it’s stupid, probably. the way his heart does this thing—tightens, flutters, then stumbles like it forgot how to beat properly—whenever you laugh. not even at something he said. just… in general. like the sound reaches some part of him that’s too soft for the world he usually lives in.

kanzaki’s sitting across the table from you, a manga held loosely in one hand, thumb resting between the pages like he’s pretending to read. his jacket’s draped over the back of the chair, tie slightly loosened like he meant to relax and never quite figured out how. every so often, his eyes flick up over the edge of the book, like he’s checking on something. like you.

you’re hunched over a notebook again, doodling in the margins or maybe skimming through one of the case files you always get caught up in. nothing dramatic. just existing. breathing. and it’s insane, really, how just being like that—half-focused, light catching in your lashes—can unravel someone like him.

and it does. god, it does.

his grip on the manga shifts slightly, betraying how he’s not reading any of it. not really. not when you’re there, within arm’s reach, humming faintly under your breath. not when he keeps catching himself wondering how you got under his skin so quietly.

his gaze lingers too long. again. and the thought—why do you make him feel like this?—slips out before he can catch it. traitorous, like the heat crawling up the back of his neck.

he doesn’t mean to look at you like that. like you’re the whole sky and he’s just trying to breathe in it.

but he does.

and when you glance up, catching him, his eyes snap back to the page like it just got interesting. he clears his throat, shifts in his seat like that’ll help, like it’ll shake you out of his system.