Can't the future just wait?

⤷ masterlist

you're in your third year at the jcc, and today you have a class on shooting practice. surprisingly, this is the first time you're setting foot in the range. all of this is new to you.

"alright everyone! assemble your guns," the professor shouts from behind the firing line. you jump, hands already getting sweaty. thoughts of doubt already manifesting, making you worry that this isn't gonna end well.

"you have 60 seconds."

the metal parts are cold and firm in your grip and the way they're laid out in front of you reminds you of a lego set. though, the last time you built one was almost a decade ago.

this time, you have no instructions and are completely lost.

there's at least 20 different parts and you have no idea which ones go where.

"that's the... barrel... does this even fit here?"

nagumo yoichi x reader

synopsis: you are a JCC student who ends up meeting a new person after a nap.

warnings: reader is 20 years old and there is a height difference between nagumo and reader.

wc: 965

an: hi! the "inspiration" for this chapter is that unfortunately i got a crush on my professor. this never happened to me before, so is a fun and sad experience, at least nagumo is not old and married *cries quietly in the corner*. the title is a reference to txt forty one winks, yay.

✴︎ Fluff

✴︎ 𝐈𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡, falling asleep in history class wasn't unusual— but waking up with Nagumo's jacket over your shoulders definitely was!

The history teacher’s voice had the unique ability to drain the energy out of an entire room. Words blended together into a low hum, filling the space like background noise. You’d tried to keep up, pen poised above your notebook, but your eyes grew heavier with every passing minute.

One blink too long turned into two, and before you knew it, your head was tipped against the crook of your arm. The lined pages of your notebook blurred under your cheek, warm sunlight from the window resting lazily against your skin.

The last thing you expected was to wake up to warmth that didn’t belong to you.

Something soft was draped over your shoulders—slightly too big, smelling faintly of soap and peppermint gum.

You blinked, groggy, fingers brushing against the fabric. A jacket. Not yours.

You tilted your head to the side, heart stuttering when you caught Nagumo Yoichi a few desks over, leaning on one hand and pretending to scribble in his notebook.

His other hand tapped his pen against the desk in rhythm, but his gaze flicked toward you for half a second—quick, guilty, like he hadn’t meant to be caught.

Your voice came out in a whisper.

“…This yours?”

He didn’t look up, pen still moving across the page in lazy loops. “No idea what you’re talking about...”

You tugged the sleeve closer, letting the soft material pool in your lap. “Hmm... Really? ’Cause it looks a lot like the one you wear every day.”

Nagumo’s pen stilled. Slowly, he glanced up, an unreadable expression crossing his face before his usual smirk settled in. “You must be dreaming still. Guess you’re really tired, huh???”

You fought the smile tugging at your lips. “So you’re just gonna pretend this magically appeared on me?”

“Maybe.” His voice was quieter this time, like it wasn’t meant to carry beyond your desk. “Or maybe someone didn’t want you freezing while drooling on your notes.”

Your cheeks warmed instantly. “I wasn’t drooling!”

That earned you a quiet laugh, the kind that made the corners of his eyes crinkle.

He leaned back in his chair, stretching like the whole conversation meant nothing. “Whatever you say. Just… keep it for now. You look less miserable in it.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them

“Thanks, Yoichi.”

His name left your lips softer than you intended, and for a moment, he blinked at you like he hadn’t expected it. Then his smirk softened into something smaller—quieter, almost shy.

When the bell rang, everyone rushed out, chairs scraping, footsteps echoing. You folded the jacket carefully, ready to give it back, but Nagumo shook his head when you held it out.

“Keep it,” he said, slinging his bag over one shoulder. “You might… need it again.”

And just like that, he walked out first, leaving you staring down at the fabric in your hands, your heart still thudding against your ribs.

ft. Nagumo Yoichi

All his life, Nagumo never failed to kill a target,,

He is a hitman, a methodical killer who lived by a code. 

This was the last favor he should have granted.

What should have been a simple job, nothing personal. Yet here he was, standing over a man who was bleeding out, barely clinging to life. 

First, there was the obvious: 

The man had no connection to him. He wasn’t part of the plan, wasn’t even a target. Just a random nameless casualty in the world of violence.

Second, the man had been torn apart in ways that should’ve made the request ridiculous. 

His legs were gone—nothing but bloody stumps, the bones and flesh obliterated by a well-placed shot. His torso was a mess of open wounds, cuts that had left him half-conscious and gasping for breath. Blood leaked from a dozen places, soaking into the floor beneath him.

Yet, despite the grotesque nature of his injuries, the man’s eyes, blurry with pain, held a sense of desperation in them—something that made Nagumo hesitate for a moment.

Nagumo knelt down beside him, his eyes scanning the man’s broken form. 

“I’ll give you one last thing,” Nagumo said, his voice even, despite the tension in the air. “How do you wish to die?”

The man’s hand, trembling with the last bit of strength he had left, reached for his jacket, and with a strangled grunt, he pulled out a small, clumsily wrapped box. The man’s fingers twitched, unable to hold it properly, and it fell onto the floor with a soft thud. Then, with a strained breath, he reached into his pocket and retrieved a bloodstained letter. He tossed it weakly toward Nagumo.

Nagumo caught it out of reflex, staring at the man in silence.

"Please…" the man rasped, each word a struggle. The effort to speak was killing him. His chest rattled with the wet, labored sound of breathing. "Give it… to my sister… and… maybe…" He coughed violently, a stream of blood spilling from his lips, and the tremor in his hand only grew worse. "Maybe…."

The man’s eyes fluttered, growing dim as his body slowly gave in to the pain. Nagumo watched, unable to move, as life left his target’s gaze. With one final, agonized gasp, the man went still.

Nagumo sat there for a moment, the letter still in his hand, the box lying forgotten on the floor. 

The silence in the room felt heavy. 

There were questions he wanted to ask—why this man had asked for such an absurd favor, but the man was gone.

___________________________________

Nagumo hears the faint click of the lock turning as your apartment door swings open.  

You stand there, staring at him. He’s covered in blood—none of it his—but you don’t seem to mind.  

He recognizes you. 

A face from his time at the JCC. Different circles, different lives. You never interacted as far as he knew, but none of that mattered now. He wasn’t here as a former colleague. He was here to fulfill your dead brother’s last request.  

Wordlessly, he hands you the box and the letter.  

The moment you see it, your breath catches. Tears well up in your eyes, your fingers trembling as you take it from him. You already know what it means. No words are needed.  

And then, without warning, you step forward and wrap your arms around him. A desperate, broken embrace. Maybe for comfort. Maybe because there’s no one else left.  

He tells himself it doesn’t matter. That it’s just a moment. That when you let go, he’ll walk away, and that will be the end of it.  

But you don’t let go.   

He steps into the apartment slowly, closing the door behind him with a soft click. You’re still watching him—silent, tense.

He raises his hands slightly, a gesture of peace. “Hey… it’s okay,” he says gently, as if trying to soothe a frightened animal.

He moves past you and sinks into the couch like he’s been here before, like this isn’t the strangest thing in the world. Maybe it isn’t—not for him.

Maybe he pities you.

Your eyes are hollow now, dim and lifeless, and something about that unsettles him more than it should.

Because he remembers you. Not personally, not closely—but he remembers. You were the type people noticed without trying.

He noticed you first because of your eyes—sharp, focused, burning with ambition. You stood out in a place full of killers and ghosts.

But now? Now they’re empty. And that sadness in him settles like a weight he can’t shake.

So he stays. To fulfill whatever unspoken obligation he feels towards a dead man’s final wish.

But the more time Nagumo spends with you, the more he enjoys it.  

That is, until the day he has to kill you.

___________________________________

"I know." You met his gaze with quiet acceptance, unflinching. "I knew who you were from the start. Don’t worry—I know everything was a lie."

His expression darkened, something unspoken flickering in his eyes. "Not everything."

Your breath hitched.

"Just stop," you whispered, his blade pressing against your chest, the sharp edge resting just above your heart. 

"Do it, Nagumo. You own it anyway."

He stilled at that, his fingers tightening around the hilt. His hands—so steady, so merciless in his work—were trembling. His eyes visibly pained.

His voice barely holding together, frayed like a thread about to snap. "Even if our future ends here. The me you loved was real, and my love for you is not a lie."

Yet he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t even use his iconic weapon.

All that remained in his grasp now is a pistol, held loosely, the barrel pointed at you from two feet away. 

He’s bluffing, he isn’t gripping it right. His stance is open. 

You could take it if you want to. That’s what his eyes are telling you

You were competent—he knew that. He’s giving you a chance to fight.

And so you did.

In one swift motion, you grabbed the gun from his hand, the cold metal now resting in your own grip.

Neither of you moved. Then you saw it—a small, bitter smile ghosting his lips. He didn’t want to kill you. He never did.

All he wanted was to play house with you, to live in a world where this moment didn’t have to come.

But you didn’t take the gun to fight.

You wanted this for a while, long before you met him. His existence only prolonged the inevitable. 

And maybe, just maybe, you wanted to spare him the burden of pulling the trigger.

So, with a relieved smile, you raised the gun to your temple.

“Thanks for telling me, I really loved you too.”

His eyes widened. 

"Wait—"

The shot rang out.

And then there was silence.

Nagumo staggered forward, catching you as your body crumpled. 

"No, no, no—" His voice broke as he sank to his knees, holding you as if he could put you back together. Blood seeped through his fingers, pooling onto the floor, splattered across the walls.

Tears streamed down his face as he buried his head against your shoulder. He should’ve stopped you. He should’ve known.

"Damn it," he choked out, gripping you tighter, as if he could will your warmth back. "You weren’t supposed to go first."

All his life, Nagumo never failed to kill a target.

But for the first time, he wished he did.

___________________________________

I collected the info from these Twitter links - Link 1 , Link 2 , Link 3 , Link 4 , Link 5 , Link 6 , Link 7

Q. Does Order make a lot of money? How much money does an Order member make?

Ans: It's a secret, but rumors say that Nagumo owns the entire top floor of a luxurious penthouse apartment in Minato ward… or maybe not… (in other words, Nagumo is fucking filthy rich because most wealthy people in Japan live in the Minato ward/district of Tokyo City).

Q: Who did the tattoos on Nagumo's body/skin?

Ans: Some tattoos are usually done at a tattoo parlor, while others are done by himself.

Q. Are there any characters who have had a girlfriend before?

Ans: Among the main characters, Heisuke, Natsuki, and Nagumo have had girlfriends in the past. However due to their unique profession as assassins, their relationships don't last long.

Q. What are Nagumo's likes, dislikes & hobbies?

Ans: Nagumo's hobbies are sleeping and playing playful pranks on people. His likes are his bed and nighttime. His dislikes are mornings, to get up early in the morning, and riding fast vehicles. Apparently, he spends his weekends and holidays at home playing sudoku games and doesn't go out and meet people that much.

CHARACTER PROFILE:

Birthday: July 9th

Blood type: A

Height: 190cm

Weight: 78kg

Dominant hand: Ambidextrous

Personal Belongings: “Rokutoku Knife” unique weapon with multiple shapes. He has disguise abilities

RADAR CHART: Kill Skills (From left to right)

5: Potential abilities

5: Physical capability

6: Weapon adaptability

5: Martial Arts

4: Shooting

Suzuki sensei said that Nagumo is a kind-hearted and a very affectionate person. 💖💖💖

Q. How do the SakaDays characters reject a love confession?

Ans: Nagumo lies and says, "sorry, I’m already dating someone." If the person insists that they don’t mind, he doubles down with, "actually, I have two girlfriends~" and keeps lying...

Q. Popular male characters ranking???

Ans: 1st place: Natsuki, 2nd place: Nagumo, 3rd place: Shishiba

Q. Which characters are strong or weak drinkers, and who has bad drinking habits?

Ans: Yotsumura & Etsuko are strong drinkers. Nagumo, Lu & Shin are weak drinkers. Kindaka has bad drinking habits and is disliked by his subordinates.

Q. If the SakaDays characters weren't assassins, what would their alternative jobs be?

pairing- Nagumo Yoichi x reader

summary: you are Takamura’s granddaughter, a well-trained assassin who never got the chance to shine. That was until one day, when The Order observed your skills and offered you a position in the association.

All new colleagues seemed happy, everyone but him. His dark coat, eyes, and hair all indicated how much he loved hiding. And how much he loved hating you, the opposite of him, who he considered had no right to be there—also, the one who hates how you make his heart skip a beat.

tags  & warnings-> reader is 19, Nagumo is 27, age gap, series, office au, forbidden love, enemies to lovers, playboy x sweetheart, angst and smut, Takamura is still everyone’s nightmare except Nagumo’s, mentions of blood, reader has awfully little experience, also there might be some Shishiba x reader here and there

status: ongoing

credits: fanart by @/chachaxx_x on X

CHAPTER TWO

The air in Japan’s national airport buzzed with more than just the scent of overpriced coffee and families navigating departure gates. There was a hum of tension, of anticipation—people heading out on adventures, reunions, escapes. Among them, you and Nagumo walked toward the restricted area that led to your private jet. Being assassins meant perks like that, but unfortunately, it didn’t mean skipping the walk through the airport… or avoiding the consequences of a certain very long night.

Your legs were screaming. Not from the weight of your baggage, but from the soreness radiating through your entire body. You’d done your best to keep it together, but right before you boarded, your knees buckled. Nagumo was quick to catch you—his veiny hands landing on your stomach, steadying you.

“Princess, you okay? Your legs are jelly. Nervous? Or…?” he asked, tone laced with suspicion and something smug.

“It’s nothing! Long night,” you muttered, trying to brush it off.

“Long night, huh…” he echoed, clearly not buying it. “Was it at least good?”

Your throat tightened as your face lit up with heat, memories flashing like wildfire.

You didn’t answer.

The Night Before...

You bolted to the door the second the bell rang.

There he was—Shishiba, in all his dangerously calm glory. Blond strands tousled, eyes sharp but warm. Just seeing him in your doorway made something inside you twist.

“Hey,” he greeted, casual, low-voiced.

“H-hey, s-senpai…” You replied, stumbling over your words like a schoolgirl with a crush.

A smirk tugged at his lips as he stepped closer, his minty breath brushing your cheeks. “Mind if I come in?”

“Please do. Sorry!”

He chuckled as he stepped inside. Your apartment suddenly felt smaller. Warmer. Tighter.

You weren’t even sure why you’d asked him over—only that the idea of facing the next day alone had felt unbearable. Shishiba noticed your nerves right away, and soon he was pouring you both a glass of your favorite red wine. That detail didn’t slip past you.

“Thanks for coming, senpai.”

“You’re welcome. I know Nagumo’s not easy. I’ve done more missions with him than I can count. He’s a walking disaster.”

“He is unpredictable.”

Shishiba huffed a laugh. “You’ll handle it. You’re Takamura’s granddaughter.”

“If only I were half as strong as he.”

“You’ve got something he never had,” he said, handing you your glass before settling next to you on the soft, grey couch.

“And what’s that?”

“A heart.”

You blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You care. You put up with Oki’s nonsense, you push yourself to be more, not for glory, but because you want to protect people. You carry that pressure and still look after others.” He took a sip, then added with a grin, “Takamura once set my desk on fire for skipping a mission to take Osaragi to a fireworks show.”

You stared. “That sounds… exactly like him.”

“But you? You wouldn’t do that to someone you care about.”

“And yet,” you said, unable to mask the flicker of envy, “you care about Osaragi.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Yeah. We’re close. It’s normal.”

Your eyes dropped. The jealousy slipped in, uninvited.

He noticed.

His hand found your thigh, fingers warm and grounding. You turned toward him, heart skittering, and found his face inches from yours.

“S-senpai?”

“You’re jealous.”

“Pfft! Me? Why would I be? There’s nothing between us, so…”

“Right. So you won’t mind if I do this.” He set both glasses aside and tugged you gently into his lap.

“Th-this is totally platonic, huh?”

“Perfectly normal,” he teased, voice dripping with mischief.

You tried to squirm away, but that only made things worse—his expression darkened with satisfaction as he noticed the growing damp spot on your lingerie.

“It’s not what you think!”

“Sweetheart… you’re this wet for me?” he murmured, fingertips brushing your jaw, his eyes locked on yours.

“Maybe…”

“I wonder how much needier you’ll get when I really touch you.”

His mouth trailed to your neck, kissing softly, then deeper, sparking every nerve. One hand slid under your shirt, slowly, reverently.

“Can I take this off?”

You nodded.

“Words, sweetheart.”

“Yes.”

Your shirt slipped off like it had never belonged there. Then your bra. His breath caught.

“Goddamn…”

You undid his tie slowly, fingers brushing each button open one by one. His gaze never wavered—hungry, full of heat.

He cupped your breasts, thumbs brushing sensitive peaks, coaxing gasps from you. Then his mouth, hot and sinful, took over, teasing until you were arching beneath his touch.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he whispered.

You could only moan, your voice catching.

Your skirt hit the floor. Your back hit the bed. The world tilted.

“You feel unreal,” he groaned. “So fucking tight. Like you were made for me.”

He thrust into you slowly at first, then deeper, harder, biting down on your shoulder as he buried himself inside you.

“S-Shishiba!”

His hand circled your throat, light enough to tease, firm enough to thrill. “Say it again.”

“Shishiba…”

“Good girl.”

His pace quickened—rough, relentless. He flipped you over, yanking your hips back as he slammed into you again and again.

“So fucking greedy for me,” he growled, breath ragged.

You couldn’t even speak.

“No smart remark?”

“Too good… can’t…”

He kissed you like a man starved, one hand tangled in your hair. His rhythm didn’t falter.

“Cum with me, sweetheart.”

“Yes—please!”

Present day...

You shifted in your seat, trying to ignore the heat spreading under your skin, the memory of last night’s chaos still fresh, still alive in every pulse. The hum of the plane and the steady rhythm of your breath couldn’t erase it, no matter how hard you tried to push it down.

Nagumo’s head remained on your lap, his warmth spreading through you like an unexpected fire. The damn man knew, and that made everything worse.

“You’re awfully quiet, princess,” he said, voice low and tinged with something dangerous. His fingers brushed against the hem of your jacket, close enough to send a shiver down your spine.

“I’m tired,” you muttered, hoping that was enough to keep him from asking more questions.

“Tired or wrecked?” he shot back, eyes narrowing as he tilted his head just enough to catch your gaze, his lips curling into something almost playful. Almost.

You swallowed hard, the tension creeping up your neck. The way he looked at you felt like more than just casual curiosity; it felt like a hunt.

“It’s none of your business,” you said, a little too quickly, but the words felt weak, thin against the weight of his stare.

“Oh, but it is,” he teased, his voice barely a whisper as he lifted his head off your lap and leaned in closer. The heat from his body was almost unbearable. “Everything about you is my business, sweetheart.”

The words hung between you, thick with something unspoken, something that hadn’t been there a second ago.

You were about to open your mouth to snap something back when the turbulence kicked in, throwing you off balance. Nagumo’s hand shot out automatically to steady you, brushing against your side with just enough force to make your heart skip. He looked at you—no, he studied you, like he was mapping you out in that moment, trying to figure out what the hell had you so rattled.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, voice low. His fingers were dangerously close to your ribs now, just brushing the soft fabric of your shirt.

“I’m fine,” you insisted, but your voice wasn’t as steady as you’d like.

“Are you?” he asked, the question dripping with something you couldn’t place.

Your eyes flicked to his hand, then back to his face, knowing full well that if he decided to push you any further, you might just break.

Never go back to the person who did you dirty. Some things are better left in the past. :P

Part 1 part 2

It had been three weeks since that rainy day.

Since that smile.

Since Nagumo realized there was no going back.

You’d looked at him like a classmate you barely remembered. Polite. Indifferent. Kind, even—but not the kind he used to know. Not the kind meant for him.

And that should have been the end of it.

But life—cruel, ironic, nostalgic life—had other plans.

It was late.

The campus library was near empty. Finals week had drained most students dry, and even the vending machines were out of stock. Nagumo hadn’t meant to stay this long—he never studied this hard before. But something about the silence, the routine, the loneliness… it gave his brain somewhere to go that wasn’t the past.

He was packing up when he saw you.

Not across the room. Not from a distance.

You were right there, standing in front of the returns desk, flipping through a book with a crease in your brow. The hoodie you wore wasn’t Gaku’s—it was yours. Your old one. Faded at the sleeves. You looked tired. Human.

And then you looked up.

The silence hit harder than any sound could have.

You blinked, like maybe you weren’t sure it was him.

Then your lips parted. “Yoichi.”

Not Nagumo. Not hey. Just his name. His real one.

It scraped something raw inside him.

“Hey,” he said, too quietly.

You didn’t walk away.

Instead, you sighed and gestured to the bench by the windows. “I don’t want to stand.”

He nodded. Followed.

You both sat. The air between you held years—lifetimes—of unsaid things.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” you murmured, eyes fixed on the dark glass in front of you.

“I could say the same,” he replied.

Another silence. But this one didn’t cut.

It just… hung.

“I saw you that day,” you said finally. “Behind the stairs.”

He swallowed. “Yeah. I figured.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything. I thought it’d be easier.”

“Was it?”

You didn’t answer. Just tilted your head back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut.

“I hated you,” you said, as simply as if you were reading from a grocery list. “For a long time.”

“I know.”

“And I hated myself even more—for still checking your socials. Still wondering if you ever meant it. Any of it.”

“I did,” he said instantly. Too fast. Too late.

Your eyes met his. Clear. Tired. Still beautiful.

“Then why?”

Nagumo exhaled, the breath shaking like a damn confession. “Because I was an idiot. And a coward. And I thought if I kept pretending it wasn’t real, it wouldn’t hurt when I lost it.”

“But it did.”

He looked down. “Yeah. It really did.”

You nodded slowly, fingers gripping the edge of your book like a lifeline. “I loved you, you know.”

“I know.”

“And I think a part of me always will.”

He closed his eyes.

Because that—that—was the knife.

“I’m happy now,” you said, and your voice was soft. Almost apologetic. “Not because I stopped loving you. But because I stopped needing answers.”

Nagumo bit the inside of his cheek. “And Gaku?”

You smiled, barely. “Gaku saw me. Not the version you wanted me to be. Just… me.”

He nodded. “He’s good at that.”

Silence again.

But this one felt like closure.

Not an ending. Just a page turning.

“I’m not here to hurt you, Yoichi,” you said as you stood, tucking your book beneath your arm. “I just… needed to know you were real. That we were real. Even if it ended.”

He looked up at you, eyes rimmed red but no tears falling. “You were the only real thing in my life.”

You gave him one last look. Gentle. Sad. Forgiving.

“I hope you find something real again,” you said.

And this time, you walked away.

No hoodie. No anger. No heartbreak.

Just peace.

And Nagumo?

He stayed on that bench, letting the weight of your goodbye settle in his chest like dust in an old room.

You didn’t come back.

But you left the light on.

Bet(2)

That's great to hear, thanks for reading!!(⁠ ⁠◜⁠‿⁠◝⁠ ⁠)⁠♡

It had been a year.

A full year since you walked away—eyes swollen, voice cold, his hoodie shoved into his chest like it burned you.

Nagumo remembered every detail.

The way your fingers trembled when you let go. How you didn’t scream, didn’t cry, didn’t beg. Just silence. Cold, cutting silence. That hurt more than anything else could’ve. You didn’t need to yell. You were done—and he knew it.

You disappeared after that.

You dropped his classes. Avoided the hallways he walked. Changed your routes, your routines, your everything—as if even sharing air with him was too much.

And maybe it was.

But you didn’t just vanish from his life. You stayed in his head. His skin. His bones.

He saw you in stupid places—in the library where you used to study with your hair tied up in that lazy bun, pencil tucked behind your ear. In the rows of vending machines where he used to steal your favorite snacks just to watch you pretend to be mad. In the back stairwell where you broke down that one time, and he just… held you.

Back then, it felt like he was allowed to.

Now?

You wouldn’t even look at him.

Everyone else moved on. Graduation came and went. People laughed, made memories, posted pictures. You didn’t show up to the afterparty. He stayed anyway, sitting on some guy’s porch, ignoring every drink and every question thrown his way.

Because you weren’t there.

You hadn’t been there for a long time.

He tried once. Messaged you a single word: hey.

Left on “delivered.” Not read. Not answered.

He deleted it an hour later.

He told himself you were better off. That maybe if he kept his distance, you could forget the way he’d humiliated you—made you fall, then let you hit the ground so hard, you shattered.

But some nights, when the guilt dug under his skin like splinters, he’d read through your old texts. The ones where you sent him dumb facts. Songs you thought he’d like. Long rants about books he’d never read, and little paragraphs that ended with goodnight and I hope you dream something nice.

He never replied to those the way he should have.

Now all he dreamed about was the sound of your voice when it broke.

Sometimes he saw you in the halls, now that university had started. You looked different—sharper. Your eyes colder. You didn’t hide behind sweaters anymore. You didn’t hide at all. But you never looked at him.

Not once.

It was like you had burned him from your memory entirely.

And he couldn’t even blame you.

He still remembered what you said before you left.

> “I was nothing to you. But you were everything to me.”

He’d replayed it so many times, it echoed even in silence.

You never gave him the chance to explain. But maybe that was mercy. Because there was no explanation good enough. No words that could undo what he did.

He turned you into a bet.

And lost the only person who ever saw him.

Not the jokes. Not the swagger. Him.

And maybe this was what he deserved.

Because you’d finally stopped being invisible.

But now he was the one no one saw.

Not even you.

It was raining when it happened.

Of course it was.

He was sitting beneath the outdoor staircase behind the cafeteria—old habits die hard. Hoodie over his head, headphones in, trying not to think. Trying not to feel.

Then he heard laughter.

Your laugh.

It cracked through him like lightning.

He looked up, just in time to see you round the corner—hood up, hair damp, a book clutched in one hand. And beside you?

Gaku.

His arm draped loosely over your shoulders. Comfortable. Easy. Like it had been there a hundred times before.

You said something that made Gaku grin, and he reached out to tuck your hair behind your ear.

Nagumo froze.

You didn’t see him—not right away. But Gaku did. His eyes met Nagumo’s with a look that wasn’t smug. It wasn’t cruel, either. Just knowing.

He nudged your shoulder. You turned.

Your eyes locked.

And for a second, the world stopped.

He opened his mouth.

“Hey.”

One word. A whisper. Pathetic.

You looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time in over a year.

And then?

You smiled.

But it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t warm.

It was distant. Civil. A smile reserved for strangers. For forgotten memories.

“Hi,” you said simply.

Then you turned back to Gaku. He offered you his jacket. You took it without hesitation.

And walked away.

Nagumo didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

Because that was the final nail. The last thread snapping.

You were gone.

Really gone.

Not invisible.

Just untouchable.

And Gaku?

He saw you now.

The way Nagumo never deserved to.

OKAY so how about highschool nagumo got caught that his relationship with reader was just a bet? but he DID truly love her!! this could be angst-comfort but honestly i don't mind with anything. ill gladly read anything if its from you, thank youuuuu :)

Bet

Hiii! <333 That’s so sweet of you to say, thank you! I hope you like it!! I decided with angst with no comfort cuz why not:>

You were invisible.

You knew it. Everyone did. You wore oversized sweaters, kept your head down, and always sat in the second row—not close enough to be called on, but not far enough to seem like you were trying to disappear. You spoke when spoken to. You got perfect grades. You were the type of girl people forgot existed unless they needed help with homework.

And then Nagumo happened.

He wasn’t just popular—he was magnetic. He had a lopsided smile that made teachers sigh in frustration and girls laugh a little too loudly. He wore his uniform like it was optional and carried himself like he owned the school. You had nothing in common. You didn’t even share classes—until junior year biology.

He sat next to you with a dramatic sigh and a wink. “Looks like I’m stuck with the class genius. Lucky me.”

You blinked at him like he was an illusion.

“You know my name?” you muttered.

“Of course I do,” he said, grinning. “You’re the girl who always smells like library books and mint gum.”

You nearly choked. “Excuse me?”

“I meant it in a cute way.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the way your heart fluttered, but his smile was too wide, too infectious. He was relentless, and yet there was something oddly comforting about the way he treated you like you mattered—like you weren’t just another nameless face.

It started with jokes.

You tried to push him away at first, using your textbook as a shield, but he wouldn’t let you off that easy. He’d slide into your line of sight during lectures, make dumb faces, or tap the back of your chair when he thought you weren’t looking. He’d find ways to pull you into conversations you didn’t want to be part of, laughing at your awkwardness. At first, it was annoying.

Then, it was familiar.

Then, it was comforting.

Then, you were looking forward to those stupid notes he passed you under the desk, those ridiculous doodles, the way he’d randomly show up at your locker, making small talk with that devil-may-care attitude.

"Did you actually do all the problems from last night’s homework?" he asked one afternoon, leaning way too close to your shoulder as he peered at your notes. "You’re like a robot, Y/N. It’s terrifying. It’s like you don’t even try and still get everything right."

You snorted. "It's not that hard," you mumbled, trying to pull your notebook out of his reach.

"Right, of course. Tell me, do you just think in equations, or do you have a secret lab where you build all your perfect grades?" He grinned, clearly enjoying how flustered you were.

You frowned, but his teasing smile was so easy, so effortless that you found yourself smirking back. "Maybe I do. Maybe I’m secretly a genius who doesn’t need to try to pass."

He nudged you with his elbow. "I like the sound of that."

The tension between you both started to shift. What had started as a simple back-and-forth of casual teasing turned into something more—something deeper. You told yourself it was nothing. He was just being friendly. He probably did this with every girl he found interesting.

But then, things changed.

He started walking you home. Texting you good morning, good night. He’d send you messages at random times of the day with nothing but a simple “Hey” followed by an emoji. You always felt that familiar flutter in your chest. You’d respond, your fingers trembling slightly, heart pounding a little faster than normal. And sometimes, in those quiet moments, you’d let your guard down. You started sharing things with him—things you hadn’t told anyone. How your parents expected too much from you. How the pressure to be perfect all the time was suffocating. How you didn’t know who you were anymore, buried under the weight of everyone else’s expectations.

He listened. He never interrupted.

"Maybe that's why you always smell like mint gum," he said one night, after listening to you vent about your fears. "You're fresh. New. You hold everything together, even when you feel like you're falling apart."

You laughed a little. “Maybe you should get a mint or two, then. You could use it.”

His smile softened, and for the first time, you saw something in his eyes—something real. "I guess I just get lucky."

Then, one day, you kissed him.

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t a grand gesture. It wasn’t anything except the way you’d both ended up in the art room after hours, the walls around you splattered with bright colors and forgotten projects. You didn’t know why you did it—why you let your lips brush against his, why you let your hand trail up to the back of his neck as he responded, slow and tentative at first, like he couldn’t quite believe it either.

But then it deepened. He pulled you closer, his body heat radiating into yours, and it was perfect. His touch was tender, but the kiss was passionate—like everything he’d been holding back was unleashed in that moment.

“I like this,” you whispered, forehead pressed to his. “Being with you. It’s like… like we’re in our own little world.”

He smiled softly, his hands framing your face. “Yeah. Just you and me.”

You believed it. For a while, that was all that mattered. You weren’t invisible anymore. He made sure of that.

But life has a way of shattering illusions.

One day, you were walking past the gym, earbuds in, when you heard voices. Familiar voices.

“Bro, she actually fell for you?”

You froze, your feet glued to the ground. Your heart stopped.

“You owe me that lunch money. That’s a win.”

“Wait, what?” your voice caught in your throat. “Lunch money?”

“Yeah, I bet you could get her to fall for you in a week,” one of his friends laughed. “And guess what? You did.”

Your heart dropped, and the world seemed to tilt on its axis.

“How long did it take again?” The other voice chimed in.

“A week,” Nagumo said, laughter in his voice. “She practically did all the work for me.”

No. No, no, no. You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

His next words echoed like a sick joke in your ears.

“But she’s not so bad, y’know? I mean, for a nerd, she’s kinda cute when she gets all serious. Almost makes me feel guilty.”

“Almost?” someone snorted.

And then there it was again. His laugh. The sound of him enjoying the joke at your expense.

Your vision blurred, the hot sting of tears threatening to spill over. But you didn’t let them fall—not yet. Not until you were far enough away from him that he wouldn’t see.

That’s when you realized.

You had been a bet. A joke. An easy target. You had trusted him. And he had turned it into something so, so easy to destroy.

---

You didn’t go to class after that. You didn’t even go home. You just walked. And walked. The cold air bit at your skin, but it was nothing compared to the numbness settling in your chest.

The tears came, then. Quiet at first, just little cracks in the dam you’d tried to build. But soon, they were all-consuming. You couldn’t stop them. They burned your throat. They suffocated you.

The worst part wasn’t the betrayal. It was that you still loved him. You still wanted him to apologize. You wanted him to take it all back, to pull you into his arms and promise that it had all been a misunderstanding.

But it wasn’t.

When he found you, hours later, you were still wearing his hoodie—the one he had given you that day, in the hallway, when he had made you believe you meant something to him.

“Y/N—hey, what’s wrong? You weren’t answering your—”

You turned to him slowly, your face a mask of hurt and anger.

“Was it fun?” you whispered, voice cracking.

He blinked, stepping forward. “What?”

“Playing with me.”

He froze. His breath hitched. “What? No, I—”

“You said it took a week,” you said quietly, almost too quietly, your voice trembling. “You made me fall for you in a week. Congratulations.”

His eyes widened. “No, no, Y/N, I didn’t mean it like that. It started out as a joke, but I swear it turned into something real. It was real—I was real. Please—”

“You should’ve never touched me,” you said, your voice cold now, sharper than a knife.

He reached for you, his hand shaking. “Please… just let me explain—”

You flinched back, your breath coming fast as your chest tightened. “No. You don’t get to explain anymore. I was nothing to you, but you were everything to me.”

You yanked off his hoodie and shoved it into his chest, the fabric of it like sandpaper against your palms. The weight of the betrayal pressed down on you, suffocating.

And then you walked away.

This time, he didn’t follow you. He didn’t call out your name.

Because this time, it was too late.

And maybe that was the real lesson.

But If I can, can I have nagumo x Isekaid!fem reader who is a Fangirl of him in her world,but when she meet him she start to avoiding him, when he start to talk to her she respond with a short talk, when he approach her she start to search any reason to get away from him.

But, unknown to her he is interested in her, he think she is just shy thats why she have been avoiding him.

He start to chase after her trying to communicate with her and be close to her.

She work at aoi's convinience store after she (aoi) offer her to work at her store, knowing she didn't have any place to go to.

Out of frame

I hope you enjoy it!! Thinking of turning this into a series—stay tuned for more!

You’ve gotten good at pretending.

Pretending you’re just a regular girl working part-time at a small convenience store. Pretending you know how to use the ancient cash register. Pretending this whole situation—this entire universe—doesn’t make your brain want to short-circuit.

Because you’re not from here.

And you’re not supposed to know who Nagumo is.

But you do.

You know too well.

You knew him before he knew you even existed—back when he was just lines on a page, a fictional favorite you obsessed over. The smug smile. The ridiculous outfits. The chaotic energy. The multi-tool with too many blades to count.

You’d crushed hard. Secretly, embarrassingly hard.

And now?

Now he’s real.

And he shops at your store.

You saw him the first time a week ago, just after you started working for Aoi. He strolled in like a man who didn’t need to make an entrance to own a room. Hair messy, hands in his pockets, that signature lazy grin stretched across his face.

You’d gone cold. Then hot. Then borderline faint.

The shock was so strong you’d ducked behind the counter and pretended to reorganize gum packets just to avoid eye contact. He bought a drink, paid in exact change, and left without a clue that your life had just ended.

Since then, it’s become your personal nightmare.

Nagumo stops by constantly. Sometimes twice a day. Always with some excuse—snacks, soda, “forgot something.” And every time, you freeze. You mumble a quick answer. You make yourself small. You run.

Literally. You’ve fled to the stockroom so many times Aoi thinks you have a bladder condition.

But she doesn’t question it. And she never asks why your hands shake a little when you restock the candy aisle.

She doesn’t know the truth.

She doesn’t know you’re from another world—his world.

And that you used to write self-insert fanfiction about the man currently leaning against the freezer case.

“Hey, shorty,” Nagumo calls lazily, cracking open a can of soda before paying for it. “Don’t tell Aoi I opened this early.”

You don’t answer. Just nod stiffly and pretend to count receipts.

“Still shy, huh?” he adds, stepping up to the counter with a slight tilt to his head. “You’ve been dodging me like I’ve got the plague.”

You flinch. Internally curse your face for heating up.

“…I’m just busy,” you mutter, eyes fixed on the register.

“Uh-huh. Super convincing.”

You hear the click of metal—instinctively you glance up, only to see him fiddling with something in his hand.

Your breath catches.

It’s his multi-tool—a sleek, compact contraption currently unfolding into a wickedly curved blade. He’s not threatening anyone. Just casually spinning it between his fingers, like it’s a pen and not a lethal weapon.

“I cleaned it this morning,” he says offhandedly, noticing your stare. “Gotta keep the tools sharp. Never know when you’ll need to slice open a vending machine or a car door.”

You blink. “That’s oddly specific.”

“Occupational hazard.” He smirks. “What, scared of a little knife?”

“Multi-tool,” you say before you can stop yourself.

He raises an eyebrow. “Oh? So you have been paying attention.”

Shit.

You look away instantly. “It’s obvious.”

“Sure it is.”

Nagumo leans over the counter slightly, resting his elbows as he studies you. You swear you feel the weight of his gaze—not just on your face, but under your skin.

He’s not teasing the way you thought he would. There’s something quieter in his eyes. Something interested.

You panic.

“I, um—I need to check the storage fridge,” you blurt, backing away. “It’s… acting weird.”

You don’t wait for an answer before ducking through the swinging door behind the counter. Cool air hits your face like a slap, and you slump against the wall.

“Get it together,” you whisper to yourself. “He’s just a guy. A really hot guy with knives and excellent comedic timing and—ugh.”

You press your palms to your cheeks and groan.

Through the door, you can still hear him whistling. Waiting.

You’d hoped by avoiding him, he’d lose interest. That you could quietly exist in the background of this world, far from the chaos of the manga panels you used to read.

But it’s not working.

Because Nagumo?

He doesn’t walk away when things get weird.

He walks closer.

And he’s starting to make you wonder what’s scarier—

That you might have to talk to him eventually…

Or that you might want to.

Taglist: @shenwi @astronomyloveraster @yokaistirfry @shineinouzen15 @cjafjatkstke @starizzm @imightgoinsane @istillrememberyoureyes @ilovewhattatops @elorajelaaa @takenbyacircle @ilylmwwifys @empty-void-of-dreams

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pairing- Nagumo Yoichi x reader

summary: you are Takamura’s granddaughter, a well-trained assassin who never got the chance to shine. That was until one day, when The Order observed your skills and offered you a position in the association.

All new colleagues seemed happy, everyone but him. His dark coat, eyes, and hair all indicated how much he loved hiding. And how much he loved hating you, the opposite of him, who he considered had no right to be there—also, the one who hates how you make his heart skip a beat.

tags  & warnings-> reader is 19, Nagumo is 27, age gap one-shot, office au, forbidden love, enemies to lovers, playboy x sweetheart, angst and smut, Takamura is still everyone’s nightmare except Nagumo’s, mentions of blood, reader has awfully little experience, also there might be some Shishiba x reader here and there

status: ongoing CHAPTER ONE Your heels echoed sharply against the polished marble floor as you hurried through the halls of JAA headquarters, heart pounding like a war drum beneath your ribs. Today was your first mission assignment—finally—and you couldn’t afford to be late. Until now, your days had been consumed by endless stacks of paperwork and the suffocating monotony of office life. You had spent months trapped behind a desk, watching your colleagues vanish into the field with adrenaline in their veins and dirt on their boots, while you were left to file reports and refill pens.

Worse than the boredom? Him. Mr. Teaser himself. Nagumo Yoichi.

He had a knack for appearing unannounced, like a storm you forgot to check the weather for. He’d swagger into your office, track blood onto the floor, and drop off yet more work with a smirk that made your skin crawl. Then he'd lean against your desk like he owned the building, casually recounting his latest mission while enjoying the fact that you weren’t going anywhere but the copy machine.

Nagumo Yoichi was infuriating. Arrogant, smug, and endlessly teasing. Your sworn enemy in the office.

You had complained to your grandfather once—just once—about him. The next morning, the office was in chaos. Nobody could prove it, but you were fairly certain he had orchestrated the blackout and the internal security breach just to send a message. Since then, you’d tried locking Nagumo out of your workspace, but he always found a new way to slink in. Like a cockroach in designer clothes.

“You know my gram—Mr. Takamura—would murder you if he knew you were sneaking around like this,” you’d warned him once, half-joking.

He just grinned and said, “Worth it.”

Today was your moment. Your shot to prove that you were more than just a glorified secretary. That you belonged out there in the field, not behind a desk with Nagumo leaning over your shoulder and driving you insane.

You didn’t realize how deep in thought you were until Oki’s office door appeared in front of you like a boss battle checkpoint. Damn it—had you just spent the whole walk thinking about him again?

You shook the thought away and knocked, forcing yourself to stand tall. A calm voice answered from the other side.

"Come in."

You slid the door open, stepping inside with a respectful bow and closing it quietly behind you. Oki’s office was lined with towering bookshelves, each one filled with neatly arranged volumes on strategy, history, and intelligence operations. It smelled of old paper and cedarwood—a scholar’s haven, not a battlefield. Yet somehow, the air felt heavier than usual.

"Miss Y/N," Oki greeted you warmly. "Thank you for coming on such short notice. I wasn’t sure you’d accept the assignment, especially considering it’s your first infiltration mission. I assumed you’d prefer more training first.”

“I’m honored, Mr. Oki, truly.” You clasped your hands behind your back. “I want to prove that I can do more than just paperwork.”

He smiled, but there was hesitation in his eyes. “Of course. You’re his granddaughter, after all. I’ve seen your combat potential... but your grandfather was always there to back you up. This job is different. Are you sure you’ll be fine on your own?”

In translation: Don’t screw this up.

“Yes, sir.” Your voice didn’t waver.

“Good.” He leaned back slightly. “But just to be safe, I’m assigning you a partner. I know the two of you don’t exactly see eye to eye, but consider it a learning experience.”

Your heart skipped a beat.

A low voice spoke from the window behind Oki’s desk. “What could I possibly learn from her?”

You didn’t need to turn around. You knew that voice.

And there he was. Perched casually on the windowsill like some noir-era devil, a pocky stick lazily hanging from his lips. One hand was in his tailored black suit pocket, the first two buttons of his white shirt undone just enough to hint at trouble. His dark hair was swept back in deliberate chaos, and there were smears of blood on his sleeve—a souvenir from whatever mess he’d just crawled out of.

Nagumo Yoichi. Walking distraction. Living migraine. Immune to boundaries and personal space.

God help you.

You crossed your arms. “Mr. Oki is going to strangle you one day if you keep doing this.”

He shrugged, completely unbothered. “What can I say? You’re fun to bother.”

“Respecting your higher-ups, for example,” Oki interrupted, rubbing his temples. “Nagumo, I’ve told you a million times: stop breaking in through the window. Use the door like a normal person.”

Nagumo tilted his head and smirked. “And you thought I was normal?”

Oki sighed in defeat. “That’s on me.”

As the two men volleyed passive-aggressive jabs, you drifted toward the bookshelves, running your fingers along the spines. It was a habit by now—one of the few things that brought you comfort in high-pressure rooms like this.

“Miss Y/N?”

You snapped out of it. “Apologies, Mr. Oki.”

“No harm done. I’m just glad someone around here appreciates history.” He threw a pointed look at Nagumo.

Nagumo rolled his eyes dramatically. “What’s the point? They’re all dead anyway.”

You watched the corner of Oki’s eye twitch.

“Why did I ever think pairing you two would be a good idea…” he muttered. “Miss Y/N, if you'd prefer, I can reassign your partner.”

“No, sir!” You straightened, hands clenched at your sides. “Please, don’t worry. I’ll manage.”

Oki gave a slow nod and stood, walking over to his desk. He handed you a sleek black folder, the kind used for high-level intel. Inside: Everything you need to know. Targets. Layouts. Dates. Backstories.

“What’s the job?” Nagumo drawled, suddenly behind your left shoulder.

You didn’t even hear him move. One of his fingers gently brushed the skin behind your ear as he tucked a strand of hair back. You froze.

“Does your dear grandfather know you’ll be out of his sight? With me, of all people?” he whispered, voice low and teasing.

You swatted his hand away, cheeks burning. “Mr. Takamura was thrilled to see me finally take on a mission. Although he is more than prepared to end your life if something happens to me. Understood?”

Nagumo grinned. “Crystal clear, ma’am. I pinky promise to keep you safe~”

“Why do I have a really bad feeling about this?”

“I don’t know… Maybe you’re just paranoid.”

You narrowed your eyes. “How do you not even know what the mission is?”

“I’ve been busy, unlike some people.” He winked. “Had to cancel a meeting with Sakamoto just to be here.”

You opened your mouth to fire back, but Oki clicked his pen—a subtle way of saying cut the crap. You took a step back, flipping open the folder to study the mission details.

And then your heart plummeted.

Two words stared up at you like a slap to the face: husband and wife.

“…Sir?” you croaked, lifting the page and pointing at it like it might spontaneously correct itself.

Oki turned to the window, suddenly interested in the weather.

“Sir?”

“No,” he said, voice a little tighter now.

“What the hell is this?” Nagumo snapped, stepping up beside you.

“I’m sorry,” Oki said with a heavy sigh. “But that’s the cover. It’s the best way to get into the gala unnoticed. I’m not changing it. This is Miss Y/N’s mission, and I trust her more with you than with anyone else.”

“But—”

“No buts. You leave tomorrow morning. This conversation is over.”

You blinked. Then nodded.

This was your chance. You wouldn’t let anyone ruin it. Not even him.

You bowed once more and turned to leave, folder in hand. And, of course, Nagumo followed, trailing behind like the dramatic storm cloud he was.

“I still don’t get it,” he said. “What are we doing?”

You glanced at him over your shoulder. “There’s a gala being held by an IT magnate. He used to be one of our sponsors. Two years ago, he leaked intel to the enemy. That betrayal started the war we just barely won. Now, he’s going to pay.”

You could feel Nagumo go still beside you.

“What? Cat got your tongue?”

“…Are you sure about this?”

You turned to him, arching an eyebrow. “What, scared of pretending to be all lovey-dovey with me?”

“No. I’m scared of your grandfather.”

“We both know that’s not true. What’s the real reason, Nagumo-senpai?”

He rubbed the bridge of his nose, groaning. “Can’t believe I’m taking orders from you…”

You barely heard him. Your eyes were on his hands—long fingers, a faint scar near his knuckle. They were absurdly attractive hands. And that was not a helpful thought.

“I’m just worried you’ll screw up,” he continued. “You’ve never done this before. And you hate me.”

“I’ll be fine,” you snapped, more harshly than you meant. “Thanks for the concern, senpai.”

That was when he spun you around and pinned you to the wall.

You didn’t even see him move. One moment, Nagumo was teasing you as usual. The next, your back hit the wall with a thud, his arm braced beside your head, his body so close you could feel the heat radiating off him. The hallway was dim, empty. Just the two of you. And your heartbeat is hammering in your chest like a war drum.

“What the hell are you doing?” you hissed, breath catching.

 His eyes searched yours. Dark, stormy. Not playful this time. Not teasing.

“Just… stop pretending,” he muttered. “You don’t hate me.”

Your breath caught.

“Yes, I do.”

He leaned closer. “You don’t.”

“I do,” you whispered, glaring up at him.

“Then why,” he murmured, his fingers brushing lightly against your wrist, “does your pulse race whenever I touch you?”

You didn’t have a good answer for that.

And that annoyed you more than anything else.

You shoved him back with both hands. “You’re insufferable.”

“Mm. But still pretty, right?” he smirked, letting you go. “That’s gotta count for something.”

“I swear, one of these days, Mr. Takamura is going to kill you, and I will cheer.”

He held up both hands in mock surrender as he backed away. “Noted. I’ll be on my best behavior, sweetheart.”

“Call me that again, and I’m setting you on fire.”

As if summoned by your pure rage, a third voice entered the hallways. Cool, deep, and amused.

“You two done flirting, or should I come back later?”

You turned—and there he was.

Shishiba.

Sleek, silent, dangerous. He stepped into the light, adjusting the black gloves on his hands like he’d just finished choking someone out and wanted to keep his sleeves clean. His long coat fluttered behind him, dark eyes unreadable as they flicked between you and Nagumo.

Great. Just what you needed: another assassin with a talent for unnerving silence and dangerous charm.

Nagumo sighed. “Why are you here?”

Shishiba tilted his head. “Oki sent me to deliver your equipment. But honestly… I was curious. Heard you two were playing house. I had to see it for myself.”

You snatched the folder tighter to your chest. “It’s not ‘playing.’ It’s a cover. A mission.”

“Sure,” Shishiba said smoothly. “A cover. That involves sharing a hotel room. And pretending to be madly in love. For several days. Alone.”

Nagumo glared at him. “Don’t you have somewhere better to be?”

“Not really.” Shishiba smirked slightly. “Besides, I’d kill to see you in a tux, holding a champagne flute and pretending not to be emotionally repressed.”

Nagumo looked like he was about to commit a felony.

You stepped between them. “Can you two stop posturing like rival cats in mating season? We have work to do.”

Shishiba chuckled. “She’s already in charge. I like her.”

You pointed a sharp glare at him. “And if I catch either of you making this mission harder than it needs to be, I will file a report.”

Nagumo raised an eyebrow. “You mean like the one I found in your desk drawer last week? Cute handwriting, by the way.”

You turned bright red.

“You went through my stuff?!”

“I was bored.”

“I hate you.”

He grinned, brushing past you like a smug hurricane. “You keep saying that. I think it’s your love language.”

You were going to explode. One day. And when you did, Nagumo Yoichi would be the reason.

That night, you stared at your suitcase, freshly packed, sitting by the door.

Inside were weapons disguised as makeup, encoded USBs, and a red silk dress meant to distract your target.

You weren’t nervous about the mission.

You were nervous about him.

About the way he looked at you sometimes, like you were a puzzle he couldn’t solve.

About the way your stomach twisted when he got too close.

This was your first mission. Your first chance to be more than someone’s shadow. To make a name for yourself outside your grandfather’s legacy. To show the world—and yourself—that you were capable.

But God help you… if Nagumo touched you again like that—

You groaned and threw a pillow at the wall.

“I will end him if he fucks this up.”

Then your phone rang. Wondering who it was, given the fact that it was already past midnight, you got up from bed and went to your desk, sat by the window to check.

“Shishiba-senpai?”

“Hey! Sorry for the late hour. I was thinking you would already be sleeping since you have to be at the airport first thing in the morning.”

“Despite that, I just couldn’t close an eye even if I tried.”

There was a pause after your answer, and a soft chuckle could be heard from the other side of the line.