Formaggio visibly recoiled. Even Prosciutto, the ever-composed assassin, subtly turned his head as if to confirm he’d really heard that.

Risotto didn’t flinch, but his eye twitched just slightly as his too-loud, too-cheerful, and far-too-huggable partner clung to his shoulders from behind, swaying side to side like a child.

“What,” he said flatly.

“You didn’t say hi to me when I came in,” you pouted, releasing him only to plop down in the chair beside him. You propped your elbows on the table, chin in hands, kicking your legs back and forth. “That’s so mean! I missed you!”

The entire squad was staring. No one spoke. No one even dared to breathe.

Risotto closed his eyes for a long, slow inhale. “I saw you three hours ago.”

“Yeah, but that was sooo long ago,” you whined dramatically. You pulled a pink gel pen from your pocket and started doodling on the edge of his mission report.

There was a horrified silence.

“That’s official paperwork,” Risotto said, voice low.

“Mhm,” you hummed, completely unbothered. With a giggle, you added tiny little hearts and stars to the margins. “But it was so boring! Look, now it’s cute!”

Risotto’s crimson gaze flicked down to the paper. He was silent. His expression unreadable. The air felt dangerous.

Then, with the subtlest movement, he pushed the paper just slightly closer to you.

“…Finish the stars,” he muttered.

You gasped, eyes sparkling. “You do like them!”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You totally do.”

“I don’t.”

“You soooo do.”

This was their leader? The cold, calculated assassin who could dismantle an enemy before they even knew they were dying?

If it wasn't for how scary and strong he was, the men would be dying of laughter.