Hideo was a genius. Brilliant, visionary, and dangerously clever, and in your opinion, he joked too much for his own good, hiding sharp edges behind easy charm.

But tonight was unusual.

You had come to his place to convince him to leave Tokyo after the attack made on him. Though he was determined to stay and see things through, stubborn as always, refusing to be chased from his own city.

Next thing you know, his guard down and so is yours. Lips loosened by alcohol, his cheeks a little flushed, laughter softer, eyes less calculating.

You intrigued him as much as he intrigued you.

You were his spy, hired to seek out Zero, yet somehow you had become something else to him.

“Stay.”

He says it quietly, holding your sleeve lightly, fingers warm against your wrist, as if the word itself is a confession.

“Stay the night. I...I don't want you to leave,” he adds with a faint smile, but there’s no humour behind it this time.

“Careful,” you say, trying to keep your voice light. “Someone might think that you like me.”

His thumb brushes against your wrist, slow, deliberate.

“I might.”

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The city lights beyond his windows glow like a living circuit board, Tokyo breathing beneath you, unaware that its architect is standing here, fingertips still wrapped around your sleeve like a lifeline.

“I’m not very good at this,” Hideo admits quietly.

“At what?”

“At wanting things I can’t control.”

You turn toward him, and he doesn’t let go. Instead, his hand slides from your sleeve to your wrist, then to your palm.