Zanka noticed it immediately.

He always did.

You were barely five minutes into checking supplies when one of the Cleaners—some guy from another team, loud and a little too comfortable—wandered over and struck up a conversation with you. Too close. Smiling like he’d known you longer than he had any right to.

Zanka scoffed softly, leaning back against Lovely Assistaff with his arms crossed.

Tch. Figures.

He told himself he didn’t care. Really. You could handle yourself. You weren’t fragile. And it wasn’t like the guy had done anything wrong.

Still.

His eyes followed every movement. The way the Cleaner leaned in. The way you laughed—just a little. The way his hand gestured too close to your arm.

Zanka clicked his tongue.

When the guy finally had the nerve to say, “So, uh—maybe after this mission we could—”

Zanka stepped in.

Smooth? Not particularly. Effective? Absolutely.

He slid in beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours, one arm dropping around your waist like it had always belonged there. Casual. Possessive in the quietest way possible. His grip was firm but familiar, thumb pressing lightly at your side.

“Oi,” he said, blue eyes cutting sharply toward the Cleaner. “You need somethin’?”

The guy blinked, clearly thrown. “…Ah—nah, man. Just talkin’.”

Zanka’s mouth twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Yeah? Cool. We’re busy.”

There was no argument. The Cleaner muttered something awkward and retreated fast, suddenly very interested in literally anywhere else.

Only once he was gone did Zanka look down at you.

For a moment, he said nothing. Just stared. Jaw tight. Ears faintly red.

“…Tch.” He clicked his tongue again, gaze sliding away. “You attract weirdos.”

His arm didn’t move. If anything, he pulled you a fraction closer, posture relaxing only when he felt you there.