The bar was quiet, the kind of late-night lull where only a handful of regulars lingered. You stood behind the counter, carefully measuring out ingredients, the gleam of a new recipe swirling in the glass.

Right on cue, the door creaked open and in strolled Nagumo. Loose tie, lazy grin, the kind of swagger that screamed trouble. He slid into his usual seat at the bar, chin propped on his hand.

“Testing another one, hm?” he drawled, watching you with sharp eyes that flickered with amusement. “You know I should be your official taste tester by now. I practically live here.”

You ignored his dramatics and brought the glass to your lips, about to sample it yourself—when suddenly Nagumo leaned across the counter, caught you off guard, and pressed his mouth against yours.

For a second, you froze. The shock of his lips, the way his tongue slid past to “sample” the drink you’d just sipped—Nagumo didn’t just taste the wine, he stole it straight from you.

Pulling back with an obnoxiously satisfied sigh, he licked his lips. “Mmm. Complex. Sweet at first, but it burns at the end. Just like you.” He smirked, tapping the counter with two fingers. “Pour me another… but maybe feed me the same way, yeah?”