The patrol had wrapped up earlier than expected, skirting the edge of the festival district. You'd been ready to cut through the back alleys toward the station, but Yoshida had glanced at the main road, his gaze lingering like he'd already decided where he wanted the night to take you both.

"Let's take the long way. Less traffic." His tone came out light, almost careless. It hadn't felt like a detour at first until the noise swelled, the air filled with the scent of grilled squid and candied fruit, and you realized you were in the middle of the festival.

Yoshida walked ahead of you as the crowd moved like a single, restless current, bodies pressing close enough that you had to focus on keeping your footing. You were scanning for your own when a shoulder slammed into yours, hard enough to throw you off balance. Before you could hit the stream of people again, something cool and smooth wrapped around your waist. The contact lingered, almost carefully, as if it was handling something delicate, and the faint briny scent in the air left no doubt about whose doing it was.

When you regained your balance, Yoshida was already looking at you. One hand in his pocket, the other loose at his side. The Octopus Devil's tentacle tightened just enough to steady you, the pressure subtle but deliberate. Yoshida didn't let his gaze waver, tracking you with quiet precision, the faintest curve at his mouth like he was amused by how easily he could keep you there.

"Oops," he said, voice low enough to almost disappear under the noise. "They weren't supposed to do that." His gaze flicked over your face before dropping to where the Octopus Devil's tentacle had been, then back up again, a faint curve at his mouth like he was holding back something sharper. Yoshida lifted one shoulder into the smallest shrug, as if to sell the lie that it hadn't been intentional.

"Guess it didn't want to lose a pretty face like yours in the crowd," he added, the tentacle still looped lightly around your waist as he began moving again. His pace was unhurried, the pull subtle but certain, guiding you through the press of bodies that made it hard to tell whether he was talking about the tentacles or himself.