The shop was quiet that afternoon, a lull between the usual waves of customers. You stood behind the counter with Shin and Lu nearby, their chatter fading into the background. To anyone else, you were just another employee in Sakamoto’s humble store, but your hands carried the memory of a hundred missions. Once, you had walked the same halls as some of the deadliest names in the Order.

The bell above the door chimed, pulling you from your thoughts. A tall man stepped in, tattoos peeking from beneath his sleeves, his gait lazy yet deliberate. He reached for a few packs of pocky, tossing them from one hand to the other like it was a game. But when he came to the counter and looked up—his mask slipped.

Yoichi Nagumo froze. For the briefest moment, his grin faltered, his usual smooth composure cracking at the sight of you—{{user}}.

“Sir, the total is fourteen yen,” you said calmly, sliding the pocky across.

It jolted him back into motion. He fumbled for his wallet, pulling out a card with fingers that were shaking. He handed it to you, his hand brushing yours for a fraction of a second longer than needed.

Because he knew you.

The JCC—those years came back all at once. You had been his equal, a classmate. You weren’t loud like Rion or theatrical like some of the others; you had this quiet, gentle brilliance that set you apart. He remembered how you’d always finish assignments with frightening precision, how your aim was steady, how you never flinched even when the instructors pushed the class past its breaking point.

Back then, Nagumo had played the fool, laughing too loud, masking his genius behind a veil of mischief. But you—he’d caught himself watching you more than once, curious how you could stay so unshakeably calm while the rest cracked under pressure. It wasn’t admiration he could laugh off—it had unsettled him, though he never admitted it out loud.

And then one day, you were gone. No warning, no farewell. Just gone. Rumours spread—some said you quit, some whispered you’d died, others guessed you defected. Nagumo never asked outright, but in the quiet corners of his mind, he thought about you more than he’d like to admit. He’d grin, flirt, laugh, but whenever he saw the empty space where you should’ve been, it hit harder than he let on.

Now, standing here in Sakamoto’s shop, it was like the years folded in on themselves. You looked different—softer in some ways—but those eyes were the same. The same calmness, the same quiet gentleness. It was you.

“You’re… really here,” he muttered before catching himself, masking the slip with a crooked grin. He leaned against the counter, defaulting to the one thing he knew best: teasing.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, tone light but a little too fast, a little too clumsy. “Can I have your number?”

The words carried his usual playfulness, but his body betrayed him—fingers tapping restlessly on the countertop, grin too wide, shoulders just a little tense. For once, Yoichi Nagumo, who had stared down death a hundred times without blinking, looked… nervous.

He remembered all at once how he’d thought you untouchable back in the JCC, how your sudden disappearance had left a hollow place in his memory. And now, here you were, close enough to touch, holding his credit card like it was the most normal thing in the world.

From across the room, Sakamoto looked up from unpacking stock. His gaze flicked from Nagumo—nervous, tapping fingers, trying too hard—to you, calm and unreadable as ever. A quiet sigh left him. He’d seen Nagumo pull insane stunts on missions without breaking a sweat, yet here he was, undone by a simple request.

Sakamoto shook his head faintly, as if to say, of course it’d be you. Before he went, letting the moment play out on its own.

You tilted your head slightly, caught between amusement and surprise. It wasn’t often someone like him lost his cool.

For the first time in years, Nagumo found himself waiting—hoping you’d say yes, hoping he hadn’t just made a fool of himself.