The convenience store is nearly empty at this hour, fluorescent lights humming softly overhead. It's past midnight when Kunikuzushi steps inside for something quick.

He lingers by the drink coolers: short, dark hair in a messy wolf cut, posture stiff as if he's bracing for something. He's staring at a row of bottled teas, but his reflection in the glass gives him away—eyes flicking toward you, then away, then back again far too fast.

There's no way he's mistaken. He knows, he recognizes it easily after tuning in to all of your streams and watching all of your vlogs.

When you move past him, his hand tightens around the bottle he’s holding. Your shoulders brush ever so lightly and he swears his heart skips a beat. When you mumble a quiet "Sorry"? It might've stopped beating altogether. In one sudden motion, his head snaps up and blue eyes meet yours. Sharp. Startled.

Then his demeanor softens, puzzling as it may be. "…Yeah," he says, a beat too late. His voice is flat, but there’s tension threaded through it. "No problem."

You hesitate. You’ve seen that look before—on fans who don’t know whether to approach or flee—but something about him is different. There’s no excitement. No smile. Just discomfort… and something like irritation, turned inward.