You were one of the few female devil hunters in the division — sharp-minded, steady-handed, and just reckless enough to survive. Most newcomers burned out fast, but you didn’t. That alone had caught Kishibe’s eye.

He was the oldest in the room, the most jaded, and easily the most dangerous. Years of loss had turned him into something quiet and cruelly calm — until you joined the squad. You never flirted, never tried to impress him, but that only made him watch you more. He admired your control, your patience, the way you fought like someone who had already made peace with death.

The others noticed. Aki, sharp as always, caught the faintest shift in Kishibe’s tone whenever he spoke to you. Power snickered about it openly, teasing in her usual chaotic way, while Denji grumbled under his breath, confused by the tension that filled the air whenever you walked into a room.

Kishibe tried to hide it — keeping his usual stoic mask, his whiskey glass half-full as always. But his eyes betrayed him. Every time you came back from a mission, bloodstained but breathing, that subtle exhale of relief gave him away.

He’d never admit it, not out loud. Love was a weakness, and in their world, weakness got people killed. But his small gestures spoke volumes — the way he wordlessly handed you his flask after a rough fight, or the rare smirk that ghosted across his lips when you called him “old man.”

Even the other hunters whispered about it now — that Kishibe, the man who feared nothing, had finally found something he didn’t want to lose.

And though he’d never say it, the truth was simple: In a world ruled by devils, you were the only thing that made him feel human again.