pairing: kento nanami x f!reader
content: suggestive, established relationship, postpartum care, lactation mention
you’re in bed wearing one of his old shirts, soft and faded and stretched at the collar, still carrying the faint warmth of his skin, like it’s been holding him in the threads all this time—and the lamp is off, the only light in the room coming from the moon, pouring in through the small, uneven slit in the curtains. the baby is finally asleep in the bassinet near the foot of the bed, bundled and quiet, and kento’s hand is resting on your thigh beneath the blanket, his thumb brushing slowly back and forth in a rhythm that feels more like habit than intent.
you shift, wince faintly, and press your palm to your breast again.
“still hurts?” he murmurs, his voice low and sleepy, the kind of softness that only ever comes out after dark, when the world is quiet and the weight of it has lifted from his shoulders.
“mhm,” you sigh, your eyes fluttering closed. “i think it’s clogged again.”
his hand stills at once. “same side as before?”
you nod, and even with your eyes closed, you can feel him thinking—feel the little pause that always comes just before he gets up, the way his sense of care outweighs everything else.
“i’ll do it,” he says simply.
your body tenses on instinct.
“kento—” but he’s already sitting up, already reaching for the hem of your shirt with that steady, no-nonsense gentleness that has always been uniquely his, and you reach to swat at his hand with a flustered squeak. “baby, wait!” —but all he does is give you that look. the one that’s equal parts fondness and exasperation, his brows slightly raised and his mouth tilted at the corner like he’s fighting a smile.
“what are you embarrassed for?” he murmurs, kissing your cheek like it’s nothing. “you literally pee with the door open.”
you groan and bury your face into the nearest pillow, voice muffled and mortified. “but it’s weird.”
“it’s not weird,” he counters, voice laced with a patient kind of amusement.
“it is!” you insist, half-whining. “it’s like—it’s a baby thing.”
he laughs then, that deep, chesty sound that always makes something in you uncoil, like his joy is contagious even when you’re being impossible. his palm rubs slow circles into your thigh again, and you feel the bed dip as he leans closer.
“i’m not going to pretend to be a baby,” he says dryly, mouth brushing the corner of your jaw now. “unless you want me to.”
you shriek, giggling despite yourself, swatting again at his shoulder. “you’re so annoying!”
and he is—but god, he’s also beautiful, in that steady, grown-man way that still manages to knock the air out of your lungs like it did the first time you saw him.
the moonlight cuts in through the curtain crack and spills soft over his face, silvering the edges of his jaw, catching on the faint lines near his eyes, on the gold of his wedding band when he moves. his hair’s a little mussed from sleep, and he smells like soap and the baby’s lotion and something warm that’s just him. and even now, after years and a mortgage and shared toothbrushes and spit-up on both your shirts, your heart still stutters stupidly in your chest when he looks at you like that, fond and a little smug, like he’s got you right where he wants you.
you feel like a teenager again. like you’ve got a crush you don’t know what to do with. like he’s still some handsome stranger in pressed sleeves and glasses, and you’re just the idiot falling in love with him too fast.
“and yet, you married me,” he murmurs, grinning against your skin, so warm and so sure of you.
you pout, squirming as he gently helps you lie back, as he tugs the shirt higher to bare your chest, as he cradles your breast in one hand with such careful tenderness you almost forget why you were protesting in the first place. his eyes flick to your face, searching.
“here?” he asks, thumb brushing just to the side of the sore spot.
you nod, lip caught between your teeth.
he presses a kiss beside the ache, not quite over it, but close enough that the warmth of his breath makes your skin prickle.
“i’ll be gentle,” he promises.
his mouth closes around you with the same gentleness he used the first time he kissed you—strange, tender, and undeniably intimate in a way you hadn’t expected. his mouth is warm and patient, and his hands don’t wander. he’s focused, careful, and if you didn’t know him so well, you’d almost think he was trying not to startle you.
you try not to laugh, because it really is a little weird, but it’s also—well, it’s him. it’s your husband. the man who kissed your knuckles through contractions, who held your hair back when you sobbed after breastfeeding for the first time, who gets up without complaint to change diapers at 3am and always brings you a glass of water when you’re nursing. the man who looks at you like you’ve hung the moon, even when you’re puffy and tired and sore.
“you’re doing great,” he murmurs, and the words, simple as they are, make something sharp and warm settle in your chest.
you love him. you love him so much it makes your teeth ache.
when he finally pulls away with a soft pop of suction, his lips are slightly glossy, his expression unreadable.
“better?” he asks, brushing his thumb along the curve of your breast.
“…a little,” you whisper.
he hums, presses one more kiss, slower this time, almost meditative, over your nipple, and you shiver without meaning to.
his eyes flick up again, dark and steady, but still golden in that way that always made you feel like he was seeing through more than just your skin. there’s something watchful in them, quiet, and calculating, like he’s measuring your breath, your pulse, your restraint.
you try to look innocent. flutter your lashes, blink up at him like you haven’t just been caught squirming under his mouth.
he lets out a small breath—not quite a laugh, but close, and his mouth pulls into a quiet smile, knowing.
like he knows exactly what you’re trying to hide, and exactly what to do about it.
“you know,” he murmurs, thumb tracing the underside of your breast, “you keep saying it’s weird, but you’re very responsive for someone who supposedly doesn’t like this.”
you swat him again, half-scandalized. “kento.”
“just an observation,” he says smoothly, like he’s reporting quarterly revenue instead of commenting on how sensitive your tits are.
he bends to mouth at your collarbone, lips dragging lightly over skin he’s kissed a hundred times before, and you can feel the grin tugging at his mouth as he settles in.
“you want me to stop?” he asks softly, voice rougher now, heavier.
your breath stutters in your throat. “…no,” you whisper.
his hand slides back down your thigh, slow, steady, deliberate, and he shifts closer, his warmth folding over you like a tide, like he was always meant to be there.
the baby is still asleep. the night is soft and quiet. and your husband, kento nanami, is still very, very good with his mouth.
