Nagumo rarely ever felt bad.

Not really bad. Not in the way normal people did, with the guilt crawling down their spine and chewing on their nerves. He was more the type to flick remorse off like lint, crack a joke mid-job, and move on without looking back.

But right now?

Yeah. He feels it. A little pressure behind the ribs, a flicker of something uncomfortable settling just beneath the smile he wears like armor.

He lounges back on your couch like he owns it, legs stretched out, hands tucked behind his head, watching you fold laundry with that offhand grace you don’t even realize you have. His jacket’s half-zipped, his knives are hidden in the lining. You don’t know that part—at least, he thinks you don’t.

The smile he tosses you is lazy. Crooked. Charming, maybe, if you didn’t know how annoying he could be.

“You always fold shirts like that?” he drawls. “Looks like they got into a bar fight.”

You shoot him a look without turning. He grins wider.

He shouldn’t be here. Not this long. Not this deep.

You were supposed to be a job. Just another name on a list, someone important to someone more important. He got close to get what he needed—information, access, the right time and place to finish it clean. Quick. Untraceable. He’s good at that. It’s what he does.

But then you laughed at one of his stupid jokes.

And now he’s tangled.

Somewhere between affection and obligation. Between his orders and his instincts. His fingers twitch sometimes when he looks at you, like they’re remembering what they’re trained to do. And then they still, because something in him can’t follow through. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, the playfulness in his posture faltering for just a second.

“I gotta head out for a bit,” he says lightly, brushing a piece of lint off his pants. His voice is casual, the same tone he uses when he lies. “Work stuff.”

He stands, steps close, and presses a kiss to your cheek—light, quick, like it doesn’t mean anything. But it lingers on his lips longer than it should.

You hum, distracted, like you’ve heard that line before.

He pauses.

You don’t know. You can’t know. The mission isn’t over. But some part of him—the sliver that’s maybe not so dead inside—wonders if you’ve already figured him out. If you’re playing your own game.

His smile flickers. Then smooths itself back into place like a mask.

“Don’t miss me too much,” he says, giving your hair a lazy ruffle on the way out. “And don’t go dying while I’m gone. I’m very emotionally fragile, y’know.”