#slickerthanice

It wasn’t even supposed to mean anything. One anonymous kiss at the stroke of midnight. New Year’s nonsense. A little bubbly courage and a lot of bad lighting. Everyone had been tipsy, laughing, and counting down. And you? You had leaned in toward the nearest tall stranger in the crowd like a complete idiot. Because that’s what you did during these kinds of events, right? It was tradition. A throwaway kiss.

Except now you knew.

It wasn’t a stranger. It was Admiral Kuzan.

Admiral.

Kuzan.

The Ice Admiral.

You groaned and shoved your face into your pillow, wishing suffocation was a more viable escape plan.

“What the hell is wrong with me?” you mumbled into the fabric.

It had been like kissing a sexy mirage. Tall, lean, quiet. That lazy charm. You hadn’t even gotten a good look at him in the moment, too caught up in the champagne haze and the electricity running down your spine. It had felt like some fleeting, indulgent fantasy. And then the next morning, reality hit you in the face with the speed and precision of a Marine-issued summons.

The man files paperwork. He has authority. He technically outranks everyone you have ever known. He probably drinks coffee with Sengoku. He might be the reason the coffee in Marineford tastes like frozen despair.

You sat up and began the sluggish, painful process of dressing yourself in what you now referred to as your “Don’t Fire Me” uniform. Everything about it screamed harmless. Your shirt was stiff with starch, tucked in so tightly it might have been fused to your spine. You’d picked the least flattering pair of slacks known to mankind. Your boots were polished to a humble, non-threatening shine. Your hair was pulled back into the strictest bun your skull could tolerate. You hadn’t even reached for mascara. No highlighter. No winged eyeliner. And, God help you, no lipstick.

You looked like someone who read standard operating procedure manuals for fun.

You stood in front of the mirror and tried your best “I’m innocent” face. The result was deeply unconvincing.

You didn’t look innocent.

You looked like you’d hidden a body. Or worse, you looked like you had been lip-locked with someone who had likely buried several.

Your brain kicked into overdrive. You needed a cover story. Something believable. Something humble.

Option one: “It was dark, sir. I thought you were a public menace.”

Option two: “He didn’t identify himself, and I assumed he was just a very convincing ice-themed pickpocket.”

Option three, your personal favorite: “Technically, he kissed me. I was just emotionally kidnapped.”

None of them sounded like something that would hold up under military interrogation. But you memorized them anyway, whispering them like mantras as you made your way through the base. Every step toward headquarters felt like trudging toward a firing squad. Your palms started to sweat before you even reached the front steps. You wiped them on your pants. Twice.

What if he’d filed a report? What if this was entrapment? What if the kiss had been a covert test of moral integrity and you’d failed it (with tongue)?

You stopped outside the main building. The great looming doors of Marineford HQ stood before you like the gates of hell.

You took a breath.

You were a professional. You were composed. You were not going to think about the way his lips had felt, or how cool his hand had been when it brushed the side of your face. You were not going to remember the sound of his chuckle when he pulled away, low and amused, like he already knew you were doomed.

You would walk in. You would not get fired. You would not spontaneously combust. You were a capable adult. A dedicated Marine. A professional with a spotless record and exactly one humiliating New Year’s kiss that you would never speak of again if the universe had even a sliver of mercy.

You reached for the handle, heart thudding against your ribs, praying that no one in the vicinity could smell guilt. Was that a thing? Could guilt produce a scent? Because if so, you were reeking of it. Downright marinated in it.

"Okay," you whispered to yourself, squeezing your eyes shut for half a second like you could reboot your entire personality through sheer willpower. "Just go in. Act normal. No one knows. You're fine. You are fine. You are not going to see him. He's an Admiral. He's probably in a meeting with Garp or fighting a sea king or—"

“Yo.”

You flinched so violently that your spine nearly left your body. Your coffee lurched in your grip, splashing against the rim. A drop singed your fingers, but you couldn’t even register the pain.

Admiral Kuzan was there.

Leaning casually against the wall just inside the lobby like he hadn’t single-handedly destroyed your sense of reality. Full uniform. His iconic white coat was draped over his broad shoulders. Hair still that wild mess of curls that looked like it had been run through once or twice by someone’s hands, which you would not think about. His sunglasses were perched right where they always were, hiding the expression in his eyes but doing absolutely nothing to mute the infuriating smirk tugging at his lips.

He looked relaxed, like this was just a regular morning. Like the world hadn’t tilted off its axis because your mouth had met his for an objectively too-good kiss beneath confetti and fireworks.

And worse, he was looking at you.

No. Worse. He was smirking at you.

Your brain hiccupped. Completely blanked. There was a vague buzzing in your ears and the unmistakable sensation of your soul attempting to climb out of your body. You stood there like an overheated statue, mouth slightly open, coffee gradually burning into your skin as you forgot how to function in basic society. 

Kuzan tilted his head slightly, as if genuinely considering how ragged you looked. He gave a slight, lazy nod, the kind that could have meant anything.

“Morning,” he said, with that trademark lagging drawl that made even the strongest woman on base feel a little tipsy. It made even the most harmless greeting sound like a conspiracy, and made you look like a loon getting high on it.

You still hadn’t moved.

“Sleep okay?” he asked, voice low and smooth, like he wasn’t casually detonating your nervous system with every syllable.

There was no protocol for this. No chain of command. No training manual that properly prepared you for being personally acknowledged and smirked at by the man whose lips had been on yours just hours ago.

You opened your mouth, determined to respond with something crisp and professional.

What came out was… not that.

“Yup,” you blurted, voice cracking three octaves too high. “Slept. Sleep was had. By me. Definitely.”

Silence.

Kuzan didn’t laugh, but you could see the effort it took him not to. 

His mouth twitched, amusement tugging at the corners. He rocked back on his heels and slid one hand deeper into his coat pocket, clearly enjoying himself. You wished for death. Or divine intervention. Or a small, localized lightning strike. Nothing fatal, just enough to reset the moment and knock you unconscious.

“Cool,” he said finally, warm and amused. “Glad to hear it.”

Cool. 

He actually said cool. You weren’t sure if he was being ironic, or if your dehydrated brain was simply short-circuiting under the weight of his attention.

You gave a jerky nod, gripping your coffee like it might physically anchor you to the earth. He had kissed you once, and now your entire nervous system operated on his voice like it was a trigger.

You cleared your throat, trying to claw your way back to dignity. “Well. Admiral. Sir. I should probably, um. Go do that thing. That job. That I have.”

Kuzan raised one eyebrow, barely lifting his chin. “You mean your job?”

You stuttered. 

“Yes?”

He smirked, the expression lazy and self-satisfied. He tapped the side of his temple, voice casual but not careless.

“Guess I made a lasting impression.”

Oh God.

You were going to combust. Right there in the hallway. Just evaporate into a puff of embarrassed steam.

“I’m—I’m late for—” You didn’t even finish the sentence. You just turned, fully ready to power-walk into traffic or the nearest broom closet.

“Right on,” he said, still unfazed. “Wouldn’t want to keep you.”

And then, because the universe had no intention of letting you escape with grace, his voice called after you again.

“Hey.”

You froze.

“Relax,” he said, tone softer now. Still low. Still smooth. Still somehow worse. “It’s just a kiss.”

He paused.

Then added, almost too casually, “Unless you want it to be more.”

Your body kept walking, but your brain had exited the building. You didn’t turn around. You didn’t respond. You just kept moving, faster now, eyes fixed ahead like you were trying to outrun your own bloodstream.

Behind you, you heard him chuckle.

You survived the morning. Technically.

Kuzan didn’t follow, didn’t say another word, didn’t stroll into your department wing like some unapologetic predator with diplomatic immunity. He just let you run.

Which, frankly, made it worse.

Because now your brain wouldn’t stop looping it. That entire ambush? That wasn’t a joke. That was intentional. A Marine Admiral had waited for you, watched you. Struck the moment your guard was down, and New Year’s had made it technically legal to kiss strangers in front of hundreds of people.

And now he was pretending it was nothing, like he hadn’t kissed you like a moth in a snowstorm and then vanished, leaving you to melt in the aftermath.

You spent the day buried in reports, surrounded by paperwork you couldn’t remember filing, pretending you weren’t twitchy, pretending you couldn’t still feel his hand ghosting behind your neck, thumb grazing your jaw like it belonged there. Every time your pen slipped, every time someone walked past your desk too quietly, you startled like you’d seen a ghost. You were deeply haunted. Spiritually unwell.

It was fine. You were fine. If you stayed in your department forever and never went near the Admiral wing again, you could keep your job and your dignity intact. You would just become part of the office furniture. A haunted swivel chair. A respected filing ghost.

But there was something worse than the after-kiss panic. Worse than the way your lips still tingled like he’d left frostbite in his wake. Worse than the unhurried, toe-curling, life-ruining kiss that had you lying awake all night whispering "Oh my god" into your pillow like a prayer and a confession.

Because now you had to face people.

Not just people. Your coworkers.

And they? They were waiting.

The moment you stepped into the mess hall, still clutching your clipboard like it was a riot shield, one of them spotted you and slammed their tray down across from you with the precision of a tactical strike.

“SIT,” they barked.

You froze. “I—”

“Sit down before I call Security and report you for fraternizing with a walking natural disaster.”

You sat. Carefully. Still mildly concussed from your sleepless night.

The rest of your team flanked you like a well-trained ambush unit. It was an intervention. A friendly one. Probably.

“So,” one of them said, drawing out the word like a blade. “Wanna tell us why you were making out with an Admiral disguised as a wandering philosophy major?”

“It wasn’t like that,” you hissed, trying to keep your voice down. “It was just—he came out of nowhere. I didn’t even know it was him. He looked like someone who’d try to sell me a bootleg sea shanty near the commissary.”

“He looked like an unsupervised sin,” your friend shot back. “And then he kissed you like a man who’s been waiting for permission since the Pirate King was alive.”

You buried your face in your hands. “I didn’t know.”

Another leaned in across the table, eyes wide. “You kissed Admiral Kuzan.”

You peeked between your fingers. “So I’ve heard.”

Everyone at the table went quiet. Tense. Braced, like the following sentence might trigger a naval strike.

“…Do you know what that means?” someone finally asked. “You kissed an Admiral. In public. During a holiday. Surrounded by witnesses. And now we’re all going to die.”

“Why you?” you asked, blinking and still hungry.

“Because we witnessed it,” your friend hissed, rolling her eyes, looking much like a revolutionary on a mission. “And that man saw us watching.”

“He looked at me,” another whispered, pale and shaken. “He nodded. I thought my soul was leaving my body.”

“We are all accessories now,” someone mumbled. There was a moment of collective silence as dread hung over the table like a funeral shroud.

Then someone added quietly, “If I disappear in the night, tell my mom it was worth it.”

You dropped your head onto the table with a low groan.

This was your life now. A public menace with a sweet mouth and a Marine rank had kissed you in front of half the base and evaporated like some urban legend. And somehow, you were the one left holding the embarrassment bag.

You groaned louder. “You’re being dramatic.”

“No,” one of them said flatly. “We are being realistic. You are now the unofficial property of someone who controls the climate. Do you even know what his Devil Fruit does?”

“…Ice?”

“Chills. As in, 'freeze our entire barracks because you didn’t Den Den him back,' chills.”

Another leaned forward, lowering their voice like they were delivering sacred intel. “Do you realize how much power this man has? He’s an Admiral. A living legend.” One hissed. 

The other cut in.

“—And he’s,” they waved a hand wildly in your direction, “—hovering around you like an overworked freezer with abandonment issues.”

“He’s not hovering—”

“Babe,” someone interrupted, eyes wide and serious. “He popped up outside your department three times this week. And he ‘coincidentally’ passed by our lunch table yesterday like it was a group date. The kiss was just the final step.”

You gaped. “That’s ridiculous. That’s not—he’s not—okay, but do you think I’m going to get demoted or—”

“No!” your friend shrieked, slapping the table so hard a spoon bounced. “You’re going to get claimed! That man is courting you in Admiral-speak!”

“…Which is what?”

“Inexplicable presence,” someone said immediately, holding up a finger.

“Weird smirks,” another added.

“Saying something cryptic and then disappearing like a sexy Slenderman,” the first finished, dead serious.

You stared at them.

They stared back, unblinking. Not a trace of mercy in any of their expressions.

“I need to lie down,” you muttered. “I want to disappear.”

One of them patted your head like you were a lost puppy. “Too late. You’re his now. We’re planning the wedding. I call dibs on toast duty.”

You groaned again, louder this time, dropping your head back onto your arms with the weight of a woman defeated.

And then, because of course, someone cleared their throat behind you.

You didn’t move at first. Maybe it was a hallucination. Maybe your shame had finally manifested into auditory delusions. Perhaps if you just stayed perfectly still, like a woodland rodent, the problem would go away.

But your friends had gone silent.

Dead silent.

You looked up.

Kuzan stood there, calm as ever, holding a paper cup of hot chocolate in one hand and a small, carefully folded box in the other. His sleep mask was pushed up into the mess of curls above his forehead. He looked half-awake and completely unbothered, like he hadn’t just sent an entire table of junior Marines into cardiac arrest with his presence alone.

“Hey,” he said, his voice casual and quiet. “Thought I’d drop this off. You forgot to eat last night.”

He set the box down on the table next to you. Then his eyes flicked to the others.

Your friends froze like statues. One of them stopped mid-bite, fork hovering inches from their mouth. Another person visibly stopped breathing.

Kuzan’s mouth twitched, just barely. A hint of a smile.

“Nice seeing you all,” he said, as if they weren’t all internally praying for resurrection rites.

Then he turned and walked off like he hadn’t just emotionally nuked the room.

You peered at the box of sweet buns. Steam curled from the seams. They were still warm. One of your friends let out a breath like they’d been holding it for hours.

“…That was an Admiral,” they said quietly.

Another leaned forward, whispering, “I think you'd better start looking up white dresses.”

You eyeballed the buns.

Then back at the door.

Then back at the buns.

“We’re all scared,” someone said.

You nodded again.

“Why are these warm?” another hissed, poking one of the pastries like it might detonate. “Did he heat them up with his heart?”

Your coworkers turned on you like a coordinated strike team.

“You’d better get a wedding dress that matches his uniform,” one said gravely. “Because that’s a man ready to be married.”

No. No, no. No way.

You couldn’t believe them. You refused to believe them. Maybe he felt bad. Perhaps he was sorry about that night. Maybe he was just doing that light, flirtatious thing that high-ranking officers liked to do when they were bored or mysterious or emotionally stunted.

You lied to yourself.

Right up until the hallway incident.

You had just finished filing a stack of deployment rotations and were slipping out of a narrow side corridor, steps light, heart quiet for the first time all day. The sun hit your shoulders through the upper windows. You were thinking about lunch. About silence. About nothing.

Then you turned the corner and walked directly into a wall.

Except it wasn’t a wall.

It was a chest. A firm, broad, suspiciously warm chest that did not belong to any structural support system.

Your face bounced off it with a soft thunk. And then you heard it. A quiet sound, like a thoughtful hmm? The exact noise a man might make if he was expecting to be used as a human speed bump.

You stumbled back.

Of course, it was him.

Admiral Kuzan.

He looked down at you with mild surprise and unmistakable amusement, one hand still in his coat pocket, the other now resting lazily against the wall beside your head. No sunglasses this time. Just sharp, half-lidded eyes and that faint, gradually spreading smile that made your stomach tie itself in knots.

“Whoa,” he said calmly. “Didn’t know I was on your itinerary.”

You peeked up at him, stunned and betrayed by your own feet. Your words came out scrambled.

“I—no. I mean. I didn’t—”

“You always this jumpy,” he asked, stepping just a little closer, “or is it just around people you kiss?”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“That was your—”

“Mm.” His lips curved slightly, pleased. “I recall some mutual participation.”

You crossed your arms tightly. “You set me up. You disguised yourself. That’s… that’s entrapment. Or deception. Or something Admiral-y and illegal.”

He leaned in closer, voice low and smooth. “So you’re saying if I’d shown up in full uniform and said ‘Hey, wanna make out in front of your coworkers,’ you would’ve said yes?”

You opened your mouth.

And promptly said nothing.

The sound that escaped him was barely a laugh, but it wrapped around your ribs like velvet.

“Didn’t think so.”

You scowled, backing up a fraction, like distance could save you. “You can’t just go around kissing people under… false pretenses.”

Kuzan tilted his head, eyes soft with mock innocence. “False pretenses?”

“Yes!” you snapped, pointing at him like that would help. “You tricked me. You disguised yourself. That’s deception. That’s manipulation. That’s—kiss fraud.”

His smile widened, easy and infuriating. “You saying it was false?”

Your brain promptly threw its hands in the air and left the building.

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out. You blinked at him. Once. Twice. Your thoughts were playing bumper cars behind your eyes, none of them quite sticking.

“That’s not—You—Ugh!” You crossed your arms, flustered and warm and actively fighting the urge to throw yourself out the nearest window. “I am reporting you to the Fleet Admiral.”

He hummed, entirely unbothered, like you’d just told him the weather might turn chilly later. “No, you won’t.”

Your mouth dropped open. “Yes, I will.”

“No, you won’t.”

“Yes, I will, Kuzan.”

“You won’t,” he repeated, still maddeningly calm. “You’ll get all the way to the office, stare at the form, remember the kiss, and forget how to spell your own name. I know I did.”

“I will not.”

“You’ll get to the part where it says ‘describe the incident,’ and you’ll write ‘accidentally swooned.’”

You pointed a finger at his chest. “You are so full of—”

He caught your finger lightly between two fingers of his own and gave the tiniest grin. “False pretenses?”

You yanked your hand back like he’d just licked it.

“You are—You—This is abuse of power!”

“I’m not your superior,” he said helpfully.

“You’re an Admiral,” you said, like maybe the title would finally remind him that there were rules. Boundaries. Protocols. Anything that would make him stop looking at you like he was two seconds from kissing you again.

He gave a slow, thoughtful nod, as if he genuinely needed a moment to consider the charge. 

“Sure,” he said with a shrug. “But not in your direct chain of command. You work under Kizaru, right?”

You opened your mouth to object.

Paused.

Shut it again.

Because, unfortunately, that lazily triumphant glacier was right.

You did technically report to Kizaru. Which meant Kuzan, in all his lazy, infuriating, absolutely smug brilliance, had enough wiggle room in the chain of command to make your life confusing but not necessarily illegal.

You gawked at him. “You’re unbearable.”

He gave you a small shrug, eyes gleaming like he’d just won a round of some game only he knew you were playing. “Most people say that right before they fall for me.”

You resisted the urge to throw a clipboard at his head. Barely.

“You kissed me.”

“You ambushed me!”

“You leaned in.”

You let out a sound that could only be described as a frustrated squeak.

Kuzan chuckled, lazy and amused, like he’d just discovered his new favorite pastime. He still had his sleep mask pushed up on his curls like he’d rolled straight out of bed and into your love life.

“Tell you what,” he said, taking a step back with exaggerated politeness. “You file the report, and if you still feel strongly after that… I’ll let you kiss me next time.”

You opened your mouth, prepared to launch a blistering rebuttal, but instead made a noise that sounded vaguely like a sputtering kettle.

Kuzan gave a small salute and wandered off like he hadn’t just romantically clotheslined you in the hallway.

You remained frozen in place for several seconds, fuming, blushing, and trying to remember if there was a section on Fleet Admiral complaint forms for “menace in disguise with stupidly nice lips.”

You wouldn’t discover this till much, much later, but Admiral Kuzan was not winging it on New Year’s Eve. That night was merely his curtain call; he had set you up long before that evening.

That kiss? That smooth little ambush in the crowd, timed perfectly between fireworks and laughter?

It was planned. Then executed like a cold-blooded romantic assassination, because the truth was, he had been watching you.

For months.

Not in a creepy way. Not at first. It had started with a coincidence. You’d be in a briefing room, quietly scribbling notes, and his eyes would land on you because you weren’t trying to be seen. He’d pass you in the hall, and you’d give a polite nod like he was just another officer. You never stared. Never fawned. Never even flinched at the weight of his rank.

You smiled once. Small. Barely there. But it had stuck.

Then he started noticing other people looking at you.

Noticing how the coffee guy remembered your order before you opened your mouth. How rookies got weirdly shy around you. How senior officers always left your reports at the top of their inboxes. How you made people laugh during debriefs without even trying. And not the performative kind of laugh. The real kind. Warm. Disarming.

You were popular.

But not in the loud, look-at-me way.

You were lowkey. Steady. Charming in that way that crept up on people. The kind of person who made kindness look casual. The type of person people went out of their way to sit near. The sort of person the Marineford gossip circles had already labeled as “dangerously crushable.”

And Kuzan?

Kuzan did not like competition.

He watched the way others lingered near your desk. The way they bent a little too low to speak to you. The way someone once brought you a flower from a field op, all flustered and hopeful. You’d laughed it off and tucked the flower behind your ear. You probably forgot it by the end of the day.

But he hadn’t.

That was the day Kuzan realized something horrifying.

He had feelings.

Real ones.

And worse, they weren’t going away.

So he waited. Bided his time. Played it cool.

Sort of.

Kuzan was, at his core, a man of patience. He didn’t rush. He didn’t chase. He didn’t do drama. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t paying attention.

Two weeks before the party, he spotted you walking across the training yard with some pretty-boy lieutenant. Fresh-faced, confident, trying far too hard. You laughed at something he said. Real laughter. Bright. Too many teeth. Too much eye contact.

Kuzan lowered his book just enough to watch the exchange, his expression unreadable.

"Hm," he muttered.

Name. Rank. Assignment. Schedule. Logged.

That same lieutenant received an unexpected transfer order less than twenty-four hours later. Reassigned to a frigid northern base known for its isolation, frostbite, and general lack of flirtation opportunities.

No explanation. No warning. Just a crisp internal message: Expedited transfer request approved. Don’t pack light.

One week before the party, it happened again. A friendly, but overly smiley, medic brought you cocoa during lunch. A peace offering, maybe. Or a casual, if transparent, attempt at warming his way into your good graces.

You accepted it with a smile. "Thanks, that’s sweet of you."

Kuzan turned the page of his newspaper.

The medic slipped on something that might have been a patch of ice.

There had been no prior signs of frost.

Two bruised ribs. Concussion. Downgraded to light infirmary duty until further notice.

When asked what happened, the medic blinked groggily and muttered something about sudden cold fronts and karma.

Kuzan simply folded his newspaper and left the lounge.

He didn’t look back.

This wasn’t jealousy. Not exactly.

This was strategy.

New Year’s Eve day, right around lunch, you were at the canteen, sipping soup and chatting with an older commander. He was harmless, mostly. A little flirtatious. One of those old dogs who called everyone under forty “honeypie” and thought it was charming. You laughed politely. He offered to walk you to the party later that night.

Kuzan, seated a few tables away with a tray of untouched food and a crossword puzzle he wasn’t really doing, didn’t react. Not outwardly.

He didn’t even look up.

But the pen in his hand paused.

Later that evening, just before the party started, that same commander tore through the barracks like a man on the edge.

His dress uniform was gone.

Locker broken into. Contents missing. Only his boots were left behind.

He showed up late to the party in a wrinkled secondary set of service fatigues. Red-faced. Sweating. Not entirely sober, either. He had a flask in one pocket and poor impulse control in the other.

Base security was already waiting. An anonymous report had been filed minutes earlier.

Unprofessional behavior.

Possible intoxication.

Improper attire at an official function.

The commander didn’t even make it to the second song.

Kuzan arrived ten minutes later.

Perfectly on time.

Perfectly dressed.

No epaulettes. No Admiral bars. Just a dark coat draped over his shoulders, collar turned up, curls slightly tousled like he hadn’t done anything more complicated than stroll in from the cold. A glass in his hand, something clear and icy, scarcely touched and mostly an excuse.

New Year’s Eve. 11 PM.

You were standing alone at last. Finally. The room buzzed with chatter and motion, everyone swirling toward midnight with flushed cheeks and too much champagne. But you had found a pocket of stillness. No one besides you. No one hovering. Just your own heartbeat and the soft music rising from the speakers.

Across the room, he watched you.

He had been watching all night.

No insignia. No title. No rank. Just another face in the crowd, smooth and quiet, tucked into the margins like a secret.

He didn’t rush.

He waited.

Because you were looking around.

Not frantically. Just… expectantly. Like maybe you didn’t know who to kiss. Like maybe this year, the moment would pass you by.

He wouldn’t let that happen.

He’d already frozen the feet of at least two overly enthusiastic corporals who had tried to circle too close. Subtle. Barely noticeable. Just enough to hinder them. Just enough to delay.

At 11:59, he moved.

Cut across the room like a slow-moving current, slipping between two officers deep in conversation, one hand brushing a champagne flute aside. You turned just as he reached you, eyes wide, surprised, breath catching like the air had shifted around you.

“Happy New Year,” he said, voice low and calm.

Then he kissed you.

It was possessive. Calculated. Confident in a way that made the world blur at the edges. His hand came up to your jaw, steadying, thumb brushing your cheek as if the moment belonged to him. It did. He made sure of it.

The kiss was not gentle.

It wasn’t rough either.

It was intentional.

Designed to ruin any future suitor. Designed to live in your bones.

When he pulled back, it was unrushed. Your lips were parted, breath unsteady, cheeks flushed like you’d been spun in a snowstorm and dropped somewhere softer. You looked up at him like you hadn’t entirely returned to Earth.

He gave the smallest smile.

Somewhere nearby, someone choked out, “Was that—was that Admiral Kuzan?”

Kuzan didn’t look at them. Didn’t even turn. He leaned in, just close enough for them to hear.