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Giyuu does not particularly enjoy corporate parties, but that statement would imply a level of emotional investment he never possesses. What he actually feels is something closer to detached tolerance, the kind one reserves for airport security lines or distant relatives’ weddings – mildly inconvenient but still survivable if approached with the right degree of dissociation.
Shinobu, on the other hand, looks as though she has stepped into a version of herself that belongs perfectly to rooms like this.
The banquet hall is dressed in gold and low lighting, the ceiling draped with intricate installations that catch and fracture the glow of chandeliers into something softer. Waiters go through clusters of laughter carrying some sparkling champagne, which smells faintly of polished wood and expensive citrus.
Shinobu had called it just a “small year-end gathering”; Giyuu should have known immediately that this was a lie.
He stands near the edge of the room with a glass of whiskey, observing her as she moves between colleagues with the same gentle, luminous smile that always looks effortless. Giyuu realizes, with mild surprise, that he rarely sees her in environments where she is not simply Shinobu with him, but Kocho-san to everyone else.
There is a difference, and he notices it most when one of her coworkers steps closer.
The man is well-dressed, with a tailored suit and hair deliberately disheveled; the confidence he exudes seems polished but not arrogant. He stands slightly too close, though not enough to be called out on it, and speaks to his girlfriend with an air of familiarity.
Shinobu laughs at whatever story he is telling her; her eyes narrow just slightly in amusement. The coworker takes that chance to lean in and lower his voice as if they are sharing something conspiratorial, his fingers brushing her forearm lightly in emphasis.
Giyuu sets his glass down and walks toward Shinobu. She notices him approaching before he reaches her, and her violet eyes flick up.
“Ah, you must be–” the coworker turns to him and begins.
Giyuu does not let him finish.
He steps into Shinobu’s space with an ease that makes it clear to everyone he obviously belongs there, one hand settling at her waist. And before the room can reinterpret the gesture, he leans down and kisses her, slow, deliberate, unhurried. Shinobu inhales softly before her own lips move against his in response, her fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket as though this, too, was inevitable.
When he pulls back, her lips are faintly flushed and her eyes brighter – though whether from the kiss or from the audacity of it he cannot immediately determine.
The coworker blinks once, then twice.
“Well,” he says with admirable composure, adjusting his cuff as though nothing particularly destabilizing has just occurred, “I see I’ve been preemptively disqualified.”
His smile is tight but intact. “Enjoy the evening, Kocho-san.”
Shinobu looks up at Giyuu. There it is, a slow, knowing smile that suggests she is very, very entertained by this.
—
Later that night, their apartment is quiet, the city’s distant hum filtering in through partially drawn curtains while the remnants of the evening lie scattered – her dress draped over a chair, his tie abandoned somewhere near the hallway.
They lie side by side in the soft spill of lamplight. Shinobu rests her head against his chest, tracing absent-minded patterns along his collarbone. Her voice is gentle when she says, “You were jealous.”
“I wasn’t,” he replies automatically. “I was just introducing myself.”
She just continues to hum, the sound vibrating against his ribs.
“You don’t have to, you know,” she says eventually. “There isn’t anyone I would rather go home with.”
Giyuu almost argues. But instead, he only tightens his hold just a little, enough that she notices, enough that she smiles against his skin before drifting off.
Perhaps jealousy is not the right word. It is simply this: He does not mind standing at the edges of rooms for his loved one, but he will never stand aside.