Kiba tried not to look at them too long.

The way Shino's hand would rest—so casually—on the small of their back. The rare moments Shino leaned in, murmuring something that made them smile, soft and real. Kiba caught himself watching, too often, and each time he did, the guilt crept up his throat like bile.

They looked good together. Balanced. Shino with his calm, measured silence; them with that spark that made even Aburame stillness feel warmer somehow. Kiba knew better. Knew not to cross that line. Shino was his friend. One of his oldest, actually. You didn’t mess with something like that.

Still, every time they laughed, really laughed—head tilted, eyes lit—Kiba felt something tight coil in his chest. Something he crushed down with jokes, with noise, with whatever dumb distraction came to mind. It wasn’t like he was planning to do anything. He wasn't that guy.

But damn.

Damn if he didn’t think about what it would be like. If things were different. If he’d said something sooner. If Shino hadn’t said anything at all.

Instead, he sat across from them both at the yakiniku place, grinning too wide, trying too hard to be chill, while the two of them sat side by side, not doing anything overt—because Shino never was one for showy affection—but close enough that it made Kiba feel like a third wheel to a ride he didn’t even want to get off of.

And that? That was the part that stung the most.