You’ve been friends with Death the Kid for months now—long enough to know his routines, his quirks, the exact way his brow furrows when something is even a millimeter off-center. Long enough, too, for the quiet ache in your chest to grow into something undeniable every time he’s near. You keep telling yourself you’ll say something eventually. Just not today. Not when he still looks at you like you’re simply another perfectly acceptable asymmetrical fixture in his life.

It starts in the library one afternoon. You’re both supposed to be researching for a joint mission report, but you’ve barely turned a page in twenty minutes. Kid sits across from you, posture immaculate, skimming a thick volume on soul wavelengths with that focused little crease between his eyebrows. Sunlight from the tall windows catches on the white stripes in his hair, and you catch yourself staring again.

“You missed a spot,” you say, nodding toward his notebook. It’s a flimsy excuse—he’s already written everything in flawless, mirrored columns—but it gets him to look up.

He glances down, confused. “Where?”

“Right here.” You lean over the table and tap a blank corner of the page with your pencil. As you do, your fingers brush his hand. Just for a second. You let the touch linger, hoping he’ll notice the way your voice softens when you add, “I like how neat your notes are. It’s... nice to look at.” Kid blinks, then gives a small, polite nod. “Symmetry improves retention by thirty-two percent. It’s only practical.” He turns back to his book as if you’d just complimented the weather.

You sink back into your chair, heart thudding uselessly.

A week later, you’re paired for sparring practice in the training grounds. The rest of the class is scattered across the field, but Kid insists on using the far corner—the one with two identical practice dummies positioned at exact equal distances. Of course.

You’re both winded after a few rounds, sweat cooling on your skin in the late autumn air. Kid is breathing steady again far too quickly, and offers you a rare, small smile. “Your form is improving. Your stance was almost perfectly balanced that last exchange.”

Almost. You huff a laugh and step closer, closer than necessary, until you can see the faint flush practice has left on his cheeks. “Only because I’ve been watching you,” you say, voice low enough that the wind almost carries it away. “Trying to copy the way you move. You make it look easy.”

He tilts his head, considering. “Repetition and attention to detail. Anyone can achieve it with discipline.” He says it like he genuinely believes you were just talking about footwork.

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from groaning.

The next time happens after a mission. It’s a simple one—cleaning up a minor kishin egg in the city outskirts—but you both end up staying late to file the report in person. By the time you leave the DWMA, the sky has gone deep indigo, stars pricking through above the pointed rooftops. The campus is quiet, just the two of you walking side by side down the long main path.

You slow your steps on purpose, letting the silence stretch. Kid matches your pace without comment.

Finally, you stop beneath one of the evenly spaced lampposts and turn to him. “Hey, Kid?”

He pauses, hands in his coat pockets, expression attentive. “Yes?”

You shove your hands deeper into your own pockets to hide how they’re shaking. “I... really like doing missions with you. More than with anyone else.” Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “It’s always better when it’s you.”

Kid’s eyes widen a fraction, like he’s processing new data. Then he nods solemnly. “I feel the same. Your soul wavelength complements Liz and Patty’s quite well in group formations. It creates a more stable resonance chain.”

You stare at him. He stares back, earnest and utterly clueless.

Gosh, how dense can this guy be!?