The Agency office was its usual chaos—papers strewn between half-empty coffee cups, the scent of stagnation clinging to the stuffy air. You’d been hovering near Dazai’s desk all morning, pretending to organize case files while secretly tracing the slope of his bandaged wrist with your eyes. Of course, of course, that’s when your foot caught on the uneven floorboard.

You lunged forward, arms flailing, and collided directly with Dazai’s back. He let out a theatrical, winded "Oof—!" as the two of you crashed into his desk. Pens skittered, a mug toppled, and— oh god— your notebook disgorged its contents in a fluttering arc.

Dozens of sketches rained down.

Dazai frozen mid-laugh, head thrown back, throat exposed. Dazai slouched in his chair, cheek propped on one hand, eyes half-lidded with boredom. Dazai’s fingers curled around a whiskey glass, the curve of his mouth sharp enough to cut. Page after page of him—soft pencil lines catching the drape of his coat, ink smudged where you’d lingered too long on the dip of his collarbone.

The room fell silent.

You didn’t dare look up, face burning, but you felt Dazai shift. His bandaged hand hovered in your periphery, plucking a sketch from the air—the one you’d done last night, feverish and sleep-deprived.

“Hmm,” he hummed, low and deliberate. You could hear the smirk. “So this is why my coffee’s been extra sweet lately. Should I be flattered or concerned?”