THE HEART OF THE KITCHEN ❤︎ 𓂃 n. kento. ◞
synopsis. you’re running a tiny restaurant on nothing but grit and stubborn hope. nanami kento walks in one night looking tired of the world… and keeps coming back.
warnings. 10.8k words. 18+ only / mdni, eventual smut, slow burn → soft burn → emotional intimacy, cunnilingus, penetrative sex (m/f), tender aftercare, burnout, stress, exhaustion themes, mentions of workplace dissatisfaction, minor injury (kitchen burn) + caretaking, domestic themes.
the restaurant always smells like something warm—brown butter, roasted garlic, a hint of vanilla that clings to the air no matter how many windows you crack open. people say it smells like comfort. you say it smells like work. work that follows you home in your hair and clothes and hands, work that soaks into your bones until you aren’t sure where you end and the restaurant begins.
it’s not fancy. not yet. the floors creak. the chalkboard menu is always smudged. the tables are mismatched because you thrifted them during a summer where you were too broke to eat properly. but people love it here. the regulars defend you like you’re a local secret, something delicate and precious that only this neighborhood understands.
you run the whole place yourself. the cooking. the shopping. the cleaning. the plastered-on smiles on days when your legs ache so badly you swear your knees might give out. you’ve been this way your whole life—too determined, too responsible, too unwilling to let anyone help.
princess tiana syndrome, your friends call it. as if working yourself to the edge of collapse is a personality.
the truth is more complicated. you’re scared to stop. scared that if you pause, even for a day, the dream will slip out of your hands. you spent too many years listening to people tell you that opening a restaurant was unrealistic. that you’d burn out. that a girl like you should stick to safer paths.
so you built something out of spite and hope and a stubborn kind of hunger.
there are plenty of nights where the ambition feels worth it.
and plenty where it feels like quicksand.
tonight leans toward the second.
you’ve been on your feet since dawn. the holiday rush doesn’t care that you haven’t slept properly in a week. the last customer left twenty minutes ago, but you’re still wiping down the same counter for the third time, pretending you’re not running on fumes.
you’re so caught in your own head that you don’t hear the door open.
you just feel a change in the air—subtle but familiar. it's calm.
nanami kento steps inside like he’s entering a library—quiet, respectful, shoulders dusted with cold night air. he closes the door carefully, the way he always does, like noise is something he refuses to add to your world.
he looks… exhausted. not messy or frantic, just worn down in that very specific way that tells you he carries his stress internally until it pulverizes him.
he comes in at this time a lot. not every night, but often enough that you’ve noticed the pattern. he always orders the same thing—your gumbo, extra rice, no garnish. he eats it slowly, head down, eyes soft, like he’s savoring not just the food but the break from whatever life he returns to afterward.
he’s not talkative. he’s not flirty. he doesn’t linger for reasons that feel inappropriate.
but he watches. not in a predatory way—god, no.
in a curious, almost reverent way, like he’s trying to understand how you move through the world with so much intensity and still manage to smile at every single person who walks through your door.
tonight, he pauses just inside the entrance and takes you in.
you must look rough—hair frizzy, sleeves pushed up, apron stained from a hundred tasks. he doesn’t comment, but his gaze lingers a little longer than usual, worry flickering under the surface before he schools it away.
“evening,” he says, voice low. always polite, even when tired. “am i too late?”
“kinda,” you say, forcing a small smile. “kitchen’s closed.”
he nods like he expected that, then glances at the to-go case.
you huff. “nothing worth serving.”
he steps toward the counter, but he doesn’t sit. he never does when you look this worn down. he stands with his hands in his coat pockets, taking in the empty dining room, the chairs flipped onto tables, the mop bucket still out.
“you’ve had a long day,” he says.
you laugh under your breath. “i’ve had a long year.”
he lets a small smile tug at one corner of his mouth. nanami doesn’t smile often; he’s one of those people who saves them for when they matter. the kind of man who lives carefully.
“i could tell,” he says softly. “you’re usually quicker on your feet.”
you blink at him. “you pay that much attention?”
he’s honest—almost painfully so.
the word hangs in the air. you look away first.
you know bits and pieces about him, nothing more. he works in finance—something corporate, something draining. he wears nice suits that start the night crisp and end the night looking slightly defeated, like the city wrung him out. he never brags, never complains, never brings his work into your space.
you don’t know why he comes here, exactly.
you have guesses, though.
the food. the quiet. the way you keep the lights warm instead of harsh.
maybe the comfort of being someplace where no one expects him to be anything but a tired man who needs a meal.
you definitely don’t assume he comes for you.
you refuse to assume that.
you break the silence with a shrug. “you can sit if you want. i just need like… ten more minutes of cleaning.”
nanami considers that, eyes flicking to your hands, your posture, the way your shoulders refuse to relax.
he shakes his head once, gentle but firm. “you look like you’re about to fall over.”
you roll your eyes. “i’m fine.”
“you say that every time,” he replies.
he gives you a look that makes it very clear he does not believe you. but he doesn’t push. he just steps closer to the counter and studies your face in that quiet way that makes you feel seen in a way you’re not used to.
then, softly, “you’re allowed to be tired.”
the words shouldn’t hit as hard as they do. plenty of people have said similar things to you, but it never feels like permission when they say it. with nanami… it does. something about the sincerity in his voice, the steadiness behind it.
you swallow and look down, suddenly very aware of the ache in your back.
nanami clears his throat. “do you have much left to do?”
“the basics,” you mumble. “wipe things down, restock a few things, sweep, maybe prep dough for tomorrow—”
“that’s not ‘the basics.’” there’s mild irritation in his tone, the kind that says he’s concerned but fighting the urge to lecture you.
you shrug because admitting exhaustion feels like defeat. “it’s whatever. it’ll get done.”
he looks around again, more carefully this time, like he’s assessing the room the same way he’d assess an investment portfolio. you can almost see his thoughts arranging themselves.
“i’ll help,” he says simply.
“i’ll help you close,” he repeats, tone calm, logical, as if it’s nothing. “it’ll go faster with two people.”
you immediately shake your head. “absolutely not. you’re a customer—”
“i’m a person standing in your restaurant,” he says, unbothered. “you’re exhausted. i have two hands. there’s no reason not to help.”
he stares back, perfectly composed.
you don’t know it yet, but this is nanami at his core: someone who steps in when something is unfair. someone who sees burden and instinctively shares the weight. someone who wants to help even when you’re too stubborn to accept it.
and maybe, just maybe—someone who comes here for more than gumbo.
nanami doesn’t wait for your permission. he just slips out of his coat, folds it neatly over the back of a chair, and rolls his sleeves to his elbows with purpose. he looks like a man who makes decisions carefully, thoughtfully, and then commits to them fully.
you’ve seen him in suits, in crisp shirts, in winter coats layered just right. but you’ve never seen him like this: sleeves pushed up, collar loosened, a faint flush on his cheek from the cold outside. he looks softer somehow. younger. approachable in a way that makes your chest tighten.
“okay,” you say slowly, crossing your arms. “what exactly are you planning to do? because i’m not letting you wash dishes.”
“good,” he says. “i don’t particularly want to.”
he glances around the room again, thinking. “sweeping,” he decides. “and maybe restocking napkins.”
your mouth opens, then closes, because he said it so calmly it almost sounds normal.
you try again. “nanami, you don’t have to—”
“i know,” he says. “but you need help.”
he doesn’t say it pityingly. he says it like he’s stating a fact. like saying the stove is hot or the sky is dark. his tone is too even, too much so for you to argue with.
he picks up the broom leaning by the counter, tests the weight of it, and gives you a look that is borderline stubborn.
“where do you want me to start?”
you sigh because resistance is pointless, and maybe, deep down, you don’t want to resist. it feels strange having someone else in this space after hours. strange in a way that's almost... comforting? like you’re not carrying the whole world alone for once.
“front of the dining room,” you say quietly. “just… go back to the door. i’ll handle the counter.”
he nods and gets to work.
you expect him to sweep in silence, stiff and mechanical, the way most men with office jobs would. but he doesn’t. he’s methodical. he moves chairs carefully, lines them back up with precision, sweeps under tables you probably would’ve ignored tonight out of sheer exhaustion.
he doesn’t cut corners. he doesn’t complain. he doesn’t act like he’s doing you a favor.
and when he finishes the first row, he looks up at you.
you blink. “yeah. that’s—yeah, that’s perfect.”
he nods once, then moves to the next row.
you go back to wiping the counter, but your attention drifts. it’s impossible not to watch him. he moves with confidence, like he’s used to being thorough, used to always doing things right the first time. there’s something... different about it. something soothing.
after a few minutes, he speaks without looking up.
“how long have you been running this place?”
he hums in a way that sounds halfway between impressed and concerned.
you raise an eyebrow. “what's that sound?”
“concern,” he says bluntly. “you’re too young to be burning yourself out like this.”
you roll your eyes, but it’s fond. “you sound like someone’s dad.”
“i sound like someone who knows burnout when he sees it,” he counters.
you watch him for another quiet moment.
he finishes sweeping and leans the broom against the wall. “trash next?”
you nod. “yeah, it’s in the back.”
you expect him to hesitate, but he walks toward the kitchen like he’s been back there a hundred times. you follow him, guiding him past shelves and prep tables.
the kitchen looks different with someone else in it. fuller. warmer. not just a workspace but a shared space.
he finds the trash bin and ties the bag with quick efficiency. you grab the new bag for him, and when he reaches for it, your fingers brush.
he clears his throat softly and takes the bag from you. you turn away too quickly, berating yourself in your head for overreacting to a simple touch. but the truth is, nanami has always had this quiet pull to him—something magnetic.
he brings the trash out to the alley, and when he returns, he closes the door behind him gently, like he’s sealing the cold out of your little world.
you laugh under your breath. “you’re kind of scary, you know that? you’re like… effective.”
he raises an eyebrow. “effective?”
“yeah. like you’re good at everything.”
he considers that for a moment. “i’m not good at everything. but i don’t like doing things halfway.”
you wipe your hands on your apron. “must be nice. i do everything halfway these days.”
“that’s not true,” he says immediately. “i’ve never seen you put anything less than your whole self into this restaurant.”
you don’t know what to do with the warmth that rises in your chest, so you turn away and start restocking the spice shelf.
nanami joins you uninvited, passing bottles to you as you reorganize them. he doesn’t ask what goes where—he just watches you for a moment and then follows your pattern exactly. handing you paprika, then thyme, then the extra-large jar of garlic powder you always go through too fast.
you glance at him. “you didn’t have to do all this.”
“maybe not,” he says, “but it feels good to be helpful.”
“you’re not tired?” you ask. “your job seems brutal.”
he hesitates—just a little. “it is.”
you wait for him to elaborate. he doesn’t.
instead, he adds quietly, “being here is different. quieter.”
you swallow, the air suddenly thick.
then he says something even softer, “i don’t mind staying.”
the words settle between you. you don’t answer right away. you don’t know how to.
but you feel it—a shift. a closeness that wasn’t there before. something small and fragile beginning to bloom.
you clear your throat. “okay. well… almost done. just a few more things.”
he nods, and the two of you fall into easy rhythm again.
side by side. working. breathing the same warm kitchen air. existing together in a space that suddenly feels much less lonely.
closing goes faster with two people—even someone as reserved as nanami. not because he talks much (he doesn’t), and not because he moves fast (he’s deliberate, precise), but because he takes the weight out of the air.
it’s strange, realizing how quiet your restaurant feels when you aren’t the only one holding it up.
by the time you’ve both finished the bulk of the tasks, there’s a different atmosphere in the room. your shoulders feel a little looser. your jaw unclenches without permission. it’s the kind of calm that sneaks up on you, the kind you only notice once you stop long enough to breathe.
nanami finishes stacking the remaining containers and wipes his palms on a towel. “what’s left?”
you gesture vaguely toward the stovetop. “just need to clean that, then i can prep the roux for tomorrow. i’ll be quick.”
he nods, stepping aside to give you room, but he doesn’t move far. he leans against the counter, sleeves still rolled up, the faint scent of his cologne mixing with the warmth of the kitchen.
you reach for the metal pan you left on the burner earlier.
you don’t realize the handle is still hot.
the burn is instant, sharp, biting through your skin. you gasp and drop the pan with a clatter that echoes too loudly in the quiet kitchen, and you curse under your breath, instinctively grabbing your wrist.
nanami is at your side before the sound even finishes bouncing off the walls.
“what happened?” his voice isn’t loud—it's more like something in him snaps into focus.
“it’s nothing,” you say automatically. “just… hot handle.”
he reaches for your wrist before you can pull away, but he does it gently—so gently it almost startles you. he turns your hand over, thumb brushing near the reddened spot that’s quickly blooming across your palm.
“this isn’t nothing,” he says, quiet but firm.
you almost tell him you’re used to it. that burns happen all the time in kitchens. that you don’t need anyone fussing over you.
but the words die on your tongue because… no one ever reacts like this.
no one ever moves this fast, or sounds this concerned, or touches you with such focused care.
he guides you toward the sink, his hand steady around your wrist.
“cold water,” he murmurs, reaching for the tap. “give me your hand.”
you hesitate—not because you don’t want help, but because the intimacy of it hits you in a place you weren’t prepared for.
nanami looks up at you, waiting, gaze serious but soft around the edges.
the water runs cool, soothing, and you exhale a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. nanami adjusts the temperature with a small flick of his fingers, watching your expression like he’s reading the fine print of your pain.
his thumb rests lightly against the inside of your wrist. you feel him breathe out slowly, like he’s centering himself, as if your discomfort unsettled something in him.
“you need to be more careful,” he says quietly.
you roll your eyes, though it comes out weaker than you intended. “that’s literally what every chef says before getting burned again the next day.”
the way he says it, almost stubborn, makes your chest tighten.
you study his face while he focuses on the water running over your skin.
the faint tension in his jaw. the crease between his brows. the way his shoulders soften only after he sees you relax.
“why do you care so much?” you ask before you can stop yourself.
his eyes flick up to yours.
and there—just for a moment—you see something raw. something unguarded. something that doesn’t belong to someone who’s “just a customer.”
“because you’re hurting,” he says simply.
“people get hurt around me all the time.”
“and do you take care of them?”
you frown. “yeah, of course i—”
“then let someone take care of you too.”
you look down at your hand in his. the way his palm supports yours, careful and steady like he’s holding something fragile. the way he adjusts the water flow every few seconds, checking the temperature against his fingertips before letting it hit your skin.
he doesn’t rush you, nor does he make a big deal about it. he just stands there beside you, breathing the same warm air, holding your hand under the water like this is simply what people do for each other.
no one does this for you. not since you were young. not since you started chasing this dream like it was the only thing keeping you alive.
after a minute, nanami lowers the water pressure and turns off the tap. he reaches for a clean towel but doesn’t dry your hand himself—he hands it to you, respecting a boundary without you having to say anything.
you pat your palm dry, wincing a little.
nanami watches, eyes thoughtful. “you should wrap it,” he says.
“it’s not that bad,” you argue.
you almost laugh because he sounds so serious about a small burn, but there’s something warm in your chest that stops the sound. you reach for the first-aid kit under the sink.
nanami steps aside, but not far—just enough to give you space while still staying within arm’s reach, like he’s quietly making sure you’re okay.
you wrap your palm, slower than usual, hyper-aware of his presence.
when you finish, he nods, expression softening.
you lean against the counter, suddenly very aware of how close you are to him. his shirt sleeves are rumpled, his hair a little messier than when he came in, and there’s a faint flush on his cheeks from the kitchen heat.
you realize, with a slow sinking warmth:
you like him. more than you meant to. more than you should, maybe.
nanami clears his throat. “what’s next?” he asks, tone gentle.
“yes.” his eyes flick to your wrapped hand. “i assume you’re not done for the night.”
you exhale a small laugh. “you’re really determined to finish this shift with me, huh?”
he doesn’t smile, but something in his face softens in a way you’ve never seen before.
“i don’t mind staying,” he says again quietly. “not when you look like this.”
he holds your gaze for a long, warm moment.
“tired,” he says. “but still trying.”
you look away, throat tight.
“i guess… there’s still the stovetop,” you say.
“then we’ll clean it together.”
you end up cleaning the stovetop together, though really it’s nanami doing most of it while you stand there stubbornly insisting you’re fine. he doesn’t argue, just angles his body so he blocks you from reaching for anything that might hurt you again. it should annoy you. it… doesn’t.
closing goes smoother than it has in weeks. with two people, the place looks spotless in minutes instead of an hour, and when you flip off the lights in the kitchen, the whole space feels different—lighter, like it sighed with you.
nanami stands there for a moment, taking in the now-quiet dining room. it’s warm with the string lights you hung along the ceiling, the soft glow making the mismatched tables look almost intentional.
“it looks nice when it’s empty,” he says quietly.
“you say that like it doesn’t when it’s full.”
he shakes his head. “it does. it just… feels different. peaceful.”
you laugh under your breath as you untie your apron. “that’s because you’re not dealing with the dinner rush.”
“i’m not sure i’d survive your dinner rush,” he admits.
“you wouldn’t,” you say, smiling.
he holds your gaze a second longer than he needs to. it’s not romantic. it’s not intimate. it’s… warm. one of those moments that doesn’t mean anything until later, when you look back on it and realize it meant everything and more.
you clear your throat and break eye contact before your chest can get any ideas.
“wait here,” you say, heading back toward the kitchen.
“for what?” nanami asks, confused but obedient.
you don’t answer because you’re already digging in the fridge, pulling out a container of gumbo you set aside earlier and a small box of beignets left from the last batch you fried. they’re a little imperfect—some powdered sugar melted into uneven little patches—but they smell faintly of vanilla and warm dough.
you pack them neatly, write his name on the top signed with a heart on the letter 'i' without thinking, then hesitate for a second before grabbing a second container of rice.
when you return, nanami straightens like he wasn’t expecting you to bring anything at all.
“food,” you say, like it’s obvious.
“no, for the imaginary customer behind you, silly.”
that earns the smallest smile. nanami takes the bag but handles it like it’s something fragile, like he’s afraid to mess it up.
“you didn’t need to do this,” he says softly.
“i know,” you say, shrugging. “but you helped. and you look like you haven’t eaten anything that wasn’t sad office food today.”
he looks away for a moment, jaw tightening like he’s trying not to show how true that is.
“thank you,” he says quietly. “really.”
you gesture toward the door. “come on. i need to lock up anyway.”
you grab your coat and the two of you step outside into the quiet winter night. the cold hits instantly—waking you up in a way caffeine never could. the street is mostly empty, the streetlights casting soft halos over the pavement.
nanami holds the takeout bag in one hand, his other adjusting the collar of his coat against the chill. he looks softer like this—hair a bit windswept from the breeze, cheeks pink from the cold, shoulders slightly hunched in a way that feels… human. like he’s finally off the clock.
you pull the metal gate down and lock it, your fingers stiff in the cold.
when you turn back to him, he’s watching you. just… watching. like he’s trying to memorize this version of you—tired, bundled up, finally done for the day.
“you should get home,” you say gently. “it’s late.”
you shove your hands into your jacket pockets. “i’ll be fine. i’m gonna walk a bit. clear my head.”
nanami hesitates for the first time all night. his brows pull together the tiniest bit.
“if you want,” he says quietly, “i can walk you.”
you shake your head, giving him a small smile. “i’m good. but thank you.”
something settles in his expression—something you don’t know how to name. he holds the bag a little tighter, like he’s holding onto the moment itself.
“goodnight,” he says, and his voice is warm in a way you haven’t heard before.
he turns to leave, steps slow, shoulders a little lighter than when he arrived. halfway down the sidewalk, he glances back—just once. like he wants to make sure you’re really okay. like something in him pulls in your direction before he forces himself to keep going.
you stand there for a second, breath clouding in the cold, and you realize something simple and quite inconvenient. you don’t want him to go, not really.
but you let him walk away, because that’s what tonight is... a beginning. not a leap.
you exhale, watching your breath disappear into the night.
tomorrow, you tell yourself, as you finally turn and head home.
there’s always tomorrow.
nanami becomes a pattern before you ever admit he’s become a pattern.
it’s not intentional, nor scheduled ahead of time like a meeting, not anything either of you ever spoke aloud, but after that night he helped you close, he starts showing up more often.
he pushes open the door right before closing time, the bell chiming soft above his head, and you feel the faintest loosening in your shoulders every time you see him.
he always looks the same—clean, neat, a little tired around the eyes, hair slightly messed from whatever hell his workday dragged him through. he sits at his usual stool, orders the same bowl of gumbo you put aside for him (extra rice, no garnish), and doesn’t make you feel like you owe him anything more than a place to exist for a little while.
what surprises you most is how comfortable the silence is with him. other customers fill space with noise—nanami fills it with calm.
the nights he comes in, things feel a little easier. like the edges of your exhaustion soften a bit. like the air gets warmer. like you’re not alone in this massive, overwhelming dream anymore, even if he’s only there for the final hour of your shift.
you start noticing tiny things you shouldn’t.
the way he always reads the chalkboard menu even though he gets the same thing. the way he loosens his tie before he sits down. the way he exhales, almost quietly relieved, right after the first bite of gumbo. the way he tries to hide the fact that he loves the beignets but always finishes them faster than anything else.
you tell yourself it’s nothing. just habit. just a simple routine.
but then there are the days he doesn’t come, and that’s when it hits you.
the first time he misses a night, you pretend it’s fine. he has a life. you barely know him. he doesn’t owe you consistency. you don’t owe him expectation.
still—you catch yourself glancing at the door at 8:57.
you flip chairs onto tables with a little more force than usual.
you burn a roux because your mind drifts.
you tell yourself you’re not disappointed; you’re just tired.
the second day he doesn’t come, you worry.
not consciously. not out loud. just in that quiet corner of your mind where concern sits when you care more than you mean to.
you picture him in some fluorescent-lit office, drowning in spreadsheets and deadlines, tie tight against his throat, shoulders pulled tense and rigid. you imagine the kind of day someone like him has—the kind that leaves no room for warmth or rest or sitting quietly in a small restaurant where life feels a little kinder.
you don’t know why it bothers you so much, but it does.
it bothers you enough that, when you close up that night, you package an extra beignet and set it aside without thinking.
the third day he doesn’t come, you’re still thinking about him.
you tell yourself it’s concern, nothing else. you tell yourself you’re just empathetic. you tell yourself it’s normal to worry when someone vanishes from a routine you’ve grown used to.
still—you check the time. you check the window. your heart drops, just slightly, each time the door opens and it’s someone else.
you wonder if he’s eating anything. you wonder if he’s sleeping. you wonder why you even wonder.
you don’t have answers, only instinct.
maybe he’s having a hard week. maybe work is crushing him. maybe he needs a place to breathe and doesn’t have the energy to get there.
the thought sits heavy in your chest.
you don’t know him well. you don’t know his details, his schedule, his life. but you know how he looked that night when he was cleaning your tables—focused, tired, quietly careful.
you know how he held your hand under the tap like it meant something.
you know how he said your name the first time. you know how he exhaled in relief the moment he stepped into your warm dining room, like it was the only safe place he had.
you want to be there for him. you don’t say it aloud. you barely admit it to yourself.
not the customer. not the routine.
the way he makes the room feel less heavy. the way he notices things without pointing them out.
you know, deep down, that his absence means something.
not to the restaurant. not to the routine.
he returns on a thursday.
you’re not watching the door. at least, that’s what you tell yourself. you’re wiping down a table near the back, mind on autopilot, trying not to think about the three nights since you last saw him. the nights where you kept imagining the worst parts of his world—the fluorescent lights, the endless work, the sinking kind of burnout you recognize too easily.
you’re bent over the table, deep in thought, when you hear the door chime.
you don’t let yourself expect him.
but when you stand up and turn around, nanami is there. in the doorway. inside your restaurant again.
just… heavier. like something in him has been dragging behind him for days, like he hasn’t had a good night’s sleep since you last saw him.
his tie is gone. that’s the first thing you notice. it’s stuffed into his pocket, wrinkled in a way you’ve never seen. the top buttons of his shirt are undone. his hair is slightly out of place, like he kept running his hands through it, frustrated or tired or both.
he looks like a man who walked here because he didn’t know where else to go.
your breath catches, just for a second.
he sees you. and something inside him loosens—barely, but enough that you notice.
he steps forward slowly. “you’re open,” he says, voice a little rougher than usual.
“for another ten minutes,” you say, trying to keep your tone normal even though your heart is doing something stupid and warm in your chest. “you missed your streak.”
he gives a faint, humorless huff. “i know. work has been…” he trails off, searching for a word that probably doesn’t exist.
you wait. quietly. patiently.
he finally says, “i don’t know what the point of it is anymore.”
it’s not dramatic. he doesn’t spill his heart out or fall apart. he just says it plainly, like he’s been carrying the sentence on the back of his tongue for days, waiting for somewhere safe to drop it.
you wipe your hands on a towel and move closer without thinking. “did something happen?”
he shakes his head. “nothing specific. just… everything. the meetings. the deadlines. the people who talk and talk and say nothing. the constant feeling that none of it adds up to anything meaningful.”
his voice cracks just slightly on the last word.
he’s not a man who likes revealing things, and yet he’s standing in your restaurant, looking at you like he doesn’t want to be anywhere else.
you take a small breath. “i’m sorry it’s been that bad.”
nanami exhales, long and shaky, and rests his palm on the back of the nearest chair. like he needs something solid under his hand.
“i kept thinking about coming here,” he admits quietly. “every night. i kept telling myself i’d leave the office in time. but i couldn’t. and then it would get too late. and…” he hesitates, jaw tightening. “i didn’t want to show up looking like this.”
you step closer. close enough to see the exhaustion in the corners of his eyes. close enough to smell a faint trace of his cologne under all the stress.
“you can show up however you are,” you say softly. “i don’t care what you look like.”
he looks at you then, and for a moment it feels like the air shifts between you,.
his voice lowers. “you shouldn’t say things like that.”
“because it makes it harder to stay away,” he says.
this is the moment where you’re supposed to say something rational or polite or safe. but the words don’t come because nanami is already stepping closer, closing the last few inches between you.
he’s not impulsive. he’s not reckless. he’s not the kind of man who acts without thinking.
which makes the next part hit deeper—because it means he has been thinking.
for days. maybe weeks. maybe even longer.
his hand lifts slowly, giving you every chance in the world to step back. he touches your cheek gently, like he’s afraid you might flinch, like he’s touching something he never thought he could have.
your heart climbs into your throat.
“i’m sorry,” he murmurs, almost pained. “i shouldn’t—”
you don’t know who moves first. maybe it’s him. maybe it’s you. maybe it’s both at once, that natural, inevitable gravity pulling two tired people together after orbiting for too long.
but his mouth is on yours.
careful in that way he does everything. like he’s checking, checking, checking if you want this.
of course you fucking do.
you kiss him back before you even register that you’re doing it, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt, pulling him closer because you’ve been wanting this without admitting it.
nanami exhales sharply through his nose, like relief, like need, like the pressure of the last week finally breaking open.
the kiss stays slow—not gentle exactly, but reverent and so aching. the kiss of someone who didn’t think he’d be allowed to touch you, and now that he is, he’s terrified of ruining it.
when he pulls back, it’s only a breath. his forehead brushes yours.
you feel the whisper of his apology before he even says it.
“stop saying that,” you whisper. “you didn’t do anything wrong.”
his fingers tighten against your waist—a grounding point, a confession in itself.
you breathe him in, and he breathes you in.
and in the quiet of your half-closed restaurant, two tired people finally stop pretending.
nanami’s breath is still brushing your lips when something inside him gives—quietly, like a thread snapping after being pulled too tight for too long. he hesitates for half a second, searching your face like he’s making sure you want this as badly as he does.
so when you tug gently at the open collar of his shirt, he exhales like you just answered a question he wasn’t brave enough to ask.
his mouth finds yours again, but this time it’s… deeper. not rough, nor rushed, just heavy with everything he’s been swallowing down for nights he didn’t come. his hands slide from your waist to your lower back, fingers splaying like he needs the full shape of you under his palms.
you gasp softly from the warmth of it, and he reacts instantly—a quiet, low sound in the back of his throat, like your voice pulled something out of him he didn’t intend to show.
he pulls you closer until your hips meet his, and that’s when you feel it—the unmistakable press of the problem he walked in with.
you inhale against his mouth, surprised by how hard he is already, how much he was holding in from the moment he stepped through your door.
“nanami…” you whisper, breath unsteady.
he shakes his head once, eyes half-open, mouth still brushing yours.
“don’t—” his voice falters, chest rising. “don’t say my name like that unless you mean it.”
you do mean it. every syllable.
you take his tie from his pocket, fingers brushing his stomach as you pull it free. he freezes—not in panic, but like the sight of you holding something that belongs to him rewires his entire system.
you lift it slowly, looping it behind his neck, pulling him back down into another kiss.
his hands grip your waist, firmer now, guiding you backward until your hips meet the edge of a table—one of the few still grounded on the floor. the wood digs into you, but you barely notice because nanami’s lips have moved to your jaw, then your neck, tracing heat along your skin with a restraint that feels like it’s costing him something.
“i’ve been thinking about this for days,” he admits against your throat, voice warm and cracking. “i tried not to. i really did.”
he lifts his head just enough to look at you—cheeks flushed pink, pupils blown, control slipping in the most careful way.
“now i can’t pretend anymore.”
his hands slide under your shirt/ his palms are warm, slightly rough, holding your ribs like he wants to memorize every curve, every inch. he runs his thumb along the underside of your breast, and your breath stutters hard enough that his jaw tightens.
“tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmurs.
“do i look like i want you to stop?” you breathe, leaning into his touch.
something dark and relieved flickers in his eyes.
he lifts your shirt in one slow motion, like unfolding something delicate. he kisses down your sternum, then lower, his mouth tracing heat across the top of your bra. when his lips brush the curve of your breast through the bra fabric, your fingers tangle in his hair without thinking.
he groans deep, helpless. like he wasn’t expecting your touch to undo him.
“you’re not—” he pauses, breathing against your skin, “—you’re not making this easy for me.”
“should i be?” you tease, voice trembling.
“no.” his teeth graze your skin lightly. “absolutely not.”
his hands work the button of your jeans with a crack of frustrated need, but even then, he’s gentle—not slow, not hesitant. he pushes the denim down your hips and kisses the newly exposed skin like he’s thanking you for it.
you feel cold air hit your thighs for a second.
then his hands are there to fill the void.
he lowers himself onto one knee without breaking eye contact.
“let me,” he says quietly, reverently, as if his voice is bowing to you.
he kisses your inner thigh first—slow enough to melt through the tension you didn’t know you were carrying. his fingers trace the edge of your underwear, not moving them aside yet, just learning the feel of you under his hand.
“you’re shaking,” he murmurs.
“you’re kneeling,” you whisper back.
his lips curve into something like a smile against your skin.
his fingers hook under the fabric, and he pulls it aside just enough to reveal you—warm, already wet from his mouth and hands and the week-long build-up of wanting him without admitting it.
nanami inhales sharply, eyes fluttering shut for one second like the sight of you knocks the breath out of him.
your voice trembles. “please, nanami.”
the moment you say it, his mouth is on you.
not rough or in a fast, rushing way. instead, it's deep and warm and devastatingly tender.
like he’s learning you with each slow stroke of his tongue. like he’s remembering the shape of your breath. like nothing in his entire brutal week mattered except this.
your legs tighten around his shoulders, and he groans into you—low and grateful and unbearably turned on. his hands hold your thighs, thumbs stroking lightly, grounding you when your hips try to rise.
“kento—” you whisper, voice breaking.
he reacts to his name like it hits him in the chest. he grips you harder, pulls you closer to his mouth, his breath shuddering against your skin.
“say it again,” he murmurs against you, voice ragged. “please.”
you thread your fingers through his hair and tug gently.
he moans into you. the kind of moan a man lets out when he finally has something he thought he’d never touch.
and then he eats you like he’s trying to erase every lonely night he spent at his office desk instead of here, on his knees for you.
you’re already shaking by the time his mouth gets serious about you.
the first few strokes were slow, tasting you, learning you.
but once you whisper his name—something inside him shifts.
he holds your thighs like he’s anchoring himself and drags his tongue in a way that makes your vision flicker. you can’t help the quiet whimper that escapes you, and he reacts to that too, humming against you, mouth sinking deeper, tongue moving with purpose that feels instinctive, like he’s been waiting to do this since the first night he walked through your door.
you grip his shoulders to steady yourself but it only urges him on, and he slides one hand up, splaying his palm across your stomach as if to keep you from curling forward. it’s so gentle. so unbelievably grounding.
his fingers tighten on your waist in answer. he doesn’t force anything. he just coaxes your climax from you like he’s guiding you through it, like he’s holding the moment together with his bare hands.
it hits you harder than you meant it to.
your body trembles; your hips twitch; your breath breaks apart. he doesn’t pull back when you fall apart—he stays right where he is, mouth soft, movements steady, riding out every wave until your thighs loosen and your hands slip weakly from his hair.
when he finally lifts his head, his mouth is shiny, his cheeks flushed, and he looks… wrecked. in that quiet way that doesn’t match the softness in his eyes.
he stands slowly, hands smoothing up your sides as he rises, like he’s checking every inch of you.
“hey,” he murmurs, voice a little hoarse. “breathe.”
...mostly because he’s looking at you like he’s the one who can’t.
you don’t get a chance to say anything before his hands slide around your waist and he lifts you—effortlessly, like your weight belongs against him. a small gasp leaves your throat and instinctively your legs tighten around his hips.
he kisses you again, but it’s nothing like the earlier kiss. you can taste yourself on his lips and it makes you shiver.
“let me take you somewhere softer,” he whispers against your mouth.
you nod, your forehead pressed to his.
he carries you through the dim restaurant like you’re something he’s afraid to drop—not fragile, not breakable, but something extremely important. the tables blur past you, the soft glow of the hanging lights turning everything gold as he brings you into the back room where you keep your extra linens and storage bins.
it’s warmer here. quieter. intimate in a way you’ve never felt in this space before.
he sets you down on the small prep table like you’re something precious, his hands lingering on your hips as if he needs the contact to stay grounded.
you pull him in by the collar of his shirt, kissing him again, and he answers with a low sound, deep in his chest, something he can’t quite swallow down anymore.
his hands slide up your thighs, thumbs brushing the inside until you shiver. his forehead rests against yours for a beat, eyes closed like he’s gathering himself.
“i want you,” he says quietly. “but only if you want this too.”
your breath trembles at the way he says it isn't needy and demanding, just unbearably honest.
“i want you,” you whisper. “kento… i really want you.”
that does something to him.
his jaw flexes, his breath stutters, and then he leans in, kissing you with a depth that feels like an answer, a promise, a release all at once.
he doesn’t push your legs open—he waits for you to part them for him.
when you do, he exhales sharply, hands sliding up to cradle your waist.
he presses his forehead to your shoulder, breathing you in for a moment, like he needs to slow himself down before he ruins the softness he’s trying so hard to hold onto.
“tell me if anything feels too much,” he murmurs against your skin.
“it won’t,” you whisper, running your fingers through his hair.
“it might,” he says, lifting his head to look at you, eyes warm and blown and full of something that looks a lot like affection. “i don’t want to lose myself and hurt you.”
you shake your head, brushing your thumb across his cheek.
he kisses your palm—and then he pulls his shirt off, slow, revealing warm, toned skin and a body that looks like it’s carried more stress than it should.
he stands between your legs, bare chest pressed to yours, his hands exploring your back, your ribs, the small of your spine. every touch feels careful and hungry at the same time.
you reach for his belt and he stills—not stopping you, just swallowing hard, one hand gripping your thigh a little tighter.
you ease the leather free and he exhales, voice low:
you tug his waistband closer.
his breath leaves him in one steady rush, and he leans his forehead against yours again, grounding himself as you push his pants down just enough to free him.
he’s hard. ...painfully so—and the first brush of him against your inner thigh makes both of you stop for a second.
he cups your cheek, his thumb tracing your jaw, voice barely above a whisper.
“i’m going to take my time with you.”
he lines himself up, holding your hips steady, watching your face in the dim light.
“tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs.
“i won’t,” you breathe, wrapping your arms around his shoulders.
he pushes in—not super fast, just deep and steady, until he’s fully inside you and your breath leaves your lungs in a sound he tries so hard not to react to.
he closes his eyes, jaw tight, shoulders trembling slightly as he forces himself to stay still for you.
“fuck,” he whispers against your ear, his voice breaking. “you feel—”
his voice shakes a little, and that’s when you realize—he’s holding himself together for you. every muscle in his back tenses like he’s resisting the urge to lose himself, to take more, to take everything.
you kiss him before he can finish.
and then he moves—deep, slow enough to feel every inch, tender enough to make you ache, controlled only by the need to keep you close, to keep you safe, to keep this moment whole.
you wrap your arms around his shoulders, fingers threading into the hair at the nape of his neck. he groans—like your touch hits him somewhere he didn’t know was exposed.
he pulls out slowly, then sinks back in, deeper this time—the kind of deep that makes you gasp and clutch at his shoulders.
he presses his forehead to yours, eyes half-lidded, his breath warm against your mouth.
“look at me,” he whispers.
and it completely undoes him.
his next thrust is a little shakier, a little harder to control, and his hand cups the back of your neck like he’s afraid you’ll drift away if he doesn’t anchor you close.
“i don’t want to rush this,” he says, voice rough with honesty. “i don’t want to… take you like i’m starving.”
you smile softly against his lips. “who said you couldn’t be?”
he shakes his head, nose brushing yours, breathing you in. “not the first time.”
the first time. the implication hits you warm.
you slide your hands down his back, feeling the tension in every line of muscle, every held breath.
“you don’t have to be careful with me,” you whisper.
he kisses you slow— a kiss that isn’t about hunger but about emotion, about all the things he hasn’t said.
“i want to be,” he murmurs against your lips. “i want to feel you. all of you.”
his hand slides down your thigh, lifting your leg around his waist. the shift angles him deeper, and you moan—your body arching into his without thought.
the sound pulls a broken little exhale from him, like he’s trying to hold onto something and failing.
“you’re perfect,” he says, barely audible.
you shake your head, your fingers curling against his spine. “don’t say that.”
“because i’ll believe you.”
he pulls back just enough to look at you—really look. his hand cups your cheek, thumb stroking once, tender and certain.
“good,” he whispers. “you should.”
he thrusts again—slow nd steady, deep enough that your breath catches in your throat. his lips trail along your collarbone, down the curve of your shoulder, mapping you like he’s learning every place that makes you tremble.
you whisper his back, and he shivers so hard it almost makes you want to cry.
his pace stays gentle, but there’s weight behind every movement—the weight of wanting, of relief, of something he hasn’t named yet.
he presses himself closer, chest to chest, your legs wrapped tight around him. your nails trace the lines of his back, and he groans—emotionally as if the contact itself is undoing him.
he kisses you again, slower this time, his hips rocking into yours with a rhythm that feels like he’s trying to say something he can’t put into words.
“you okay?” he murmurs against your mouth.
“yeah,” you breathe. “please don’t stop.”
he closes his eyes, forehead against yours.
his thumb glides along your hip bone, his other hand sliding up your back, holding you close while he moves in that unhurried pace—a deep, rolling thrust that pulls soft sounds out of you every time his hips meet yours.
the room fills with warmth, with breath, with the quiet sounds of two people finally letting themselves need something.
when you tighten around him, his jaw tenses, a soft curse slipping out before he can catch it.
“you’re… god,” he whispers, voice cracking. “you’re perfect like this.”
your hands frame his face, guiding him into another kiss, and he melts into it—all restraint, all composure unraveling just a little more.
he groans into your mouth, hips stuttering once, then he thrusts deeper, and your breath catches hard enough that he grabs your jaw gently, kissing you again for balance.
“you’re going to be the end of me,” he whispers.
you feel it before he says anything—the shift in his breath, the way his hips stutter just slightly, like he’s trying to keep himself from going deeper, harder, faster. like he’s holding something back with trembling hands.
nanami isn’t a reckless man. he’s not careless, not the type to chase pleasure blindly. even now, even with his forehead pressed to your shoulder and his chest rising unevenly against yours, he’s trying—really trying—to stay in control.
but you feel him losing it.
the way his hands grip your hips a little too tight. the way his lips keep brushing your neck without landing, like he can’t decide if kissing you will steady him more or further ruin him. the way his breath shakes every time you tighten around him.
“k-kento,” you whisper, and it’s over for him.
a shudder runs through his whole body, like he can’t hide how badly he needs you. his hand slides up your back, pulling you closer, holding you like you’re the one keeping him upright.
his next thrust is deeper—like he isn’t able to pretend anymore.
“don’t stop,” you breathe against his ear. “please, don’t stop.”
his breath catches, almost a gasp. “i won’t… i won’t, i promise.”
he sounds wrecked—like the pleasure is tangled with something emotional he never meant to let you see.
you cradle his face in your hands, and he breaks a little more, hips rolling into yours with desperate restraint. you kiss him, slow, open-mouthed, and the sound he makes is almost painful, like he’s been starving for this kind of touch.
“you feel so good,” he whispers, voice shaking. “god, you… you feel like—” he cuts himself off, jaw clenching, eyes squeezing shut as another wave of pleasure tears through him.
you guide his face back to yours. “look at me.”
he does, and that’s what ruins him. because the moment he sees your expression—your lips parted, your eyes wanting, your body moving with his—something inside him buckles.
“i can’t—” his voice breaks. “i’m trying, but—”
“don’t try,” you whisper, pulling him closer.
he groans, a real, involuntary sound, deep in his chest. his hips press into you again, slow but deep, and your breath stutters into a soft moan that he swallows with a trembling kiss.
you’re getting close too—you can feel it building, warm and heavy, curling low in your stomach. his thumb strokes along your hip at the exact same moment he thrusts again, and your whole body tightens around him.
he gasps—actually gasps—because of how you feel tightening around him. “you’re… oh my god—”
his forehead drops to yours, his breath unsteady, his body shaking as he forces himself to keep the same slow, deep pace even though everything in him is unraveling.
“cum with me,” you whisper. "please."
he shudders violently. “i… i can’t—”
his fingers slide between your bodies, finding the place that makes you arch forward into him. he touches you carefully, his thumb circling in a rhythm that syncs with every desperate thrust.
and it hits you so suddenly you don’t have time to brace for it. you cry out softly, your hands gripping his shoulders as your orgasm washes through you, your body clenching tight around him in rhythmic waves you can’t control.
nanami comes undone right after. his breath leaves him in a strangled sound, like you just knocked something loose inside him. his hips press deep, fully, his body trembling against yours as he follows you over the edge.
he holds you so tightly it feels like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. your name spills from his lips in a cracked whisper as he cums, his whole body shaking with the force of it.
when it finally eases, he doesn’t pull away. not even a little. he stays pressed against you, chest to chest, breathing hard, forehead resting in the crook of your neck.
you hold him, stroking the back of his head, feeling him try to gather himself even as he leans into your touch like he needs it.
after a long moment, he whispers—barely audible. “i didn’t know it could be like that.”
you slide your fingers down his spine. “like what?”
“like… something that matters.”
he pulls back a little, still holding your hips, grounding himself in the contact. “let me clean you up,” he murmurs.
it doesn’t sound like an offer—more like a need, something he won’t feel right if he doesn’t do.
you nod, cheeks warm, and he slips off you carefully, hands steadying your waist until your feet settle on the ground. your legs waver and he catches you with a soft, breathy laugh that sounds like he can’t believe you’re real.
“don’t be,” he says, lowering his forehead to yours. “i’m… really flattered, actually.”
you laugh, pushing lightly at his shoulder, and he kisses the top of your head before stepping away to find a clean cloth. he dampens it with warm water, testing the temperature on his wrist first, then comes back to you with a tenderness you didn’t expect from someone who carries as much weight as he does.
his hands are gentle as he wipes between your thighs. he doesn’t make it awkward, doesn’t make it sexual, doesn’t look anywhere except where he needs to.
when he’s done, he cups your cheek again. “do you want to stay here a little longer?”
you shake your head. “i wanna go home.”
he nods once, stands, and begins putting himself back together. you do the same—pulling up your jeans, straightening your shirt, ignoring how wobbly your legs still feel. he watches you with this kind of half-concern, half-awe expression until you tease him for it.
“what?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.
he clears his throat. “nothing. i just… want to make sure you’re alright.”
nanami helps clean the small mess the two of you made—moving instinctively around your space like he’s been here a hundred times. he puts the stool back, adjusts the table, washes the cloth he used, wipes the counter.
then he finds your coat before you can reach for it.
you slide them in, trying not to melt at the way he tugs it gently around your shoulders. he ties your scarf loosely, fingertips brushing your throat just long enough to make your breath catch.
when you step outside together, the night is cold and still, the kind of cold that makes your cheeks burn. he stands close enough that your arms bump with each step.
“where do you live?” he asks.
you tell him, and without hesitation he says, “i’ll walk you.”
the walk is quiet but comfortable. the streetlights cast warm pools of yellow on the pavement, and every time your breath fogs the air, his does too—syncing without either of you trying.
after a block, he speaks—softly, like he doesn’t want to break the calm.
“i haven’t felt this… peaceful in a while.”
you glance up at him. “you seem it.”
“i think it’s you,” he admits, almost embarrassed. “being around you makes everything feel easier.”
your heart trips over itself. you don’t answer.
when you reach your building, nanami stops at the door, one hand braced on the frame beside you. he’s not crowding you, not blocking you in, just standing close enough that you feel the warmth radiating off him.
“should i go?” he asks softly, like the answer actually matters.
you swallow, then shake your head. “no. stay with me tonight.”
his eyes flicker half surprise, half desire, something deeper he tries to hide.
“are you sure?” he murmurs.
“yeah,” you say. “i… don’t really wanna be alone.”
something in him softens so completely that it hurts to look at.
“okay,” he breathes. “i’ll stay.”
you lead him inside, up the stairs, into your apartment that suddenly feels too small for how warm your body feels. you set your keys down and turn to find him standing in your doorway, coat half off, expression softer than you’ve ever seen it.
“do you want water?” you ask.
he shakes his head. “come here.”
he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you into his chest, and you melt instantly, your forehead pressing into the space where his neck meets his shoulder. his hands slide up your back, slow, soothing, like he’s trying to work the stress out of your bones.
neither of you speak for a long time.
eventually, he whispers, “i’m calling off work tomorrow.”
you smile into his shirt. “me too.”
he exhales a small, relieved sound and holds you tighter.
the night stretches around you two, the world pausing just long enough for the two of you to breathe.
and for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like you have to rush to the next thing.
in his arms, in the quiet. in something that feels like the start of a life you didn’t know you wanted.
nanami quits on a tuesday.
not because something terrible happens. not because someone pushes him too far. not because a supervisor yells or a deal collapses or a coworker steals credit.
he quits because he wakes up next to you—your leg thrown over his, your hand curled loosely on his chest, your breathing soft and even—and realizes he hasn’t felt that kind of calm in years. maybe ever.
he lies there for a long moment, your sheets warm around him, the morning sun painting everything gold. and he thinks:
why am i giving all my time to a life that doesn’t want me, when there is one right here that does?
he leaves his resignation letter on his boss’s desk. three sentences. no apologies.
he walks out of the building feeling lighter than he ever thought possible.
you’re the first person he texts:
you stare at the message in your restaurant kitchen, hand over your mouth, tears stinging before you even realize you’re crying.
because you know what this means.
you know how long he stayed in that job out of obligation, out of routine, out of fear.
and you know how much he gave up today—not money, not status, but the version of himself that never believed he deserved something better.
the version he carried before you.
the restaurant changes next.
not overnight. not magically, either.
but in the same slow rhythm that everything real grows in.
one morning, you’re writing out the special on a smudged chalkboard, and you glance up to find nanami standing across the street, hands in his coat pockets, watching your doorway like it’s a sunrise.
he crosses over, pushes the door open, and says,
“let’s build something better.”
with his savings—money he always had but never used for anything that mattered—he helps you renovate. he tells you he wants to invest not in a business, but in you. your dream. your ambition. the thing that makes your eyes light up even when you’re exhausted.
you bring paint home in colors you used to only daydream about.
soft gold. warm cream. deep green. colors that turn your little restaurant into the elegant, glowing, exuberant place you always imagined when you were barely sleeping, barely eating, barely surviving.
nanami’s the one who chooses the light fixtures. says, “you deserve something that shines.”
you choose the marble countertops. he installs them himself even though he swears he’s not handy.
you both spend a week covered in dust, paint under your nails, bruises you didn’t realize you got. every night you collapse on your couch, laughing into each other’s shoulders, sharing takeout because the kitchen isn’t functional yet.
the grand opening is small, intimate.
nanami watches from behind the counter, arms folded, pride glowing soft on his face like the warm lights he picked out.
not everything—he’s terrible at frying, hopeless with pastries—but you teach him the rest.
you show him how to hold a knife properly. how to fold a roux into a broth without breaking it. how to taste something thoughtfully—with patience, curiosity, heart.
the first time he gets a dish right, he looks at you like he can’t believe it.
“you did that,” you say, nudging his shoulder.
“no,” he answers softly, “you taught me.”
working with him becomes natural—like a dance, a rhythm:
you move left, he moves right.
you call out ingredients, he hands them over without looking.
you bump hips by accident, he blushes.
he brushes flour off your cheek, you pretend not to melt.
your friends start whispering that the restaurant feels different now.
because nanami stands in your kitchen with his sleeves rolled up, hair tied back, apron dusted with flour, looking more alive than he ever did in a suit.
because you stand beside him, laughing, creating, dreaming out loud in ways you never had the energy for before.
because the two of you rebuilt not just a restaurant, but yourselves.
side by side. hand in hand. step by step.
and every night, when the last customer leaves and the lights dim low, nanami kisses you in the doorway of the place you built together.
© viixa. do not copy, translate, or reupload my works anywhere.
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