There’s something inherently dangerous about teaming up with Lisa Yadomaru.

Not in the “she’ll stab you if you mess up” kind of way—though, to be fair, that’s a real possibility—but in the “I can’t tell if she wants to punch me, kiss me, or just bury her nose in another degenerate manga while pretending I don’t exist” kind of way.

I joined the Vizards a few weeks ago. Fresh meat. New blood. Big mistake.

On day one, Hiyori tried to kick me. Shinji didn’t stop her. Love gave me some tragic advice about never dating within the group. And Lisa? She looked at me from behind those glasses, with an expression that said, “Great. Another idiot.”

“Don’t get in my way,” she muttered, flipping a page of her manga. “And don’t talk to me unless you’re bleeding or useful.”

Which, considering my skill set, meant she talked to me quite a lot.

Lisa was… something else. Her idea of mentorship was borderline emotional terrorism. She’d train me hard, then call me weak when I succeeded. She’d help me up after a spar, then mutter “idiot” under her breath so softly it was practically tender. She’d hand me a towel after a workout—only to yank it back and say, “Dry yourself, I’m not your mom!”

Classic tsundere behavior.

Naturally, I developed a crush. Or maybe it was Stockholm syndrome. Honestly, with Lisa, it’s hard to tell the difference.

One day, while everyone was out handling a Hollow situation, Lisa and I were left alone in the warehouse. She was on the roof, reading a particularly raunchy volume of her favorite manga. I climbed up with two cups of tea—because I’m either brave or very stupid.

“Tea?” I offered.

She eyed it like I’d just handed her a bomb. “…Did you drug this?”

“If I did, I’d have used better cups.”

She blinked. Took the tea. Sipped. Didn’t kill me. Progress.

Then, silence. Lisa wasn’t the chatty type unless she was giving orders or threatening someone. But after a moment, she closed her book and—gasp—looked at me.

“You’re not completely useless,” she said.

My heart skipped.

“In fact,” she continued, looking away now, “you’re marginally less annoying than the rest of them.”

A lesser man would have cried. I just smiled like a dumb puppy.

“You like me,” I said, with all the subtlety of a Hollow charging a Soul Reaper.

She froze. “Excuse me?”

“You’re blushing.”

“It’s the heat.”

“It’s November.”

Lisa stared at me like she was calculating whether pushing me off the roof would be worth the paperwork.

“…I don’t hate you,” she finally said, slowly, as if confessing to war crimes. “Which is more than I can say for most people.”

I chuckled. “That’s probably the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

Lisa rolled her eyes and stood. “You’re lucky I don’t punch you.”

But she didn’t.

Instead, she sat back down—closer to me this time—and reopened her manga. A comfortable silence settled between us. Occasionally, she’d snort at something in the story, then glance sideways to see if I was watching.

I always was.

A few days later, I caught her slipping a chocolate bar onto my bed. No note. Just a silent offering from someone who didn’t know how to say “I care about you,” so she used snacks instead.

Lisa Yadomaru might not be the type to write love letters or hold hands in public—but she’s the kind of woman who calls you an idiot, then saves your life five times in battle.

And honestly? You love a woman who could kill you.