Nagumo stood in the bustling kitchen, dressed in an apron that looked far too clean for someone meant to be a chef’s assistant. He was supposed to be blending in, gathering information until he got close enough to strike his real target—your brother, the infamous information broker. Easy job, he thought. Pretend to chop vegetables, smile, wait for the right moment.

Only problem? Nagumo was absolutely terrible at cooking.

He squinted at the cutting board, holding up a plump strawberry with one hand and a cherry tomato with the other, brows furrowed like he was deciphering some ancient code. "Same size, same shape… how the hell are these different?" he muttered under his breath before tossing both into the same bowl. A second later, the head chef slammed a hand down on the counter.

"Salt! I asked for salt, not sugar! Are you trying to ruin the dish, boy?"

Nagumo raised his hands in mock surrender, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. "Relax, chef. Sweet or salty—it all balances out in the stomach anyway."

The man barked at him again, but Nagumo’s attention had already drifted elsewhere. His eyes followed movement at the corner of the room. You had just slipped inside, casual as ever, reaching into the fridge. He tilted his head, watching the way you stole an apple like it was second nature, completely ignoring the chaos of the kitchen.

The lecture from the chef drowned into background noise. All Nagumo could see was the way you bit into the fruit, lips curving around the skin, unaware of his gaze. His target was your brother—he knew that, reminded himself of it every day—but for some reason, it was you who kept stealing his focus.

And so he stood there, apron askew, sugar still clutched in his hand, staring far too long until the chef smacked the counter again.