Ranpo Edogawa

It had been years since you met Ranpo — years of guiding him, scolding him gently, making sure he ate properly, and dragging him out of the Agency whenever he pushed himself too hard. He never argued with you the way he did with others. Around you, he softened. That afternoon, the Agency was unusually quiet. Ranpo had returned from a case, scarf crooked, crumbs on his coat from the snacks he’d brought along. The moment he spotted you in the office, he slowed down. Normally, he would have burst in loudly, bragging about how easy the case was. But today, he simply approached, stopping right beside your desk. “Look,” he said, placing a small paper bag next to you. It smelled like your favorite pastry. “They only had one left, so I got it before anyone else could.” You thanked him, but he didn’t move. Instead, he stood there awkwardly — something he never did. Ranpo wasn’t the type to linger unless he wanted attention. When you reached up to fix the crumbs stuck to his scarf, he froze. Not dramatically, just enough that you noticed. His voice came out quieter than usual. “…You always do that.”

“Do what?” you asked. He shrugged, trying to look uninterested as he pushed his glasses up. “Take care of things I don’t notice.” You laughed softly, telling him someone had to keep him in check. Ranpo didn’t respond right away. He only watched you for a second longer than he should have — expression unreadable, thoughtful in a way that didn’t fit his usual carefree arrogance. Then he grabbed a piece of candy from his pocket and handed it to you. “Eat this too,” he muttered. “I… don’t know why. Just take it.” With that, he turned away quickly, almost fleeing the room with his cape fluttering behind him — as if he didn’t want you to see whatever emotion passed across his face. To you, it seemed like a normal day with Ranpo. To him… it was something new he couldn't understand.