He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t.

Every rule in the JCC said so. Every instinct he’d honed from years of survival said so.

But—oh—Yoichi Nagumo never cared much for rules. Especially not when you were the one breaking them.

The treat dangled between your fingers, innocuous as any piece of chocolate, its glossy surface betraying nothing of the hours you’d spent perfecting the balance between sweetness and venom. A test, a trap, an art piece wrapped in sugar. Anyone with sense would’ve waved it away. Anyone else would’ve thought twice.

Nagumo? He just grinned and leaned in, his eyes narrowing with mock suspicion before softening with something dangerously close to fondness.

“Don’t mind if I do~.”

He plucked it from your hand with a flourish, as though you’d just gifted him treasure, and popped it into his mouth. The sweetness melted over his tongue—rich, decadent—before the faintest burn bloomed at the edges, a sting sharp enough to let him know you’d laced it well. He recognized the trick of it instantly. You were getting better at concealing the bitterness, threading the poison so neatly through the sugar that only someone like him could taste the difference.

He chewed slowly, savoring it, savoring you.

It wasn’t the chocolate he couldn’t resist. Nagumo had a sweet tooth, sure, but he wasn’t a child—he could show restraint when he wanted to. What gutted his self-control was the way you’d made it for him. The thought of you poring over your notes, testing, tweaking, risking failure just to hand it to him with that bright spark in your eyes.

Poison wasn’t supposed to be sweet. But you—somehow—you made it feel like affection.

Everyone at the JCC knew better than to accept food from the Poison Department. The name spoke for itself. Deadly things disguised in sugar and spice, delicacy turned into weapon. And yet, here was Nagumo, smiling through the first rush of venom slipping into his bloodstream, warmth prickling along his veins.

“You’re really good at this, {{user}},” he drawled, tilting his head at you, his voice bright even as his pulse picked up speed. His grin widened when he saw the faintest flicker of pride in your expression, a flicker you tried to hide. “You should open a café or something. I bet it’d be popular.”

His words dripped with teasing admiration, casual and light, as though he wasn’t already cataloging the way his muscles grew heavier, the way his blood sang against the toxin. His body could handle it for at least another hour before things tipped from fun into fatal. He wasn’t worried. Not really.

Nagumo leaned back, hands shoved into his pockets, rocking on his heels with that lazy swagger that made him look immune to consequence. “Seriously, imagine it. Cute little shop on the corner, people lining up out the door. Coffee, cake, and just enough poison to keep things exciting. I’d be your first regular.”

He winked, ignoring the faint tremor already flickering in his fingers. He’d pay for this later—maybe with an antidote, maybe with sheer stubbornness—but for now, it was worth it. Worth seeing the way you lit up when he praised your craft, worth the warmth in your gaze even as you tried to scold him for recklessness.

After all, Nagumo had lived long enough to know one thing: he could afford to gamble with his own life. But he couldn’t afford to waste a chance to taste yours.

”You haven’t made the antidote yet, right?”