#birdwingman

It started with the stare.

Not from Rob Lucci. No, of course not. That man stared at everything like it owed him a debt. His eyes were the same whether he was reviewing paperwork or watching someone bleed out. Cold. Flat. Utterly unmoved. You had never seen him blink without a tactical reason.

But his bird? Hattori?

That creature was another story.

You’d caught him watching you. Not the way animals sometimes look at humans, curious or confused. No, this was something else entirely. It felt personal. Intentional. Like he was assessing your weaknesses. Like he knew you had them.

Once, you could have sworn he winked at you. Not a blink. A wink. Deliberate. Measured. Arrogant.

Another time, you coughed during a mission briefing, trying to keep it quiet. The team barely looked up. But Hattori? He flew over, landed on the desk, and dropped a cough drop directly into your hand. Not beside it. Not vaguely in your space. Into your open palm. With precision. Like a tiny, feathery pharmacist who had been waiting for just the right moment to strike.

Then he flew back to Lucci’s shoulder like nothing had happened. Not a glance. Not a word.

You stared at the lozenge in horror. There was a sticky note on it that read “sugar free.” You hesitated. Then, against all reason, you used it.

So now you’re here. At your desk. Sitting with perfect posture and completely rational intentions.

You are not spiraling. Merely gathering data. Like a real woman of science.

You dress a little nicer today. Nothing inappropriate. Just enough to register as a shift. Sharp eyeliner, just slightly winged. A hint of gloss. Your shirt tucked more neatly than usual, your belt swapped for something sleeker. Everything crisp. Clean. Professional. But with a whisper of something else. Something calculated.

An air of: ‘Oh, this old thing?’

Your pen happens to fall off the desk. Twice.

You time it carefully. The hallway is quiet. The lunch lull is in full effect. The hum of distant conversation and the soft hiss of the ventilation system make the perfect backdrop. Nothing too still. Nothing too staged.

Lucci walks past your desk. Smooth. Silent. Controlled. He moves like something that does not need to rush because it already owns the space.

He does not look at you.

But Hattori?

Hattori lands on your desk like a tiny executioner. His talons click softly against the surface. His head tilts once. Then again. Calculating. The tap of his beak against your stapler is slow and deliberate.

Then, in a voice that is almost disturbingly even, he says:

“He says the red makes you look like a problem.”

There is a beat of silence. You’re not sure if you imagined it.

Then:

“A problem he would very much like to have.”

You freeze.

Your face remains composed. Calm. Professional. You allow one blink. No more.

Inside, your soul is curled into a screaming ball of heat and confusion. There is static behind your eyes and your stomach is trying to exit your body through your spine.

Lucci does not speak. He does not slow. He does not turn his head.

But he stops walking.

Just for a second.

Like his body forgot to continue the performance.

Then he moves again. Effortless. Measured. The air shifts in his wake, sharp as a blade passing close to skin.

Hattori flaps once and returns to his post on Lucci’s shoulder, entirely unfazed.

You do not turn your head. You do not exhale.

But you do write a mental note. Carefully. Quietly.

It will require more red. Possibly a file folder you accidentally drop. And, if all else fails, caffeine bait.

You are not insane.

You are simply a professional. On the verge.

And apparently being wooed by a bird and his emotionally constipated husband.

More testing is required.

Test 2: Galley-La Inspection Records

It is a perfect setup.

A long table in the file room, flanked by towers of manila folders that smell faintly of dust and bureaucratic rot. The fluorescent lights hum overhead with the mild threat of migraine. Somewhere down the hall, someone laughs too loudly. It fades quickly.

The rest of the office is on lunch. Or pretending to be.

Just you. Him. And the bird.

You had, of course, “coincidentally” scheduled this overlapping task. Lucci hadn’t commented. He hadn’t so much as looked your way when you offered to double-check the Galley-La shipment reports. But when the time came, he had arrived exactly on the hour and sat directly across from you.

Which, in Lucci-speak, was practically a declaration of war. Or interest. Possibly both.

You settle in, stack of reports at your elbow, and tap a pen lightly against your lower lip. The movement is absentminded but deliberate. You lean forward, just a little. Not too much. Elbows on the table, posture casual, head tilted toward the inspection log like it personally offended you.

You sigh. Long. Measured. Enough to carry.

“These codes are exhausting,” you murmur, dragging your finger down a densely typed column. Then, half to yourself, “But I suppose you like that. Complicated things.”

The silence that follows is pristine. Not a breath. Not a shuffle. Not even a rustle of paper.

Hattori flutters his wings once. A soft fwhmp that echoes like judgment.

Then, smug and unhurried, he speaks.

“He says especially when they sigh like that.”

You do not look up. You don’t need to.

You hear the sound of Lucci reaching for a page. The glide of paper, the faint friction against his gloves. Then a pause. The faint catch of his fingers skimming past the sheet. He misses.

Not by much. Just enough for it to matter.

You suppress the victorious curl of your mouth behind your knuckles like a woman who has just fired a missile into a quiet, fortified country and watched it land.

You tap the edge of a paperclip between your fingers. Slow. Deliberate. Suggestive.

“Is that so?” you ask softly, tilting your head just enough to let the light catch your lashes. “What else does he like?”

Hattori cocks his head. Thrilled. Positively gleeful to finally be the voice of gossip and doom. He leans in, talons flexing, feathers puffed with pride, as if preparing to share the secret to immortality.

“He likes the way you hum while you work. He likes that you eat lunch at your desk and pretend it doesn’t bother you when people forget to say thank you. He likes your handwriting, your sarcasm, and the way you roll your eyes when you’re trying not to smile.”

Your spine straightens. Just a little. Just enough to betray the flicker in your chest.

You don’t look at Lucci. You don’t trust yourself to. But you feel him. The shape of his stillness has changed. Sharpened. Focused. You feel the weight of his attention like a shadow settling at your back.

His page hovers in the air for a moment, fingers poised. Then, deliberately, he places it down. Smooth. Surgical. Like nothing had ever happened. Like nothing was happening.

And yet something very clearly is.

Hattori’s voice lowers. No longer teasing. Quieter now. Almost reverent.

“He’s liked you since the day you threw a binder at the foreman for calling you ‘doll.’”

Your mouth goes dry.

You remember that day. You remember the weight of the binder, the satisfying thud as it collided with the wall just inches from the foreman’s head, and the high-pitched shriek that followed. You remember Iceburg filing the harassment report without comment, pen clicking softly, like it was just another Tuesday.

You hadn’t known anyone else had been watching.

You lift your gaze. Slowly. Carefully. Like approaching a live wire.

You meet his eyes.

Lucci’s expression is unreadable. As always. But something behind it has shifted. His focus has narrowed. His stare is no longer neutral. No longer passive. It is direct. Steady. And no longer pretending not to be.

“…Is that true?” you ask. Your voice is quieter than you intended. Cautious. Caught. As if you already know the answer but need to hear it anyway.

Lucci doesn’t speak.

But his eyes hold yours. Unmoving. In that eerie, precise stillness of his, something surfaces.

The faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Not quite a smile.

But not a no.

You hold your breath.

Hattori preens. His feathers fluff with satisfaction. A smug little gremlin perched on a pedestal of vindication.

“Mission confirmed,” he says, tone dripping with smug finality. “You’re in the crosshairs.”

And you are.

Not in the clipboard-snapping, tragic spiral you once imagined. This is worse. This is slow. Whisper-soft. Strategic. Inevitable.

You reach for another folder. Slowly. Methodically. You flip it open with practiced ease, fingers calm while your heart screams against your ribs.

Phase Two: Suspicious signs confirmed. Possibly fatal. More testing required.

Phase Three: Emotional Reckoning

(Pending Lethal Dose of Flirting)

Since The Experiment; also known as the file room incident, also known as the Oh no he’s hot and also terrifying and also potentially interested revelation, something has shifted.

Lucci doesn’t pretend anymore.

He watches. Not lecherously. Not with open interest. But deliberately. Intentionally. When your blouse dips as you lean over a shipment ledger, he notices. Not with hunger, but with focus. Like it’s something to be studied and committed to memory.

When your fingers graze his during a routine document handoff, he doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t blink. He lets the contact linger, just long enough to register. He no longer corrects the proximity between you. He allows it. He chooses it.

The silence that used to be cold is now warm at the edges. Heavy. Expectant.

And Hattori?

Weaponized.

The bird has become something unholy. Each morning, he lands near you with the smugness of a deity who knows exactly how doomed you are and has decided to enjoy every second of the descent.

His reports are devastating.

“He wondered what you’d wear today. He’s pleased.”

You had to pretend to choke on your coffee.

“He doesn’t get headaches anymore. Just you.”

You nearly tripped over the corner of your own desk.

“He had a dream last night. You were involved. There was a broken table too.”

Your stapler missed the tray that time. It bounced once and landed on the floor with a lonely little thud.

Even when Lucci says nothing, everything he does drips with implied awareness. He walks slower when passing you. Takes the long way around only to end up beside your desk. Allows those rare, traitorous glances to linger a second longer than strictly necessary.

Whatever this is, it has a pulse now.

Like the office itself is holding its breath.

Even your coworkers, those glorified gossips in construction helmets, have started whispering. The Galley-La foremen have given it a name.

They call it The Silent Thing.

“You see the way she looked at him during inventory?”

“He stood behind her for ten minutes. Didn’t glare at a single person.”

“I swear to god, I saw him smirk. Just once. I saw it. It happened.”

Iceburg has begun observing from afar like a man questioning every decision he’s ever made. He watches with the slow, dawning horror of someone who realizes he accidentally placed two apex predators in the same enclosure and forgot to reinforce the glass.

Kalifa, predictably, is less subtle.

“This violates eight company policies and one Water Seven legal statute. I will be reporting it.”

You asked if she could define which law.

She said, “The one about bad decisions in confined spaces.”

You chose not to pursue it.

Unknown to you, Hattori’s current villain arc is also being noticed by some very specific coworkers.

Lucci’s fellow assassins?

At first, they think it’s fake.

A cover. A ruse. A strategic illusion wrapped in lipstick and sarcasm.

Kaku, ever suspicious, squints over his noodles.

“It’s classic honeypot strategy. She’s baiting him. He’s counter-baiting. It’s espionage foreplay.”

Blueno, sipping coffee without looking up, simply says,

“I thought she was just like that.”

Fukurou looks haunted.

“She once made me cry by telling me my tie was ‘ambitiously orange.’”

They observe. They log patterns. They run simulations.

But the more time that passes, the less it feels like covert manipulation. Not since you leaned full-body into the warpath of the flirting. Not since your pen collection became color-coded for dramatic flair. Not since you corrected Lucci’s report and called it “endearingly incorrect.”

And still, Hattori preens.

Each line delivered with the theatrical flair of a bird who understands he is the lynchpin of a dangerous romance subplot.

“He says you’re his favorite complication.”

You pretend not to choke on your tea.

Lucci, across the room, does not react.

But he closes his book without finishing the page.

You are in trouble. And not the kind that ends in paperwork.

The kind that ends with unspeakable tension in confined spaces, an alarming number of coffee refills, and the terrifying realization that he may be just as far gone as you are.

You get a full-body blush that day, not because of the words, but because of the way Lucci smirks as you pass him. Quiet, razor-sharp, and devastating, while Hattori says it.

Damn.

 They may as well assign you a uniform and a clipboard, because at this point, you are a card-carrying member of the Rob Lucci Fanclub.

You are smitten.

You are doomed.

But you’re going down professionally dressed and absolutely unrepentant.

“You think he’s actually into her?” Kaku hisses, crouched low behind a stack of shipping crates like a spy in a discount thriller. His tie flutters traitorously in the breeze.

“She’s not even in the plan,” Blueno mutters, adjusting his glasses like they might offer moral clarity. “There’s no file. No directive. No clearance level.”

“She asked him if he wanted sugar in his coffee,” Kaku stage-whispers, scandalized. “And he nodded. Nodded, Blueno. Lucci doesn’t even drink coffee.”

Kalifa snorts, arms folded with professional disdain.

“That bird’s gotten cocky,” she says. “He’s been talking before Lucci even looks up. He chirped ‘nice skirt’ last week, and I know he doesn’t understand hemline etiquette.”

They fall into hushed silence.

All eyes drift toward the dock, where you’re standing, laughing at something one of the workers said. Loose. Bright. Real.

You’re not on guard. You’re not armed. You’re just... happy.

And ten feet away, Lucci stands like a sentry carved from shadow, still as stone, the line of his coat crisp in the breeze, the light cutting harsh across the gravel.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.

But his fingers twitch. Just once.

“…So is he faking it?” Kaku asks finally. The question lands heavier now. Unsteady.

They all turn to look at Lucci. He doesn’t react, not outwardly. But his fellow CP9 know when he hears something. They know when he’s calculating.

He glances toward them.

Cold eyes. Still face. Composure down to the bone.

And with the precision of a man trained to lie without blinking, a man who could kill with a sentence and kiss with the same, Rob Lucci gives a slow, clinical nod.

It’s enough for the others.

But not for Kalifa.

She knows real romantic tension when she sees it. She knows what false rapport looks like, and this is not that. She’s read his reports. She knows about the quiet meetings with higher-ups. The ones where Lucci has been requesting “special operational allowances.” Vague language. Vague enough to slide past scrutiny, but not past her.

She snorts.

If it were part of the mission, he wouldn’t go still at the sound of your laughter. Wouldn’t pause like the sound hooked into something beneath the surface.

If it were an assignment, he wouldn’t be calculating the physics of distance just to stay close without making it obvious. He wouldn’t wait precisely three seconds after you leave a room before following. Wouldn’t change his patrol route to intersect with yours six times in one day.

If it were a mission, he wouldn’t have memorized your favorite lunch spot. Wouldn’t soften by a millimeter when you smile. Wouldn’t be five seconds away from letting everything burn just to make you blush again.

And all the while, Hattori hums from his perch like a smug little herald of doom. Feathered and self-satisfied. Waiting.

But Lucci is a professional.

So he lies.

And Kalifa lets him. Because she likes her neck attached to her body. And because she knows that if she calls him on it, he’ll tear through the mission, the dock, and probably a small section of Water Seven just to reestablish control.

So she crosses her arms. Says nothing. Watches everything.

“If he’s faking it, I’m a sea cow,” she mutters.

Kaku frowns. “He nodded like it meant something, man.”

“It always means something,” Blueno says quietly.

And then you glance back.

Just once. Maybe by accident. Maybe not.

And Lucci’s gaze meets yours.

Clean. Direct. Like a wire pulled too tight.

He doesn’t blink.

You smile, faint but real, before turning away.

And something in the air shifts. Not a storm. Not yet.

But the pressure is rising.

You, meanwhile, are continuing your own experiments. A little field research. Just a light emotional stress test.

You call it: How far can I push Rob Lucci before I break him?

The answer arrives faster than anticipated.

Because fate, as it turns out, has a rope belt and a tendency to trip over itself.

You bump into Paulie.

Paulie, who is very much not Rob Lucci. Paulie, who swears like a dockworker because he is a dockworker. Paulie, who is flustered, helpful, and made entirely of cinnamon roll-grade kindness, with a side of rope-based anxiety and strong opinions about modesty.

He offers to carry your stack of files.

You accept. Lightly. Warmly. No ulterior motive. At first.

But then, like a fool drunk on power and lip gloss, you say it.

“What a gentleman. If I’d known you were this sweet, I would’ve had you walk me home.”

You meant it as a joke.

Paulie does not survive it.

He drops the file like it’s on fire, sputters half a dozen syllables that may have once belonged to language, turns a shade of red previously undocumented by science, and mutters something about the sun, sabotage, and divine judgment.

Across the yard, Lucci looks up.

Not just a glance.

A look.

The kind that carries temperature.

The air shifts. The light bends. The birds stop chirping as if someone cut the ambient track.

Even Hattori, who is usually immune to nuance and shame, goes silent. His feathers puff in alarm, the avian equivalent of a gasp. Like something deep in his instincts just warned him that they may, in fact, have gone too far.

Paulie keeps babbling. Something about the weather. The humidity. The cruel betrayal of cloud patterns.

But it’s too late.

Lucci is walking.

Slow. Direct. Every step precise. Every movement a countdown. One, two, three.

There is no sound from him. There never is.

But the aura?

The aura is a five-alarm fire in a locked archive room. The kind with no windows and a single sprinkler head that knows it’s already too late.

The other CP9 agents scatter.

Kaku, sprinting behind a crate: “Oh no.”

Kalifa, already pulling forms from her clipboard: “We’re going to need a mop.”

You, oblivious or pretending to be, grin up at Lucci like a girl who hasn’t just summoned a predator with cheekbones.

“Something wrong?”

He stops inches from you.

Close enough to feel the cold of his restraint.

He stares down at you. Eyes sharp. Still. Impossible to read.

He doesn’t blink.

Then, without a word, he turns to Paulie.

The look he gives is not a glare.

It’s worse.

It’s clinical. Measured. A bureaucratic execution submitted in triplicate. A kind of silence that carries the weight of cause, consequence, and an unspoken memo labeled never again.

Paulie goes pale. Paler than pale. The color drains from his face like a man receiving a tax audit from the grim reaper.

“What?! I didn’t—! She joked! I HAVE RESPECT FOR BOUNDARIES AND LIFE!”

Hattori flaps to your shoulder like a bird who has seen hell and decided to provide live commentary.

“He’s never done that before.” A beat. “It’s kind of hot.”

You choke on your laugh. Swallow it whole. Almost.

Lucci doesn’t move. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t breathe.

Paulie stumbles back like he’s seen death and realized death wears perfectly pressed slacks, tailored gloves, and a tie that could strangle a man in under four seconds. And also, a bird.

The moment ends.

Barely.

Later, back in the records room, you slide your files onto the desk with the slow precision of a woman who is both entertained and very aware she nearly got a man obliterated via light flirting and one ill-timed compliment.

You don’t look up when he enters.

You don’t need to.

The door shuts behind him with more force than usual. Controlled, but not casual. A territorial sound. Like he’s defending something. Like this room, this silence, this moment, belongs to him.

You raise an eyebrow. Voice low. Light.

“You know,” you murmur, “if that jealous act is part of a cover story, you’re playing it very convincingly.”

Lucci doesn’t answer.

But Hattori lands beside the inbox and speaks. His voice is lower than usual. A warning. A truth.

“It’s not,” the bird said. “And he’s furious it’s not.”

You looked up slowly.

Lucci was watching you.

Not the way he usually did, with clinical calculation and cold distance. Not like you were a variable to measure, or a risk to be managed.

He looked at you like something had already broken. Like you had cost him something important without even touching him. His focus. His control. The careful reputation he had spent years sharpening to a fine, unshakable edge.

And the worst part was that he did not seem certain he wanted any of it back.

That silence stretched between you.

You smiled. Bright and deliberate. A knife behind velvet.

“Good.”

You hadn’t meant to use his crush like a weapon. Not at first.

But after the Paulie Incident, after Rob Lucci nearly committed a homicide using posture alone, you had a revelation.

A dangerous one.

You had power.

Not physical strength. Not covert clearance. Not intelligence-gathering capabilities. Nothing they trained agents to watch for. Nothing that could be ranked or documented.

Yours was subtler. Slower. More personal.

You were a woman with good posture, clean instincts, and a well-fitted blouse. And somehow, impossibly, that was enough to reduce a marble-cut professional to vibrating silence with nothing more than a compliment and a well-timed smile.

Once you realized that, something shifted.

You began handing over documents a different way. Closer. Slower. Fingertips brushing his gloves. Your perfume drifting between you like an accusation he could not file away.

Lucci took each file like it might detonate in his hands. His grip was exact. Measured. His breathing shallow, almost silent.

Hattori chirped from the edge of the desk.

“He’s holding his breath.”

You started asking for help with things that didn’t require assistance.

Forms. Binders. A lockbox you had opened twelve times before without issue.

Tasks that pulled him behind you. Close. Too close. One hand braced on the desk near your hip, the other reaching forward while his breath hovered just past your shoulder.

You began to lean back. Slowly. Just enough to graze. Just enough to feel the tension tighten in his spine like a pulled wire.

“You always this quiet?” you asked one afternoon, eyes fixed on the folder in your hands. Your voice was low, even, unhurried. “Or are you just waiting for the right moment to make a move?”

The silence behind you was absolute. Thick enough to press into your skin. He did not answer, but you heard the faint click of his jaw. The tension. The restraint.

Grinding down.

Hattori, never one to miss a moment, offered his usual commentary. His voice light, almost helpful.

“He’s imagining where else he’d like you to sigh like that.”

Lucci leaves the room. Immediately. No glance. No word.

You did not chase the moment. You let it settle. Let the silence stretch across the floor like spilled ink.

The next one happened by accident.

You were at your desk. Pen between your teeth, brow furrowed in concentration, reviewing something technical and mind-numbing.

It was absent-minded. Thoughtless.

But the effect was immediate.

Lucci’s hand tightened on the folder he was carrying. His knuckles whitened. The paper bent slightly at the edge, not enough to crease, but close. Very close.

He did not speak. He did not breathe.

Hattori, perched nearby, sounded downright gleeful.

“He’s wondering if men can file HR reports against their own feelings.”

He starts looking… different.

Each day, his posture gets tighter. Each glance, sharper. Each breath taken near you feels heavier, like it’s costing him something to stay still.

You don’t understand it completely.

But your coworkers have noticed.

The Galley-La dockworkers whisper about it like schoolchildren behind the tool lockers. Heads bent close. Grinning. Terrified. Entertained.

Kalifa has stopped speaking entirely. Maybe it’s protest. Maybe it’s horror. Either way, she now communicates exclusively through sighs and legal memos.

Iceburg won’t make eye contact with either of you anymore. Not directly. He walks faster these days, muttering to himself about liability insurance and emotional contamination.

Lucci’s reputation for cool professionalism has begun to fall apart.

He finishes reports before anyone requests them. Paperwork arrives on desks you haven’t even cleared yet. His carpentry sessions, once predictable and structured, end abruptly. Tense. Wordless. Workers leave wide-eyed and bruised, but no one wants to explain why.

You hear rumors. Someone passed out in the alley behind Dock Four. Another swore they tripped, though his injuries suggested otherwise. A third quit on the spot after Lucci looked at him.

You don’t think too much of it.

Coincidences, probably.

And still, you keep testing.

You’re not cruel. But curiosity has teeth.

How far can you push a man who refuses to flinch?

And the answer?

Almost too far.

Because Rob Lucci is fraying.

You can’t see the cracks outright, but you feel them. In the pauses between your words. In the way he doesn’t move when you brush past. In the way he looks at you like stillness is the only thing keeping him from stepping closer.

You don’t know what he’s holding back.

But you know it’s close to the surface now.

And every time you smile, every time you lean a little too near, every time your fingers brush his…

You wonder how close you are to detonation.

The other CP9 agents were deeply alarmed.

Not just mildly concerned. Not the usual Lucci’s in a mood type of alarm.

This was a high-level protocol breach. The kind that involved manuals. Emergency codes. A growing suspicion that the current team was not emotionally equipped to handle what was unfolding.

Kalifa had stopped attending team meetings altogether.

Officially, she was “revising documentation.”

Unofficially, she was hiding in a closet somewhere, muttering “professional misconduct” and rewriting the Code of Conduct to include the phrase Do Not Woo While Armed.

Blueno, who was usually the stable one, had begun drinking straight from the bottle. At eleven in the morning. From a clearly labeled container that read HR Response Kit in thick black Sharpie.

And Kaku…

Kaku, bless his misguided optimism, decided to do something.

Because if there was one thing more dangerous than Rob Lucci navigating the waters of repressed emotional chaos, it was Kaku’s deep, unrelenting need for clarity.

He found Lucci one humid afternoon behind a stack of freight containers near Dock Six.

It was a bad idea.

A visibly terrible idea. The kind of idea that led to forms in triplicate, medical evaluations, and possibly a strategically timed funeral.

Kaku leaned on the nearest crate like this was a casual workplace sitcom.

“Hey,” he said. “So. About the secretary.”

Lucci’s eye twitched. Just slightly. He doesn’t answer.

“She’s not in the plan.” Kaku muttered.

“No.”

“She’s also not an idiot.”

“No.”

Kaku exhaled. “And if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re—”

Lucci turned.

Immediately.

One moment, Kaku was speaking.

The next, he was pinned to the crate, Lucci’s forearm pressed lightly but firmly against his collarbone. The movement had been fast. Clean. Not angry. Not loud. Just absolute.

Lucci’s gaze was flat. Controlled. Familiar in its precision but now carrying something behind it. Something that hummed too close to unstable.

His voice dropped to a whisper.

Sharp. Quiet. Perfectly enunciated.

“Say it. I dare you.”

Kaku, who could bench press three hundred pounds and had once survived five assassination attempts in one afternoon, swallowed.

“…Happy to be wrong.”

There was a pause. A breath.

The air tensed. Somewhere nearby, a crate creaked under its own weight.

Then Lucci stepped back.

Effortless. Clean. Like nothing had happened.

He straightened his coat. Adjusted his cuff. Turned and walked away, his boots quiet against the gravel.

Hattori flapped down from a winch, landed on Kaku’s shoulder, and sighed. It was the long, exhausted sigh of a man mourning the peace he once had.

“He thinks about her when he sharpens his knives,” the bird muttered. “It’s getting weird.”

Kaku slid down the crate. Sat heavily on the ground. His eyes stared straight ahead.

“…We need backup.”

Hattori did not blink.

“You need therapy.”

Later, when Lucci walked past your desk and you glanced up with that unbothered, effortless smile, the one that ruined him every time, he did not say a word.

But his knuckles flexed.

And Hattori, balanced on his shoulder like a judgmental gargoyle, turned his head with a look that clearly meant, If you combust, I am not cleaning it up.

Lucci said nothing.

But the air between you had changed. You could feel it now. There was a weight to the silence, a pressure behind each shared glance, each near-miss of contact. A shift in gravity.

You remained blissfully unaware that Kaku had nearly died behind a shipping crate just hours earlier.

You didn’t know Kalifa had submitted what could only be described as a formal resignation by shredding the dress code manual and nailing it to Iceburg’s office door.

You had not yet seen Blueno drinking straight from a bottle labeled Emergency Cognac in Sharpie while staring blankly into the middle distance.

Because today, you were focused on a new test.

Lip gloss.

Just shiny enough to catch the light. Just dangerous enough to qualify as psychological warfare under Section Seven of Lucci’s Emotional Fragility Act, recently passed, reluctantly approved, and witnessed by one deeply concerned bird.

You timed it perfectly.

Lucci approached. Quiet as always. Hattori perched beside him, smug and unusually chatty.

You stretched. Slowly. Arms overhead, posture fluid. The light shifted. A small glint off your lips.

You tilted your face just so and spoke, soft and sweet.

“Oh,” you murmured, head tilted slightly, “do you think this color suits me?”

You didn’t look at him.

Not yet.

But Hattori turned instantly.

And in a tone so casual it bordered on criminal, he answered.

“He wants to see it smudged.”

You froze.

The atmosphere snapped tight. The sound of it was invisible, but you felt it in your spine.

Lucci stopped mid-step.

His hand flexed at his side, fingers curling in and out like he was remembering every reason not to light the entire dock on fire. 

Then, slowly and deliberately, he turned.

His gaze found yours. And this time, you felt it.

The line.

That invisible thread you had been walking, teasing, pulling tighter with every word and every glance.

He stepped closer. Not a lunge. Not a warning. Just one step. Clean. Measured. Final.

Hattori did not move. 

Not a feather. Not a sound. 

Because even he knew better now.

Lucci leaned in.

Not enough to touch. Not enough to speak. Just close enough for his shadow to fall across your desk, for the warmth of him to reach your skin without ever crossing the final distance.

He leaned in so close to your lips it hurt.

And then he stepped back.

No comment. No explanation.

Just distance. Immediate. Precise.

Hattori hesitated, then followed, fluttering behind him with what might have been shock, or concern, or awe.

Later, Kaku found you.

He didn’t joke this time. No teasing smile. No elbow-nudge and innuendo.

Just a quiet moment. A slow breath.

“Careful,” he murmured. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

And maybe you didn’t.

Maybe you were playing with fire you couldn’t name, chasing a storm you didn’t understand.

But it was too late now.

You were in it. You were hooked.

Addicted to the tension. Addicted to the way he looked at you like gravity had shifted. Addicted to the way silence wrapped around him like silk stretched thin, the way proximity lit him up like a fuse.

You had become fluent in the language of his restraint.

You had gotten good at it.

Too good.

Flirtation, once playful, had evolved into a precise discipline. Every look you gave him was deliberate. Every lean of your body was engineered to draw the eye, to force proximity. Every touch—light, accidental, strategic—was its own kind of question. A test. A slow pull of thread between curiosity and combustion.

And Rob Lucci?

He let you.

He never stopped you.

Never corrected you. Never redirected. Never called attention to it.

He didn’t tell you to stop.

He watched.

Not casually. Not indifferently.

With full, exacting attention. As if he was collecting data. Measuring outcomes. Documenting reactions with the same patience he reserved for pressure points and kill orders.

Every second, he was watching.

You had started to rely on that. Had grown accustomed to it. Comfortable in the knowledge that you could move like this and still be safe.

Safe.

That was the mistake.

And today, you made another one.

You pushed harder.

The lip gloss came out again. This time, a deeper red. Richer. Shiny enough to catch the light, just glossy enough to distract. You checked it in the reflection of a file cabinet. Smiled at your own boldness.

Hattori was distracted. He had found a crust of toast someone had dropped near the tool bench and was currently treating it like a matter of national security.

You waited for your moment.

Lucci passed nearby, quiet as ever. His steps were silent, but you could feel the air shift as he approached. That subtle change in gravity, like something more precise than sound had entered your space.

You leaned back in your chair.

Slowly.

Let your spine relax, your head tilt, your shoulders pull back in a motion that looked effortless but had been practiced. The light hit your mouth perfectly. The collar of your shirt shifted just enough. Your blouse drew tight across your chest, leaving a glimpse of skin no passing glance could ignore.

You kept your eyes on the page in front of you, waiting.

And then, sweetly, as if the question had just floated into your mind, you spoke.

"Do you think this color suits me?"

Your voice was light. Thoughtless. Designed to sound like anything but a provocation.

You looked up slowly.

He was already watching.

No surprise. No hesitation.

Just eyes on you.

Dark. Steady. Unreadable.

There was no twitch of annoyance. No false neutrality. Just stillness, sharpened at the edges, so deliberate it made the air feel heavier. Like the whole room was waiting for something to happen.

You didn’t expect a response.

Not a real one.

You had gotten used to the way Rob Lucci answered with silence. The slight tension in his jaw. The quiet defiance in his breath. You had grown comfortable with his restraint, with pushing the boundaries and watching him hold.

But this time, he spoke.

His voice came low. Rough. Intimate.

“You wear it like you want someone to ruin it.”

The words slid over your skin like heat.

Your lips parted. No sound came. You blinked, stunned, and your body stilled like prey that had finally realized the shape in the shadows wasn’t asleep. It was watching. And awake.

When you looked up, he was there.

Close.

Leaning on one hand braced against your desk, the sleeve of his coat tugged slightly at the wrist. His fingers were long, precise, scarred in places that made you think of cold steel and bare-knuckle violence. His body tilted toward you, subtle, but sure. Not enough to touch. Just enough to make you feel it.

His eyes held yours. Deep. Lidded. Patient.

And then there was the rest of him.

You had always noticed he was beautiful. Not soft. Not elegant. But cut. As if someone had carved him from something colder than stone, then left him out in the sun to smolder. His mouth was too sculpted to be harmless. His cheekbones sharp enough to draw blood if you looked at them from the wrong angle. He moved like a man designed to disappear into shadows, and yet now, here, he was choosing to be seen.

And he was looking at you like he meant it.

Like he understood what you were doing. Had always understood. And had been letting you.

He didn’t give you time to recover.

“Tell me,” he said, voice even lower now, as if pulling you into something private, “you flirting for fun… or are you hoping I’ll finally do something about it?”

Your breath came shallow.

The warmth in your chest dropped lower. Coiled. Slow and deep and aching.

You had played this game with him for weeks. You had leaned close, touched just barely, smiled like it meant nothing. You had worn your gloss and your confidence like armor.

But now?

That armor was melting.

Because Rob Lucci was no longer ignoring you. No longer indulging you.

He was inviting you.

To what, you weren’t sure.

But the invitation was hot in your blood.

Hattori stood frozen on the far end of the desk. Even he seemed to understand that whatever this was, it had crossed into dangerous territory.

Your voice barely worked.

“You… talk?”

Lucci’s mouth curved. Just a little.

Not a smirk. Not a sneer. Something cooler. Controlled. A flicker of intention behind the sculpted edge of his lips.

“When it matters.”

And it was that. That, the shape of his mouth, the way he said it, the quiet pride in knowing you were unraveling in real time, that tipped your pulse into chaos.

Your thighs tensed beneath the desk. You could feel your own heartbeat between your ribs, between your legs, at the base of your throat.

You had wanted to tease him. Just to see what would happen.

But he was no longer playing.

He was letting you see what happened next.

And you were terrified by how badly you wanted it.

Because now, with the leash slack and the space between you humming like live wire, you finally understood.

He had not been resisting.

He had been waiting.

And now?

You were confident now.

Brazen.

You flirted like it was oxygen. Like it was a mandate. Like it was written into your job description under miscellaneous skills.

You did it knowing exactly what it was doing to him.

You had let a dockhand adjust the collar of your shirt. Innocent. Friendly. And when you smiled, warm and grateful, just slightly more than necessary, you didn’t miss the way Rob Lucci turned his head.

Not fully. Just enough for his gaze to land on your mouth. And stay there.

You weren’t flirting anymore for the sake of subtlety.

You were provoking.

And you were watching for the signs.

The sharp clench of his jaw when your voice dropped.

The stillness in his hands. That dangerous, absolute stillness. The kind that said, Don’t move. Don’t speak. Don’t breathe, or I might.

Hattori had tried. Once. A weak, feather-ruffled chirp that sounded suspiciously like Don’t do it. 

And then, after a pause, a quieter follow-up: Never mind. I support your choices, king.

You had started to crave it.

The way he looked at you now. Slower. Closer. Like distance was a decision, not a habit. Like every step toward you required a vote from every bone in his body. Watched you like a man who had built his life around precision and finally found something worth wrecking it for.

You never expected to enjoy it this much. You never expected him to enjoy it either. The energy between you had become a pressure system. Tight. Predictable. Building.

There would be a break. There had to be.

And looming just beyond it, wrapped in a shadowy corner of the company’s shared calendar, sat the inevitable trip. The field conference. The hotel reservation.

One room.

One bed.

And a man only you knew could talk. And how you planned on making him do so.

However, your dreams, and your increasingly elaborate plans to seduce a man with the emotional range of a marble bust, were not just derailed.

They were obliterated.

You were still smiling when the world began to tilt.

It was one of those perfect Water Seven afternoons. Sunlight spilled golden over the stone-paved dockyards, warm and drowsy in the way that made people linger just a little too long. The wind carried the scent of salt and fresh-cut lumber. Laughter rippled from nearby workers. A saw buzzed lazily somewhere behind you. It was the kind of day that invited teasing, flirting, warmth.

You stood in the middle of it all, one hand resting on your hip, the other lightly brushing at your collar where a dockhand had touched it moments earlier. You weren’t sure if that had been on purpose or not, but you let it go. It was harmless. A little funny. You arched a brow. Smiled. Let the moment hang.

Maybe it was flirting. Maybe it was a test.

You had been doing a lot of that lately.

Just enough to be coy. Just enough to make the man watching from the shadows think about the curve of your mouth. You had planned your steps so carefully. Every glance, every offhand joke, every subtle lean toward the man no one else dared touch. It was a slow, controlled descent. Something thrilling. Something yours.

Until everything changed.

The shadow that fell behind you was not from the mast overhead. It was not from the clouds drifting idly across the sky.

It was from him.

Rob Lucci stepped into the clearing with a silence that did not feel natural. The sounds around you thinned as if sound itself recoiled. The dockhand beside you startled, posture stiffening like a man caught trespassing in the wrong house.

He backed away without realizing it.

Lucci did not glance at him.

His eyes were fixed on you.

Then he spoke.

"Get back inside."

The words landed like a stone in the chest.

You turned, slowly, almost cautiously. The sound of his voice was what stopped you.

Not the words. The voice.

You had heard it before, but never like this. In meetings, it had been dry and clinical. A tone as sharp and lifeless as a blade left too long in snow. He spoke like a man reading from someone else's script.

But now, his voice came from somewhere deeper. Low. Unyielding. Cold enough to freeze thought.

This was not a man reciting protocol.

This was a man delivering command.

"What?" you asked. You heard the breath catch in your own throat.

He did not answer with softness. He did not blink.

"Now."

The word was not raised. He did not yell. He did not even put weight behind it.

And still, it broke something.

You felt your smile vanish. Your body reacted before you could. Muscles pulled tighter, something primal reaching up the back of your neck like a warning. You had not taken a step, but everything inside you recoiled.

He was not angry. There was no heat in his expression.

Only intent.

Cold. Unfeeling. Irrefutable.

Around him, stillness settled like dust after a collapse. Hattori did not move. The bird’s posture had shifted, feathers rising slightly, head tilted with a wariness you had never seen. He looked not at you, but at his handler. Like he was waiting for something he did not want to see.

You stared into Rob Lucci’s face and finally understood.

You had been dancing around a precipice without realizing there was no edge to fall from.

He had never been inside the game.

There had never been a game at all.

And then the world exploded.

The Straw Hats arrived as if fate had yanked open the sky and dropped them into the scene. Their voices rang out in laughter and command. They filled the dock with color and conviction, charging into the warehouse district with the reckless defiance only pirates and fools could afford. Their presence rewrote the moment.

Everything fractured.

And you barely noticed.

Because Lucci moved.

Not like the man who stood silently by the file cabinets, watching you with unreadable eyes. Not like the man who tolerated Hattori’s interruptions with unspoken exasperation. Not like the man who froze every time your fingers came close to brushing his sleeve.

No. That man had never existed.

He moved with devastating precision. His body bent and turned with a grace that defied nature, a kind of brutal elegance that did not hesitate, did not slow, did not even recognize resistance.

He was not fighting.

He was eliminating.

Each blow was calculated. Every motion was clean. Even the chaos could not cling to him. He passed through wood, steel, and muscle like a sculptor carving away unwanted material.

You felt your breath lock.

He had never been a dock worker. Not even for a moment.

The truth settled in your chest like cold metal. You had not been playing with fire. You had been pressing flowers against the side of a guillotine.

“Rob!” you shouted, the name tearing from your throat without thought. “Stop—what are you doing?”

He did not look at you.

He did not pause.

The name, the plea, meant nothing.

Above the wreckage, high on a broken rafter, Hattori turned.

The bird looked down at you. His wings shifted once. His beak parted just enough to let sound through.

His voice barely rose above a whisper, but you heard it clearly.

“He didn’t want you to find out this way.”

Later, it is quiet.

The kind of quiet that follows storms and sharp endings. The kind that doesn't invite peace, only aftermath.

The Straw Hats are gone. Scattered. Licking their wounds and dragging themselves into the safety of shadows. Galley-La lies in ruin behind them, walls splintered like bones, sawdust smeared with ash. The air still smells like something broken.

He does not leave behind a message. No footprints mark where he walked. His desk is as if untouched, his tea cup still sitting where you last saw it, empty and clean. He vanishes with the kind of finality reserved for storms and bad dreams; things that come without warning and leave only silence in their wake.

You sit at your desk in the rear of the Galley-La offices, your posture flawless. The ledger is open in front of you, reports stacked neatly, each column filled with ink as precise as ever. Your hands do not shake. Not visibly. But your fingers press too tightly around the pen, and your breath feels just a little too shallow.

The windows are open. The sea breeze slips through, tasting of salt and smoke. It lifts the edges of paper and brushes across your face, but you do not move.

You look immaculate. Your shirt is fastened all the way up. Not a smudge of makeup remains. Not a hint of color. Only blank professionalism, polished to a gleam so sharp it hurts.

Iceburg finds you like that.

He stands in the doorway for a while before saying anything. His weight shifts from one foot to the other. His brow furrows like he is trying to decide whether to speak at all. Finally, he steps forward, hands tucked into his pockets.

"You okay?" he asks, quiet but firm.

You do not look up.

Your pen continues across the page, smooth and practiced.

"No," you say.

The answer hangs between you, bare and uncomplicated.

Iceburg leans against the edge of your desk. His eyes study your face, trying to see past the calm surface. He is not used to being kept out. Not by you.

"...Do you miss him?" he asks.

The question lands like a pebble into still water. You pause.

Your hand stills just above the margin. The pen does not move. Your eyes stay on the page, but your expression shifts, almost imperceptibly. A flicker of something passes across your face and disappears.

"I miss what I thought he was," you say.

Iceburg does not answer. He does not try to fix it. He stands there a moment longer, then gives a small nod and steps away.

The door closes behind him.

You remain where you are, the pen pressed lightly to the paper. The ink begins to pool, slowly spreading outward.