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"Just a scratch"
The mission had gone unusually well. No buildings collapsed. No explosions. No screams echoing through alleyways. Just a smuggler caught red-handed near the eastern harbor and a successful takedown by the Armed Detective Agency.
Which was, as Kunikida muttered while scribbling in his notebook, “nothing short of a miracle.”
Atsushi leaned against a railing, catching his breath. Tanizaki was already checking in with Naomi on the phone. Yosano was cleaning a bit of blood from her gloves—not her own, probably the enemy's. And Kenji, bright as ever, was beaming as if they'd just finished a fun game instead of subduing an illegal weapons dealer with a metal pipe.
"Kenji-kun, are you hurt?" Kunikida asked, always the responsible one.
Kenji grinned. "Nope! I'm good as new, Kunikida-san!"
But Dazai saw it. The smallest hitch in his step. The way his knee shook just a little when he shifted his weight. The tear at the hem of his pants, streaked with dirt and a tiny blot of blood, mostly hidden.
No one else noticed. Or maybe they did—but they believed Kenji, because he always smiled like pain wasn’t real.
Dazai let his eyes linger for just a second longer, then stood up and stretched exaggeratedly.
“Well, that was fun! But I need to borrow our little sunshine for a while.”
Everyone looked at him.
Kenji blinked. “Huh?”
“Urgent business,” Dazai said with a mock-serious nod, placing a hand gently on Kenji’s shoulder. “Top secret. Life and death. No time for questions.”
Kenji tilted his head but didn’t protest. He never did with Dazai.
Kunikida raised an eyebrow. “Dazai—”
“No time, partner!” Dazai called over his shoulder. “Tell the boss I demand overtime pay!”
And with that, he guided Kenji down the street, his hand still warm on his shoulder until they turned the corner.
---
They walked in silence for a bit. The wind was soft, and the sun was dipping into warm evening tones.
Kenji still hadn’t said anything about his leg. He was walking normally now, kind of. But Dazai could tell he was forcing it.
“You know,” Dazai said idly, “I once knew a man who got shot in the leg. Didn’t say a word about it. Kept insisting he was fine until he passed out on the sidewalk.”
Kenji blinked. “That’s awful.”
“Mm. Very dramatic too. He almost lost the leg. And his pants.”
Kenji laughed. “I’m not shot, Dazai-san.”
“Sure,” Dazai said. “But your knee’s bleeding, and you’re walking like you’ve got a thorn in your boot.”
Kenji hesitated. Then gave a sheepish grin. “I didn’t want to make anyone worry.”
“I know.”
Dazai said it softly, like it was a fact, not a judgment. Then he stopped in front of a small pharmacy tucked between a ramen shop and a bookstore.
He turned to Kenji. “Wait here.”
Before Kenji could ask anything, Dazai was already inside.
---
He came out a few minutes later with a small plastic bag in one hand and a canned sweet red bean bun drink in the other.
“For you,” he said casually, handing the drink over. “You looked hungry. And pitiful.”
Kenji’s eyes lit up. “Thanks, Dazai-san!”
Dazai gestured to a bench nearby and pulled the other items from the bag: a bottle of antiseptic, a soft cloth, and a box of bandages with cartoon cows and rabbits printed on them.
Kenji blinked. “Is someone hurt?”
“Yes. Someone very bad at pretending they’re not.”
Kenji tried to protest, but Dazai was already crouching in front of him. “Pants up.”
Kenji hesitated. “It’s really not that bad—”
“It is. And I already paid money for these adorable bandages, so we’re using them.”
Kenji gave in, rolling up his pant leg. The scrapes were angry and red, dried blood at the edges, and little gravel bits still stuck in the skin. Dazai didn’t comment, just gently soaked the cloth in antiseptic and started cleaning.
Kenji winced. “Ow…”
Dazai didn’t tease him for once. “Sorry. You should’ve said something.”
“I didn’t wanna slow everyone down,” Kenji murmured. “We were all so focused. And I don’t get hurt easily.”
“That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be taken care of.”
Kenji looked at him.
Dazai kept working, wrapping the bandages carefully, smoothing the edges down with a light touch.
“There. All better.”
Kenji glanced down at the silly animal-covered bandages and beamed. “These are really cute.”
“You’re welcome. Now you won’t get infected and die tragically young.”
Kenji giggled. “You’re nice, Dazai-san.”
“Don’t spread lies like that,” Dazai muttered, standing and stretching again. “It’ll ruin my image.”
But Kenji smiled. And Dazai let him.
"You did well"
The mission had dragged on longer than anyone expected. It wasn’t violent, just… exhausting. Three days of stakeouts, paperwork, following dead leads, and dealing with one of the Port Mafia’s more talkative informants who insisted on monologuing about philosophy and fermented squid snacks.
Atsushi was practically dead on his feet when they got back to the Agency office.
He tried to hide it—tried to stand up straight and talk like usual—but his voice was weaker, his shoulders slumped, and the bags under his eyes could’ve carried groceries.
Yosano raised an eyebrow as she passed. “You look like a drowned cat.”
“Ah—sorry…” Atsushi gave a tired laugh and rubbed his neck. “I guess I need some rest.”
Dazai, lounging on the couch with his head hanging off the armrest like an upside-down ghost, opened one eye.
“My, my,” he said dramatically, “our poor little tiger is on the verge of collapse. Should we start planning the funeral now? Or do you want a proper Viking send-off?”
Atsushi groaned. “Please don’t start…”
“Don’t worry,” Dazai said, sitting up lazily. “I’ll even give a eulogy. ‘He fought bravely. He suffered greatly. He was very fluffy.’”
Atsushi trudged past him and dropped onto the other end of the couch like a rock.
“I’m alive,” he mumbled into a cushion. “Barely.”
Dazai smirked and gave a theatrical sigh. “Fine, no funeral. But you owe me one. It would’ve been very moving.”
For a moment, there was quiet.
Then, without a word, Dazai stood up and disappeared into the Agency’s small kitchenette. The soft clinking of cups and the hum of the kettle filled the silence while Atsushi sank deeper into the couch.
When Dazai returned, he didn’t say anything. Just handed Atsushi a warm cup of tea—one of those calming blends Yosano kept for her more injured patients.
Atsushi blinked. “Huh…? This is for me?”
“No,” Dazai said flatly. “It’s for the ghost currently possessing your body.”
Atsushi chuckled weakly and accepted it with both hands. The warmth seeped into his fingers and chest.
Dazai plopped back down beside him, pulling the blanket from the back of the couch and tossing it half over Atsushi’s legs without looking.
Then, he grabbed the remote and turned on the TV. Some old comedy show was playing—loud, goofy, ridiculous. Just enough noise to fill the space without needing to be watched.
Neither of them spoke for a while. The office was unusually quiet. Outside, the sun was dipping low over Yokohama.
Atsushi sipped his tea, eyes half-lidded. “Thanks, Dazai-san.”
Dazai shrugged, still watching the screen. “You did well today.”
Atsushi blinked. Coming from Dazai, that meant more than he wanted to admit.
He smiled softly and leaned back against the cushions.
They sat like that for a long time. Not talking. Not working. Just existing—together, warm, and safe for once.
"Midnight miracle"
“No, no, no! Where’s my report on the Minami District incident? And the follow-up interviews with the witnesses? And the security footage catalog?!”
Kunikida’s voice echoed through the Armed Detective Agency at exactly 8:03 a.m., sharp as always—except this time, it was tinged with genuine panic.
He shuffled through his folders, hands moving at rapid speed, eyes scanning for the familiar chaos of unfinished documents. But… there was nothing. Just a neat, perfect stack of completed reports, signed and stamped.
It was the first time his desk had been clean before 9 a.m.
Behind him, Dazai sipped a can of coffee, legs lazily kicked up on the table.
“Ohayo, Kunikida-kun~!” he sang. “Beautiful morning, isn’t it?”
Kunikida whipped around. “Did you do this?!”
“Hmm?” Dazai tilted his head. “Why do you assume it was me?”
“Because no one else would dare touch my desk without gloves, a three-paragraph essay of apology, and a life insurance plan!”
“Aw, you know me so well,” Dazai chuckled.
Kunikida’s eye twitched. “You forged my signature on all of these, didn’t you?”
“Technically… yes. But I did match your handwriting and tone perfectly. I even used your favorite pen!”
“You—!”
But Dazai was already turning away, waving one hand airily. “Details, details~. Besides, you needed the rest. You didn’t even eat lunch yesterday.”
---
Yesterday, 12:18 p.m.
Everyone had filtered out of the office, chatting about bento orders and ramen shops. Even Yosano had agreed to a quick lunch, which said something.
Only Kunikida remained, hunched over his desk with three open folders and a checklist scrawled in sharp green ink.
Dazai lingered by the door, watching him from the corner of his eye.
Then, without a word, he spun on his heel and disappeared.
Ten minutes later, Kunikida barely noticed a tray being set down beside him.
But the scent of familiar food stopped his pen.
He looked up. There was his favorite lunch—precisely arranged, even with the right juice he always grabbed from the vending machine.
“…What is this?”
“A ghost of kindness, perhaps,” Dazai said, giving a cheeky grin and tapping Kunikida’s shoulder. “Or maybe just your charming partner being considerate.”
Kunikida stared. “You didn’t put poison in this, did you?”
“Poisonously thoughtful,” Dazai offered.
For once, Kunikida didn't argue. He just sighed and started eating quietly while Dazai sat across the room with a newspaper, whistling something off-key but light.
---
Back to the present
Kunikida rubbed his temples. “I was supposed to discipline you this week. Not—thank you.”
“Guess we’re both slipping,” Dazai yawned. “Maybe next time you’ll remember to eat before turning into a paperwork goblin.”
“…You’re still incredibly annoying.”
Dazai grinned. “And yet, somehow, still the best partner you’ve ever had.”
Kunikida gave a reluctant sigh. “…Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” Dazai said softly, genuinely, before cracking open another energy drink like nothing happened.
"The quiet things"
Yosano was rarely ever frazzled.
Annoyed? Sure. Impatient? Often. Slightly murderous? Daily.
But frazzled—tired in that slow, quiet way where her usually sharp eyes dulled and her fingers stayed too long pressed against her temples—that was rare.
Which is how Dazai knew something was wrong.
She sat at her desk, paperwork open but untouched, her usually perfect posture slightly slouched. Every now and then, she rubbed small circles at her temples or pinched the bridge of her nose with a sigh. Her reading glasses hung halfway down her nose, forgotten.
She hadn’t snapped at anyone in hours. Not even when Tanizaki nearly tripped over the printer cable for the third time.
Dazai, stretched on the office couch upside down like usual, watched her in silence. No jokes. No chaos.
Just watching.
Then, as soon as Yosano stood and headed for the bathroom with an unsteady step, he was on his feet.
---
Five minutes later, she returned to her desk—still tired, still rubbing her head—but froze mid-step.
There, neatly placed at the corner of her desk, was a small set of items:
A cup of water
Two migraine pills in a folded tissue
And a square of dark chocolate—the exact kind she kept hidden in her bottom drawer for the worst of her headaches.
She blinked.
No note. No teasing. No grand gesture.
Just… there. Quiet and kind.
She glanced around the room. Atsushi was flipping through a file. Kenji was playing with his hat. Kunikida was lecturing Tanizaki about cord safety.
And Dazai was exactly where she left him—upside down on the couch, eyes closed, pretending to nap.
She smirked faintly.
“Idiot,” she murmured.
But she took the pills, the chocolate, and the water without hesitation.
The headache didn’t vanish, but it eased—just enough. And somehow, the weight in her chest lightened too.
Just a little.
"Under the couch"
The Agency was loud today.
Not in noise, but in movement—Kenji darted between desks, Naomi typed furiously, Yosano flipped through patient files, and Kunikida practically barked at everyone to stick to the schedule.
Everyone was busy.
Everyone had a role, a mission, a task.
Except Ranpo.
He sat with his lollipop slowly dissolving in his mouth, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded and frowning. His chair squeaked quietly as he shifted, watching the flurry of activity that had somehow managed to not include him.
Of course, he could insert himself.
He could solve a hundred cases in a blink, point out the mistakes in Kunikida’s reports, correct Yosano’s files from memory, or guess exactly what snacks Kenji would drop next.
But… he didn’t want to be useful.
He wanted to be included.
Ranpo leaned further back in his chair, gaze drifting toward the couch, where Dazai lay as he always did—half-asleep, half-lazy, and entirely unreadable.
He huffed.
“Dazai’s been sleeping all day and he’s still more involved than me,” he mumbled.
From the couch, Dazai made a soft snoring sound.
Then, suddenly—
“Oh? Did someone say my name?” he said, sitting up with exaggerated yawning.
Ranpo blinked.
“…You weren’t asleep.”
Dazai grinned. “You wound me, Ranpo-san. Of course I was asleep! I was dreaming about a giant strawberry shortcake that devoured Yokohama.”
Ranpo didn’t smile.
Dazai paused. Then stood.
“Well, I’m bored,” he said with a stretch. “But, lucky for us, I just remembered something.”
He reached beneath the couch and pulled out a slightly dusty but intact cardboard box. Inside were old detective board games, a few crime-themed card decks, and three books titled “Unsolved Mysteries: Japan Edition.”
Ranpo’s eyes widened—just a little.
Dazai plopped down beside him, flipping open a deck of cards and shuffling them messily.
“Wanna solve a murder or two?” he said, nudging him with his elbow. “Loser owes the winner candy.”
Ranpo finally cracked a smile. “You’ll just steal mine either way.”
Dazai grinned. “Absolutely.”
They sat shoulder-to-shoulder, sorting through cases and clues, arguing about ridiculous mystery tropes. Every so often, Dazai would sneak a chip from Ranpo’s snack bag, earning a glare and a half-hearted swat, but Ranpo never pulled the bag away.
The office still buzzed around them—but for once, Ranpo didn’t feel like he was on the outside.
He was exactly where he belonged.
"The umbrella trick"
Rain in Yokohama was always loud.
It slapped the windows and poured over the roof, filling the Agency with a dull, unending hum. The type of weather that made everyone groggy and slow, craving naps and hot drinks.
The mission today had been short, simple, and very, very wet.
Tanizaki and Naomi returned just before noon, soaked from head to toe despite the jackets they'd taken. Apparently, the weather had changed mid-mission, and their umbrella had gotten lost somewhere between the third alley and the fourth criminal.
Naomi shivered quietly, clinging to the hem of her brother’s sleeve as they entered the office, her schoolbag dripping. Tanizaki handed her a towel from the breakroom, concern barely veiled behind his usual calm.
Dazai, as usual, noticed everything.
He didn’t say anything at first—just watched from his usual perch by the window, fingers tapping against the glass as if tracing the path of raindrops.
Then, a little while later, when Tanizaki and Naomi were busy drying off, he slipped away.
---
By the time the siblings got ready to leave again—Naomi had classes, and Tanizaki had a supply run—Dazai was already gone. Vanished into the city like a ghost. No one thought much of it. He did that sometimes.
But when they reached the front of the building, they paused.
There, leaning against the doorframe, was a brand-new, bright orange umbrella. Tied to it was a paper tag that read:
“For the next time you forget one. Orange makes you easier to spot in the storm.”
— The Agency’s Resident buffon (Guess who?)
Tanizaki stared at it. Naomi giggled.
“That idiot,” Tanizaki mumbled under his breath—but his voice held no malice.
He took the umbrella, shook his head with a quiet smile, and held it out for Naomi to take first.
---
Later that night, back at the Agency, Dazai returned—soaked, as expected, with hair plastered to his cheeks and water dripping from his coat.
“Someone forgot their umbrella again?” Kunikida asked dryly.
“Oh, no,” Dazai said with a smile, shaking out his sleeves. “I just like dramatic entrances.”
But his eyes flicked toward the empty umbrella stand—and lingered.
"The quiet echo"
It was unusually quiet in the Agency.
No off-key singing. No sound of someone trying to stack pens on Kenji’s head. No long, drawn-out "Kunikidaaaa~" echoing from the couch.
No Dazai.
He’d gone out on a solo mission that morning—something quick, something easy, supposedly. But the office felt off without him, like a room missing a window. They hadn’t realized how much space he filled, even while doing absolutely nothing.
Atsushi looked up from his paperwork. “It’s... kind of weird without Dazai-san, isn’t it?”
Kenji blinked. “You think he’s okay?”
“He’s always fine,” Kunikida muttered. “Somehow.”
But even he didn’t sound certain.
Yosano leaned back in her chair, gaze thoughtful. “We’re quieter without him. And not just in volume.”
Ranpo lazily flipped through a snack catalog. “He’s annoying. But when he’s not around, it’s like the air gets heavier.”
No one spoke for a moment.
Then Atsushi said, carefully, “I think... he’s been doing a lot for us. In his own way.”
Everyone looked up.
“He helped me when I was too exhausted to speak. Just... made me tea and turned on the TV without saying anything.”
Kenji nodded. “He walked me to the store once and helped patch up my leg, even bought me melon bread. I didn’t even tell him it hurt.”
“He brought me migraine pills,” Yosano added, eyes soft. “Didn’t even say a word about it.”
Ranpo gave a hum. “Played games with me. Didn’t even try to be clever about it. Just sat there and stayed.”
“And he finished all of my paperwork,” Kunikida said slowly, almost reluctantly. “Without forging a single page.”
Tanizaki smiled faintly. “Left Naomi and I an umbrella. Bright orange.”
The silence returned—but it felt different now. Full of warmth, of quiet realization.
“He does all these little things,” Atsushi whispered, “like he wants to be noticed, but... not really. Like he’s afraid we’ll see it.”
“Because he’s used to being overlooked when it matters,” Yosano murmured.
Ranpo suddenly sat up straighter.
“We should do something,” he declared.
“For him,” Atsushi said. “Together.”
“But what?” Tanizaki asked. “What would even mean something to someone like Dazai?”
There was a pause. Then Kunikida said, “Something simple. Something sincere.”
“Like he is,” Kenji added brightly.
Ranpo smirked. “Let’s make him feel like he’s not a ghost.”
“Something simple,” Kunikida had said. “Something sincere.”
But the more they thought about it, the more complicated it became.
“I mean,” Atsushi said, scratching the back of his neck, “what do you give someone who acts like he doesn’t want anything?”
“Especially someone who probably doesn’t believe he deserves anything,” Yosano added, voice unusually gentle.
Ranpo leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “You know what’s weird?”
“Everything about Dazai?” Tanizaki offered.
“No—well, yes—but listen.” Ranpo squinted toward the photo wall near the office entrance. Framed shots of the Agency’s team missions, chaotic selfies, blurry but warm group photos. “He’s not in any of these.”
The others glanced over.
Ranpo was right.
There were pictures of Kenji on top of a watermelon cart, Kunikida mid-lecture with a vein popping, Yosano pinching Ranpo’s ear, Naomi clinging to Tanizaki’s arm while posing like idols—and Atsushi, smiling shyly in the corner of many of them.
But never Dazai.
“He always disappears before we take them,” Atsushi realized. “Or turns his back, or ducks.”
“Or pretends he’s asleep,” Kenji added.
Kunikida stared at the wall. “I always thought he was just being annoying.”
“No,” Yosano said, her arms folded. “He didn’t want to see himself here.”
Silence settled over the room again.
“He does things for all of us,” Tanizaki murmured. “Maybe he thought that was his way of being part of it. Giving something. Not being something.”
“He never felt like he belonged,” Atsushi whispered. “So he stayed just outside the frame.”
A moment passed, and then Ranpo smirked—sly, but soft.
“Well, we’re not letting him get away with that anymore.”
---
And so it began.
Kenji snapped the first one: Dazai sipping coffee by the window, watching the rain in rare stillness.
Tanizaki took the second, catching Dazai mid-laugh at a joke Naomi told.
Atsushi got one where Dazai had his coat wrapped around a shivering stray kitten they’d found.
Yosano managed a perfect shot from behind the desk—Dazai hunched over a napkin with a pen, doodling something absurd while pretending to be deep in thought.
Kunikida, in a moment of surprising grace, quietly took one when Dazai had fallen asleep at his desk—head resting on his arms, brow peaceful.
Each photo was secretly printed and tucked into a little album.
The cover was simple, leather-bound, soft to the touch. Inside were notes, scribbles, little memories. Ranpo even added a title to the first page:
“Proof That You Were Always Here.”
It was a quiet evening.
Rain tapped gently against the windows of the Agency office, and the usual chaos had mellowed into soft footsteps and warm lighting. Everyone had stayed late under the flimsy excuse of “cleaning,” but none of them had touched a broom.
They were waiting.
Dazai entered last, shrugging off his coat, halfway through a joke that no one fully caught.
Then he stopped.
Because the room was oddly still.
Atsushi stepped forward first, holding the photo album carefully in both hands.
“It’s… for you,” he said, unsure, but steady.
Dazai blinked. “For me?”
“Don’t make a joke,” Yosano warned, crossing her arms—but her voice wasn’t sharp.
Kenji beamed. “We made it together!”
Ranpo leaned against the desk, smug and casual. “You thought you could sneak around leaving nice things without getting anything back? Idiot.”
Kunikida sighed, but there was no real frustration in it. “Just take it.”
Slowly—almost cautiously—Dazai took the album. His fingers brushed over the leather cover like it was something fragile. He opened the first page.
The title stared back at him.
“Proof That You Were Always Here.”
He didn’t speak.
He turned the pages. One after another.
Photos he hadn’t known they’d taken. Moments he’d thought went unnoticed. Notes in each of their handwriting—short and sweet, sarcastic, heartfelt.
And then came the gifts.
Laid gently on his desk like offerings: the chocolate, the fancy bandages, the charm from Kenji, the pen from Kunikida, the tea, the puzzle box, a fresh pack of his favorite snacks, even a new scarf Naomi had picked out “because your old one is ugly.”
It was too much.
Dazai’s breath caught.
No teasing rose to his lips. No dramatic comment. He stood still—eyes wide, mouth slightly open.
And then he blushed.
Not a faint pink. A full, blooming red that crept up his cheeks and into the tips of his ears.
“I—” he started, then looked down immediately. His hands gripped the album too tightly.
“I don’t… really know what to say.”
His voice was soft. Not playful. Just… quiet.
Ranpo grinned. “That’s a first.”
But the teasing wasn’t mocking. It was gentle, affectionate.
Dazai swallowed, eyes still on the floor. “You didn’t have to. I mean… I never really... expected…”
“You didn’t expect anyone to care back, did you?” Yosano said plainly.
He didn’t answer.
Atsushi stepped closer. “But we do.”
Dazai finally lifted his head, just a little. His eyes were wet—not crying, but something close.
And Kunikida, of all people, reached over and gently patted his shoulder. “You’re part of this family, idiot.”
“Even if you try to sneak around like a ghost,” Ranpo added.
Naomi gave him a tiny box. “We even got you a camera. So you can be in the photos from now on.”
That made Dazai laugh. Just once. Soft and surprised.
“…You guys are terrible at letting a man be dramatic.”
“You’re terrible at letting yourself be loved,” Yosano shot back.
He looked at them. All of them. Smiling. Expectant. Real.
And for once, he didn’t dodge.
Dazai Osamu smiled—genuinely.
Small. Shy. Blushing.
But real.
“…Thank you.”
And they knew, from the bottom of his bruised, quiet heart—he meant it.
There was a beat of silence.
Then—mischievous glances passed between them like electricity. Ranpo’s smirk twitched wider. Kenji’s eyes sparkled. Naomi bounced on her toes. Atsushi tried to act innocent, but the twitch in his shoulders gave him away.
Kunikida sighed like he knew what was coming—but didn’t stop it.
Dazai narrowed his eyes. “…Why are you all looking at me like that?”
“GROUP HUG!” Kenji yelled.
Before he could flee, they launched.
Atsushi tackled him first, arms thrown around his waist.
Ranpo flopped on top of him like a cat.
Yosano grabbed one arm, Naomi the other.
Kenji jumped onto his back with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever.
Even Kunikida crouched down—grumbling but joining—trapping Dazai in a full-bodied, tangled mess of warmth and limbs and laughter.
Dazai wailed dramatically, squirming like a caught cat. “I don’t consent! I’m too beautiful to be buried alive—!”
“You like it,” Yosano grinned.
“I do not!”
His voice cracked.
And then he curled up—face buried in his arms, ears red, completely overwhelmed.
Embarrassed. Flustered. Helpless against the onslaught of affection.
But not fighting it anymore.
Not really.
Because even as he pretended to groan, they heard it.
That tiny, barely-there laugh under his breath.
And it was the best sound in the world.
---
The rest of the day went on
Dazai was back to normal
Still joked. Still teased. Still acted like a cloud drifting overhead.
But they noticed now—how he lingered a little longer in the office after hours. How he stopped vanishing from pictures quite so quickly. How he stared at the wall of memories when he thought no one was looking.
And how—just once—he slipped a photo into the album himself.
A blurry one.
Of the entire Agency huddled in the kitchen eating lunch together.
With him in the corner, sitting on the kitchen table, chin on resting in hand, smiling.
🪼⋆.ೃ࿔*:･