It was late—one of those heavy, velvet evenings where the world felt quieter than it should’ve been. The kind of night where even the air moved slowly, thick with something unsaid.

You hadn’t expected to still be at the compound, let alone in the same room as Fukuchi, let alone alone with him.

The others had trickled off hours ago, their conversations fading into laughter down the hall, leaving you to your own stillness.

And then there he was.

Fukuchi always moved like he belonged—like the world spun around him out of politeness.

There was a quiet control to him, a polished sharpness dressed up in elegance. When he walked into a room, he never demanded attention.

He simply received it. Like gravity. Like inevitability.

He poured himself a drink and stood by the window, watching the moon reflect against the glass.

You thought he was going to say something casual, some remark about the mission or the silence or the hour.

But instead, he turned to you with a calm sort of mischief behind his eyes and said, “Do you know how to slow dance?”

You blinked with a confused look.

“Good,” he said, as if that were the answer he wanted. He set down his glass and stepped toward you without hesitation, offering his hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Let me show you.”

Your instincts screamed no—not because you didn’t want to, but because it felt impossible.

You weren’t the dancing type. Graceful was a word reserved for other people, not you. You had too much edge in your movements, too much second-guessing behind your posture.

But he looked at you, patient and still, and somehow… you took his hand.

He guided you into a position with ease—one hand at your back, the other clasped in yours. You felt stiff, awkward, painfully aware of every breath, every twitch of your muscles.

The silence buzzed between you like a thread pulled tight. And then he moved.

Slow. Deliberate. Each step was a quiet instruction. You tried to mimic it, tried to match his rhythm, but almost immediately you stepped on his foot.

Then again. And again. Your face flushed hot with embarrassment.

You immediately tried to back out of it. But he didn’t let you.

Fukuchi chuckled, soft and low, like the hum of an old record. “No, you’re not quitting so soon. You’re learning. That’s different.”

He guided you through another step, and another. It was like he’d done this a thousand times before. Maybe he had.

There was something old-fashioned about him, something carved out of another era. He didn’t dance for show. He danced like it meant something.

Like it was a language no one spoke anymore.

The warmth of his hand settled against your back like a grounding weight. And little by little, your shoulders loosened. Your grip softened.

Your movements smoothed out just enough to mimic the flow of his. You still stepped wrong once or twice, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t mock.

If anything, he adjusted to you.