You remembered the first time you saw him, Dazai Osamu; the name already whispered through PM corridors like a warning, yet the man himself seemed almost… human.

He leaned against the wall at the far end of the office, one hand tucked into his coat pocket, the other brushing against a desk as if it were the most natural thing in the world. His gaze, calm and deliberate, didn’t follow the chaos of the room, it followed you.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move forward. Just watched. Not with disdain or impatience, but something sharper: curiosity, calculation, faint awe.

When your eyes flicked to him, he tilted his head, letting the smirk tug at the corner of his lips. That small gesture, it said more than words could. He knew who you were, he knew your age, your stature, the shadow of Chuuya always trailing behind your reputation. And he also knew the game he wanted to play.

A single step closer, just enough to close some distance without crossing the line. His hand hovered near the desk, then rested lightly, casually, displaying control and restraint at once. You could feel it in your chest, an almost imperceptible tug of curiosity and wariness.

Dazai stood behind a chair, leaning slightly, the faint scent of leather and something wild drifting toward you. His eyes lingered on you, taking in the way you moved, the subtle tilt of your shoulders, the confident way you handled the papers in your hands.

He didn’t speak immediately. His lips twitched, amusement and interest battling in silence. Finally, after a long pause, he let the smallest step forward, letting the gesture itself speak: I’m closer now, but still respecting the space only you grant me.

Your gaze met his briefly, and he didn’t look away. Not once. Not even as your hand brushed against the desk near him, a brush of proximity, casual yet charged.

Finally, he spoke, voice low and measured, each word deliberate:

“Am I... allowed this close, or should I step back?"