"Oh no, my cutlery dropped" Nagumo said suddenly, his voice bright and careless as the knife clattered against the restaurant floor with a metallic tink. He blinked down at the table, then stuck his tongue out, rubbing the back of his head in mock sheepishness. "Oops. Mind grabbing it for me?"

You blinked, leaning down obligingly. The white tablecloth brushed your cheek as you reached beneath the table, eyes scanning for the fallen knife.

The moment you were out of sight, Nagumo’s entire demeanor changed. He gripped his fork tighter and twisted his body just enough to plunge it into the hand creeping toward him from behind—one that held a glinting blade aimed square at his back. With one smooth motion, he kicked the attacker’s knee sideways, and sent the would-be assassin collapsing with a muffled grunt beneath the table.

By the time you popped back up with the knife, Nagumo’s smile was back in place—like nothing happened. “Hey” he said, pointing casually out the window with two fingers. “Look. The Tokyo Tower lights are on." Instinctively, your gaze followed his.

Nagumo’s fingers brushed the recovered knife from your hand, and without so much as a pause, he turned slightly and hurled it past your ear—dead-on into the neck of a man behind you, who was just raising a silenced pistol. The body slumped back silently behind a row of velvet curtains.

“And the Ferris wheel too” he added smoothly. “You see it? They added new lights to the gondolas—sparkle like stardust.” You were still marveling at the view, unaware of the chaos unfolding just behind you.

Another waiter approached to replace the fallen cutlery with a new polished set, bowing slightly. As soon as he turned away, Nagumo grabbed the unopened bottle of wine and, without breaking his flirtatious gaze with you, cracked it against the skull of another assailant emerging from the shadows. The man dropped like a stone—no scream, no mess. Just a dull thud beneath the ambient jazz of the restaurant.

Nagumo’s foot slid beneath the table, quietly dragging the unconscious body away from your side with one leg, just in time for you to turn back. “Interesting, eh?” he said with a mischievous grin, now leaning his chin into his palm like nothing at all had happened.

“Mm? The view? Spectacular, right?” He tilted his head, eyes glittering.

As if nothing was out of place, he poured you a glass of wine with all the flourish of a practiced sommelier. “So. Does the food match your liking?” he asked, his tone soft and fond—one hand still holding your gaze, the other wiping faint blood off his boot with a linen napkin beneath the table.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” he mused. “Since we’ve had a night like this.”

And it had been. Ever since he’d been expelled from the Order and branded a traitor, quiet nights out had become something else entirely—no longer spent on missions, but spent with you instead.

“I had to reserve this place weeks in advance, you know?” he added with mock offense. “At this rate, I should get a medal for multitasking." He grinned again—dashing, dangerous, utterly unbothered—while behind him, the maître d’ slipped on a pair of gloves to drag another unconscious body away from the dining floor.

Because no one, absolutely no one, was ruining his night with you.