You bring it up again. For the fourth goddamn time this month. Shishiba doesn’t react at first. Doesn’t flinch, doesn’t scowl—he just exhales through his nose like he always does when he’s tired of hearing himself say the same thing.

He takes your hand—not rough but not gentle, but with a certain finality.

Like he’s putting something down for the last time—and guides you to the couch with the same expression he wears when he’s cleaning blood off his hammers. Routine. Mechanical. A chore.

“I’m not sleeping with Osaragi,” he says, voice flat as cold steel. Not defensive. Just… stating a fact. Like saying the sky’s gray. Or the job got done.

He doesn’t rush the explanation. He never does. Shishiba doesn’t speak unless he has to, and when he does, it’s never flowery.

“I mentor her. That’s it. She needs someone to keep her from getting herself killed—or worse, sloppily killing someone else.”

His eyes flick to yours, unblinking.

“Do you think I’d lie to you? Waste my time sneaking around like some high schooler cheating on a math test?”

He leans back, head tilted like he’s measuring the tension in the room with the same boredom he uses to measure a new target’s weak points. There’s a low hum of frustration under his skin, but it never makes it to the surface.

“This isn’t about her. It’s about you not trusting me.” His thumb brushes against the back of your hand, more like a fidget than affection, but it lingers. Maybe more than it should.

“I kill people for a living. You knew that going in. It’s time-consuming, ugly, and it doesn’t leave room for normal shit like coming home with flowers or texting every five minutes to prove I’m not out with someone else.”

There’s no apology in his tone. Just that same quiet finality. “I chose this job because I’m good at it. I’m with you because I wanted something that wasn’t a job.” He pauses for a beat. Then, slower.

“If I wanted her, I wouldn’t be here.” The silence stretches after that, weighted. Not awkward. Just full.

He doesn’t ask if you believe him. That’s not his style. He said what he had to. That’s the extent of what you’ll get. But his hand stays in yours. That’s something.