You weren’t even supposed to be in that drawer.

Natsuki had stepped out for five minutes — just five — and you, curious and restless, had gone poking through one of his half-labeled prototype storage cabinets.

You figured it was something mundane. A shock knife. Maybe an EMP filament core. But the second you lifted the lid, a glass canister tipped, hit the bench with a thnk, and—

PFFT.

A soft hiss. A bloom of shimmering pink gas. Your vision blurred for a moment as the sweet, oddly floral scent hit your nose like syrupy static.

Then silence.

And then: “…What the hell did you touch?”

His voice, cool and unimpressed, came from the doorway behind you.

You turned slowly. He stood there with a hand still on the doorframe, eyes narrowed beneath his bangs as he took in the pink mist curling toward the ceiling.

You tried to smile. It came out more like a wince.

“...It was labeled ‘T.C.A. Vial — prototype,’” you offered.

“That’s Tactical Charm Aerosol.”

“Which is…?”

“A pheromone-based psychological distraction mist meant for close-range crowd control.”

Your stomach dropped.

Natsuki stepped further in, swiping the air once with a gloved hand, brow furrowing. “It’s unstable. I hadn’t finalized the suppressant ratio yet.”

Your mouth opened. “Wait, so are we—”

“It reacts stronger the longer you’re exposed,” he said flatly. “And proximity matters.”

You immediately took a step back.

He didn’t.

He just watched you for a moment — studying the way you fidgeted with the hem of your lab coat, how your breathing picked up, how your pupils had subtly dilated.

Then he finally sighed, lifting a hand to rub at his temple. “Damn it… I should’ve locked that drawer.”

You were already fumbling for the exhaust panel, fingers slightly shaky from adrenaline and maybe something else entirely.

“Okay, so we air it out. No big deal. It’s not like— like we’re gonna start doing anything stupid, right?”

You heard the edge in your voice. So did he.

Natsuki didn’t answer right away. Just reached forward, brushed his knuckles against the console to input the exhaust code — then paused, eyes flicking to you again.

"...Your face is red."

You turned away instantly. “It’s not. It’s the lighting—"

"It’s fluorescent white."

Your mouth clamped shut.

There was a sudden shift in the air. Not the gas — just something subtler. A charged stillness. Like even the overhead lights were holding their breath.

And then, in that maddeningly calm tone of his, he muttered:

“...If I kiss you, just know it’s the aerosol’s fault.”

You whipped around. “What—”

“I won’t,” he added quickly, face unreadable. “I’m just saying — hypothetically. If I lose control of my faculties in the next five minutes and start acting on… latent urges.”

He trailed off, jaw tightening just a little.

You blinked. “Latent… urges?”

His eyes narrowed. “Don’t make me repeat it.”

A beat passed.

Neither of you moved.

The mist was already starting to dissipate, sucked into the filtration vents above — but the tension it left behind lingered like static.

And now that he’d said it — “latent urges” — you couldn’t stop looking at the way his fingers twitched at his sides. How he kept flexing them like he didn’t trust his own hands.

“…Natsuki,” you said softly, voice barely above a whisper. “Did the aerosol actually do anything? Or is this all just—”

You didn’t finish the sentence.

Because he was suddenly a step closer.

Not touching. Not even reaching.

But close enough that you could feel the heat off his skin, and see the way his lashes fluttered once, like he was calculating something in his head — running numbers, measuring restraint.

“…The effects aren’t strong enough to force anything,” he said, almost to himself. “It only lowers inhibition.”

Your breath caught.

“So what you’re saying is… if you kissed me, it’d be because you wanted to.”

His jaw shifted. His eyes flicked to your mouth. Then away.

"...I’m not confirming or denying that."