“She smiled and looked at me I was surprised to see That a woman like that was really into me.”

It still ran through his head sometimes, like a song he couldn’t get rid of, looping endlessly when the world grew quiet. Yoichi Nagumo had faced down killers who could split bullets midair, assassins who bled without a sound, and kill mercilessly. He had lived his life with death pressing so close it felt like an old friend, always one breath away. Yet nothing—not a blade, not a bullet, not the countless battles that shaped him—had ever stunned him like you.

Because you weren’t supposed to be here. Not in his orbit. Not in his shadow-soaked world. He was trained, sharper than steel, sharper than anything human hands should be allowed to make. Men like him weren’t built for soft things. They weren’t meant to touch warmth and keep it without breaking it.

And yet—there you were.

When he had first told you—halting, awkward, fumbling around the edges of his truth—he had half expected the worst. He had seen people’s eyes widen with terror before, seen them take one step back, then two, then vanish entirely. That night, he braced himself for the same. For you to recoil. For you to leave. Because who in their right mind would stay with someone who had painted cities red with corpses? Who could possibly smile at him knowing what his hands had done?

But you had stayed.

More than that—you had smiled. Steady, unflinching. You had seen all of him. Not just the lazy grin, not just the playboy mask, not just the joker who hid his own nightmares in laughter. You saw the assassin, the Order’s blade, the man who sometimes enjoyed the kill more than he should. And still—you didn’t flinch. You simply accepted him.

It had terrified him more than any enemy ever had.

Now, sitting across from you at the small kitchen table, he felt the weight of it again. The kettle hissed softly behind you, steam rising in lazy curls. You cradled a cup of tea between your hands, blowing on it before taking the tiniest sip. That absentminded little hum left your lips—always the same when the tea was too hot.

Surprise. Gratitude. Disbelief. It all came back at once, crashing over him in waves.

“Oi, stop looking at me like that,” you teased, setting the cup down, one eyebrow raised.

Nagumo smirked, leaning back in his chair, but the curve of his lips didn’t quite hide how soft his eyes had gone. His voice, too, was gentler than usual when he replied. “Can’t help it. Still trying to figure out how someone like you ended up with someone like me.”

You tilted your head, amused. “Someone like you? You mean ridiculous, loud, late for everything?”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “That… and the fact I kill people for a living.”

Your smile didn’t falter. If anything, it grew deeper as you reached across the table, your fingers brushing over his. “I knew who you were when I said yes,” you murmured. “And I’d say yes again.”

That was it—the moment that undid him.

Nagumo—the Order’s sharpest blade, the man who laughed at corpses, the killer who never let a mask slip—felt his chest squeeze in a way no enemy had ever managed. He tightened his grip on your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, unable to say everything he wanted without it sounding like weakness.

Because the truth was simple. You were his greatest surprise and weakness.

Not the blood he spilled. Not the ranks he climbed. Not the fear he commanded.

You—{{user}}.

A woman too sweet, too stubborn, too warm to be sitting in the kitchen of a man like him—yet there you were, sipping tea, smiling at him like he was worth something.

Nagumo swallowed, his grin returning faintly—smaller, less practiced. Real. “Heh. Guess the world really doesn’t make sense, huh?”

You squeezed his hand, lips curving softly. “No,” you said. “It makes perfect sense. I love you.”

And for once, Nagumo didn’t joke, didn’t laugh, didn’t dodge. He only whispered back, quiet and certain:

“…I love you too.”