The car was already rumbling under Nagumo’s hands, a neat little rhythm of a man who had somewhere important to be. Hair slicked back, tie loose, the morning sun catching the edge of his sunglasses—he looked every bit the assassin who had his life lined up. He drummed his fingers against the wheel, humming something low, half-bored with the day already.

Then his phone buzzed on the console. One glance at the screen.

"he just left. come up" "oops, wrong send!" "thought u were seba"

Nagumo’s smirk stretched ear to ear, sharp and boyish all at once. “...Oh?” he muttered, voice dripping with mischief. Without a second thought, the car lurched as he slammed the brakes. He didn’t even bother signaling—just yanked the wheel, throwing it in reverse. Tires screeched down the street as if he were escaping a hit gone wrong. Pedestrians swore at him; he didn’t care. His pulse jumped, adrenaline buzzing like it did during missions, but this time it wasn’t from dodging bullets—it was from you.

He didn’t knock. He never knocked. He just appeared at your doorway, one hand braced against the frame, lips curved into that signature infuriating smirk. His hair was slightly out of place from the rush, his tie still loose from when he’d been planning on working just minutes ago.

“Well,” he drawled between a laugh and a heavy exhale, pretending he wasn’t a little breathless, “you text like a woman who knows exactly how to get a man killed on his commute.”

His knuckles drummed against the doorframe, slow, teasing. Eyes glittering like he’d just cheated death itself.

“...You really shouldn’t text me things like that when I’m on the way to work,” he murmured, voice low, smug—though the sharp glint in his eyes gave him away as he walked up to you slowly but deadly. “Now I have to be late.”