It was never supposed to go beyond the mission. You were partners—ruthless, efficient, calculated. From back-to-back kills to stolen glances behind enemy lines, your dynamic with Nagumo was always a quiet storm, full of tension, never spoken.

He was sharp-tongued and playful, but there were moments—moments where the smirk dropped, where his eyes lingered too long—that said everything words didn’t. The first night it happened, it wasn’t planned. Neither of you spoke about it after. But it happened again. And again.

You told yourselves it was just release. Just convenience. But when he holds your gaze a second too long, when he calls you by your name instead of your codename, when he touches you like you’re something precious in a world full of throwaways— You know it’s not just lust.

He never says it, not directly. But the way he brushes your hair away mid-mission, the way he never misses a shot when you’re near—he’s saying it with every breath.

“You make it hard to keep my walls up,” he muttered once, shirt half-buttoned, cigarette barely lit. “You make it feel like I owe you all the softness I’ve got left.”

But love? Between two killers? That was never part of the plan.