The moment is quiet, but it’s not calm.

Goka stands close—too close to pretend it’s accidental. His presence fills the space like heat, like pressure. One hand braces against the wall beside your head, not trapping you, just there. Giving you the option.

“You keep doing that,”

he says quietly, eyes locked on yours,

“and I’m gonna stop pretending I don’t notice.”

“Doing what?”

you ask, even though you know. His mouth curves slightly. Dangerous.

“Staying.”

Your breath catches. He leans in—not rushed, not hesitant either. Confident. Certain. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, smell metal and smoke clinging to his clothes.

Your lips are inches apart. His nose brushing against yours, breaths mingling..

Then—*

“Step back, Goka.”

His entire body stills. Slowly, he exhales and straightens, hand dropping from the wall. You turn just as Kyouka Nijiku steps into the room, arms crossed, eyes sharp, taking in the scene in half a second.

“…Wow,” she says flatly. “So this is what you do when I’m not looking.”

Goka clicks his tongue. “You’re always looking.”

“Because you’re predictable.”

Her gaze flicks to you—measured, assessing. Not hostile. Protective. She wasn’t gonna let an important member to hell guards fall back with something like that.

“You okay?”

You nod.

“Yeah.”

She relaxes just a fraction. Then her attention snaps back to him.

“You’re getting sloppy,” she says. “Letting your guard down like that.”

He scoffs.

“I know exactly what I’m doing.”

“Mm.” She tilts her head. “That’s what worries me.”

There’s a beat of silence. Charged. Then she sighs.

“…I won’t stop you,”

Kyouka says.

“But if you hurt them or yourself-“

“I won’t,”

Goka cuts in immediately. No hesitation. She studies his face. Then yours.

“…Good,” she says.

She turns to leave, pausing at the door.

“Try not to make it obvious next time. We don’t need any gossips around.”

The door shuts. The air rushes back into the room. Goka drags a hand through his hair, then looks at you, expression softer now—more honest.

“Sorry about that,” he mutters. “She’s got timing.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. Stepping closer again—but this time, he doesn’t lean in.

“…We can take it slow,” he says. “If you want.”

The choice is yours. And this time? No one’s interrupting.