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The sun’s sinking on the horizon, painting everything in warm colors, when you find Izou in your usual spot, the quiet corner of the upper deck tucked behind a row of crates. He must have been waiting for you for quite some time, legs folded beneath him, with a book in one hand.
He doesn’t look up when he speaks.
“You’re late,” he says, voice smooth as ever. “I nearly finished the chapter without you.”
You roll your eyes and drop down beside him, your shoulder knocking lightly into his. “You could’ve waited.”
“I could have,” he agrees, flipping to the next page. “But you’re always ten minutes late when you say you’ll be here shortly.”
You don’t bother denying it. You just lean sideways, peering over his arm. “What page are we on?”
He taps the line with one finger, and you nod. The spine of the book creaks as he shifts to make more room for you, and without a word, you settle in, thigh pressed lightly to his. The two of you read like this often, cramped in the same space, sharing a single copy, breathing in sync without realizing it.
You’ve been doing it for so long it barely feels unusual.
You read for another half hour like that, heads bent close together, voices brushing against the dusk. He lets you rest your head on his shoulder. At some point, he starts reading every line aloud, and you don’t stop him.
Then someone shouts across the deck.
“Oi, you two! Still pretending you’re just friends?”
You sit up. Groan. “God, Thatch, we’re reading.”
“So that’s what they’re calling it now,” he calls back, winking.
Izou sighs, not even lifting his head. “You know it’s not like that.”
“Oh, sure,” Thatch says, dramatically dragging out the words. “Completely innocent shoulder resting. Just textbook literature appreciation under the stars.”
You roll your eyes, and Izou mutters, “You’re impossible.”
Thatch just laughs and waves it all off. “Yeah, yeah. Come on, lovebirds. Drinks are flowing and we’re losing daylight. Get over here!”
Izou closes the book slowly, marking the page with a sliver of ribbon. “Sounds like chaos is about to start any moment.”
Thatch just grins. “Nah, sounds like a great way to spend the night. You two are always hiding in corners like some dramatic lovers from a romance novel.”
You throw a pebble at him, which you find right next to you. He ducks it easily.
“Come on,” he says again, stepping back. “Ace already started trying to outdrink himself, so we could use the adult supervision.”
Izou rises first, dusting off the back of his kimono. He offers you a hand—familiar, casual. He’s done it a hundred times before, and you’ve always taken it without thinking.
But this time your fingers tingle when they curl around his. His grip lingers a beat too long.
He lets go when you’re steady, and neither of you says a word about it.
_____________
The corner of the deck where the others have gathered is warm with lantern light and low laughter. Someone’s even lit a fire in a metal barrel, and of course, there’s sake and rum passed around in mismatched mugs.
Thatch has already claimed the best seat, a crate turned sideways, and is pouring drinks with clearly too much alcohol in them. One of those concoctions might be enough to make you blackout drunk.
Marco leans against a post, half-lidded gaze flicking to the two of you as you arrive, and Ace sits cross-legged on the deck, already pink-cheeked, grinning for no reason.
“Look who finally decided to grace us with their presence,” Marco says lazily.
Izou drops down beside you, elbow brushing yours as he tucks his legs under himself. “You act like we missed something.”
“You did,” Ace says. “Thatch tried to convince Marco to dance. It almost happened.”
“It absolutely did not,” Marco mutters, and Thatch winks.
“He was tempted.”
You snort as you accept a drink from Thatch, fingers brushing Izou’s briefly when you pass him his. You barely notice it, but they do.
Marco arches a brow at the exchange and Ace nudges Thatch and stage-whispers, “They do this all the time.”
“Do what?” you ask truly not knowing what they mean, but already guessing that it’ll be another comment on your and Izou’s friendship.
“The little touches. The looks. The looonging,” Ace says, drawing it out like it’s something scandalous.
“We’re friends,” Izou says smoothly, taking a sip of his drink.
“Yeah,” Thatch adds, grinning. “And I’m a virgin.”
You nearly choke on your drink. Even Izou coughs beside you and then smiles into his cup like he’s trying not to laugh.
“I don’t know what you’re all imagining,” you say after a beat. “We just read together.”
Marco hums. “It’s the just that’s doing a lot of work in that sentence.”
Ace leans back, tilting his head dramatically. “Honestly, if they don’t kiss by the end of the week, I’m filing an official complaint.”
“Do it,” Thatch says. “Make it formal.”
Izou raises a hand. “Do I get to review this complaint?”
“Denied in advance,” Marco mutters, then takes another sip.
You look over at Izou. He looks back, that same unreadable softness in his expression again—calm on the surface, like always, but there’s something else flickering behind his eyes. Something you can’t quite name.
Your legs are touching. Your hands brush again when you both reach for the same snack. Neither of you moves away and that’s okay. Friends are supposed to be comfortable around each other.
So, you try not to think about it too much, enjoying the evening drinking and laughing with your brothers instead.
And eventually, the night deepens as more and more stars are beginning to peek through and the buzz of Thatch’s drinks settles in your bones. You’re on your second cup of whatever Thatch poured, your skin already flush and your head pleasantly light.
Izou notices before you can say anything. He always does.
He shifts just slightly, his shoulder brushing yours more firmly, the motion steadying. His fingers graze your wrist, just once, and then again more deliberately.
“You alright?” he murmurs, low enough that the others won’t catch it.
You smile, just for him. “M’fine.”
He watches you a second longer, then pushes the small bowl of roasted chestnuts toward you. “Eat a little.”
“I already did.”
“You picked out the peanuts and left the rest.”
You laugh and nudge him with your knee. “And you know this how?”
He lifts a brow. “Because I know you.”
You go quiet for a second, not because you don’t have something to say, but because of how easy that sounded. Like a truth. Like something he didn’t mean to say out loud.
So, you take one of the chestnuts just to appease him, unaware of the fact that Ace’s watching you both from across the fire with his chin in his palm, grin pulling wide. “You know, I’m starting to get why you fell in love with Izou.”
“It’s the little things,” Thatch adds, grinning just as wide as Ace.
Marco sips his drink, and without looking up says, “I think they’re actually worse than any couple I’ve ever seen.”
“We’re not—” you start, but Izou calmly cuts in at the same time:
“—together,” he finishes, smooth as ever. But his eyes flick toward you with a softness that makes your stomach flip.
You open your mouth, maybe to echo it, maybe to say something else, but then Izou gently tugs your cup away from you.
“You’ve had enough,” he says, not unkindly, already pouring you a bit of water from a clay jug.
You wrinkle your nose. “I’m fine.”
“I know,” he says quietly. “But I’m still taking care of you.”
Ace makes an exaggerated gagging noise. “Can you not be sweet for one damn second?”
“Let them,” Marco mutters, hiding his smile behind the rim of his cup. “I think they’ll eventually admit it to each other.”
You snort, cheeks warm. Whether from the alcohol or Izou or both, you’re not sure anymore. Izou hands you the water without another word, the pads of his fingers brushing yours like always. Thoughtful, careful. Second nature.
And just like that, the night grows louder as the drinks keep flowing. Laughter comes easier, shoulders loosen, and Thatch breaks out into awful attempts at a sea shanty that has Ace howling with laughter and Marco visibly debating whether to walk overboard into the sea.
But you just lean against Izou’s side now without really thinking about it. He hasn’t moved away, hasn’t commented on it, just adjusted slightly to make it more comfortable, like he always does.
You don’t even notice that Ace’s attention has moved back toward you two until he speaks again, louder this time. “Seriously, how long are you two going to pretend?”
You blink. “Pretend what?”
“That you’re not in love.”
You laugh, too fast, too loud. “We’re not.”
“Right,” Thatch chimes in, pointing between you and Izou. “So if we dared you to kiss right now, it wouldn’t mean anything, huh?”
You sit up straighter. “It’d mean nothing.”
Izou doesn’t flinch. He just exhales a quiet breath, smooth as silk. “We kiss if it’ll shut you all up.”
Suddenly, everybody around you quiets. Then Marco snorts. “Don’t do it because we told you to yoi.”
“No. Actually, let’s do it,” you nod agreeing to the whole plan. “This might finally end the conversation.”
So, next Izou turns toward you slightly. His expression is unreadable again—gentle, careful. His hand rises, not to pull you close, but to steady your chin with a featherlight touch.
“They’re like children sometimes,” he murmurs, so low only you hear it.
“Absolutely,” you nod, chuckling, happy that he somehow managed to ease the tension with just one comment.
So, suddenly feeling more at ease, you lean in. Easy. Like breathing. And Izou meets you halfway, calm and certain.
The kiss is soft... softer than you expected. His lips press to yours, sharing its warmth in a slow and deliberate manner, not rushing anything or demanding more than you’re already giving.
It’s rather tender.
His lips move gently against yours like he’s memorizing the feel of your mouth in that one brief touch. And then it ends, just as simply as it began.
You both pull back slowly. Barely. Your noses are still close, breath mingling and neither of you speaks for a long time.
Until Ace breaks the silence with a whistle. “Holy shit!”
“That was not a ‘we’re just friends’ kiss,” Thatch points out, delighted.
You blink, still feeling dazed. “It was just to prove a point.”
Izou, voice barely audible and eyes not moving from yours, adds. “We told you that before we kissed…”
Then, finally, you sit back, suddenly very aware of the way your body is still leaning into his. You try to steady your hands and your thoughts. Everything inside you feels like it’s glowing.
Marco’s watching with narrowed eyes like he sees something neither of you are ready to admit.
“You two are exhausting yoi,” he says, tipping his drink toward you.
And finally, no one says anything else. They let it go – for now, even though Izou leans in slightly again, just enough that his shoulder touches yours again, grounding and familiar.
You don’t move away. You never do, so why should you now?
You’re still just friends.
And eventually, one by one, the crew retires to their beds until you and Izou are the only ones left. He hasn’t moved much since the kiss. And neither have you because the warmth between you feels comfortable still.
But somehow heavy in a way it wasn’t before.
Izou breaks the silence first, voice low. “They’ll be talking about that for weeks.”
You let out a soft huff. “They never needed a reason before.”
He hums, almost a laugh. “True.”
Another pause. But you don’t fill it with anything this time. Neither does he.
You glance at him. He’s watching the fire, jaw relaxed, eyes soft. But there’s tension in his hands, subtle, but you know him well enough to see it. He’s thinking too much. So are you.
You shift, just a little, brushing your shoulder against his again. Not enough to make a statement. Just enough to remind him you’re still there.
His voice is quieter this time when he says, “You didn’t have to go through with it.”
“I know.”
“You could’ve said no.”
“I know,” you say again, softer now.
Izou finally looks at you. There’s something hesitant in his expression like he’s waiting for you to take it back. Waiting for you to laugh it off. Waiting for you to tell him it meant nothing.
“It was just to prove a point,” you say.
His mouth lifts at one corner. “Right.”
“Just to shut them up.”
“Of course.”
Another long stretch of quiet passes. You should move. Stand up. Head below deck. But you don’t want to and neither does he. So, you two continue to sit by the fire, the taste of the kiss still lingering on your lips.
______________
The next morning you find yourself in the galley, claiming that the sunlight’s far too bright as you walk in, seeing that breakfast’s already laid out on the wooden tables. In front of everybody are bowls of rice, grilled fish, and something Thatch insists is soup but smells suspiciously like hangover remedy.
You shuffle past a few tables, hair a mess, eyelids heavy. Izou’s already there, seated at the end of your table. His cup of tea steams quietly in front of him. He doesn’t look tired. Of course, he doesn’t.
He glances up as you enter and offers you a small smile. Warm. Familiar. Safe.
Your stomach does something it has no business doing, so you push it down as you slide into the spot beside him like always.
And that’s when Thatch pounces. “Well, well, well. Look who decided to wake up late after her scandalous little kiss.”
You groan and drop your head to the table.
Marco, across from you, doesn’t even look up from his breakfast. “I was wondering how long it would take yoi.”
Ace grins around a mouthful of rice. “I give it three days before one of you breaks and confesses.”
You lift your head just enough to glare. “There’s nothing to confess.”
“That’s what makes it sadder,” Thatch says, mock-wounded. “You're already acting like a couple but too emotionally constipated to admit it.”
Izou calmly sips his tea. “She and I are friends.”
“Right,” Marco says, flicking his eyes between the two of you. “Friends who kiss.”
“Once,” you mutter. “To make you all shut up.”
“Didn’t work,” Ace points out cheerfully.
You grab a rice ball from the center plate and chuck it at him. He catches it with his mouth and nearly chokes from laughing.
Thatch leans forward on his elbows, his voice dropping like he’s about to start narrating a romance novel. “They were just two friends… sipping tea… sitting shoulder to shoulder in the quiet glow of firelight…”
“Thatch.”
He ignores the warning in Izou’s tone.
“…their lips met in a passionate attempt to end all speculation…”
“Thatch.” That one’s from you.
He’s grinning like a cat at you. “… but little did they know, that single kiss would awaken something forbidden. Something deep. Something—”
You whip a spoon at him. It clatters off his shoulder. “Finish that sentence and I’ll dump soup over your head.”
“Feisty,” Ace chuckles, while Marco’s chuckling into his coffee.
And just as the teasing has finally started to die down and you think you might finish the rest of your breakfast in peace (mostly because you’ve stopped reacting and Izou’s gone quiet in that way that makes people nervous), does Ace speak up again.
His voice is perfectly innocent. Too innocent. And his expression doesn’t match, because there’s a glint in his eyes, a smug little twist to his mouth that sets off alarm bells before he even finishes his thought.
“Well, I was thinking…” he begins, drawing the words out slowly like he’s savoring them. “If kissing friends is just something we do now…”
You pause, fork halfway to your mouth. “Don’t.”
“… and Izou and I have known each other longer than you two have…”
Izou doesn’t look up from his plate. “I’m warning you.”
“… then shouldn’t I get a turn too?”
The table goes silent for a second. Then Thatch immediately chokes on a mouthful of food, coughing into his fist, while Marco leans back with a faintly amused smirk like he’s settling in for the show.
“Don’t encourage him,” you mutter, though you can already feel a laugh building in your throat.
Ace, of course, only grins wider and starts sliding around the table, slow and exaggerated, like a cartoon villain with both hands raised in mock innocence. “C’mon, Izou. Just a little kiss between bros. For science.”
Izou doesn’t even flinch. He just sets his utensils down. “I will shoot you.”
There’s a beat.
Ace falters mid-step. “Wouldn’t be the first time a gun was involved in one of my dates,” he quips, though he’s definitely reconsidering his choices.
“You’re not helping yourself,” Izou says flatly, pushing his chair back with sudden purpose.
“Okay, okay, just a peck—!” Ace doesn’t get the chance to finish.
With a smooth, practiced motion, Izou draws his flintlock from his belt and levels it right at Ace’s head. The click of the hammer being pulled back is sharp and deadly in the morning air.
“Fuck!” Ace yelps and quickly dives behind Marco like a coward, knocking into the bench in the process.
Thatch loses it completely, doubling over, face red, laughing so hard he’s crying. “Oh my god! He was deadass serious!”
Even you can’t hold it in anymore. A laugh bubbles up and escapes, and you have to cover your mouth with one hand to stop yourself from completely losing composure.
Marco doesn’t even flinch as Ace huddles behind him. “You brought that one on yourself,” he says simply, sipping his coffee like this is all a routine part of breakfast.
From beneath the table, Ace’s voice pipes up again, wounded but still amused. “Hey! At least now we know Izou wouldn’t kiss any of his friends!”
Izou, ever the picture of calm, lowers his gun and sets it neatly back on the table. His face is unreadable, but the faintest pink stains the tips of his ears.
“Try it again,” he says, tone icy, “and I will make it count next time.”
Naturally, the laughter around the table doesn’t die down right away. Thatch is still wiping tears from his eyes, and Ace stays crouched behind Marco like a man in hiding, though even he’s grinning now. Moreover, someone makes a joke about how easily Izou’s gun comes out these days, and someone else starts taking bets on who’ll be the next target.
But then the noise finally begins to fade, the teasing shifting to other things.
And when you glance over at Izou, he’s sitting next to you again, cradling a fresh cup of tea that someone – probably Marco – slid in front of him while the commotion was still going. However, he hasn’t taken a sip yet.
You catch the tight line of his shoulders. The set of his mouth. The way he stares into the steam curling from his cup like it’s something he has to brace himself for.
Then you reach out quietly, slipping your hand over Izou’s, your fingers brushing against the side of his palm. He startles, just slightly, but doesn’t pull away. So, you lean in, your voice low. “I’ve got watch duty in ten. If you’re done threatening your brothers, you can come with me.”
His eyes finally meet yours.
You give his hand a gentle tug and add, “I’d like the company.”
Izou doesn’t answer, but he rises immediately, silent, composed, tea cup abandoned.
The moment you step away from the table, however…
“Oh no!” Thatch wails, dramatically clutching his chest. “They’re walking away together. What does it mean?”
“Ten-to-one they make out behind the cannon stacks,” Ace calls, peeking out from Marco’s side like a raccoon.
Marco barely glances up. “Put me down for five. They’ll just stare at the ocean and suffer in silence.”
You keep walking, tugging Izou along by the hand, pretending not to hear the rising laughter behind you.
But you do hear Izou mutter under his breath, “Next time I’m not hesitating. I’ll shoot them all.”
You glance sideways as you walk, your fingers still laced lightly with his. His grip isn’t tight, but it’s steady. Measured. Like everything with Izou. But there’s tension running up his arm, shoulders drawn a little too straight, jaw set just a little too firmly.
“They really do act like children,” you say, voice calm and dry. “Honestly, it’s impressive they haven’t all been court-martialed for emotional damage.”
That earns a faint huff beside you, almost a laugh. Almost.
You bump your shoulder gently into his. “You know they only tease because they’re jealous, right?”
“Jealous?” he echoes, glancing at you with a raised brow.
You nod, trying to keep a straight face. “Absolutely. You have it all: The looks, the aim, and the best friend on the ship, which is me, of course.”
Izou snorts under his breath, a sound you rarely get to hear, and the corner of his mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile.
“You forgot humility,” he murmurs.
“Oh, I left that out on purpose. We can’t both be perfect.”
“Right,” he says, and now the smile breaks through, faint but real. “That would be unfair to the others.”
You grin. “Exactly. We’re doing them a favor by keeping our brilliance to just the two of us.”
Finally, his steps feel lighter and his shoulders have eased out of their rigid set. Moreover, the air between you softens again, returning to the familiar, comfortable rhythm that always seems to settle in when you’re alone together.
And maybe it’s your imagination—but his thumb brushes once, slow and deliberate, across your knuckles. Just once. Like a thank-you he doesn’t say out loud.
You don’t mention it. Just squeeze his hand in return and keep walking.
On deck, you settle into your usual spot by the railing, where the sea stretches endlessly in every direction. Izou stands beside you, arms folded neatly across his chest, one hip leaning against the balustrade.
You glance up at him. “Thanks for coming.”
His gaze stays on the horizon for a beat longer before he replies, voice quiet. “Didn’t need much convincing.”
That makes you smile, though you try to hide it by looking back out at the sea. The wind shifts, brushing a loose strand of hair across your cheek, and before you can move, Izou’s hand lifts gently, and tucks it behind your ear.
You turn to him slowly, your breath catching just a little.
He doesn’t pull his hand away immediately. His fingers linger at your temple, warm and steady, like he’s memorizing the shape of you.
“I really thought the kiss might shut them up, you know,” you eventually sigh, feeling the sudden need to fill the silence.
“Looks like it did more damage,” Izou adds, voice dry but softer now.
“They act like it meant something even though we tell them it didn’t,” you groan, putting your face in your hands. “We could kiss thousands of times and they wouldn’t stop teasing.”
There’s a pause, just long enough to notice it.
Then Izou says, low and careful, “Maybe we could try?”
You freeze. Your hands lower slowly from your face, and when you look at him, he’s watching the sea again, but there’s a tension in his jaw, in the line of his shoulders, like he’s bracing for something. Like he hadn’t meant to say that out loud. Or maybe he did and just wasn’t sure what you’d do with it.
“Try,” you echo, quietly. “You mean…”
“To kiss again,” he says, still not facing you. “No audience. No reason. Just to see.”
Just to see.
The wind picks up again, cool and salt-sweet, tugging at your sleeves, your hair, the fragile quiet stretched between you. And you realize you could make a joke. Shrug it off. Pretend the butterflies in your stomach are from the sea breeze and not from him.
But you don’t want to… Not this time.
So, you shift, turning to face him fully and nudge his arm with your own. “Okay.”
Izou finally looks at you. There’s surprise there, but it softens quickly—gives way to something steadier. Like relief. Like hope.
You don’t speak again. You just lean in, slow and certain, similar to how you did it last night. But like Izou already pointed out, there’s no audience. No pressure. No need to pretend anymore.
Izou meets you halfway, just as calm, just as deliberate. The kiss begins soft, barely there. A quiet question. A breath shared between mouths. His lips are warm against yours, steady and patient like he’s afraid to rush something that might shatter if handled too roughly.
But when you don’t pull away after some while… when you lean into it instead, fingers brushing lightly against the edge of his coat something shifts.
You feel it in the way his hand rises, finds your jaw, his thumb resting at the corner of your mouth. On the way, he draws in a slow breath through his nose like he’s trying to stay grounded like he didn’t expect this to happen, and now he’s afraid it might end too soon.
And so the kiss deepens. Bit by bit, like a tide coming in.
Your lips move together with growing confidence, not rushed, but more certain. There’s no hesitation in the way he tilts his head slightly, pulling you in just a little closer like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, the sound of your breath, the warmth of your body against his.
Like he’s pouring every unsaid feeling into this one moment, quiet longing, quiet wanting, all the things he hasn't dared to name.
And when the kiss finally breaks, it does so slowly… reluctantly. A few short parting touches. A final brush like he doesn’t quite want to let go. So, you stay close, foreheads nearly touching, hearts knocking a little too fast beneath the surface.
“Izou…” you whisper, not really sure what you mean to say.
He opens his eyes, gaze sweeping over your face like he’s trying to commit every inch of it to memory. His thumb strokes just once along your cheekbone, the faintest, reverent touch.
“You’re okay?” He whispers.
“Yeah,” you admit, unable to not smile softly at him. “I wouldn’t mind kissing you again.”
His breath catches, just faintly, but you feel it. Moreover, for a moment, Izou doesn’t speak. He just watches you, something softer and unguarded growing behind his eyes. And then, slowly, his lips curl into the barest smile.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Because I was thinking the same thing.”
His hand slides from your cheek to cradle the back of your neck, fingers slipping into your hair like he’s done it a hundred times in dreams he’d never admit to having. And when he kisses you again, it’s deeper from the start. No lingering uncertainty.
Just want.
Just the kind of aching sweetness that makes the world fall away.
You tilt into him, your hands finding his chest, his shoulder—anything to keep you close. His other arm slips around your waist, steadying you, grounding you, but not pulling you too close. He still handles you like something precious.
“Well, well, well,” Marco drawls, looking far too satisfied. “Looked like a pretty meaningful watch shift from up here.”
You jolt, just barely, and Izou sighs deep and from the soul, his forehead dropping to rest against yours for one last second before he straightens.
Up on the upper deck, Marco leans lazily over the railing, arms folded, a slow grin spreading across his face like he’s been waiting all morning for this exact moment.
“I swear to god,” Izou mutters under his breath.
But it’s too late. Because now Thatch pops up behind Marco, practically vibrating with excitement. “Did they kiss again?! Did I miss it?! Marco, you said you’d signal me!”
“I did signal you,” Marco replies blandly. “You just didn’t react yoi.”
“I thought the hand wave meant someone fell overboard!” Thatch wails. “You need a better system!”
“You two are disasters,” you hiss, face burning hot as you try to duck behind Izou’s shoulder… not that it helps.
“Oh, c’mon,” Thatch grins, leaning over the rail so far it looks unsafe. “We knew there was tension. We just didn’t know it was gonna burst into flames!”
Then comes Ace, swinging in from a rope like he’s auditioning for a different genre entirely. “Congrats! I give it three days before they start sneaking into each other’s rooms!”
“I’m literally going to kill all three of you,” Izou growls, voice low and dark.
“Oh no, he’s doing the voice,” Ace stage-whispers, already crab-walking backward toward the nearest rope. “He’s gonna get the gun. He’s gonna get the gun!”
“Izou…” you warn, but he exhales like a man preparing for battle.
Then he lets go of your hand slowly, carefully, almost reverently, and pulls his flintlock from his belt in one smooth motion, like he’s rehearsed it.
Instantly, Ace bolts up the rigging with alarming speed, practically leaping two steps at a time. Even Thatch lets out a shriek and dives behind Marco similar to how Ace did it today morning.
“Thatch, you said he wouldn't actually pull it!” Ace yells from halfway up the mast.
“I thought he’d hesitate!” Thatch howls from the floor. “He usually hesitates!”
“He didn’t hesitate this morning!”
You’re laughing now, absolutely breathless, wheezing as you grab Izou’s arm with both hands. “Don’t shoot them!”
“I’m just scaring them,” Izou replies calmly, flintlock raised with unnerving precision.
You eye the gun and the glitter of the hammer cocked back. “You cocked it.”
He sighs like you’re asking the impossible. “Fine. Scaring them a lot.”