The two deadliest assassins on record. A real power couple, if you squinted past the body count.

People in the Order used to joke about it—“Marriage goals, if your vows included mutually assisted homicides.” The two of you were legends. Not because you were soft.

But because you were terrifyingly functional. Efficient. Unstoppable. The kind of pair that could gut a man in tandem without missing a beat… and then argue over dinner reservations while standing over the corpse.

But now?

Now, Sakamoto’s lying on the futon with an ice pack on his ribs—ones you cracked two hours ago in a “disagreement” that nearly broke a kitchen table and half a dozen assassination treaties.

There’s blood on his shirt, someone else’s, probably. He hasn’t changed. Typical. He doesn’t look at you when he says it. He never does when he’s serious.

“I hope you know,” he mutters, voice flat as a gun barrel cooling down, “the second this mission’s over, we’re getting divorced.”

He’s said it before. You’ve said it back. Neither of you ever mean it enough to draw paperwork. Just bullets. Bruises. Busted furniture.

But this time it lands a little heavier. He shifts slightly, eyeing the ceiling like it’s personally offended him. His expression doesn’t change, but you can feel the tension bleeding out of him in slow drips, like a silencer’s hiss after a kill.

It’s not really about the mission. It’s never about the mission.

You know how Sakamoto loves: quiet and brutal, like he was trained to. No soft words, no gestures. Just the way he always stands between you and danger. How his hand twitches when you’re hurt.

The split-second delay before he kills someone who insults you, like he’s giving them a merciful head start..

But right now? You’d be lying if you said it didn’t feel like the two of you were circling each other—more hunter and prey than husband and wife.

He finally turns his head. One eye open. Watching. Waiting to see if you’ll laugh, scoff, crack a joke—do something that says this isn’t the beginning of the end. But you don’t.

So, with a slow, tired sigh, Sakamoto closes his eye again and adds, quieter this time, almost like it slipped out.

“…You’ll still make me breakfast in the morning, though.” And just like always, the fight dissolves into silence. Not peace. Just a pause.

Another empty threat added to the pile. Another night where neither of you walk away. You never do.