deen.

like alcohol, the older the better.

[bee2124]

Me ruining my sleep schedule by staying up every night to read fanfiction

[fourteenotions]

im in danger!

i rlly hope a tall, blonde, strong, buff, glasses wearing, SEXY man named nanami doesnt show up..

[mononijikayu]

so easy (to fall in love) — nanami kento.

You brightened instantly. “Ah! I’m—” Before you could finish, you wiped your flour-covered hand on your apron and held it out to him proudly. He stared at the offered hand like it was a cursed relic. You wiggled your fingers. “Come on. Shake it. It’s friendly! Neighborly!” He exhaled. “…Your hand is covered in something.” “Passion.” you corrected. “It looks like dough.” “It might be passion mixed with dough.”

GENRE: alternate universe - modern setting;

WARNING/S: sfw, romance, slow burn, falling in love, mutual pining, confessions, emotional intimacy, emotional growth, domestic, romance, love, late night feelings, dinner dates, slice of life, yearning, tender moments, light-hearted, touch-starve, shoulder lean, intimacy, strangers to friends, friends to lovers, developing relationship, soft banter, food, cooking, friendship, chef! reader, divorce lawyer! nanami kento;

WORD COUNT: 13k words.

NOTE: i think i got scammed by the guy who was supposed to deliver my package. the thing i want delivered was supposed to come hours ago. anyway im still waiting and coordinating with the person i bought this item from. guys, always make sure your packages are safe!!! this was also late, i hope you forgive me for that. enjoy reading this!!! thank you so much, i love you so much!!!

kayu's playlist — side 3500;

jujutsu kaisen masterlist

ko-fi

HE HADN’T WANTED TO ACCEPT THIS REQUEST. But considering that his mom was one of the top media producers in the company, she had begged him to do this part of the project. An interview about the topic of love and divorce and he, being a big shot divorce lawyer, would be the perfect one to answer this for everyone. At least she thinks so.

Nanami Kento didn’t want to do any of that. His job shouldn’t even be televised. He didn’t see the purpose of it. And even more so, it would be bizarre to him. But he’s a good son. He’s not one to deny his mother anything, he merely shrugged and took in his pride and said yes. 

The happiness in her face made his heart skip a beat. She kept thanking him over and over again and calling him the best of sons, promising to cook him a home cooked meal when he comes back to visit home.

In that moment, he really felt like he was a child all over again. And seeing his parents house means that he’ll have a stack of home cooked meals at home for a while, which is a win for him and a loss for the restaurant industry. So, he thought to himself that he’s winning against the tide of it all. 

The red studio light blinked on, and Nanami Kento exhaled like someone who had been talked into doing this against his better judgment. His mother couldn’t make it, because she had another project she was working on. So it would just be him and this team she had assembled.

He sat with his back straight, suit immaculate, expression carved from a mixture of exhaustion and “I bill by the hour” The interviewer smiled politely. Nanami Kento did not smile back at her. Instead he merely nodded, as though to signal that they could start.

“Mr. Nanami.” she began. “First of all, thank you for being here.”

“I didn’t have a choice.” Kento replied, reaching for the glass of water provided to him. “I’m a good son. And…..my assistant said this is good publicity. But that woman overestimates humanity’s intelligence.”

The interviewer blinked. “I–I see…..well, let’s start with your work. You’ve handled some of the most complicated divorce cases in the country. What has that been like?”

Kento nodded once, calmly, and then replied. “It’s like being a kindergarten teacher half the time. Except everyone has money, emotional baggage, and access to lawyers. It’s a nightmare.”

The interviewer tried not to laugh. “Could you give us an example of a particularly challenging case?”

He sighed the sigh of a man who relives his trauma daily. He crosses his arms.“I had a couple who tried to sue each other over who had ownership of a sourdough starter.”

The interviewer blinked. “A sourdough starter?”

“Yes, a starter.” He purses his lips in a line. “Each party claimed they both ‘raised it’ and there was even a name, I think something like Kyoko. I had to say the sentence, ‘legally speaking, bacteria cannot be considered dependents’ out loud to the parties, my client especially. Then in court. While being paid for it.”

The interviewer stared. “Did you win?”

“I always win, don’t I?” Kento said flatly. “But I lost several brain cells.”

She cleared her throat. “What about cheating cases? You get a lot of those, right?”

He gave her a dead-eyed stare. “Cheating cases are ninety percent of my workload. People cheat more than they breathe.”

“Who cheats better?” she asked. “Men or women?”

Kento didn’t hesitate to tell the truth. “Women, by a terrifying margin.”

The camera crew froze.

He merely sat there.

He was not lying at all.

“Men cheat like amateurs, you see.” Kento continued, fingers tapping the table. “They leave receipts. They leave texts. They leave hickeys. One man walked into my office with lipstick on his collar—bright red—and said, ‘I think she’s overreacting’. I was perplexed. Overreacting? Sir, you look like you got mauled by a clown.”

“And women?” the interviewer asked, delighted.

“Women cheat like they’re running a covert intelligence operation.” Kento said to them. “It’s incredible. They delete everything. They use cash. They have alibis. They have backup alibis. Some even have burner phones.” He blinked once, slowly. “A few of them have frightened me.”

She covered her mouth. “So women cheat smarter.”

“No, no.” He corrected. “Women cheat competently. Men cheat like they’re begging to be caught.”

He adjusted his tie. “And before someone complains, I’m not biased. I loathe all of them equally.”

“Do any cases ever surprise you?” she asked.

Kento let out a humorless laugh. “Last month, a woman tried to divorce her husband because he kept naming their pets after his exes. Like she had receipts about his obsession with them and everything.”

“…Oh my god.”

“And he didn’t deny it. He just sat there and said, ‘Well, they were good names, I like them’ and I nearly hit him with my briefcase. But he was paying me well to defend him, so I didn’t.”

The interviewer was wheezing. 

Kento remained entirely composed.

Everyone seems to be more interested in this.

“I imagine this is an everyday occurrence.”

“Oh, yeah it is.” Kento nodded. “Just yesterday, there was also a man who tried to argue that his mistress wasn’t technically cheating because—” he made quotation marks in the air—“‘she’s not my MAIN mistress at all’ and another lawyer, a partner, laughed so hard. I had to excuse myself to go scream in the hallway.”

She wiped a tear. “You must have an incredibly strong stomach.”

“No, no. I think I have coffee and the ability to dissociate.”

She tried to compose herself. “Mr. Nanami, how do you handle such emotionally charged environments?”

“With professionalism.” he replied. “And by professionalism, I mean I sit there, listen to them cry about problems they caused themselves, try to comfort them with some words and wait for the exact legal moment where I can get them what they’re entitled to.”

“You’re known for being one of the most efficient lawyers in the field. Some even say you’re…a bit blunt.”

Kento raised an eyebrow.  “A bit?”

“Okay. Very blunt.”

“Thank you. Accuracy matters.”

The interviewer laughed. “Do you ever give emotional advice?”

“No, no.” Kento said immediately. “I am not a therapist. I’ll care for you and your interests. But first and foremost, I am a man with a law degree and an alarming amount of patience. Second, my job is to make sure you don’t leave the marriage homeless.”

“But you must feel something, dealing with heartbreak every day?”

Kento’s face softened a fraction, a small crack in the armor, barely there. “It does take a toll on me, certainly,” he admitted quietly. “Watching people unravel isn’t entertaining. It’s normal, of course. But every day, it's a painful cycle. It’s…heavy.”

He shrugged, looked away for a beat. “But I’d rather be the one in control of the fallout than let them destroy themselves. I have a heart too. I don’t like seeing people suffer like that.”

The moment passed. 

People seemed touched.

He straightened.

“Anyway. Back to stupidity.”

The interviewer snorted. “What’s the worst excuse for cheating you’ve ever heard?”

Kento didn't even blink. “There was one I heard. This person had been caught by his wife sleeping with another woman in the bed. He told the court these exact words. ‘It wasn’t cheating, she just fell on me’ and I just sat there watching him implode.”

Silence. The interviewer’s jaw dropped. “…Did he win the case?”

“No, not at all.” Kento said. “My client won. But I made sure she didn’t go nuclear on him. And he paid for my coffee for the rest of the year.”

She shook her head. “Why do you keep doing this job? With all this insanity?”

Nanami Kento looked directly at her, tone dry but sincere. “Because someone has to be the grown-up in the room. Might as well be me.”

The interviewer glanced at her producer, who gave her an eager thumbs-up. The cameras weren’t rolling anymore. But they wanted one last segment. A softer one. A personal one. He was supposed to make him more human than sphinx.

Nanami Kento noticed the change in atmosphere immediately. He sat back down, suspicion on his face. “What now? Is there something else my mom had you do? Is this gonna be a cooking segment?”

The interviewer smiled nervously. “No, no. Not at all, Mr. Nanami.”

“Oh good. What is it?”

“We want to ask one more question. For the bonus clip.”

Kento sighed. “Fine. Let’s get it over with.”

The camera light blinked red again. “Mr. Nanami, there’s a lot of cases you oversee everyday.” she began carefully. “You’ve handled countless divorces, seen relationships fall apart every day…so we wanted to know—” she paused, looking at him. “What do you think about love?”

Nanami Kento froze. Just for a fraction of a second but the silence was loud. He leaned back, crossed his arms, and let out a low whistle. “Wow. Going straight for the jugular.”

“It’s a fair question.” the interviewer said softly.

“No, it’s a stupid question. A private one at that. But I’ll answer it anyway.”

He looked off to the side, not dramatically, but like he needed to physically look away from the idea itself. “What do I think about love?” he repeated, slower this time. “I think love is the only legally binding mental illness.”

The interviewer choked. “That—that’s one way to put it.”

“Oh, I’m not done.” He sat forward, elbows on knees. “Love makes people delusional. It makes grown adults act like hormonal teenagers. It makes otherwise intelligent individuals forget basic logic, fiscal responsibility, and in some cases, hygiene.”

The crew snorted. 

Nanami Kento didn’t laugh.

He was far too serious about it.

“But, I think it's good.” he continued, voice lowering. “I think love is the only reason my job isn’t the bleakest thing on earth.”

The interviewer blinked. “How so?”

Kento clicked his tongue, annoyed that he had to explain it. “People don’t fall apart like this over nothing. You don’t fight over air fryers, custody, alimony, or emotional damages unless you cared about the person once. Maybe too much.”

A beat. Then another. “Divorce isn’t about hate at all.” he said quieter. “It’s about grief. And grief only happens if something matters, or something important.

The interviewer softened. “So you do believe in love.”

Kento’s jaw tightened. His eyes flicked down. He was not avoiding, just…choosing. “I believe, and because I’ve seen it….” he said slowly. “I believe that love can be real.”

“That’s different from believing in it.”

“It is.” Kento said. “And I’m not elaborating.”

She smiled, sensing he was trying to dodge the question. “Why not?”

“Because I’m not your tragic protagonist.” he snapped lightly. “I’m a divorce lawyer. As I said, my job is to clean up after love, not philosophize about it.”

“But you just did.” she pointed out.

Nanami Kento glared at her with the kind of glare reserved for opposing counsel who asked stupid questions in court. “Look, I’ve seen love wreck people. Break them. Humble them. Turn them into versions of themselves they don’t recognize.”

He paused. His voice dropped to something quieter, rougher at the edges. “And I’ve also seen them stand back up. I’ve seen them rebuild. I’ve seen them love again. Some of my clients get back together, some don’t and some fall in love much better with others and work on being co-parents. Love is everywhere.

The interviewer straightened. “So… you think love is worth it?”

Kento stared at her like she’d grown a second head. “I think love is risky. I think it’s messy. Unstable. Infuriating.”

A full second passed. Then he admitted, almost reluctantly. “But yes. Maybe it’s worth it. For some people.”

“Not for you?” she asked gently.

He scoffed, leaning back. “I’m too tired and too busy for love.”

“That’s not a real answer, Mr. Nanami.” she said.

“It’s the only one you’re getting, for sure.” he shot back, but the corner of his mouth twitched, just slightly into something dangerously close to sadness. “I’m not someone who’ll let private life blend into work.”

The interviewer gave him a soft smile. “Thank you for being honest.”

Nanami rolled his eyes. “Don’t thank me. I regret everything I just said.”

The camera cut out. But Nanami Kento didn’t immediately stand. For a moment, he sat there for a moment. One hand on the table, the other rubbing his jaw looking like a man who had said more than he intended. 

Then he pushed himself up, adjusting his tie again. He walked out of the studio room, being greeted by one of the assistants. He cleared his throat, posture straight, steps steady. But there was a heaviness in his shoulders that hadn’t been there when the interview began.

Maybe it was a bad idea to do this.

He sighed with a breath, closing his eyes.

Kento stretches his neck, stiff from all of it.

He thought to himself tax law as a better topic.

“I’m exhausted.” He mumbles under his breath.

HE WAS GLAD IT WAS OVER. At the very least, he can go back to the office for a bit and then go home. He can leave this day behind entirely. The interview wrapped with a polite exchange of thanks and the rustling of equipment being shut off, but the weight of it clung to Nanami Kento’s shoulders like a damp overcoat. 

He escorted the crew to the elevator. He gave them all a quiet thank you and then a stiff bow, and the moment the doors slid shut he exhaled for a moment, in a slow and measured manner. It was like he was forcing the air out of something clenched tight.

It wouldn’t air yet. Thank god for that. He could still pretend the world didn’t know he just spent an hour discussing infidelity patterns like he was lecturing at a university. He checked his watch. Thirty minutes until the next client. He could only sigh quietly. At least the office is only a few minutes away.

He didn’t rest at all. He didn’t get coffee. He nodded at his secretary, who greeted him and immediately stood up to make him the coffee he so desperately needed. Kento yawned as he got to his chair, loosened his tie one millimeter, and pulled the next folder from the stack. Saito v. Saito. Another mess. Another web of lies disguised as a marriage.

By noon, he’d mediated a screaming match, drafted a settlement agreement, and been lied to repeatedly by two separate people who both insisted they were the victim. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Lunch. He needed lunch. Or at least silence.

He got neither. The moment he stepped into the firm’s break room with his neatly packed bento, he heard it.  “KEN-TOOOO~! KUNNNNNN~”

Famous corporate tax attorney Gojo Satoru, in sunglasses indoors, waving like an overcaffeinated flag. “I see you’ve come back!”

Kento froze. “…Why are you yelling?”

“Because I missed you!” Gojo dramatized, throwing an arm around the blond’s shoulder. “And also because Hiromi here said you filmed another interview and didn’t tell me. Betrayal. Absolute betrayal.”

From the corner, defense attorney Higuruma Hiromi lifted his coffee mug in greeting, dark circles under his eyes. “He’s been insufferable for the past twenty minutes. Please handle it. I’m exhausted.”

“Is it because of the case you’ve both been working on?”

“I don’t even wanna talk about it.” Higuruma rubs his temples. “It’s too much to deal with him ans the case.”

Nanami Kento merely sat down, removing Satoru’s arm like one removes a spider from their sleeve. “It was a professional interview. And it hasn’t aired yet.”

Satoru’s grin sharpened. “Oh, so you said something good. Did you roast cheaters again? Please tell me you roasted cheaters again.”

Hiromi raised an eyebrow. “Did they ask you the statistics question again?”

Kento paused mid-chopstick lift. “…About which gender cheats more effectively?”

The blue eyed man lit up like a child. “YES, THAT ONE!”

Kento sighed. “Yes. They asked.”

“And?” Hiromi prompted.

“And well….” Kento said flatly, “I gave the same answer I always give: men cheat more, women cheat better. It is a quantifiable pattern.”

Satoru slammed his hands on the table. “ICONIC. KING BEHAVIOR. Please tell me the details.”

Hiromi sighed. “Don’t be too loud. It’s hurting my ears.”

“I was…encouraged to elaborate.”

Hiromi nodded. “Well, there’s always interest in your work.”

What did you say this time?” Satoru snickered as he asked.

The blond chewed a piece of tamagoyaki with visible regret. “I said men cheat loudly. Sloppily. With the subtlety of a rhinoceros in a convenience store. Women, on the other hand, leave no evidence except a vague sense of dread.”

Hiromi put his head in his hands. “Good lord.”

Satoru cracked up so loudly that someone from one of the accounting attorneys glared at them. Satoru glared back at the lawyer, which led them to look away. He had seniority after all. Kento merely sighed as he continued. He was annoyed but quite resigned. 

“They also asked about the worst case I ever handled.” He told them. “But I don’t think one of them is making the cut.”

“Which one did you pick?” Hiromi asked, curiosity winning over dread.

“The one where the husband tried to hide assets by converting everything into collectible figurines. You know the explicit—”

Satoru almost choked. “THE LIMITED EDITION ANIME GIRLS—?”

“Yeah, those.”

Silence. And then Satoru wheezed, sliding down his chair laughing. “Yeah, that’s not making the cut.”

Hiromi sipped his coffee. “Did you mention the couple who fought over custody of their dog, despite not actually owning a dog?”

“No.” Kento grimaced, remembering the bad outcome of that case. “But they’ll air the interview eventually. I’m sure the public humiliation will be enough.”

He returned to his meal earnestly.

He was hoping for at least a moment of quiet. 

He did not get it. Not one bit. 

Satoru leaned forward, chin in hand, all faux-innocence. “So, Nanamin…sweet, jaded Nanamin…when they asked you what you thought about love—”

Hiromi looked up sharply. “They asked that?”

Kento paused. “…Yes.”

“Oh, shit. I was bluffing about that.” Satoru says, rubbing the back of his head.  “And you answered?”

Kento looked at both of them. Two men beside him. The one would be earnest, the other was tolerated daily. But all the same, two men who would have something to say about whatever he said regardless. He lifted his chopsticks again.

“No.”

Hiromi blinked. “You refused?”

Kento sighed. “I said, ‘Love is outside my professional scope’ and just let that be it.”

Satoru pointed dramatically. “That’s a fucking lie and you know it. Holy shit.”

He stabbed a piece of rice like it insulted him. “Yes. But it was efficient.”

Satoru snorted. “God, I can’t wait for this interview to air. The office is gonna have a field day with this one.”

Kento stared at his bento, contemplating the peace he once dreamed of. The interview hadn’t aired yet. But when it did, he knew that he would have more problems than anything else. He already felt the headache forming.

HE HAD ARRIVED LATER THAN HE WOULD HAVE LIKED. But in his line of work, you  always had to be available. Overtime is always an encouraged work culture in the industry. That endurance to work is the reason the profit becomes something that comes heavy in your pocket. 

A phone call you think would be thirty minutes turns into six hours. A mediation you think would last two hours lasts until midnight. But today he’s very glad that he didn’t have to endure much of that sort of ruckus today.

Most of his clients were not gonna meet with him until later this week, he was pretty sure. But he’d probably ask Nobara about it before he goes to bed. Still, this is a win for him. This means he can have some rest tonight.

Nanami Kento arrived home at exactly 8:13 p.m exactly. Every time he got home early, that number became a sacred number to him. This is the earliest he had been home in months. Tonight, this number meant one thing. Relaxation and on his own terms. 

He took off his blazer with that precise, meticulous motion of a man whose soul was held together by routine. Shoes off. Tie loosened. Sleeves rolled. Hair pushed back with a sigh that felt like it escaped from deep inside his bones.

It was the kind of sigh only someone who’d spent all day listening to couples argue about emotional damages and custody of a blender could produce. Immediately, he came and retrieved his beer from the fridge and opened it with a small pssshk.

He set his dinner for tonight, frikadeller og rugbrød, on his plate. He cooked it late last night. Then portioned it. Properly labeled it with the ‘tuesday’ on top of the tupperware, where the food was stacked neatly in his fridge like a Scandinavian Tetris god.

He clicked the television on for background ambience. The low, distant murmur he could sink into was something that he often used to soften the edges of the day he’d just survived. Nanami Kento often didn’t watch TV for entertainment.

Most of the time to him, it’s just part of his job. He was often representing celebrity couples who had their marriages end so publicly. And that leads him to think that most of the time, television entertainment was noise. Hence, that same noise was part of work. And work was the last thing he wanted bleeding into his evening.

No, he wanted something else. He wanted something palatable. He wanted something calm. Something with absolute silence with just enough sound to keep him from overthinking. Something serene he could allow in the corner of his eye without paying it much attention.

He took the first bite of his dinner. He could almost remember his grandfather’s way of making this dish. Those memories under a tree experiencing the quiet in Jutland, sitting there enjoying the birds singing. It felt like that at that moment. It felt so warm and comforting. It felt endearingly familiar. Warmth settled in his chest.

That’s better.

He flipped through channels, searching for anything peaceful.

Channel 3: a documentary about glaciers calving. The narrator had a soothing voice, it sounded promising to him in the first part. But then the glacier exploded into the vast cold sea with a crack that sounded like a gunshot.

No.

Channel 5: it was a dating reality show where a woman was screaming at a man for “emotionally cheating” with a hologram girl he pays for. He audibly cursed as he flipped the channel to another one.

God, no. I’ve dealt with something like that before. 

Channel 6: an intense film with a car chase. He didn’t even bother. 

Channel 9: a cheating yet we get back together soap opera. Too dramatic.

Channel 12: an advertisement for cough medicine featuring a man hacking up a lung.

Absolutely not.

He kept scrolling, fork rising to his mouth again.

Then he stopped.

Frozen mid-air, mid-breath, mid-chew.

The screen flashed with bright studio lights, polished counters, stainless-steel appliances gleaming like a battlefield of culinary warfare. A cooking competition. Not the soft, nurturing kind where grandmothers talk about simmering stew.

The loud kind. The stressful kind. The kind where contestants looked like they hadn’t slept in three days. And in the center of all that chaos of this entire thing was someone who stood above all of them. That person was [last name] [last name], famous Michelin star restaurant owner and chef. 

You.

Nanami Kento blinked once, slowly. You were in a crisp chef’s coat, hair tied back, sleeves rolled with the confidence of someone who had absolutely no intention of speaking quietly. A contestant stirred a pan nervously.

“NO NO NO—THAT IS NOT HOW YOU REDUCE A SAUCE!” you roared, pointing dramatically at the bubbling tomato mixture. “THAT’S HOW YOU PERFORM AN EXORCISM ON A TOMATO!”

The contestant flinched. Another chef dropped their spatula two stations away. A camera operator ducked for cover. Kento merely stared. You were a force of nature. It was like a typhoon that had learned knife skills.

Another segment played.  This time the chaos gave way to eerie calm. You stood before a fish on a cutting board, a long thin knife glinting in your hand. Your voice dropped several decibels. It was clinical. Far too smooth, expressly precise, almost hypnotic.

“Filleting is not about strength, you see.” you instructed. “It’s about listening. The blade will tell you where it wants to go.”

Nanami Kento had seen judges examine evidence with less intensity than you examined that fish. You slid the knife in. A perfect cut. Fluid, graceful. The studio’s noise dimmed around you, contestants watching with genuine awe.

“You see?” you said gently. “If you fight the fish, it fights back. If you respect it, it gives you what you’re looking for.”

Kento chewed slowly, still watching you, because how could he not? It was impossible to reconcile the two versions of you on screen. One moment, a culinary hurricane screaming at a pan. The next, a quiet master guiding a blade like it was a part of your soul.

A contestant tried to mimic your movements and immediately butchered the fillet. The fish flew off the table which came straight toward your face. You caught it mid-air. With one hand. Without looking at it or at anyone.

Then you turned back to the contestant and said, in the softest, deadliest voice. “Try again. And please stop throwing seafood at me.”

The blond stared at the screen for a long, wordless moment. He set his beer down. He carefully leaned back and contemplated his life choices. People like you, the loud, dramatic, explosive kind were meant to exist exclusively within the boundaries of a television frame. To be contained and distant. In a safe distance to be exact. Not anywhere near him.

Nanami Kento took another bite of his dinner and told himself with absolute certainty, as though he did not deal with the worst people in the planet in divorce cases. Thank god people like this stay on television and far, far away from me.

He took a peaceful sip of beer.

The universe waited.

…And then the ceiling exploded.

BOOOOOOM.

His ceiling rattled violently, the lights flickered, and one of his picture frames tilted as though trying to flee. Kento blinked. Screaming began. “OH MY GOD—ITS ALIVE—IT’S ACTUALLY ALIVE—WHY IS IT FOAMING THAT MUCH?!!”

Kento set his fork down slowly. Very slowly.

CRASH. CLANG. BANG-BANG-BANG.

He inhaled through his nose.

Not my business. Not my circus.

He took a sip of beer.

“AAAGH—HELP—MY HAIR—MY HAIR IS STUCK TO THE—WAIT—WHAT IS THAT SMELL?!”

Nanami Kento merely sighed as he  stood up so abruptly the chair made a soft screech across the floor. “…For god’s sake.”

He knocked only once. Instantly, the door swung open. You stood there like a walking disaster novella: flour on your arms, apron half-burnt, hair frizzed out like you’d been struck by lightning, and eyes wide with full-body panic.

“Oh thank god you’re a PERSON—do you know ANYTHING about stoves?! My stove just started—LOOK—LOOK AT IT—HURRY!”

You grabbed him by the sleeve like a drowning person reaching for a buoy. Nanami Kento , a man who had professionally dealt with screaming people for years, did not flinch. He merely stepped inside. And your kitchen was a war crime.

A pan was bubbling over like it was summoning a demon. A mixing bowl overflowed with foam that hissed like it hated everyone in the room. There were scorch marks on the wall. A dish towel was suspiciously smoldering in the sink.

Kento blinked once. “…Move.” he ordered.

You moved instantly. Kento marched to the stove, pressed two buttons with crisp precision, turned a knob, unplugged a cord, and put out the smoldering towel with an annoyed flick of water. Everything went silent. The demon dish died.

“—You’re—AMAZING.” you gasped. “HOW did you do that?!”

“I turned it off.” he repeated.

“That’s wizardry!”

“It's not.”

“I’m keeping you.”

“You are not.”

You beamed, panting slightly from the adrenaline of surviving your own cooking. Kento surveyed the room again and felt the faintest flicker of concern. “…What exactly were you making?”

You straightened up proudly, chest puffing out despite being covered in flour. “A dish for a TV segment tomorrow.”

Kento pursed his lips in a flat line. “…You’re on TV.”

“Yes!” You took a breath. “Tokyo’s Kitchen Wars. I’m a chef there.”

Nanami Kento stared at you. He thought about the screen on the TV downstairs. Then back at you who was now smiling back at him. Fantastic. He had wished to never meet someone like you.

The universe said: “Bet.”

He decided that he had to leave as soon as possible. The blond haired man merely turned toward the door on the other side of the room. You looked at him with a frown as you followed him there, but he opened the door.

“Wait—WAIT—WAIT—ARE YOU LEAVING?!”

“Yes.” he said. “I was in the middle of dinner.”

You froze, eyes widening in guilt. “You…you didn’t eat yet?”

“I tried.”

“I—” You swallowed. “Do you want…to try the dish you just saved?”

Kento stared at you. “…Absolutely not.”

You grabbed his sleeve again. “Please? It’s actually good. I swear on my culinary degree.”

“I don’t even want to know how many times that degree has been threatened.”

You gasped. “You don’t trust me?”

Kento gave the entire destroyed kitchen a long, pointed look. “No.”

“But I promise it tastes good!”

“Your stove was foaming.”

“That means it’s aerated.”

“It was erupting like a volcano.”

“That means it was exciting.”

Kento closed his eyes. Then, because he had manners or masochistic tendencies.

“…Fine.”

You guided him toward the kitchen table like you were escorting a hostage who might bolt at any moment. He followed reluctantly, shoulders squared, posture stiff, as if the chair might try to negotiate a settlement with him.

“Come and sit wherever you like.” you said, pointing.

He sat down. Slowly. Suspiciously. Like the chair was booby-trapped. You grabbed a clean spoon, scooped up a portion of the intact, non-demonic part of your dish, and held it out toward him. He blinked at the spoon. Then at you.

“…You intend to feed me?”

“No, no. That’s not my style.” you huffed back with a smile. “I intend to give you the food. Your hand still works. Probably.”

He did not move. You sighed dramatically. “Oh my god—just eat it.”

“I’m perfectly capable of serving myself.”

“You are, but you’re not doing it. So.” You extended the spoon a little closer. “Neighbor, don’t be stubborn. Just try the damn thing.”

He stared at you like you’d asked him to sign a prenup for a marriage he didn’t know he was in. “…This is absurd.”

“Open.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, the sound of a man defeated by sheer persistence. Then, finally, he opened his mouth. You leaned forward just enough to give him a careful spoonful. He chewed. And froze.

The room went dead silent, except for a faint drip…drip…drip of something still drying on the ceiling, perhaps some remnant of the earlier culinary explosion that had nearly required divine intervention. You held your breath.

“Well?” you whispered, inching closer without realizing it.

The man stared at you like he was about to file a complaint against the laws of physics. “…It’s good.”

You blinked. “Wait—wait—good good? Like…actually good? Or is this the kind of ‘good’ that couples tell themselves right before they stay together solely for the kids?”

He swallowed, looking horrifyingly honest. “It’s genuinely good.”

Your entire soul lit up. Your eyes widened, your smile exploded across your face, and you threw your hands into the air. “YES! OH MY GOD, I DID IT! I DIDN’T FAIL! THANK EVERY KNOWN DEITY—FINALLY, SOMETHING WORKED!”

You were practically vibrating with relief. Meanwhile, the man sat there silently, processing the fact that he had just been ambushed, spoon-fed in spirit if not action, and then emotionally blinded by your victory celebration. You beamed at him, hands on your hips, flushed with triumph.

“You have NO idea how stressful this dish was to make!” you said breathlessly. “I—I thought I ruined it. I almost died. Twice. Maybe three times. And you—mysterious neighbor who came to rescue my kitchen—you tasted it! And it’s actually good!”

He cleared his throat, gaze dropping to the table. “…Yes. It is.”

You grinned even wider. Then leaned in conspiratorially. “So. Want another bite?”

He looked up at you, utterly resigned, utterly defeated, utterly done with the universe. “…I’ll… serve myself.”

You shoved the spoon into his hand anyway. “Good! Because I made a lot.”

He sighed. But he took the plate. And he ate. You merely watched him. You sat cross-legged in your chair, elbows on the table, leaning forward with the intense, sparkling eagerness of someone who had not had a proper conversation in hours and was now making up for it all at once.

“So…” you began, eyes narrowing at him like you were studying a rare, emotionally stunted animal. “Do you always wear suits at home?”

The man didn’t look up from his plate. “Yes.”

You blinked. “Yes? Like…all the time?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“They’re comfortable.”

You stared at him as though he’d just said grass tastes like honey. “Comfortable?” you repeated. “Those look like they cost more than my stove.”

He paused. Then, in the calmest, driest tone known to mankind. “Your stove is not a suitable benchmark for anything.”

You gasped dramatically.“Rude! But….unfortunately accurate.”

He continued eating in tiny, precise bites, like a soldier conserving rations during a nature documentary about silent suffering. Every chew looked controlled. Every swallow was measured. 

You were almost impressed by how many rules he seemed to follow for simply existing. You watched him carefully. Then perked up with a sudden burst of excitement, startling him enough to make his fork pause mid-air.

“Oh!...If you like it a lot, then you can take more home.” you said, pointing aggressively at his plate. “There’s still so much here.”

He blinked. “…More?”

“Yeah! I have a lot of it here, I just told you!” You gestured grandly to the counter, stacked with bowls, trays, pots, and various food containers like a culinary fortress. “I don’t know how to make small batches. My hands physically refuse. It’s impossible. A curse.”

“That sounds like a personal problem, actually.” he said instantly. “That and not knowing maths.”

“It is.” you replied, proudly. “On both ends!”

You hopped up from your chair and immediately started scooping food into containers with lightning-fast efficiency. He looked at it with a truly, genuinely alarmed  gaze for the first time since you’d met him.

“I didn’t agree to this.” he said sharply.

“Too late!” you chirped. “You’re taking leftovers.”

“I don’t require—”

“Yes, you do.”

“I already had dinner.”

You slowly looked him up and down. “A sad dinner.”

His jaw flexed. “…You don’t know that.”

“I do.” you said, absolutely certain. “You give off the vibe of a man who eats precise, beige meals.”

He stared at you, a long, suffering stare, then silently resumed eating your dish, apparently deciding that resisting you required far more energy than he possessed. You placed a full container in front of him.

“There. That’s for tomorrow.”

“I didn’t—”

“And this one, this one is….” you added, dropping another onto the table, smiling at him “This one is for the day after that.”

“—agree to—”

“And this one, I think this would be good.” you continued, now stacking them like gifts for a man who absolutely did not want them. “This portion is just because you look like you forget to enjoy food.”

He opened his mouth, either to argue or to beg for mercy. But nothing came out. And he hated that nothing came out. He had so much in his mind to say. You quickly put them in your favorite eco bags. Then sure enough, you shoved the bags toward him.

“Congratulations, neighbor!” you announced proudly. “You have officially been chosen as my accidental taste tester.”

He stared at the bags that he had in his hands now. Then at the containers in the eco bags. Then at you, who was still grinning like a Cheshire cat. Then at the lightly traumatized kitchen that had almost exploded thirty minutes ago. 

“…This…this is not something you should be doing to get out of nearly burning down the complex.” he said slowly, the way one would speak to a dangerous animal. “This feels like extortion.”

“No, no. I disagree.” you corrected sweetly, hands clasped behind your back like a kindergarten teacher explaining sharing. “This is hospitality. From your new neighbor. One who wants to be your friend!”

He stared at you with the deadpan expression of a man who had watched couples try to legally murder each other over a blender. Then he asked, very reluctantly. “…Speaking of, what’s your name again? I know I saw it on TV but the stuff that happened—”

You brightened instantly. “Ah! I’m—”

Before you could finish, you wiped your flour-covered hand on your apron and held it out to him proudly. He stared at the offered hand like it was a cursed relic. You wiggled your fingers.

“Come on. Shake it. It’s friendly! Neighborly!”

He exhaled. “…Your hand is covered in something.”

“Passion.” you corrected.

“It looks like dough.”

“It might be passion mixed with dough.”

He closed his eyes as if gathering strength from the universe. Then, with the resigned dignity of a man accepting his fate, he carefully shook your hand, with fingers barely brushing, like he was afraid you’d explode again.

Your grin widened. “And you are…?”

He hesitated. Deeply. “Your neighbor.” he finally said.

You squinted. “That’s not a name.”

“It is for the purposes of this conversation.”

“So mysterious! Are you a spy?”

“No.”

“A hitman?”

“No.”

“A tax auditor?”

He made a face. “Absolutely not.”

“Then why can’t you just tell me—?”

He stood abruptly, gathering the neatly packed containers with a precise efficiency that betrayed his inner panic. “That’s enough food talk for tonight.” he said. “And enough interrogation too.”

“It wasn’t interrogation, though!” you argued. “It was friendly bonding!”

“It was intense.”

“It was normal.”

“It was not.”

Before he could leave, you barred the doorway with both arms, a smile stretching even wider. “One more question for you.” you said.

He looked like he regretted stepping out of his apartment tonight. “…What.”

“Do you have dietary restrictions?”

He blinked. “…Excuse me?”

“I’m going to cook again tomorrow. I need to know if you’re allergic to anything. Gluten? Nuts? Lactose? Commitment?”

He stared at you. Then at the containers. Then at the ceiling, as if hoping for divine intervention. “…....Please stop planning to cook for me.”

“You’re avoiding the question.”

“I don’t have allergies.”

“Great! I’ll make something ambitious.”

“No.”

“Surprising!”

“No.”

“Life-changing!”

“I really—”

“Spicy?”

He looked at the bags in his hands again. “…Moderately spicy.” he admitted, defeated.

Your eyes turned starry. “OOOOH. I like you already.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“Well, too late! We’re neighbors. We’re friends—”

“We are not—”

“We’re basically bound by fate!”

He inhaled sharply like he was resisting the urge to walk into traffic. Then he stepped around you, containers clutched against his chest like evidence. “Good night.” he muttered.

“GOOD NIGHT, MYSTERIOUS NEIGHBOR!” you called after him, waving him off with a bright smile. “See you tomorrow!”

He paused at your doorframe. “…Please don’t make anything else explode.”

“No promises!”

He closed his eyes, accepted his doom, and walked out. He pinched the bridge of his nose, his headache returning at that moment. It was  the universal sign for I regret every decision that led me here and everything else that would happen after that. 

But he didn’t push the bags away.

He didn’t hand them back.

He didn’t even pretend to return them.

He just stood there, almost quiet and resigned, and slightly defeated, just like his clients half the time, and looked at the food, while your containers of food sat proudly in front of him like trophies. And that was how the most meticulous, rigid man in Tokyo accidentally became your culinary victim volunteer.

THIS KEPT HAPPENING OVER AND OVER AGAIN. It keeps being a thing that one can consider a tradition at this point. Every single night, day after day, week after week, month after month. You would always be there for him to give you a new riveting meal you had in mind for your restaurant, and most of all, for him to taste.

Nanami Kento would drag himself home after another brutal day. Repetitive court hearings that stretched too long, clients who lied too confidently, associates who panicked too easily, and Gojo Satoru who existed.

He would unlock his door with that quiet defeated sigh of a salaryman who had been spiritually flattened into a pancake, and there you were. Every night. Standing right at his doorstep like some aggressively cheerful shrine guardian carrying food.

Sometimes you had two containers. Sometimes five. One time, an entire tray that required both your arms. You always said the same thing to him with a bright big smile on your face. “Dinner time!”

Nanami Kento always answered the same way.  “You really don’t have to do this.”

And yet you did. 

Over and over. 

Without fail.

You, who had your own long days, an entire restaurant to run, obsessive producers breathing down your neck, a TV network that wanted drama from you like it was a blood sport. You came home probably more exhausted than he ever was.

But somehow, somehow, you always found time to knock on his door with a tired smile and say.  “I made too much again.”

You didn’t even know his name. He hadn’t told you. You hadn’t pried in his life or his privacy, which was odd because you were already coming to his apartment anyway. It was the strangest arrangement of mutual denial and one-sided generosity.

And tonight was no different. He opened the door halfway, loosening his tie, ready to collapse. Out there, you stood there holding a pot. An actual pot. You smiled at him, huffing slightly from the weight of the pot.

“Hi, neighbor!” you chirped, cheeks flushed from a long shift. “You’re not allergic to shellfish, right?”

Kento stared at you. Then at the pot. “…You carried that down a flight of stairs?”

“Of course! It was too hot for containers.”

“That is not comforting.”

“It should be! That means it’s fresh.”

“It means you could have burned yourself.”

You blinked, then shrugged. “Ah well. Occupational hazard.”

Nanami Kento rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to give himself a moment of peace. You were going to give him heart failure one day. He stepped back, letting you in because at this point resisting felt pointless.

You set the pot on his counter like you belonged there. You had the confidence of someone who had memorized the layout of his kitchen out of survival and stubbornness now that you have started to come here ever so regularly. Perhaps more than Kento himself does.

You were humming softly, opening cabinets to grab bowls (you knew which cabinet, which shelf — horrifying) when Kento finally exhaled the words he had been holding for a while now. He looked at you, pursing his lips.

“…Are you actually alright doing this?” he murmured, voice low enough that it almost wasn’t spoken. “For a stranger, I mean.”

You paused with a ladle halfway in the pot. Kento stared at the floor, unable to look at you as he continued. “You don’t need to be spending your time or effort on me. You have your own job, your own life. And I—” he hesitated. “—You don’t even know my name.”

There was a heartbeat of silence. Steam wafted from the pot between you. Then, you laughed. Softly. Very softly. It wasn’t like the explosive, chaotic laughter you had in your kitchen. Not like the loud, camera-ready laugh the TV showed.

This one was warm. A little tired. Sincere. “I know that very well, you know.” you said.

The brown eyed man lifted his gaze. You set the ladle down and leaned your arms on his counter, tilting your head as though studying a very skittish animal. “It was really insane for this to ever be a whole thing, a tradition even!”

“But you kept your door open every night to me.” you said gently. “You keep listening to me ramble about recipes. You let me use your bowls because mine are always in the dishwasher. And you always eat everything.”

Kento felt his ears warm. “That’s because it would be rude not to.”

“But you still do it, don’t you?” you murmured. You held his gaze.“Just because I don’t know your name doesn’t mean I don’t know you.”

He blinked. “…You don’t.”

“I do.” You pointed at him with a wooden spoon. “You’re the kind of person who works too hard, thinks too much, and forgets to take care of yourself when you’re tired. And you try so hard to be stoic about it that it’s actually kind of funny.”

He stared at you, stunned. You grinned. “And also, you’re the only neighbor who didn’t complain when I almost blew up my stove. That alone makes you worth cooking for.”

He opened his mouth but you gently pushed a warm bowl of food into his hands. “Here, go and eat.” you said softly. “You worked hard today too, neighbor!”

He looked down at the bowl. Then at you. Then back at the bowl. “…You’re very strange, aren’t you?” he whispered.

“So I’ve been told.”

Kento hesitated. His fingers tightened around the warm ceramic. Finally, he decides to give it to you. “…My name….…it’s Kento.”

Your smile widened slowly, like sunrise blooming across a horizon. “Hi, Kento.”

He swallowed. And for the first time in a very, very long time, Nanami Kento felt the weight of his day ease just a little. Just enough. Because you were there. With a pot of food and a smile warm enough to thaw anyone. Even him.

But with more time, things ended up escalating. Rapidly. At first, you brought him some of the food you had left over from your restaurant. He was actually surprised at that one. Just a polite tray, balanced, reasonable, adult. 

Then came the more parts of that in the take out container from your restaurant, side dishes, more stuff for dinner and of course, a whole pack of dessert, besides the ones you already cooked for him. Because you accidentally made too much. Both at home, and the restaurant.

“Oops, here’s some extra side dishes, I didn’t realize the portions were that big.” You said to him, trying to act all cute to avoid getting scolded by him. “Please eat it well!

Nanami Kento already suspected you were lying about that, but he had no true way of knowing that. He didn’t wanna pry in your business. Then came full trays. Plural. As in there’s far too many for him to eat all by himself.

At some point, his refrigerator no longer contained his quiet, carefully curated beige Scandinavian meals, the kind of food that looked like it came with instructions. Your dishes had taken over like an invading culinary regime.

Containers stacked. Shelves taken. A slow but unstoppable conquest.

Nanami Kento stared at them one evening, arms crossed, expression pinched.

“…This is excessive.” Then he ate every bite, like it was the last thing he could ever do in this life.

Eventually, you said the sentence that sealed his inevitable downfall that one night you came by his apartment with more food than he could ever actually fit in his fridge, before leaving for work that morning. 

“Hey, if you can’t finish everything, just bring some to your coworkers!” 

You were smiling. He was panicking. He should’ve refused. He should’ve set boundaries. He should’ve said something along the lines of “No, thank you, this kindness has exceeded the socially acceptable limit” or something else. 

But instead, he stood there holding three trays, two sides, and something bubbling in foil, so tall he could barely see past it. He sighed. “…Fine.”

And that was how it began.

Gojo Satoru was the one who noticed first. Of course he did. With those six–like eyes on him, how could he not. He always noticed, loudly. That was what made him such a good damn lawyer in the first place.

At 8:54 AM, Nanami Kento placed the stacked containers gently onto his desk.

At 8:55 AM, Satoru’s voice echoed across the entire office like a stadium announcer.

“OOOOOOOOH? NANAMIN BROUGHT A LUNCHBOX!?”

The entire floor turned. Kento closed his eyes, inhaled, and counted to five. “It’s not a lunchbox.” he said calmly. “It’s food.”

Hiromi leaned over from his desk, eyebrows raised. “That’s not food. That’s—” he gestured at the stack like it offended him— ”rations. For a team. For a military unit.”

Satoru gasped dramatically. “Nanami Kento!” he whispered. “Are you being fed by a girlfriend? Or a wife? Oh my god, are you married?”

Kento stiffened. “…Absolutely not.”

The blue eyed man’s soul lit up like a slot machine jackpot. “Ohhhh my god. He sooooo is.”

Hiromi nodded gravely. “I’ve worked here for four years. Not once have you brought something that wasn’t…beige.”

Kento tightened his jaw. “My lunches are not sad.”

“Yes they are.” both replied instantly. 

From across the room, a first-year junior lawyer chimed in: “They look like IKEA instructions, senpai!”

A senior lawyer, though younger than Kento added. “I second that!”

Nanami Kento considered early retirement. Satoru poked one of the containers and hissed like he’d found evidence in a crime scene. “Seems like whoever’s doing this is in love with you, huh?”

Kento froze. “She doesn’t—”

Satoru quickly pointed. “Nanamin! It’s so….your ears.”

Kento blinked. “…My ears?”

“They’re red.”

Hiromi leaned closer. “They are.”

“They’re normal.”

“They’re tomato red!” The white haired man insisted.

“They are most certainly not.”

Satoru grinned wider. “Wah, our world class, world famous divorce lawyer Nanami Kento is in love!”

Kento slammed his pen down. “I do not—”

Satoru poked him again. “She’s feeding you. That’s Japanese courtship tradition number three.”

“It’s hospitality.” The blond insisted. “And friendship. Nothing more.”

“It’s love!” Satoru declared. “That’s total love!”

“It’s someone with poor portion control.”

Hiromi studied the food in front of him with a slow, dawning suspicion. “…Hold on.” he murmured. “I’ve seen this plating before.”

Kento paused. His grip on his chopsticks shifted. “What do you mean?”

Satoru blinked once. Then leaned forward. “Nanami Kento.” His voice was calm. Too calm. “Is this from Chef (last name) (name)?”

Nanami Kento didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. Because Gojo Satoru’s eyes widened, a grin pulled at his mouth like he was witnessing the birth of a scandal. “Oh, yeah. It definitely is what it is.” he breathed, delighted. 

Several heads nearby snapped around. Someone whispered, “Wait—Chef (last name)? The Michelin-star chef on TV?”

Another added with a whistle. “Her restaurant wait list is impossible. My cousin tried for a year.”

Hiromi stared at Kento like he’d personally offended the laws of social hierarchy. “You’re getting food deliveries from a world-famous chef?”

Kento removed his glasses, polishing them with unnecessary precision. “We live in the same building.”

Satoru tapped the container gently. “She doesn’t cook like this for neighbors. She cooks like this for people she likes.”

“It’s just extra food.” Nanami replied, tone flat, as if saying it enough might make it true.

Hiromi cleared his throat. “She wrote your name on the lid. In calligraphy.”

Kento paused. “…She enjoys proper plate presentation.”

Satoru's grin widened. “So she enjoys you.”

Kento set his glasses back on, expression neutral but ears unmistakably warm in color. “She simply hates wasting ingredients.”

“Mhm, keep saying that, huh.” Satoru hummed. “And you just happen to benefit. Regularly. With portion sizes that could feed two households.”

Kento opened another container with the quiet resignation of someone who knew arguing only added fuel. It smelled incredible. Of course it did. Insurance law attorney Ieri Shoko walked by then, stopping mid-step. 

She took in the scene. The spread of handcrafted dishes, the quiet embarrassment radiating from Nanami Kento, the audience forming. She exhaled, cigarette glowing faintly. A snicker leaves her lips. 

“…You’re being spoiled.”

Kento didn’t respond. Not verbally. Instead, he lifted another bite to his mouth. At first, he ate the way he always did. Measured, deliberate, as if every movement needed to be justified. But somewhere between the second and third mouthful, his pace shifted.

The tension in his shoulders eased. His brow softened. The lines of restraint which had become habitual, ingrained, blurred under the warmth of the food. Comfort had a way of dismantling walls quietly.

It wasn’t just taste. It was the intention. Someone had cooked this with care, not obligation. Someone wants to take good care of him, to be mindful of his needs and his likes.  And Kento felt it. Almost every single day he felt it.

Satoru watched the change with the kind of satisfaction that only appeared when he was proven right. He leaned in, not loud this time. But soft, coaxing, as if he were speaking to a secret.

“You like her.”

Kento didn’t look at him. He kept his gaze forward, jaw steady, expression carefully neutral. “…I appreciate her cooking.”

His tone was flat. Controlled. Predictable. But there was a small pause before the words. A hesitation. Satoru caught it. Of course he did. “And her. Most of all her.” he added, almost gently. “Admit it to yourself, man.”

The corner of his mouth lifted, not mockery, but recognition. “You’re a divorce lawyer.” Satoru murmured. “You’ve seen it all. You know the difference between convenience and affection. You know what falling in love looks like.”

Kento set his chopsticks down. Not abruptly, just slowly enough to suggest awareness rather than irritation. He didn’t look flustered. Not outwardly. But his eyes had softened. Focus went somewhere else.

Somewhere with warm lighting and the memory of you smiling while telling him. “Tell me if it’s too salty—I won’t be offended, okay?” Somewhere with care. He exhaled softly. Not a sigh, more like surrender.

He didn’t deny Satoru’s words. There was nothing to refute, not logically. Not honestly. Silence stretched between them, comfortable and telling. And that silence was as good as an admission.

Gojo Satoru leaned back, smug but strangely pleased, like someone watching an unopened flower finally move toward sunlight. Kento reached for the food again, not because he was hungry, but because it anchored him. Because it made the truth easier to sit with.

He looked at the meal with the barest, almost imperceptible, hint of a smile. “…It’s complicated.” he finally murmured. 

Satoru shrugged lightly. “That’s usually the interesting kind.”

Kento didn’t argue. 

He just ate another bite.

And this time, he didn’t try to hide the way it made him feel.

IT WAS THAT SORT OF DAY AGAIN. He didn’t know what to do. Yet he was looking forward to doing this. Even when he stood ever so awkwardly like this, he didn't mind the fact that he was holding two trays of food at this time, same time as it had been for months. After all, he was with you.

You had rattled on and on about the fact that you hadn’t meant for any of it to escalate. Truly, you had tried and really tried to portion everything out in careful measurements for once in your life, just to prove to yourself that you  had control.

The emotions you had labeled and tucked away in their neat little compartments as much as the spices in each of your cabinet rows, each one only allowed the space you deemed safe. But the portions refused to stay where you put them. 

They kept expanding more and more, always full and swelling to the brim. There was no other choice but to let it all spill over the edges like something alive, something impatient. Much too akin to your feelings, apparently.

And you hadn’t noticed it happening. Not consciously, at least. Every part of it, just like every part of you, was far too eager to quietly and sneakily weave itself into something else without your permission. 

Something bigger. Something bold enough to demand its own name. And the same could be said about Kento. Because the way you two had begun looking at each other…it was saying far more than either of you dared to voice. 

If someone were watching, and there was someone, actually, an amused and mildly exasperated observer from across the opposite wing of the apartment complex, they’d have no trouble deciphering the script you were both so determined not to read.

But you and Kento, that’s a whole other thing entirely, no. You hadn’t truly thought about it just yet, not in the way you should have been. Instead, you remained blissfully, stubbornly unaware. Or maybe you pretended to be. And he was truly too much the same.

And perhaps that’s just how it needed to unfold. Quietly. Inevitably. A slow choreography of glances and unsaid things. Maybe fate preferred it that way. Just letting it happen without your conscious meddling, letting it bloom in the spaces where neither of you were looking. Because if it had been left entirely up to you two…it might never have happened at all.

“Sorry, sorry.” you said as he took the containers from you like someone preparing for battle. “I don’t know how to make…normal amounts for one person.”

“That’s fine.” He reassures you kindly.

“It’s really not, you know.” you sighed, feeling a swell of shiness in your body. “Your coworkers are going to think you’re running a catering side gig.”

Kento looked away, clearing his throat. “They already think…things.”

You blinked. “Things?”

“Nothing.”

“Kento.”

He looked pained. “Gojo–san, my uh….my co-worker….he said feeding someone is… courtship.”

You stared.

He stared.

You opened your mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

And then, with the kind of questionable bravery reserved for late-night feelings, you blurted to him. “…Hey, do you think it’s easy to fall in love with me?”

Kento choked on absolutely nothing. He set the trays down too fast. “I—I don’t think—I mean, that’s not—”

You made a mortified sound and covered your face, your entire face, ears and neck red with embarrassment. “Oh my god, I didn’t mean in general, I meant….like….if someone didn’t know me well….not that I think you and not that anyone….OH GOD.”

Kento reached out, gently lowering your hands from your face. His touch was warm. Steady. “You are, okay?” he said carefully. “You’re very easy to care about.”

You blinked at him. He blinked back, immediately regretting being honest. Both of you pretended to ignore how red the tips of his ears got. Kento cleared his throat again, this time so softly it was almost a whisper against the steam rising from the food between you. 

“I only meant that people…jump to conclusions. Especially when Gojo–san is involved.”

You tried to salvage whatever scraps of dignity you had left. “Well, Gojo–san here jumps to conclusions because he has no concept of boundaries. He thinks if you breathe in someone’s direction, it’s marriage.”

Kento huffed, just barely, but enough to count as laughter. “That sounds like him.”

Silence settled in, warm and hum-shaped, until you realized you were still staring at his hands where they hovered over yours. He noticed at the same time and pulled back, slightly too fast, as if burned.

You fumbled for a subject change, any subject change. “So, um…what ‘things’ exactly does he think?”

Kento looked at the wall as though it might provide an exit. “He said I was…’being obvious’ and that it’s something I need to do something about.”

Your eyebrows climbed so fast they might’ve achieved orbit. “Obvious?”

“In his words…..I was ‘radiating the tender domestic energy of a man who packs bentos for his beloved’ and that was too much, if I’m not doing anything about it.”

You choked. Fully, audibly. “Kento, please, I’m begging, never let him say words like ‘beloved’ again.”

He pressed the bridge of his nose. “I tried to stop him.”

“I don’t think anyone can stop him.”

“No, yeah.” he admitted quietly. “I suppose not.”

But then came the quiet, the kind that settles between two people only when something true is trying very hard to be said. Your voice softened. “So…is it embarrassing? For people to think that? That you’re—” you swallowed, “—courting someone? Or at least like…..have the spirit to want to do that? Oh what the fuck am I talking—”

Kento’s jaw worked, slow and careful. “It’s not embarrassing…..at least to me. It’s not like….It’s not like I’m inexperienced about love.” he said at last, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not in the way you think.”

You stared at him.

He stared at the floor.

He then looks at you.

“Kento.”

He folded his hands in his lap, fingers tightening just slightly. “It’s embarrassing, though.” he murmured, “because I’m not…very good at hiding things. And I thought I was.”

Your breath caught, a small, stunned thing. He finally looked at you again, eyes warm and unbearably sincere. “But I would never want to make you uncomfortable. So if Gojo’s words or assumptions bother you, I’ll—”

You cut in, voice quiet but steady. “They don’t bother me.”

That stopped him. “They don’t?” His voice was a whisper of a whisper.

“No….” you said, almost far too shyly. “Not really. Not when it’s you.”

Kento froze like he’d forgotten how muscles worked. “I…see.”

And then, because courage is contagious, or maybe because your heart was too loud to ignore.

“Also…uh….” you added, cheeks heating, looking away coyly. “For the record…you’re very easy to care about too.”

Silence. Red ears. Two trays of food trembling from the sheer force of unspoken feelings. He swallowed the bile down his throat and started to mumble to himself. “…Gojo Satoru is never hearing about this.” Kento said firmly.

You laughed. “God, no. He seems to me the type to write songs about it.”

Kento groaned. “He probably already has.”

And still, neither of you moved away.

Not an inch back, not an inch forward.

Even with trays in his hand, this was it.

This was perfect.

KENTO INVITED YOU TO GO AND WATCH HIS INTERVIEW TOGETHER. You weren’t sure what shocked you more in that moment, that he’d invited you at all or that he had done it so simply, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Earlier that afternoon, he’d told you the whole story in that understated, matter-of-fact Nanami Kento sort of way that only he could bring out into the world. About how his mother, a producer, had needed someone respectable, articulate, and media-friendly to speak for a segment about modern relationships…and how he’d been “volunteered” as a good son that loves his mother.

“She said my job makes me suitable, if the article was going to talk about love anyway.” he’d muttered with faint resentment. “And she didn’t give me much room to refuse, since she said it was important to her.”

“You must love your mother.”

“Much too much, I think.” Kento sighed to you in reply. “It’s a lot to put into the camera. Well, Nobara made sure this happened too, so that means I like having my secretary entertained rather than quit.”

You laughed under your breath. “Well, it just means you care.”

“....Perhaps.” He whispered for a moment, before turning to you as he spoke again, this time with his voice softened. “But also….I thought…if I have to watch myself on television, I’d prefer not to do it alone. I’d like to….I’d like for you to be entertained by me too.”

He’d said it quietly. Almost too quietly. So when he offered, Dinner while watching my interview… if you’d like—you didn’t just hear an invitation. You heard trust. Comfort. A piece of his private life, extended toward you like something precious.

And now, here you were, sitting on opposite ends of his neatly arranged couch, trying to act normal while every molecule of your body screamed at you to misbehave. The living room was warm, softly lit by a standing lamp in the corner. 

The air smelled faintly of the food you’d brought. It was all to good in there. The essence of ginger, garlic, and something citrusy were blending all together. Underneath all that, the muted scent of Nanami’s cologne: cedarwood, clean linen, something warm and steady that felt like him.

He sat with his legs neatly crossed at the ankles, posture painfully proper, like even his spine was observing boundaries. His knee was no more than a few inches from yours. It was the most disrespectfully intimate distance in the world.

You could feel the heat from him, and how it was slowly starting to affect you too. You could hear the quiet rhythm of his breath. You watch the faint, nervous movement of his thumb tapping his knee whenever the interviewer asks something personal.

You didn’t dare lean any closer. And yet, the urge was there. You hadn’t noticed till now, but you knew you were. Constant. Unruly. Then came the question. “Why do you keep doing this job? With all this insanity?”

On-screen Nanami Kento  inhaled slowly. Beside you, real Kento mirrored it. Same steady breath, same composed expression. But you noticed the tension in his jaw. The way his fingers curled slightly against his knee.

“Because someone has to be the grown-up in the room. Might as well be me.”

His on-screen answer washed over you like something fragile and private, in one of the other scenes of the interview. “People don’t come to me at their best…I can’t stop their heartbreak. But I can help them walk out with dignity. That matters, whether we win or lose. Their dignity of being known matters too.”

You knew he was good at his job. 

But you hadn’t known he was this.

Soft-hearted. Gentle. Quietly principled.

“You’re…” your voice wavered, feeling your gaze upon him. “…incredible, aren’t you?”

He said nothing to that, just kept staring at his hands. The same hands that had shown up on your doorstep with soup when you were sick, hands that chopped vegetables with military precision, hands that always lingered one moment longer than they needed to when he passed you something.

His voice on the TV continued, low and certain. “There is bravery in choosing new beginnings.”

Your chest tightened at the loneliness in the way he sat. It was not sad, nor was it something that could be considered broken, just…someone who had learned to carry everything alone for too long, and helped others carry their pain and burdens with him, even when he didn’t have to.

When he whispered, “Thank you for watching it with me.” it landed in the center of your chest like a warm stone.

You answered honestly, smiling softly at him. “Thank you for wanting me here.”

The moment felt too big, too warm, too close. So you leaned, without thinking, letting your head rest on his shoulder. And Nanami Kento, poor, unsuspecting, structured Nanami Kento could only freeze like someone had unplugged him from reality.

You pulled away immediately. “Sorry….I uh……was that too much?”

He shook his head too fast, ears already turning red. “No. No, it’s….it’s fine. Really.”

So you leaned back in. This time slowly. Then another in a gentler way. You were letting your weight settle against him little by little, until you felt him breathe, really breathe, for the first time since the show started.

This time, he did not freeze. He absorbed it from you, letting it all crash all around him. He had just accepted it like it was inevitable, as he lets his body soften beneath yours. You felt it when his shoulder relaxed against your flesh.

You could feel when his chest stopped holding itself tight, when his breath synced with yours. It was tense to you. Far too passionate and slow. Yet it was beautiful. A harmonious symphony as the two of you both become consumed by the other.

Then, slowly it felt like the air thickened around you, with your hand drifting toward him on the couch cushion. You know you could never do it so boldly or confidently. So you reached with your quiet trembling hand, each inch held breath, a question forming out of your fingertips for him.

Kento’s hand didn’t move at first. He sat frozen, posture perfect, shoulders stiff, jaw tight. It was not because he didn’t want to move, but because wanting had never been safe for him. You could see it in the way his throat bobbed, the way his fingers curled faintly against his knee like he was restraining himself.

But then, his hand shifted ever so barely. It was a nervous twitch you felt from him. The smallest movements imaginable. It was just enough, just enough to feel that he was there with you. That he was not leaving you waiting.

His pinky brushed yours. It was almost like a whisper of contact, almost like the drifting of wind kissing your fingertips. It was like two people testing whether the universe would break if they touched.

Your breath caught in that moment, drifting between the sharp and tiny wisps of air. Yet either way, it was impossible to hide. Nanami Kento inhaled too, quietly, shakily. You could feel it where your shoulders nearly touched.

He was pretending to watch the TV, but he wasn’t seeing anything at all. Instead, his entire focus was on the spot where your skin met his. You dared one more inch. Your fingers slid again with such a gentle and slow force. There was a focus on offering rather than taking.

This time, he didn’t freeze. He followed your lead and gave you a soft smile. His hand moved toward yours, mirroring your pace, until the side of his palm pressed into the side of yours, warm and soft and hesitant.

“Kento…” you whispered, unable to bear the silence.

His breath stuttered. Just once. “Yes.” he breathed. 

He said that so quietly, so tenderly in raw honesty. Yet you can tell he was still a little afraid. A little afraid of letting all the composure go away, to give into surrender to all of it. To this beautiful, tender quiet you had both created in each other’s arms. 

You shifted your hand again, letting your fingertips line up with his. He exhaled like you’d knocked the wind out of him. The world shrank fully. Everything was static in this living room. Everything fell away except his warmth, your breath, the fragile distance between two people who had never said what they truly wanted.

Slowly, so slowly it was reverent, Nanami Kento’s pinky hooked around yours. Your heart punched itself against your ribs. He still wasn’t looking at you. But you saw the truth in every line of his body.

He wanted this.

He wanted you.

He wanted me to be us.

Yet you can tell that he was terrified of wanting both too much. You understood in some ways. He had seen it all when it came to the beginning and the break down of love. As he lets out a shrug, you let your hand slide fully into his and this time without hesitating. 

You let your fingers fill the spaces between him. Kento reacted like the world tilted under him. A shuddered exhale left his chest. His shoulders sagged a fraction. His fingers tightened around yours. 

He was careful, gentle, but with a prized certainty that hadn’t been there a moment earlier. It felt like a dam breaking in slow motion. And both of you were certainly in approval of that happening in its fullest potential.

“…Kento.” you murmured.

He squeezed your hand in a small, grounding pulse. “Don’t apologize, okay?” he whispered before you could continue, voice roughened by sincerity. “Please.”

You blinked. “Why would I—”

“Because this is the first time that something I want doesn’t feel…forbidden.”

Your breath wavered, your chest tightening around something unbearably tender. “And I don’t want to ruin it, with you.” he added, softer, “So I’m going to start by not thinking too much.”

Your heart ached. You moved closer, not leaning on him yet, just shifting enough that your thigh brushed his. “Then let it be easy.” you whispered.

Kento’s honey-oak colored eyes fluttered shut for a brief second, like your words settled somewhere he’d kept locked for years. When he opened them, something changed within the entire world you dwell into now. 

There was something precious, something so fragile and in need of protection, of love, of care. And that gives you some sense to be hopeful and warm. He turned his hand and took yours properly this time, fingers weaving between yours fully, completely, confidently.

No trembling.

No halfway touch.

Just him choosing you.

 He stared at your hands, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in slow, reverent strokes. “…It feels easy.” he said, barely above a whisper. “Too easy to fall in love with you.”

You smiled at him. “Maybe that’s the point.”

He finally turned his head toward you, eyes warm, vulnerable, filled with something he hadn’t named yet but already lived in. His forehead nearly touched yours. His breath warmed your cheek. Every part of him leaned closer by a fraction. Just waiting, asking, hoping.

And with your hands joined between you, warm and steady, you whispered back to him with a small smile, as warm as his. “I’m right here, Kento.”

His fingers tightened again

Yours being gentle, assuring.

As if he finally believed it.

He had let himself believe it.

Nanami Kento had fallen in love.

epilogue 

The studio was brighter this time. Not because of the lights, of course. Those were the same cold, expensive LEDs that made every guest look like they slept eight hours and drank green juice even if they didn’t.

No. It was brighter because Nanami Kento walked in differently. Last time he’d sat in this chair, he’d been stiff, defensive, answering questions about love like the word itself had to pass through a courtroom before he dared speak it. 

Back then he was the renowned divorce lawyer who dismantled other people’s marriages for a living, the man with the calm voice and the distant gaze. But today, he merely sat down, adjusted his tie, and the faintest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he placed his hands neatly on his lap.

The interviewer noticed immediately. “Mr. Nanami, it’s good to see you!” she said, smiling knowingly. “ Actually….you look…different today.”

He exhaled softly through his nose, the closest thing he ever gave to a laugh in public. “Do I?”

“You do.” She crossed her legs, leaning forward. “Last time you were here, you gave a very…..hmmm…..clinical explanation of love.”

“I was under the impression that was what you wanted, actually.” he replied, polite but lightly deadpan.

The crew laughed. Nanami Kento allowed the smile to deepen by exactly 3%. “Well….” she said, flipping through her cards, “As you know, this episode is a follow-up. A ‘one year later’ sort of thing. And the fans had…questions.”

“I’m sure.” A small glance down, a subtle breath out. It was as if mentally preparing himself. “Fire ahead.”

“So let me ask the biggest one.” She inhaled. “Nanami Kento…have your views on love changed since our last interview?”

He paused. Not because he didn’t know the answer. But because he wanted to choose the right words. Then he lifted his gaze, steady, warm in a way it had never been on camera before. “Yes, I like to believe so.” he said simply. “They would have, given my recent change in status.”

The crew leaned closer. The interviewer smiled wider. “Care to elaborate?”

Nanami Kento shifted in his seat. Perhaps not with discomfort, but with a quiet sort of certainty. “A year ago, I approached the subject of love the way I approached my cases. Rationally. Carefully. I thought feelings needed to be kept…contained. Categorized.” He paused. “I thought wanting something too deeply only led to loss.”

“And now?”

He didn’t rush. He rarely rushed anything. But this time his answer came a touch faster, softened around the edges. “Now…..I understand that love doesn’t require permission or perfect timing. It doesn’t need to survive scrutiny. It simply exists.” A gentler exhale. “Sometimes more quietly than you expect.”

The interviewer tilted her head. “You sound like a man who’s experienced something.”

“Yes.” Kento said again, but this time his voice lowered, warm. “I have.”

She flipped her card dramatically. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with the rumors going around, would it?”

Kento didn’t flinch, nor did he hide away or avert from the question with avoidance. Instead he snickers, fixing his tie, almost like a love struck school-boy who didn’t know what to do with his time without his lover.

“If you’re referring to the very public fact that I am currently dating one of the country’s most well-known chefs…then yes. It would have something to do with her.”

Everyone erupted into laughter and applause. Nanami Kento’s ears went faintly pink but he didn’t look embarrassed. He looked proud. Prouder than when he bailed out the biggest salary he got from a conglomerate couple years ago in public television.

“Would you like to talk about her?” the interviewer asked, grinning.

He leaned back slightly, the hint of softness returning to his features. “She is… everything.” He paused, searching for the right descriptor. “She’s funny. She’s unapologetically driven. Brilliant. Stubborn. Unable to do a proper portion size” A tiny smile. “And kind in ways she doesn’t always realize.”

The interviewer laughed. “Sounds like someone you care for deeply.”

“I do.” No hesitation this time. “I care for her very deeply.”

“And is it true that you met in less-than-romantic circumstances?”

Nanami Kento cleared his throat. “If by that you mean I was watching her yelling at the TV and then something exploded in her apartment above me, and she started feeding me after, then yes.”

The staff behind the cameras cracked up. “She was complaining about a contestant’s poor knife skills. Loudly. Passionately. I was looking for something calming after a long day at work but…..you don’t always get what you want.” Kento's gaze warmed at the memory. “But in this case, I did.”

“Oh wow.” the interviewer repeated, amused. “So the stoic lawyer fell for the fiery chef?”

Kento considered it, then nodded. “I suppose so.” he admitted. “She has a way of making things feel effortless, even when they are…not.”

“And what has she taught you about love?”

This time, he didn’t look down. He looked directly into the camera, as if speaking to one person instead of an entire audience. “That love does not diminish your life. It expands it. For the better.”

The silence that followed was warm instead of heavy. The interviewer smiled gently. “Nanami Kento… you are undeniably a changed man.”

“I hope so.” he replied. “She deserves someone who doesn’t hold back.”

“And do you hold back anymore?”

Kento shook his head once, intentional and assured. “No, not at all.” he said. “Not with her.”

The interviewer set her cards aside and folded her hands. “Well, then. For the final question of today’s program…”

The blond raised a brow. “Nanami Kento.” she said, “the country’s most level-headed divorce lawyer…are you in love?”

Everyone was at the edge of their seats. He didn’t even blink. He smiled softly.  “I am.” he said plainly. “And for good.”

The crowd cheered, the interviewer beamed back at him. Nanami Kento simply straightened his tie and offered the smallest, proudest smile. No fear. No hesitation. Just certainty. The utmost confidence in all essence of the word. 

After the cameras cut, the interviewer leaned over and said, “You know she’s going to tease you for this, right?”

Kento’s smile softened completely. “I’m counting on it, actually.” he said. “It’s her job now.”

Because love no longer was trivial to him.

Not when it lived in the hands of the chef he’d chosen.

Not when it was too easy to fall in love with her.

[artist9314]

I'm fixing it before Gege decides to 👍🏼

....

Please do not repost!

Thanks!!

[deenmesh]

in another universe, they would live. in another universe, their love wouldn’t be so cursed. in another universe, I want them to be my parents. in another universe, they are my parents.

I can’t keep crying over them pls—

[swizzyloopy]

SOMETHING THAT I HATE IS WHEN PEOPLE SCT LIKE NANAMI WOULD LOVE TO DEGRADE YOU. HE WOULD NOT!! HE IS A GENTLEMAN, A RESPECTFUL MAN SO STOP WRITING HIM LIKE THAT. Be better..

[caramelluxe]

𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ a bottle of rouge, just me and you

── ♡ ˙🍓 ̟ !!

˚₊‧꒰ა drabble.ᐟ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

⋆˚꩜｡ wc: 1K ish words

⋆˚꩜｡ warnings: fluff, tooth rotting fluff, kid ig?, Kento being the best husband ever tbh, Satoru mention, domestic bliss, papamin au

⋆˚꩜｡ dividers by: enchanthings, saradika-graphics

✮⋆🎧✮.ᐟ recommended listening: Grapejuice, by Harry Styles

You know how there were some moments in your daily life that begged to be recorded and fossilised in a 90s camcorder?

Yeah.

The ease with which your husband — Nanami Kento , flitted around the cosy kitchen, stirring the stew on the stove, spreading the jam on the toast just the way you liked it, and also cooing at your daughter when she babbled amiably from her comfortable spot on the baby seat beside the kitchen island — had you wanting to pause the moment forever. If it meant you got to revel in it for longer than whatever short duration you'd be granted to enjoy it.

This was nothing short of bliss.

The wafting aroma of the simmering stew filled the room, hearty in the way only Kento could make and the sheer domesticity of it all made your heart skip beats.

Shiori laughed, the sweet, childish sound coming out along with a string of drool and unintelligible syllables. Her tiny palms slammed against the surface of the baby seat’s table, and the action, innocuous enough, made a smile break out on your face. 

Your sweet baby.

The dimples were apparent on his cheeks when you caught his smile: soft, gentle and indulgent, towards your daughter. 

Expertly, as if no action could come so naturally to him, he drew down the sleeves of his Henley shirt and wiped the drool off baby Shiori’s face.

Another string of incoherent greetings met Kento, along with some spit bubbles but he paid no heed, as he nodded his head solemnly.

“The breakfast is tasty?” He echoed, as if he understood her babble, picking up a spoonful of fruit mash from her bowl, “I know sweetheart, your mum made sure that you'd have nothing but the best.” 

She babbled happily again, enjoying the way her father bathed her in affection, feeding her bites between soft kisses he'd press on her forehead or cheeks.

Kento pulled the spoon just a slight distance away, his eyes alight with love and delight — you watched in adoration as well, because honestly, it was kind of hard to look at Kento doing something with anything less than awe when all he did was be perfect at nearly everything, executing the most mundane of tasks with a sophisticated finesse — as he zigzagged the spoon in mid air, just enough to grab Shiori’s attention without having even a bit of food spill down.

Kento grinned a she made grabby hands at the spoon, her mouth wide open as if the mashed fruits were the richest delicacy. Taking after her blue-eyed godfather already, it seemed.

“Here comes the airplane!” — and in went the airplane.

“Attagirl.” Kento chuckled, pressing another kiss to her forehead, while Shiori ate the food.

He had so much love to give, to you, to Shiori, to Yuuji, to Ino — it made your chest ache, everything that overwhelmed you in a warm embrace, all those emotions balled into one giant pile that crushed your heart in the most loving way.

Unable to help yourself any longer, you stalked past your dogs — of course Kento had fed them too — Oscar and Toothless cuddled lazily on the rug of the kitchen. You ruffled Shiori’s hair, blonde strands shining golden in the morning light streaming from the penthouse's window, before your pressed a kiss to her forehead, delighting in her happy garbles. You were glad that her mannerisms took after you because your phenotypic genes had practically given up when confronted with Kento’s, considering she looked like a mini him.

Kento was still working on the last minute garnishing of the stew when you hugged him from behind.

“Good morning, darling.” He hummed, a hand coming to cradle over your own wrapped around his torso.

“Mornin’, baby,” you greeted, cheeks squished against his back, “Stew?”

“Ah.” You could hear the sheepishness in his tone and you'd bet your company’s entire fortune that if you were to look up from where your forehead was pressed against his shoulder blade, you'd find a flush crawling up his neck. 

“Yuuji and Ino are coming over for lunch —” You knew that. “— and I wanted to make this Danish stew for you to try.”

“Mhm.” you hummed, untangling yourself from him to feed Shiori.

“It’s not authentic —” he explained, lowering the flame, “— I'm adding a marinade to it which will be ready by the time they come over…”

He looked in his element, shoulders eased, apron on, surrounded by things he liked doing, and people he loved.

His eyes were bright, the ghost of a smile, ever present as if nothing ever brought him more joy than this. 

He looked happy, domestic, and in love, and to you? 

He looked so damn kissable.

“... and I thought why not just make it now, it saves me time in between…”

He trailed off, a smattering of blush appearing on his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

“Darling,” he murmured, walking closer to you until the two of you were huddled close to each other in front of Shiro’s seat, with Oscar and Toothless at your feet, “You’re staring.”

“Am I not allowed to appreciate my husband?” you teased, poking his side, earning a surprised yelp from your darling Kento.

“Yes—” he exhaled, almost exasperated, “But not so-.. so obviously.”

You crooned at him, watching his blush deepen just a shade. Call yourself cruel if you will, but there was something painfully beautiful about making Kento squirm with compliments and affection.

“Sure, sweetheart, I'll remember to yearn from afar—” you giggled at his groan, and Shiori, sensing her parents' jovial mood, joined, laughing around a mouthful of fruit mash.

“See! Shio agrees, baby,” and he just pulled you closer, not minding how you nuzzled him in the crook of his neck, “I might just have to pine in silence, stare longingly in your dreamy ey—”

Sighing, as if he was tired of your antics, when he was anything but so, he interrupted your romantic male lead-esque monologue with a tender kiss, pressing his lips to yours, swallowing your muffled surprise gently.

The faint line of his smile against your lips betrayed him.

“Shh.” he pulled away, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear, while the faint smile on his lips widened. You could frame it against the blooming sakuras on Cherry trees and still wouldn't be able to find even a sliver of difference.

“You know what I mean.”

Oh. How much you loved him.

You wanted to record this, immortalise this moment in grainy film of a camcorder.

But perhaps just living the memory would have to do, for now.

[deenmesh]

The Other Side of The Door (Nanami’s Version) !

— in which you sleep in the office after an argument with nanami and wake up to find him outside the room.

۶ৎ gn!reader x nanami kento. fluff. hurt/comfort. these two are disgustingly in love. kento is the standard. need me a nanami kento rn.

Nanami Kento didn’t mean to let it go that far, neither of the two of you wanted to lose yourselves to your tempers. You two rarely have fights, you mostly bicker and banter over the smallest stupid things. But tonight, tonight was bad, he knew it was bad. Words were shouted and frustration radiated off the two of you.

Kento respects your space—he wasn’t the type to bang on the door or beg you to let him in when he knows you needed space. But he couldn’t let the night end like this, he couldn’t crawl to your shared bed when you weren’t lying with him.

So when you shut yourself in the office/library of your apartment, he lingers outside, leaning against the doorframe. The image of frustrated tears running down your face engraved in his mind, caving a hole of guilt in his chest. Kento waits for you, until you leave the room in order for the two of you to talk things out, in order for him to beg for forgiveness.

But when it was clear you weren’t leaving the room, he slides down until he was seated on the floor, back leaning against the frame, his long legs stretched out before him.

With a sigh, Kento loosens his tie and rests his head back, hitting the door with a soft thud. He should’ve handled that better, he should’ve stayed rational, he should’ve listened to you. He wanted nothing to do right now but hold you in his arms and beg for your forgiveness.

For now, he waits. All night long if he has to. He’ll wait.

It was well past midnight, probably 1 or 2 AM, you weren’t sure. You were tossing and turning from where you laid on the couch of your little library in Kento’s office. Your chest was aching, not anymore from the weight of the argument, but from missing him. The silence of the room was louder than your anger—which no longer consumes you.

It was quiet. Too quiet, too still, too cold without your Kento. You squeeze your eyes shut as an attempt to succumb to slumber, but your attempt was futile when your heart still feels heavy from wanting him close.

With a sigh, you stand up, the floor creaks against your weight. You hesitate by the door, fingers curled around the knob, as if opening the door would admit you cannot stay away from him. Who were you kidding? You can’t stay away from him.

With a deep breath, you turn the knob and pull the door open gently. And your breath hitched at the sight outside the office.

There he is—your beloved boyfriend, your Kento, asleep on the floor outside his office. His back rests against the frame, his tie loosened and shirt wrinkled. His head lolls to the side with his glasses precariously resting on his nose. He has that crease between his brows, he looks uncomfortable.

Yet he stayed, he’s there outside the office, sleeping on the ground because being away from you was unbearable.

Your throat swallows hard, the tightness on your chest aches even more. Quietly, carefully, you situate yourself beside him, your arm wrapping itself around his torso and your head resting against his chest. The moment your weight pressed against him, his body reacts instantly—his arms pull you impossibly closer, as though he’s been waiting for you to come back to him.

“Mm…my love,” he mumbles sleepily against your hair, “…stay with me.” His lips place a kiss on your hair, the furrow in his brow disappearing when you nuzzle into his chest, tightening your hold on him, inhaling the scent of his cologne, “…always, Kenny.”

The two of you stay there, limbs intertwined, hearts in sync, sleeping peacefully until the first rays of the morning peeks through your apartment.

The light shone on Kento’s face as he blinks awake to the weight of you against his chest. He stares down at you, relief flooding his body at the sight of you. He places his palm against your lower back, rubbing circles with his thumb. He smiles when he felt you nestling deeper into his chest.

“You came…” he whispers, shutting his eyes to savor the feel of you against him. “Couldn’t sleep without you.” Your voice muffled against his wrinkled shirt, Kento chuckles as he places another gentle kiss on the crown of your head.

He moves a bit to rest his hand against the apple of your cheek, carefully pulling you back so he can look at you. You sleepily look at him, showing him a small but loving smile. He kisses the tip of your nose, then another on your forehead, staying in that position for a while.

“I’m sorry,” he says against your skin. “For last night, for letting you leave last night, for making you feel like you needed to leave.” You feel the tears flowing down, wetting Kento’s palm against your cheek.

“I’m sorry too, Kento.” You whisper, resting your palm flat against his chest and leaning into his hand.

And for that moment, the world outside the bubble around you ceases to exist. You two forget to start the day, forget about the responsibilities waiting for the two of you. Nothing mattered right now, not when you can feel his heartbeat against the side of your head, not when his hand continues to stroke your back reverently. Even when the floor was cold and uncomfortable, you two felt in peace in each other’s arms.

Kento lets out a sigh of contentment, “let’s never sleep apart again, okay?” He murmurs. You let out a silent laugh, “you say that as if I can.”

And with that, he holds you tighter, as do you while the world continues to fade around you.

AN: I miss writing, nanami is reviving that passion within me to write again. I love this dude sm it hurts that I don’t have him next to me rn.

[deenmesh]

COME TO BED WITH ME !

— in which you wake up to find your sheets cold and your boyfriend missing.

۶ৎ gn!reader x nanami kento. just pure fluff, domestic couple life between reader and kenny. these two are disgustingly in love.

Eyes flickering, you were stirring awake. Your arm instinctively reached out to the other side of the bed where your Kento was sleeping soundly. But when your hand only felt the cold, wrinkled sheets of where your boyfriend was, you sit up slowly, vision adjusting to the darkness of the room.

Your brows furrowed, confused where Kento might be, you turned to the bedside table to grab your glasses. Your eyes flickered to the clock and it said 2:47 AM. You stand up, putting on your robe before walking out the room to find your seemingly nocturnal boyfriend.

You find him in the room you both turned into an office in your shared apartment. He was surrounded by papers, his glasses slipping down his nose, and his hair ruffled. Exhaustion painted his features, his brows furrowed, and you can see him blinking more rapidly than usual as a way to fight sleep.

You carefully open the door as to not startle him and enter the office. Kento looks up immediately, his features soften when he sees you in your robe, sleepily rubbing your eyes under your frames.

“Kento, sweetheart, why are you awake?” You said, walking up to him slowly. “Did I wake you up, my love? I’m sorry.” Kento looks apologetic, as if he disrupting your sleep was a crime—which to him, it is.

You stop in front of him and lean on the edge of his desk, looking down at him sleepily and softly. He looks up at you with such softness, it makes your heart melt. He leans back on his chair, his hands situating themselves in your hip while you wrap your arms around his neck.

Your fingers gently scrape the ends of Kento hair, “Why are you working, my love? Come back to bed with me, I miss you.” You whispered to him, an intimate bubble forming around the two of you despite being the only two people who lives in this house.

Kento sighs, leaning forward to lay his head on your chest. The beating of your heart and the subtle lift of your chest with each breath grounds him instantly. You move your hand on the top of his head, caressing his hair as he nestled himself on top of your heart.

Then you feel his head move as he whispers, “…You have no shift tomorrow.” Confused, you look down at him and gently lift his head so that he is looking up at you with those soft eyes only you had the privilege of seeing.

“If I finish all of these reports and papers right now, I can submit them in the morning and stay at home with you all day.” Kento explained, burrowing his face on your chest, causing the last few words to be muffled but you got them nonetheless. You smile softly, lifting his head from your chest and kissing his forehead, then his nose, then a small peck on his lips, and another, another, until he is smiling like a fool in love, drunk from your kisses.

“That’s so sweet of you, my love,” you mumbled on his forehead, “do you need my help?” You say, pulling back to look at him with that smile that never fails to undo him. He shakes his head, “No, darling, I can handle, it’ll be quick.” He pecks your lips immediately when he noticed you were about to protest.

You refuse to go to bed without him, so you opted to sit on the couch in his office with a book in your hand. His office was a mix of him and you, it was his office but on the other side was your library. It consisted of a couch between two floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. He wanted the two of you to share a haven together even when one of you were busy, wanted to have you close even when you were lost in the worlds between your books and he was lost between mounts of workload.

Kento looks at you from time to time, as if the sight of you grounds or calms him when his work gets too frustrating. He would rub his hands on his face furiously, but one look at you peacefully reading with your headphones on was enough to release all the tension in his body and go back to his work, stress-free.

You didn’t notice you fell asleep until you felt careful hands remove the headphones on your head and the book that fell on your chest. Then you felt arms—warm, loving, his arms—wrap under your knees and behind your neck to lift you into his embrace.

You make a movement to stand and walk with him, but his arms around you got firmer as you hear his soft voice. “Shh, stay asleep, love, I got you.” You don’t argue with him, you just hummed, leaning into his chest as he leads you both to bed.

He gently places you on the edge of the bed, removing your robe for you and hanging it on the rack. When Kento leaves to prepare for bed, you crawl to your pillows, mumbling about your soft, soft pillows calling your name.

When you face plant on the pillow, groaning in pleasure at the soft, cold fabric, you hear his soft chuckling at your antics as he exits the bathroom. He lays on the bed beside you, pulling you into his embrace, holding your hand to his chest with his arm wrapped around your waist. He plants a kiss on your hair.

“Good night, my love, I love you.” He mumbles, nuzzling his nose into your hair. “mmmh…good night, kenny.” You mumbled incoherently as you burrow into his chest. He smiles softly when he hears your soft snoring and the stable lifting of your chest. He holds onto you tighter, knowing he gets to hold you like this in the morning without worry.

The last thought in his mind before succumbing to sleep was how he gets to hold you like this forever, with the small ring box tucked away safely in his desk drawer, under the papers that secured his reservation at a resort you both wanted to visit in a long time.

AN: this is like the first fic I ever posted in tumblr so bear with me. MKAY LOVE Y’ALLL🫶🔥

[satorus-princess]

nanami gets you flowers and gifts on your child's birthday because you're the reason they're even there in the first place and he can't express how appreciative he is of you, it's simply not possible

[nofingjustaninchident]

marriage is scary what if he’s not like the guys in the books i read

[thepersonalquotes]

“my Iove” is so cute like yes say it again

[deenmesh]

…

nothing to see here🤭🤭🤭

[deenmesh]

[theinternetarchive]

'somebody loves you,' charles m. schulz, 1986.

[reemillustrated]

a reminder

[bee2124]

3am in the morning and the 400k slow burn characters finally brush hands

[pommeauromarin]

Enemies to lovers, but only one of them thinks they're enemies. The other has been entirely obsessed since the beginning.

Only acceptable way for me to read this trope