#hattori

He just looked at you. Eyes sharp, expression unreadable, like someone trying to determine your net worth by evaluating the alignment of your paperclips, and nodded once.

Then he turned and vanished into the Galley-La employee room like a hot, brooding ghost with a government pension and a deeply committed relationship with lint rollers.

And that was that.

You’d written him off immediately as one of Water 7’s many mildly disturbing background characters. Every town had them. Yours just happened to come with better tailoring.

Mysterious. Intense. Overdressed for the weather. Silent. Attractive enough to generate a fan club by simply existing within five meters of a reflective surface.

You assumed he worked security, probably ex-military. Conceivably dishonorably discharged for being too emotionally constipated. Definitely broody. Possibly had a tragic backstory involving betrayal, fire, or rain. Or all three. Honestly? It tracked.

He never spoke. He never smiled. He never sweated, despite the fact that Water 7’s humidity could bend steel.

And he had a pigeon.

Which. Talked.

The bird wore a tiny tie. It rode around on his shoulder like a judgmental assistant manager. It flapped dramatically. And it spoke, in a smug, overly articulate voice that made you suspect it had either been enchanted or was possessed by the spirit of a snarky retired librarian.

At first, the bird’s comments were harmless. Weird, but harmless.

“He says your notes are very organized.”

You paused mid-sentence. Glanced at Lucci.

He didn’t react. Just stood there like a particularly disapproving umbrella stand.

“He appreciates your time management skills.”

Okay. Fine. A little specific, but still within the realm of professional compliments.

Then the bird said:

“He likes the way you smell today.”

You froze mid-paperclip.

“…I’m sorry, what?”

Lucci didn’t blink. Didn’t twitch. He just stared at the wall, as if it had offended his ancestors. The pigeon preened. Innocent.

“What? I didn’t say he said it.”

Your brain short-circuited slightly.

It wasn’t like you were some stranger to eccentric coworkers. You worked with Paulie, after all, a man who had once tried to fire a cannon inside a filing room because he was "testing acoustics.” You’d seen weirder. You’d survived worse.

But this? This was new.

You were just the secretary. You handled contracts, corrected dock schedules, and—crucially—stayed out of things. You liked tidy margins and lunches eaten at your desk. You liked knowing what was on your calendar for the next three weeks. You liked not having to emotionally interpret men who communicated via birds.

And yet.

Lucci. He was silent. Polished. Always at Iceburg’s side, or standing ominously by the stairwell, like a grim reaper with health insurance. He moved like an oil slick in a nice suit. Unbothered. Controlled. Maybe dangerously handsome?

But never impolite.

He opened doors for Iceburg. He returned documents exactly where he found them. He always made sure the coffee pot was full, even if he had just poured the last cup.

And sometimes, only sometimes, he stood so still in the far corner of the records room that a junior clerk tried to hang their coat on him. Lucci didn’t even react. Just stepped away once the hanger touched his shoulder, as if evaporating into the nearest wall was part of his job description.

At first, you thought it was some strange form of professional courtesy. A weird, ultra-efficient office drone who somehow had the presence of a cryptid. You chalked it up to the usual Water 7 eccentricities and moved on.

Until the bird started talking.

To you.

You were convinced Rob Lucci might be clinically incapable of basic conversation. A fully formed adult man whose soul had been replaced by a steam-powered filing cabinet. But his bird?

His bird had designs.

At first, you assumed the whole thing was a gimmick. A bizarre PR strategy has gone too far. Maybe Galley-La had decided their terrifyingly silent employee needed a mascot to soften his image and thought,“Let’s give the antisocial guy a bird! It’ll be quirky! Harmless!”

Only, it didn’t break the tension.

It weaponized it.

Because the bird? The bird had comments. And not for the room. Not for the team. Just for you.

“He says you’re very efficient with scheduling.”

You smiled. Glanced up from your desk.

Lucci stood by the doorway, hands behind his back, still as stone. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move. Just regarded you like you were a particularly interesting spreadsheet.

“He says your handwriting reminds him of swordplay: Elegant but sharp.”

You stared.

Hattori didn’t look away.

“He says he likes how you organize your pens.”

Your eye twitched.

You told yourself he was just being nice. Probably. Maybe. Maybe he was one of those emotionally stunted types who didn’t know how to give compliments like a normal human, and outsourced the whole ordeal to his bird.

That seemed reasonable.

Until the comments got personal.

“He says your voice is his favorite background noise.”

You turned, slowly, towards Hattori.

Lucci was in the hallway this time, flipping through a folder like he wasn’t downright violating every Revery Convention on flirting.

“He memorized your coffee order. By accident. Probably.”

You nearly knocked your mug off your desk.

“He thinks your handwriting looks like it could kill a man. He finds it inspiring.”

You dropped your pen.

Lucci said nothing.

Did nothing.

He just blinked. Maybe. Once. Like a lizard.

And then, one perfectly average Thursday afternoon, with the wind off the sea and paperwork piling up around you, Hattori landed on your desk again. 

This time with no preamble. No softening lead-in. No buffer.

“He says your scent is… distracting.”

Your pen snapped clean in half.

Ink bled into your hand. You didn’t move. You didn’t breathe.

You slowly looked up, slowly, like you were checking for a sniper. Then meet Lucci’s gaze across the office.

He was perfectly composed.

Expression unreadable. Suit pristine. Pigeon, indeed, was thrilled with himself.

You just stared.

And for the first time, you wondered.

Was this real?

Was this man, this terrifyingly silent, possibly government-engineered humanoid statue, flirting with you?

Had you accidentally fallen into the middle of a slow-burn romance where one party refused to speak and the other was a bird?

You weren’t sure.

But you were beginning to suspect.

It wasn’t just the weird compliments. Or the way Lucci’s pigeon had somehow become your romantic intermediary-slash-personal hype man. It was the little things. The patterns.

The kind you don’t notice until they break.

Like the night of the storm.

You’d stayed late, as usual. A backlog of manifests had imploded in your inbox, and there was no one else qualified, or willing, to untangle the mess. Rain battered the windows like a desperate salesman. The lights flickered, the office creaked, and for a while, the only sound was the scratching of your pen and the hum of the generator.

Until you heard it.

Shoes.

And wings.

You turned, heart skipping. Rob Lucci stood just inside the doorway, water dripping from the hem of his coat. Hair damp. Expression unreadable. He looked like the final chapter of a noir novel; tall, tired, and two degrees short of poetic tragedy.

Hattori flapped forward, his usual dramatics absent. He landed on your desk with uncharacteristic softness. Almost reverent.

“He came back because he was worried. You didn’t clock out.”

You went still. Stunned.

“…How did he know that?”

Hattori looked at you. Quiet. Direct.

“He always knows.”

You stared at the bird. Then at the man in the doorway.

Lucci said nothing. He just stood there, dripping, watching you the way some people might observe a puzzle they weren’t allowed to touch.

And you didn’t know if that was sweet… or mildly alarming.

Maybe both.

You started noticing things after that.

Little shifts.

Lucci always arrived exactly three minutes after you did. Never late. Never early. Never made a show of it; just appeared, like a clock you couldn’t set but somehow always ran on your time.

You never ran out of supplies. Pens, staples, coffee stirrers, we’re always there. Neatly restocked before you ever realized you needed them.

Your chair was always at the perfect height, even after someone else used it. Even after the cleaning staff adjusted the levers. Always just right. You hadn’t touched it in weeks.

And your desk?

Never in the sun. Not directly. But always near enough to catch the warmth. To feel lit without being exposed.

It was subtle. Thoughtful.

And undeniably him.

You began to feel warm. Not just in the literal sense. But in that quiet, steady way that seeps in when someone pays attention to the details you never voice aloud. When someone doesn’t ask, but does.

It wasn’t dramatic.

It wasn’t a confession.

It was a routine. A presence. A thousand invisible gestures that said: I’m here. I see you. I remember.

And what made it sweeter was that he thought he was hiding it.

Rob Lucci remained mute.

Didn’t even communicate silently to you, not directly. Not unless you counted the subtle nods and brow twitches he used like punctuation. He moved like a man made of precision and threat; silent, sharp, and suspiciously well-pressed.

He nodded. He signed things. He glared at the pirates.

And, unfortunately, he let a pigeon do the talking.

At first, it was fine. A little eccentric, sure. But this was Water 7. Half your coworkers had dramatic pasts, questionable fashion choices, or secret identities involving masks and high explosives. Lucci, in comparison, was almost normal.

Silent. Predictable. Occasionally terrifying, like if someone made a scarecrow out of malice and Armani.

But the bird? The bird had plans.

The bird had opinions. The bird had range. And worse, the bird had you in its sights.

It started setting traps.

You were at your desk, calmly reviewing the revised port schedules, when Lucci stepped into your office like the final boss of a very expensive cologne commercial; black hair billowing slightly, green eyes fixed on you like you’d just insulted his entire bloodline.

“Here for the shipment manifests?” you asked, monotone, highlighting a line with your pen.

He nodded.

Hattori fluttered down onto your desk with all the grace of a stage actor making his entrance. He tilted his head at you with a slow, appraising blink.

“He says your organizational charts should be framed. Preferably above his bed.”

You froze. Your jaw tightened. Once. Twice.

 “…Excuse me?”

Across the room, Lucci’s brow furrowed. He made a sharp gesture—a sort of throat-cutting swipe—like he was trying to erase the bird from existence through sheer body language.

Hattori didn’t even flinch. The pigeon cooed smugly. 

“I’m paraphrasing.”

Lucci frowned. Actually frowned. Made a sharp, slicing gesture in the air like he was cutting ties with the concept of flirting itself. Hattori waves a wing like a little shit. (And for the first time, the world’s most feared assassin begins to suspect his bird has betrayed him.)

You stared at the bird. Then, at Lucci, who was now studiously examining the wall as if it contained a better reality.

You tried to go back to work.

You’d drop off files, and the bird would purr,

“He likes the way you cross your ankles.”

You’d misplace your pen, and as you leaned over the desk,

“He’s trying not to look. He’s failing.”

You once asked if Lucci was free for a team lunch.

The bird blinked.

“Emotionally or romantically?”

You nearly sued.

But Lucci?

Lucci never talked. Never smiled. Never laughed. Just stood there like a very finely sculpted statue carved from “brooding sex appeal and murder.” His eye twitched, though. 

You assumed it was a gag.

Until you passed by a window reflection and saw him watching you, not lazily, not idly, but hungrily.

Now, you’ve entered a strange state of denial.

You pretend you don’t notice the way Hattori gets more brazen when Lucci’s tired.

“He wants to know if you’re seeing anyone. And if you’d like to stop.”

You pretend it’s all just misinterpretation.

You pretend you’re not starting to pay extra attention to your clothes, your perfume, your hair.

But it’s getting harder to ignore when Lucci stands closer. When he lingers. When his gloved hand grazes yours under the guise of passing a file, the bird immediately croons:

“His hands are cold, but his thoughts are not.”

You choke on your tea.

The final straw?

You catch Hattori sitting alone at your desk one morning. No Lucci in sight.

The bird preens, fluffs his chest, and says softly, almost seriously:

“He dreams about your shared cubs. It’s making him stupid.”

You freeze. 

“…What?”

Lucci enters ten seconds later.

You pretend you didn’t hear. He pretends he didn’t send the bird ahead like a lovesick missile.

You began to realize something was deeply off when Hattori started enhancing basic conversations and turning logistical reports into accidental love letters. Your job was numbers. Timetables. Freight weights. And somehow, every interaction began to sound like a courtship dance choreographed by an over-caffeinated playwright.

You: “Please confirm the number of ships arriving by noon.” 

Hattori: “He’s saving up PTO for your future joint honeymoon. He hasn’t asked yet. Give it time.”

You: “Does he want coffee?”

Hattori: “He says your mere existence has set off seven internal alarms. He welcomes the threat.”

You: slamming a drawer shut so hard the pens rattled

 Lucci: grim silence, nostrils flaring slightly

 Hattori: “He’s begging me to stop, but he’s too proud to say it out loud.”

You looked up.

Lucci was standing near the doorway, arms folded tight across his chest like he was physically restraining himself from committing homicide. His eyes were closed. Meditative. Or possibly murderous.

The tension in his jaw could’ve cut steel.

Meanwhile, the bird, his tiny, traitorous accomplice, puffed his feathers and looked pleased with himself. Smug. Gleeful. Like this was all part of a larger plan. A slow-burn play scripted with a glitter pen and romantic sabotage.

Worse still?

You were beginning to enjoy it.

It had become your favorite part of the day. Watching Rob Lucci, the human personification of a locked filing cabinet, be undone by a bird with theatrical ambitions. The subtle glances. The growing exasperation. The brief, rare flashes of discomfort; so slight, you’d miss them if you weren’t already looking.

Which you were.

You caught the way his eyes flicked to your desk before you arrived. The exact three-minute delay between your arrival and his. The steady appearance of perfectly stocked pens, fresh staples, and your favorite brand of coffee stirrers is constantly restocked without fanfare. No one ever admitted to it.

Your chair was always at the right height, even after someone else sat in it.

Your workspace? Never in direct sun, but always near it; warm, comfortable, intentional.

It couldn’t be a coincidence.

But he never said anything.

And the bird?

The bird got bolder.

“He thinks you’d look good in his tie. Just his tie.”

That last one made you inhale so sharply, you nearly choked on your spit.

Across the office, Lucci dropped an entire folder. Just: bam. Documents scattered. Eyelid twitching.

Hattori? Beaming. Practically glowing.

You start leaving little treats out for Hattori. Cleaning up your desk just in case Lucci drops by. Pretending not to notice how red his ears get when Hattori says things like:

“He dreams about the way you pronounce ‘ledger.’”

Lucci nearly crushed a clipboard that time. You almost fainted. From either horror or interest, you’re not sure.

You cornered the pigeon not long after on a late afternoon. Balcony breeze ruffling the curtains. Lucci was inside, reviewing invoices with the intensity of a man interrogating them for war crimes.

You cross your arms.

“Are you actually repeating what he says?”

Hattori fluffs his feathers. “Define ‘actually.’”

You narrow your eyes. “He doesn’t even talk to you, does he?”

The bird tilts its head. Then, smugly:

“I’ve taken creative liberties.”

You gape. “You’re telling me—he has no idea?”

“He thinks he’s just sending basic orders. I’ve been ghostwriting this romance for months.”

You gaped. “So none of this was real?”

Hattori fluffed his wings.

“Oh, no. It’s all real. He just… doesn’t know how to say it yet.”

He flapped once and landed on the railing.

“Someone had to move the plot forward.”

You looked up. Slowly.

Lucci was standing by the window, the morning light cutting across his tank top in pale gold. Still. Silent. As always.

But you noticed it now, the tension in his shoulders. The stillness that wasn’t indifference but restraint. Like he was holding his breath behind his eyes.

You met his gaze.

He looked away.

And the bird?

The bird just cooed. Softly. Like a curtain closing on the final act of a play only he’d been narrating.

He hasn’t said anything yet because he thinks he shouldn't want things like this. Things like you.”

Inside, Rob Lucci looked up from his paperwork, just in time to see you laughing.

Really laughing.

And something in his posture eased. Barely. A ripple across stone.

He didn’t smile.

But his eyes softened, just enough.

And the bird? The bird winked at you.

Then the bastard adds:

“You’re welcome.”

You’ve been working with Rob Lucci for three months now.

Three months of complete silence from him. Three months of Hattori the Hellbird™ crooning veiled compliments and romantic espionage. Three months of subtle, possibly imagined kindnesses.

And you’re starting to feel like you’re losing your damn mind.

You know better than to crush on a coworker. Especially one who doesn’t talk. Especially one whose bird might be a liar. Especially one who, for all you know, is just standing there like a statue while his bird builds an elaborate fantasy in his name.

But…

Your pens never run dry. Your coffee is always at the perfect temperature. Your broken drawer now glides like butter, and you never told anyone it was stuck.

And that one time you nearly tripped in the hallway?

Lucci didn’t even blink. But the moment you stumbled, he had a hand on your lower back; steady, firm, gone in a second.

Hattori said nothing that time.

You’re beginning to believe the bird might actually be the most honest part of this entire equation.

You finally snap during a meeting.

Iceburg is droning on about port clearance when you accidentally glance at Lucci. He’s looking at you, not just casually, but like he’s been looking at you. Focused. Faintly frowning. That same unreadable stare he always has, but this time, it catches you in the chest.

You drop your pen. Hattori says:

“He’s wondering if you drop things around him on purpose so he’ll bend over. He finds it flattering.”

You make a noise somewhere between a squeak and a groan.

You corner Iceburg in the break room with the dead-eyed intensity of a woman on the edge.

“I need to ask something,” you mutter, gripping your coffee cup like a lifeline. “But I need you to promise not to laugh.”

Iceburg raises an eyebrow. “…Sounds promising.”

You exhale. “Is Lucci… weird with everyone? Or just me?”

He pauses. “You mean silent? Or brooding?”

“Neither! I mean—yes, but—” You rub your temples. “I think he might be… doing things for me. Quiet things. I don’t know. Helpful things. Sweet things. And the bird—” 

You gesture vaguely, as if invoking some cursed spirit.

“The bird keeps saying things. Romantic things. Things I want to believe but probably shouldn’t.”

Iceburg stares.

Then he leans back and mutters, “Oh.”

You blink. “What?”

He takes a long sip of coffee. “That damn pigeon. I told Lucci not to let it speak unsupervised. It’s been running rogue since that last shop had a parrot who taught it sentience.”

Your blood goes cold. “You mean Lucci doesn’t know what the bird’s been saying?”

“Oh, no, he probably knows.” Iceburg shrugs. “Eventually. But he’s the kind of guy who’ll watch a building burn down and wait for someone else to call the fire department. If that bird is confessing for him, he’ll let it burn.”

You stare. “So you’re saying I’ve spent three months being seduced by a pigeon with zero confirmation that the man behind it is even aware it’s happening?!”

Iceburg pats your shoulder. “You’re doing great.”

You go back to your desk, shoulders tense, heart pounding.

Lucci glances up from a file. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to. The look lingers a second too long.

Then Hattori hops onto your keyboard and says sweetly:

“He dreams of you in his bed. But mostly, he dreams of you staying.”

You close your eyes.

“…If I punch the bird, does that count as workplace violence?”

“Lucci wonders if you like your men quiet or dangerous. He’s asking for a friend. A very quiet, dangerous friend.”

You think he might not be just the public’s problem. He might be yours.