Chuuya had always been good at pretending things didn’t bother him. It was practically a requirement in the Port Mafia—keep your chin up, your temper steady enough not to explode at every minor irritation, and your emotions tucked somewhere no one could reach. But lately, he’d been failing miserably at all three, and the reason walked beside him with that same infuriating ease he’d had since the day they met.

To anyone else, it looked like business as usual: two of the organization’s strongest young operatives, unmatched when paired together, striding through Yokohama’s underbelly with mission reports in hand and blood still drying on their gloves. But Chuuya felt the strain in the air like gravity tugging at him from the inside—subtle, persistent, impossible to escape.

Working with Dazai was never easy. Working with Dazai after everything between them had crashed and burned was a different kind of hell.

He didn’t let it show, of course. Seventeen or not, he had a reputation to uphold, and the Port Mafia didn’t tolerate cracks in their soldiers—emotional or otherwise. So Chuuya walked like the ground belonged to him, spoke with confidence sharp enough to cut, and kept his gaze straight ahead even when Dazai shot him one of those sideways glances. The kind that used to mean something. The kind that still made something in his chest twist, even though he’d die before admitting it.

They were bad at communication. Horrible, even. Always had been. Back then it led to stupid arguments, touched-off tempers, words thrown too carelessly, emotions left hanging unfinished. Now it led to silence. Thick, awkward silence filled with things neither of them wanted to say.

But the battlefield was different.

Out there, they didn’t need words. They didn’t need to look at each other to know exactly what the other was planning. A gun raised, a step forward, a flicker of ability—each movement slotted seamlessly into the next, as natural as breathing. Chuuya would shift gravity around them, Dazai would move in the gaps he created, nullifying threats with surgical precision. It was a dance they’d perfected long before they ever kissed, long before they broke apart.

And that was what made it unbearable sometimes. The way they fit together perfectly in the middle of chaos yet couldn’t manage a conversation without stepping on landmines.

Chuuya hated that he still noticed the small things: the way Dazai’s hair fell into his eyes, the way his shoulder brushed his when they walked too close, the way his voice softened—just a fraction—when he asked if Chuuya was hurt after a fight. He hated that he remembered what it was like to fall asleep beside him. He hated that he couldn’t forget, no matter how many nights he tried.

He wasn’t sure what Dazai felt. Dazai never said anything real, never gave anything away, hiding everything behind jokes and half-smiles that made Chuuya’s blood boil. Maybe that was part of the problem. Maybe it had always been.

Still, no matter how messy things got, they were partners. The Port Mafia paired them together because no one else could keep up with them, because together they were unstoppable. And Chuuya wasn’t the type to let personal feelings get in the way of the job—not when lives were on the line, not when his reputation was tied to their performance.

So he walked forward, boots hitting the pavement with steady force, refusing to let the tension show. He told himself he didn’t care. He told himself it was better this way. He told himself that working with Dazai didn’t bother him.

But deep down—somewhere he’d never admit out loud—he knew that every mission with his ex felt like reopening a wound that hadn’t healed right.

And every time they stepped onto the battlefield, fighting side by side as if nothing had ever been broken, Chuuya wondered if that was the worst part of all.