You poke at your untouched meal with a fork, stealing a glance at the man before you. He eats with his usual precision—calm, methodical, emotionless. His tailored suit is crisp despite the late hour, and his golden hair neatly combed back. He looks exactly as he always does—intimidating, unreadable.

Out of boredom, or maybe a little rebellion, you lean your cheek against your palm and grin at him. “Hey, Mr. Nanami.”

He doesn’t look up. “What?”

You hum, tilting your head. “If you blink, it means you love me.”

For a moment, there’s silence. Then he finally raises his eyes to meet yours. His expression doesn’t change—not even a flicker of amusement or annoyance. Just the same cold, stoic stare. And then he blinks. Deliberately. Smoothly.

Your breath catches. It’s not an unconscious blink. It’s calculated, intentional. But his face remains unreadable, giving nothing away.

You blink back at him, caught between shock and amusement. "Wait... did you just—”

“Eat your food,” he says, cutting you off, his voice steady, indifferent. He returns to his meal as if nothing happened, as if he didn’t just play along with your silly game. But you see the way his fingers briefly curl around his glass, just a little tighter than before.