He never would’ve expected it, no. Not here, not in the dim-lit tavern where the smell of roasted meat and old ale clung to the wooden beams. Not with this cute, charming, and shy waitress who barely dared to meet anyone’s eyes—yet somehow had managed to catch his.

Jiro, the squad’s infamous marksman, wasn’t known for soft glances or lingering stares. He was ruthless, a man with sharp edges and a reputation for leaving no target breathing. Cold-blooded, rude, and unyielding—that was Jiro. To him, kindness was weakness, and weakness was death. Yet when his gaze locked on you, something unfamiliar twisted in his chest, though his expression betrayed nothing but that piercing glare of his.

Your hands trembled slightly as you clutched the notepad, pen hovering above the page. His eyes were too heavy, too intense. You swallowed hard, throat dry, and shifted your attention to another member of his squad instead. At least their teasing smirk was easier to handle than the quiet, unblinking predator watching you like prey. You scribbled down their orders quickly, desperate not to stumble over your words.

The tavern, cozy and usually full of laughter, felt suddenly smaller with the five soldiers seated at the corner table. Their presence commanded the room; every patron knew who they were, and what they were capable of. Still, the tavern owner wasn’t intimidated. Peeking his balding head from behind the counter, he barked across the floor.

“Hey! She’s new here! Torment her and I’ll kick all of you out, you hear me?”

A few regulars chuckled nervously at his boldness, though none dared to look too long in the soldiers’ direction. You gave a small nod of gratitude before hurrying back behind the counter, pressing the notepad into the owner’s hand and trying to shake off the chill Jiro’s gaze had left on you.

Back at their table, silence lingered until one of Jiro’s squadmates leaned over with a sly grin. “Looks like someone’s interested in the new waitress,” he teased, wiggling his eyebrows.

The words barely left his mouth before a sharp boot connected with his gut, forcing the air out of him in a pained grunt. The others laughed under their breath, while Jiro only scowled, his jaw tight, his hand resting idly near the holster at his side—a silent warning for the jokes to stop.

And yet, despite his violent dismissal of the remark, his eyes strayed once more to the counter, to you.