Shinra Kusakabe was strange.

That was the first thought you had about him when you met him—strange. Not in the way that made you uncomfortable, but in a way that made you pause.

From the first moment you crossed paths at Company 8, he looked like he didn’t know what to do with himself when you entered the room.

His back would straighten unnaturally, his shoulders stiff, and then that smile would come—wide, tight, trembling at the corners like it might fall apart if someone looked at it too long.

And it always came with a wave. Hesitant, jerky, as if he’d forgotten how to use his hand halfway through the motion.

You’d walk past, offer a polite nod or glance, and there it would be; Shinra, grinning like a haunted porcelain doll, sweat beading on his brow, his fingers twitching in midair like they were stuck between a greeting and a full-body spasm.

At first, it unsettled you.

That smile wasn’t warm or charming. It wasn’t comforting. It looked… forced. Crooked. Almost unsettling.

As though he were holding back something far worse, like a confession or a scream.

You found yourself watching him from the corner of your eye—not out of distrust, but out of curiosity. There was something unspoken there, something brimming just beneath the surface.

Over time, you started noticing the patterns.

Every time you entered a room, his body seemed to tense. He’d stop mid-bite if he was eating, freeze with a broom still in hand if he was cleaning, and once even walked directly into the wall while carrying his training gear.

He apologized profusely under his breath, cheeks red, that jittery smile still tugging at his lips like it had a will of its own.

And always—always—that little wave. Like it was all he could offer you without combusting on the spot.

The others didn’t comment on it, not much anyway.

Arthur sometimes snorted and muttered something about “Shinra being Shinra,” and Tamaki would blink between the two of you like she wasn’t sure if she was witnessing a romantic comedy or a tragic accident.

Iris once asked him if he was okay when you left the room. He said yes, too quickly, and nearly choked on his own spit.

It was then you realized: He wasn’t scared of you.

He was just nervous. Painfully, visibly, almost endearingly nervous. And suddenly, everything made more sense.

The way he avoided eye contact unless you weren’t looking. The way he lingered just a little too long near you during drills, not quite close enough to be obvious but never fully distant either.

The way he listened when you spoke to the others, his head tilted subtly in your direction, trying not to be caught paying attention.

It wasn’t creepy. Not anymore.

It was awkward. Honest. Transparent in a way that no amount of practiced coolness could fake. And once you saw the truth behind that haunted smile, you stopped turning away from it.