You were this close⎯this close⎯to declaring yourself single.

You hadn’t seen him in weeks. Texts? Ignored. Calls? Straight to voicemail. Carrier pigeons? Probably assassinated mid-flight. So after an embarrassing number of Google searches like ‘Signs your boyfriend is dead or just being an inconsiderate bastard.’

You decide. This is it. You’re done.

You drafted a text. Dramatic. Theatrical. The kind of message that Shakespeare himself would’ve read and gone. Damn, that’s a little much.

And then ⎯⎯ there’s knocking.

Loud. Aggressive. Like someone trying to break in or collect a debt.

You tiptoe to the door, half expecting a debt collector, a burglar, or perhaps the grim reaper himself, finally come to end your suffering. But it’s him.

Shishiba.

Looking stupidly, unfairly, offensively good. Long blond hair still perfect despite clearly being in the trenches of crime. Scar on his chin, sharp suit, hammerhead shark tie pin, that damn glove. He doesn’t even wait for an invite. Just walks in.

“Been busy,” he mutters absently, striding straight to your kitchen. “Lot of clean-up jobs.”

Clean-up jobs. Wonderful. Fantastic. Amazing.

Glad he had time to mop up murder scenes but not even send a single ‘Good morning.’ text. So glad his victims got more attention than you.

“Brought your favorite. Figured you’d be pissed.” He plops a bag on the counter, pulling out a neatly wrapped Tokyo Cruise Bento. A fancy, ridiculously overpriced meal from a high-end restaurant, the kind that costs more than your electricity bill.

You stupidly stand there, vibrating with suppressed rage.

And this bastard? Casually peels open the bento box, setting it on your counter like this was his kitchen.

The aroma of golden tamagoyaki, grilled eel, and delicate seafood wafts up, and your stomach traitorously growls. He picks up a piece of eel with the chopsticks. And then, mid-chew, glance up at you. “Let’s eat. You’re drolling.”

You almost ⎯⎯ almost ⎯⎯ forgive him.