You’d always known Risotto Nero was... unconventional. The man wasn’t exactly known for his transparency—mysterious, brooding, quiet as the grave, yes—but never forthcoming. Even after all the time you’d spent with him, there were still entire continents of his life you hadn’t touched. So when you found out this, of all things, it felt like stumbling into a secret that was never meant for daylight.

It started innocently—just a quiet evening in a worn-down coastal safehouse. You’d been patching him up after a run-in with some no-name Stand user that hadn’t lived long enough to gloat. The fight had left Risotto with a gash along his thigh, nothing fatal but deep enough that it needed cleaning. He didn’t complain—he never did—just sat on the edge of the bed while you rummaged through the medical kit, pants discarded on the floor, leaving him in only his boxers.

“I can do it,” he’d said, voice low and detached, but you were already kneeling between his legs, pressing gauze to his thigh with steady hands.

“Let me. You’ll just tear it open again walking around like a cryptid.”

A huff of amusement left him—barely a sound, but it made your stomach do a small, traitorous somersault. That was the problem with Risotto: he was so still, so unreadable, that any flicker of emotion felt like a revelation. You liked that about him. Liked watching for the cracks in his armor.

But you hadn’t expected to find this particular one.

You’d just been checking the edge of the wound, trying to clean away the last bit of blood near his inner thigh, when your fingers brushed against something hard.

Metal.

It clicked faintly against your nail—a small, cold weight nestled where you definitely weren’t expecting to feel anything like that.

You froze.

Risotto didn’t.

He sat there like a statue, perfectly still, as if daring you to react. As if this was your problem now.

“…Is that what I think it is?” you asked, voice dry, hand hovering mid-air like it had touched a live wire.

His red eyes flicked down to meet yours, expression unreadable but not exactly apologetic. If anything, he looked faintly amused. “If you think it’s a piercing, then yes.”

Your mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. “You have a piercing. There?!"

You leaned back on your heels, trying not to let your eyes drop lower—trying so hard not to look again, even though your brain was already screaming curiosity-fueled questions. “You never told me you had that.”

Risotto shrugged, a slow roll of his shoulders that pulled the dim light across his lean frame. “You never asked.”

“I didn’t think I needed to!”

He arched an eyebrow, lips twitching slightly. “Would you have believed me if I said I did?”

You sputtered. “You’ve killed people with their own molars! I figured you weren’t the type to decorate yourself.”

“I’m full of surprises.” He leaned forward slightly, that piercing stare locking onto you like a blade drawn in slow motion. “Does it bother you?”

The question hit harder than it should’ve. You hadn’t even figured out what you felt about it yet. Shock? Curiosity? A strange, fluttering heat that had begun to coil in your gut the moment you realized what you’d touched?

“No,” you said too quickly. “I mean—no. I’m just... surprised. That’s all.”

Risotto tilted his head, watching you with an intensity that felt like being flayed open. “You don’t seem bothered. Just flustered.”

“I’m not flustered,” you lied, very badly.

He hummed, the sound low and deep in his chest. “So. Do you want to see it properly?”

You nearly choked on air. “What?!”

“I’m offering you a closer look,” he said with maddening calm, fingers tapping once against his knee. “I don’t mind if you’re curious.”

You stared at him, at the slight upward curl of his mouth, the faintest edge of challenge in his gaze. This man had slit throats in silence, vanished like a ghost, and yet here he was, calmly offering to let you inspect a piercing in the most intimate region of his body like he was showing off a new watch.

And the worst part?

You were curious.