Nanami is losing his mind. Three dates in, and she's still calling him "Nanami"—or worse, "sir"—while using first names with everyone else from waiters to coworkers. He starts orchestrating increasingly desperate schemes to hear "Kento" cross her lips just once, but she remains stubbornly, devastatingly formal.
There is a sound he is dying to hear, and it is killing him slowly.
Three dates. Three official, documented, calendar-worthy dates outside the fluorescent-lit halls of Jujutsu Technical College where you still—still, after three dates, after he has kissed you goodnight at your door, after he has held your hand across restaurant tables, after he has memorized the exact cadence of your laugh—call him Nanami.
Or worse. Sir.
Or worse still, with that professional precision that makes him want to scream into the void, Mr. Nanami.
"Nanami," you say now, approaching his desk at 4:47 PM, your shadow falling across his paperwork. "The mission report needs your signature."
He looks up. You are smiling, casual, your elbow resting on the partition, your hair escaping its clip in a way that makes his fingers twitch. Three dates, and you are still standing three feet away. Three dates, and you still use the same tone you use for Gojo, for Ijichi, for the mailman who delivers packages to the lobby.
"Of course," he says, and his voice sounds strange in his own ears—tight, desperate, disguised as professional.
You lean over his desk to point at the line, and your sleeve brushes his hand, and he stops breathing. You smell like the cheap coffee from the break room and something else, something you, and he wants to bury his face in your neck and beg. Just beg. Say it. My name. The one my mother gave me. The one I stopped hearing when my father died. The one that only exists now in government documents and the mouths of strangers. Say it like you mean it. Say it like I'm yours.
"Here," you say, tapping the paper. "Nanami."
He signs. His hand shakes. You do not notice.
The first scheme is pathetic. He knows it is pathetic even as he orchestrates it, standing in the convenience store at 9 PM, staring at the refrigerated case like it holds the secrets of the universe.
Date four. Technically date four, though he has stopped counting because numbers imply progress and there has been none. You still call him Nanami. You called the waiter by his first name after reading his nametag once. You call your coworkers by nicknames he does not know the origins of. You are informal with everyone. Everyone except him.
He buys water. Two bottles. He does not need two bottles. He buys them because the plan has formed, desperate and humiliating, and he cannot stop now.
You meet him outside. You are wearing the blue sweater he likes, the one that makes your eyes look like the ocean at dawn, and he forgets his own name, let alone his plan to make you say it.
"Nanami," you greet, falling into step beside him.
His heart sinks. Then: determination.
"I need to show you something," he says, and his voice is too loud, too casual, a performance of nonchalance he has never perfected. He reaches for his wallet. His hands tremble. He extracts his driver's license and holds it out to you, invented excuse ready on his tongue—I think the photo looks terrible, do you agree, is my hair really that color, what do you think—but when you take it, when your fingers brush his and you look down at the small plastic card, he loses all capacity for speech.
You study it. He studies you. The streetlight catches your eyelashes, the curve of your cheek, the way your mouth moves as you read silently.
"Kento Nanami," you murmur, and his knees actually weaken, actually threaten to buckle, because there it is, there it is, the sound of his name in your mouth, the K and the en and the to, the three syllables he has been craving like oxygen, like water, like grace.
But then you look up, hand back the license, smile. "You were right. The photo is terrible. Your hair looks much better now, Nanami."
Nanami.
He takes the license. He puts it away. He walks beside you in silence, screaming internally, wondering if you are doing this deliberately, if this is torture, if you know that you have tasted his name and returned to the formal distance and he is left starving, starving, with the ghost of Kento hanging between you like smoke.
The second scheme involves the restaurant.
He chooses it specifically because he knows the owner, because he has arranged in advance, because he is losing his mind and dignity is a luxury he can no longer afford. You arrive together. You are beautiful. You are always beautiful. He cannot focus on the menu because he is watching your mouth, waiting, hoping.
The waiter arrives. Young. Enthusiastic. Part of the plan.
"Good evening," the waiter says, smiling. "Table for two under… Kento?"
He watches your face. He watches your mouth form the shape of recognition, the slight nod, the casual acceptance. Yes, that's us. Kento.
You do not repeat it. You do not look at him and say Kento, that's you, that's your name, I know that now, I will use it. You simply follow the waiter, sliding into the booth, unfolding your napkin, asking about the specials.
"Nanami," you say, looking at the wine list. "Do you prefer red or white?"
He orders whiskey. He drinks it too fast. He spends the entire meal inventing reasons to touch you—your hand, your shoulder, your knee beneath the table—hoping that proximity will breed intimacy, that intimacy will collapse the distance of formality. You let him touch you. You smile. You call him Nanami with every sentence, with every glance, with every shared laugh, and he feels himself fracturing, coming apart at the seams, held together only by the desperate hope that someday, someday, you will break.
The third scheme is accidental. Or rather, he tells himself it is accidental, though he has been carrying his phone like a weapon for days, waiting for the opportunity.
You are at his apartment. Date five, though who is counting anymore, certainly not him, certainly not the man who has started keeping a tally in his mind of how many times you have said his surname versus how many times you have said his given name (the ratio is devastating, the ratio is infinity to zero).
You are looking at his bookshelf, running your fingers along spines, and he sees his chance.
"I should save your number," he says, casual, so casual, holding out his phone. "Properly. What do you have me saved as?"
He holds his breath. He holds his entire life in suspension. Tell me, he thinks. Tell me you have me as Kento. Tell me you whisper it to yourself when you are alone. Tell me you practice it. Tell me you want to say it but you are scared, tell me you are waiting for permission, tell me—
"Nanami," you say, not looking up from the books. "Just Nanami. With a work emoji."
A work emoji.
He takes his phone back. He saves your number with shaking hands. He adds a heart emoji. He deletes it. He adds it again. He puts the phone down and goes to the kitchen and leans against the refrigerator and wonders if it is possible to die from wanting.
When he returns, you are holding a photo album he forgot to hide. Childhood photos. His mother. His father. The funeral.
"Kento," you say, reading the inscription on the back of a photograph, and he freezes, freezes, because there it is again, accidental, unmeant, just you reading words not addressing him, but still—still—the sound of his name in your mouth, the K and the en and the to, and he wants to fall to his knees, he wants to beg you to read every document he owns, every book in his library, every word ever written that contains those five letters in that order.
"Nanami?" you ask, looking up, concerned by his expression.
He realizes he is staring. He realizes he has tears in his eyes. He realizes he is in love with you, desperately, terminally, completely in love, and you will not call him by his first name.
"Nothing," he lies. "Just… memories."
The fourth scheme involves a phone call that is not a scheme at all, that is just cruel coincidence, that is the universe laughing at him.
You are at his apartment again. You are cooking. He is watching, hypnotized by the way you move, the efficiency of your hands, the casual intimacy of being in his space, using his stove, wearing his spare shirt because you spilled something on yours.
His phone rings.
He ignores it. He is ignoring everything that is not you.
It rings again. And again.
"Nanami," you say, laughing, "aren't you going to get that? It might be important."
Nanami. Nanami. Nanami.
"It can wait," he says, but you are already reaching for it, already looking at the screen, and he sees the moment you read the name, the moment you see the characters, the moment you know.
"Kento," you say, holding out the phone. "It's for you. Someone named… Kento?"
His heart stops. Actually stops. Then restarts at double speed, triple, a drum solo, a war cry.
"That's…" he starts, reaching for the phone, his hand brushing yours, his mind white noise and static. "That's… me. That's my name. That's…"
But you are already turning back to the stove, already casual, already moving on. "You should answer, Nanami. You're being rude."
Nanami.
He answers the phone. It is a wrong number. He does not hear a word they say. He stands in his kitchen, phone pressed to his ear, watching you stir something that smells like heaven, and he thinks: You said it. You said it. You said it and you didn't even notice. You said it like it was nothing. You said it like it didn't change everything. You said it and walked away.
He ends the call. He sets the phone down. He stands behind you at the stove and wraps his arms around your waist and buries his face in your hair and breathes, just breathes, trying to memorize the exact moment, the exact temperature of the room, the exact configuration of atoms that allowed you to say his name and mean him.
"Nanami?" you ask, surprised by the embrace.
He squeezes tighter. He does not correct you. He is beyond correction. He is in the desert, and you have shown him water, and he is dying of thirst, and you are calling him Mr. Nanami from across an ocean.
The fifth scheme is not a scheme. It is surrender.
He stops trying. He accepts his fate. He is Nanami to you, will always be Nanami, Mr. Nanami, Sir, the colleague, the date, the almost-lover who cannot cross the final inch into intimacy because you will not let him have his name.
He takes you to bed. Not like that—though he wants to, God he wants to— but actually to bed, to sleep, because it is late and you are tired and he is desperate for any proximity you will allow. You wear his shirt. You look like you belong there. You look like you have always belonged there.
He lies beside you, rigid, terrified, ecstatic. You are here. In his bed. Breathing his air. He can hear your heartbeat, or he imagines he can, and he lies on his back staring at the ceiling and wondering if this is happiness or if happiness requires you to whisper Kento in the dark.
You shift. You roll toward him in your sleep, seeking warmth, and your hand finds his chest, and your leg tangles with his, and he stops breathing entirely.
"Mm," you murmur, a sound of contentment, of safety, of trust.
He dares to touch your hair. He dares to press his lips to your forehead. He dares to hope.
You settle closer. Your breath ghosts against his neck. He feels the shape of your mouth moving against his skin, forming words he cannot hear, dreams he cannot share.
Then, soft as prayer, barely a breath, you whisper:
"Kento."
He short-circuits.
His body, which has survived cursed spirit attacks, which has endured bone breaks and blood loss and the particular horror of Gojo Satoru's friendship, simply fails. His vision whites out. His muscles seize. He rolls—actually rolls—off the bed and hits the floor with a thud that should wake the dead, that should certainly wake you, but you are drifting deeper, you are smiling in your sleep, you have no idea you have just destroyed him.
He lies on the floor, staring at the ceiling, his heart a bomb in his chest.
Kento.
You said it. You said it. Not reading, not repeating, not addressing a stranger. You said it in your sleep, unguarded, unconscious, true. You said it like it belonged to you. You said it like you had been saying it forever, like you were keeping it secret, like it was a name you whispered to yourself when you were alone.
He scrambles up. He is on his knees beside the bed. He is touching your shoulder, your face, his hands shaking so violently he can barely control them.
"Again," he begs, his voice broken, raw, wrecked. "Please. Again. Say it again. Please, I'm begging you, say it again, say my name, please—"
You murmur something unintelligible. You shift away from his touch, seeking comfort, seeking sleep.
"Please," he whispers, tears in his eyes, his forehead pressed to the mattress beside your head. "Please. I need to hear it. I need to know you know it. I need you to say it like you mean it. Please. Kento. Say Kento. Please."
But you are gone. Deep in dreams where he cannot follow. Smiling at something he cannot see.
He stays there, kneeling, destroyed, rebuilt, destroyed again. He stays until his knees ache and his back screams and the sun begins to rise, painting the room in gold that catches your eyelashes, your cheekbones, the peaceful curve of your mouth.
You wake to find him watching you with an expression you cannot read—devastated, triumphant, desperate, in love.
"Nanami?" you ask, confused by his intensity, by his tears, by the way he reaches for your hand and kisses your palm with reverence that borders on religious ecstasy.
"Nothing," he lies, because he cannot tell you, because if he tells you he heard you say it, you might stop. You might retreat back into formality. You might remember that you are not supposed to be this intimate, this close, this his.
But later, when you are dressing, when you are gathering your things, when you pause at his door and look back at him with that expression he cannot decipher, you open your mouth and hesitate.
He stops breathing. He stops existing. He waits.
"Thank you," you say finally. "For last night. Kento."
You say it. You look at him and you say it. Kento.
Then you blush—actually blush, pink spreading across your cheeks like sunrise—and you flee, closing the door behind you, leaving him standing in his apartment with his name ringing in his ears and his heart in pieces on the floor and the devastating knowledge that you know exactly what you are doing, you have always known, and you were just waiting for him to break first.
He slides down the wall. He sits on the floor. He presses his hands to his face and laughs, cries, screams into the empty room.
A/N: This one was so fun to write!! *english is not my first language!!
˚˖𓍢🍡✧˚. Satoru wants to have his hands on you every second of his free time. You two are walking on the street? He's holding your hand and pulling you close. You're asleep? He's pulling you by the waist and spooning you.
˚˖𓍢🍡✧˚. He's SUPER needy but since he's always busy he tries to control it. And he knows he's terrible at it.
˚˖𓍢🍡✧˚. Gojo is always thinking about you, expect gifts from him all the time.
˚˖𓍢🍡✧˚. You're the only one that can have a bite of his sweets. He'll even buy more so he can share it with you.
˚˖𓍢🍡✧˚. He WILL use his strength to keep you trapped on his arms while tickling you until you cry.
˚˖𓍢🍡✧˚. Loves showering you with kisses and your neck is his favorite place to do it. He approaches silently, not a single noise, and kisses the back of your neck just to see you jump. After that he's clinging onto your waist and peppering kisses from your shoulder to your face.
˚˖𓍢🍡✧˚. He's the world's best ragebaiter. Prepare yourself to have silly discussions about any topic because he LOVES that and WILL make you mad.
˚˖𓍢🍡✧˚. Even though Satoru enjoys making you lose your patience, he also loves to see you smile. So if you really get mad at him... here's a list of how that's gonna work:
1. He'll try to play it cool like is a joke.
2. The realization that you really are mad at him comes.
3. Gojo tries kissing it away.
4. If it doesn't works then he'll buy you something.
5. After giving you the gift he'll start a whole speech about how you makes him the luckiest man in the world and how he was just joking and how he's ever thinking about you and-
After closing a major case, Nanami's office team goes out drinking—all men, all bitter about their home lives. When they ask the resident workaholic hardass to commiserate about nagging wives, drunk Nanami instead delivers a tearful, poetic ode to his housewife reader that leaves his colleagues uncomfortable and envious. Ten years together and he still melts for her. (Domestic fluff, drunk confessions, soft Nanami, established relationship)
The amber liquid swirled in Nanami's glass, catching the dim light of the izakaya as the celebratory dinner dragged into its third hour. The case had closed successfully—a multi-million yen fraud investigation that had consumed the better part of three months. Around him, his colleagues from the financial securities firm were well into their cups, faces flushed, ties loosened, the formal atmosphere of the office completely dissolved.
"Another round!" Takahashi called out, slamming his empty glass on the table. He turned to the younger associate beside him, a man named Sato who'd been married for only two years. "You look like you're marching to your execution, kid."
Sato groaned, running a hand through his hair. "My wife… she's going to kill me. I told her I'd be home by nine. It's almost eleven."
"Ha! Welcome to the club," Yamamoto laughed bitterly from across the table, pouring himself more sake. "Mine's going to have that look. You know the one. The 'you're worthless' look. 'Why do you even bother coming home if you're just going to drink?'"
The table erupted in knowing groans, a chorus of commiseration from men who'd spent the evening escaping the domestic pressures waiting behind their apartment doors.
"Last week," Takahashi slurred, leaning in conspiratorially, "I forgot to take out the trash. One time. She didn't speak to me for two days. Two days! Silent treatment because of garbage."
"Mine makes me do the dishes every night," another chimed in. "Even when I work overtime. 'You live here too, don't you?' Like I'm some kind of freeloader."
The complaints continued, a familiar ritual—the bonding of married men over shared misery, the validation they sought from one another that yes, marriage was a burden, yes, wives were nagging shrews, yes, they were all suffering together in noble silence.
Then someone turned to the end of the table.
"Nanami," Takahashi called out, his voice carrying over the din. "You've been quiet all night. What's your wife going to say when you stumble home?"
The table went silent, expectant. Of all of them, Nanami was the one they looked up to—six feet of composed professionalism, the man who never complained, who worked harder than anyone, who seemed untouchable by life's petty annoyances. If anyone was going to validate their grievances, it would be him. The most put-together, most unflappable man they knew.
Nanami set down his glass. It was his fifth—or perhaps his sixth. His cheeks were flushed, his normally pristine blond hair slightly mussed, his eyes behind his glasses having lost their usual sharp edge. He looked at his colleagues, really looked at them, and something in his expression made the table fall quiet.
"My wife," he began, his voice softer than they'd ever heard it, "is the most precious thing in my existence."
Takahashi blinked. "What?"
"Her eyes," Nanami continued, his gaze drifting to some middle distance, his voice taking on a dreamy, melodic quality that was utterly foreign to the man they knew from the office. "When I look at her… they're like stars. Not the washed-out city kind. Real stars. The ones you see in the countryside, scattered across the night sky, all twinkling and bright. And when she looks at me…" He paused, his throat working. "When she looks at me, I feel like I'm the only person in the universe."
Sato snorted. "Nanami, come on—"
"And her cheeks," Nanami interrupted, not hearing him, or perhaps not caring. "They're like roses. Pink and soft, especially when she's flustered or when I've said something that makes her happy. I could spend hours just watching the color rise in her face. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
He reached for his glass again, his movements uncharacteristically loose.
"Her smile," he whispered, almost to himself, "is like sunshine. Not the harsh summer kind, but… spring sunshine. The gentle kind that warms you through and through. When she smiles at me when I walk through the door…" He closed his eyes, swaying slightly. "I forget every terrible thing about the day. Every rude client, every impossible deadline, every moment of stress. It just… melts away."
The table had gone completely silent. The other men stared at him, their drunken complaints forgotten, expressions ranging from confusion to discomfort.
"She smells so good," Nanami continued, his voice dropping to something reverent. "Like vanilla and something floral… jasmine, maybe? I don't know. But I bury my face in her hair every night and I think, this is home. This is what I worked for all day. Her voice is so sweet, even when she's just asking me about my day, and the way she loves me…" He pressed his hand to his chest, over his heart. "She loves me so completely. So generously. I don't deserve it. I don't deserve her."
"Nanami, you're wasted," Yamamoto tried, but Nanami wasn't finished.
He was crying now, tears slipping silently down his flushed cheeks, his composure completely shattered by alcohol and emotion.
"Every morning," he said, his voice thick, "she packs my lunch. And there's always a note. Always. Sometimes it's just 'have a good day' with a little heart. Sometimes she writes something longer, something that makes me have to step into an empty conference room so no one sees me grinning like an idiot. I get excited opening my lunchbox. Me. Excited about a sandwich. Because she made it. Because she thought of me."
He wiped at his face with his sleeve, uncaring of the spectacle he was making.
"And when I go home," he continued, his voice breaking, "there's always a warm dinner waiting. No matter how late I am. She waits for me. She waits for me. Can you imagine that? Someone waiting for you? Wanting you to come home?"
He was sobbing openly now, his forehead pressed against his hands.
"Sometimes," he whispered, "sometimes she wraps herself around me in her sleep. Like an octopus, she calls it. Her arms around my waist, her legs tangled with mine, her face pressed against my back. And I just… I lie there and I think about how lucky I am. How impossibly, undeservedly lucky. I could die happy in that moment. I could die right there and it would be enough."
"Jesus, Nanami," someone muttered, but he pressed on.
"I do the dishes," he said fiercely, lifting his tear-stained face. "Every night. And the laundry, and the trash, and the mowing on weekends, and anything else she needs. I don't want her to lift a finger. Do you understand? She deserves to be cared for. She deserves to be cherished. She gives me everything—her warmth, her patience, her love—and what do I give her? A salary? A clean house? It's not enough. It will never be enough."
He grabbed his glass again, draining it, his hands shaking.
"I want to work harder," he declared, his voice rising with desperate passion. "I want to earn more, to give her everything. The best house, the best food, the best life. I want her to never worry about anything. I want her to know every single day that she's valued, that she's adored, that she's the center of my whole world. I can't imagine a single day without her. Not one. The thought alone makes me want to—"
He broke off, burying his face in his hands again, shoulders shaking with silent tears.
The table sat in stunned silence. The atmosphere had shifted completely—from bitter commiseration to something uncomfortable, almost embarrassing. These men had come seeking validation for their resentment, and instead they'd been confronted with a love so raw, so consuming, that it felt almost obscene to witness.
"Okay, okay," Takahashi said finally, patting Nanami's shoulder awkwardly. "I think you've had enough, buddy."
"I love her so much," Nanami mumbled into his hands, utterly wrecked. "So much it hurts. Every day. Every single day."
But Nanami wasn't done. He lifted his head suddenly, his tear-streaked face taking on an intense, almost professorial expression despite the alcohol. He slammed his palm on the table, making the dishes rattle.
"You don't understand," he said, his voice carrying a strange authority even through the slurring. "Any of you. You're all complaining about your wives, about the dishes, about the nagging—but have you ever stopped to think about what they're going through?"
The men exchanged glances, caught off guard by the sudden shift from emotional confession to what sounded suspiciously like a lecture.
"Your wives," Nanami continued, gesturing broadly with his chopsticks, "they work too. Or they manage your homes, your lives, your children. They carry the mental load. The invisible labor. And you—" he pointed accusingly at Yamamoto, "—you complain about taking out the trash? About doing a few dishes?"
He shook his head, looking genuinely pained for them.
"You should be grateful," he said, his voice dropping to something fierce and earnest. "Grateful that someone cares enough to remind you about the trash. That someone is waiting at home, thinking about you. That someone has built a life with you. Do you know how precious that is? How rare?"
Sato opened his mouth to protest, but Nanami cut him off.
"And another thing," he continued, warming to his topic, his hands moving now as if he were conducting a seminar. "If you're going to do the dishes—and you should be doing the dishes, every night, without being asked—then do them properly. Don't just splash water around."
He leaned forward, his expression deadly serious despite the flush on his cheeks.
"The technique," he announced, as if revealing ancient wisdom. "You fill the sink with hot water—not scalding, but hot—and you add soap. Let the dishes soak for two minutes. Not longer, or the food dries again. Then—" he demonstrated with his hands, "you scrub from top to bottom. Glasses first, then plates, then cutlery, then pots. Always in that order. Rinse with hot water, stack in the drying rack at an angle so air circulates. Twenty minutes, maximum. Efficient. Clean. Done."
The table stared at him in disbelief.
"Nanami," Takahashi said slowly, "you… you actually do the dishes? Every night?"
"Of course I do," Nanami said, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. "And the laundry. And I fold it properly—shirts get hung, everything else gets folded in thirds and stacked by type. Socks matched immediately. Never leave laundry in the basket overnight. It's disrespectful to the person who will have to iron it later."
He looked around at them, his eyes swimming with alcohol and sincerity.
"You should all be doing this," he said, his voice trembling with emotion. "Not because they ask you to. Not because you have to. But because you want to. Because you love them. Because they deserve someone who will carry the weight with them, not add to it."
He reached for his phone, squinting at the screen, then smiled—a soft, private smile that transformed his face completely.
"She's coming," he announced, his voice gentling. "I can see her location. She's five minutes away."
"Wait," Sato said, confused. "You share locations?"
"Of course," Nanami said simply. "So I always know she's safe. So she always knows where I am. So if something happens, we can find each other. She's my person. She's always been my person."
Takahashi laughed, a nervous, uncomfortable sound. "How long have you two been married, anyway? A month? Two? This is honeymoon phase stuff, Nanami. Wait a few years, you'll understand why we complain."
Nanami looked at him, really looked at him, and his expression was almost pitying.
"We've been married for two years," he said quietly. "Together for ten. And nothing has changed. Not one thing. I still feel like a teenager when she walks into a room. My heart still races when I hear her key in the lock. Every morning I wake up and think, she chose me. Again. She chose me."
He leaned back, his phone clutched in his hand like a talisman.
"I will always be there for her," he said, his voice steady despite the alcohol. "No matter what. If she's sick, I'm there. If she's sad, I'm there. If she needs me at three in the morning, I'm there. That's what love is. That's what marriage is. Not… not whatever you all are complaining about."
The door to the private room slid open.
Every head turned.
You stood there in a simple sweater and jeans, your hair pulled back, looking slightly flushed from the cold outside. You scanned the room quickly, your eyes finding Nanami immediately, and your face softened in a way that made the other men shift uncomfortably in their seats—like they were witnessing something too intimate for public view.
"Kento," you said, your voice gentle but firm. "I thought we agreed you'd stop at two drinks."
Nanami's face lit up like you'd hung the moon just for him. He stood—staggered slightly—and made his way toward you with the single-minded determination of the truly inebriated.
"There she is," he announced to the room, his voice carrying a note of wonder. "There she is. Look at her. Look how pretty she is."
"Okay, Romeo," you said, reaching for his coat on the rack. "Let's get you home."
But Nanami intercepted you, his hands closing over yours on the coat.
"No," he said, suddenly serious. "No, I'll carry. That's my job. The hard stuff. I do the hard stuff."
"Kento, you're drunk—"
"Doesn't matter," he insisted, already struggling into his coat with the clumsy determination of a man on a mission. He grabbed his briefcase, then reached for your purse. "I carry. You just… you just walk. I'll carry everything."
You sighed, but there was love in it, long-suffering and fond. "At least let me get the tab—"
"I'll get it," Takahashi said quickly, standing up. "Really. It's… it's fine."
You smiled at him, that warm, genuine smile that Nanami had been describing all night. "Thank you. I'll make sure he pays you back tomorrow when he's sober."
"Not necessary," Takahashi said, and meant it.
As Nanami gathered his things—refusing to let you carry so much as your own scarf, stuffing it into his pocket instead—the waitresses who had been hovering near the doorway watching the scene unfolded gave you knowing looks. One of them—a young woman with kind eyes—mouthed "lucky" as you passed, and you smiled back, because you were, and you knew it.
The other men were gathering their things now, checking their phones with grim expressions, preparing to face the wives they'd spent the evening complaining about. They watched as Nanami insisted on holding the door open for you, as he hovered protectively at your elbow as you navigated the stairs, as he refused to let anyone help him despite the way he swayed on his feet.
Outside, the cold night air hit them all like a slap. The other men stumbled toward the train station, already pulling up their collars against the wind, checking the time, calculating how much trouble they were in.
But Nanami had you.
You had driven, knowing he would need a ride home. You guided him toward the car, your hand on his back, patient as he stopped every few steps to tell you something else.
"Your eyes," he announced loudly, his voice carrying across the parking lot. "Your eyes are so pretty. Did I tell you that? They're like stars. Like the pretty stars."
"Yes, Kento," you said, unlocking the car. "You told me. And the colleagues. And probably the waitstaff."
"And your hair," he continued, swaying as he tried to focus on you. "Your hair smells so good. Like flowers. Like… like nice flowers. The best flowers."
"Thank you, sweetheart."
He stopped abruptly, catching your hands in his, his face suddenly serious despite the alcohol flushing his cheeks.
"I love you," he said, loud enough that a couple passing by turned to look. "I love you so much. Do you know that? Do you know how much?"
"I know," you said, your voice soft. "I love you too. Now come on, let's get you home."
"Ten years," he said, letting you guide him to the passenger seat but resisting getting in. "Ten years and I still… I still feel like a teenager. When you smile at me. When you… when you look at me. Like this. Right now."
He reached out, his hand cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin with drunken tenderness.
"So pretty," he whispered, then louder, declaring it to the night: "She's so pretty! My wife! Look at her!"
"Kento, get in the car," you laughed, pushing him gently into the seat.
He went, finally, but he kept talking as you walked around to the driver's side, his voice carrying through the open door.
"Best part of my day," he called out. "Coming home to you. Every day. Best part. The very best part."
You slid into the driver's seat, leaning over to buckle his seatbelt for him since his coordination had apparently abandoned him completely.
"You're ridiculous," you said, but you were smiling.
"Your ridiculous," he corrected, beaming at you with adoration that ten years hadn't dimmed. "I'm yours. Forever. Always there. For you. Always."
You started the car, glancing in the rearview mirror at the group of his colleagues still standing outside the restaurant, watching you go with expressions you couldn't quite read—envy, maybe, or confusion, or something that looked almost like regret.
As you pulled out of the parking lot, Nanami reached for your hand, lacing his fingers through yours with the single-minded focus of the truly inebriated.
"I'll do the dishes when we get home," he announced.
"You absolutely will not," you said. "You'll go straight to bed."
"But I want to—"
"I know you do. That's why I'll do them tomorrow and you can do them the day after. When you're not going to break all our plates."
He considered this, his head lolling against the headrest as he turned to look at you with glassy, love-drunk eyes.
"Okay," he agreed. "But I'm doing them the day after. With the technique. The good technique."
"The good technique," you confirmed, squeezing his hand.
"And I love you," he added, as if this were a new thought, a revelation. "Did I say that? I should say it more. I should say it every minute. Every second."
"You say it plenty," you assured him. "I never doubt it for a second."
"Good," he murmured, his eyes drifting closed. "That's good. Because it's true. All of it. Forever."
You drove through the darkened streets, your husband's hand warm in yours, his breathing evening out as the alcohol pulled him toward sleep. Behind you, the city lights blurred into streaks of gold and white, but ahead of you was home—warm, waiting, built on ten years of choosing each other, again and again, every single day.
And somewhere behind you, a group of men stumbled toward trains and cold welcomes, suddenly wondering what they'd been missing all along.
epilogue?
The morning light was a personal attack.
Nanami groaned, pressing his face into the pillow with a level of regret typically reserved for life-altering mistakes. His head throbbed in time with his heartbeat, a dull, insistent pounding that made him wonder if someone was actually inside his skull with a hammer.
"Good morning," came a voice, soft and amused.
He cracked one eye open. You were sitting on the edge of the bed, a cup of coffee in one hand and a glass of water with two aspirin in the other. You looked fresh and lovely and entirely too awake for someone who had wrestled a drunk, crying man into bed at midnight.
"I died," he croaked. "I'm dead. This is the afterlife."
"Close," you said, setting the water on the nightstand. "You're just thirty-one and can't handle your sake anymore."
He made a wounded noise and tried to burrow deeper into the blankets, but you pulled them back with merciless efficiency.
"Up," you commanded. "You have work in an hour. Shower's running. I made hangover soup."
"You're too good for this world," he mumbled, but he sat up, accepting the water and aspirin with hands that only shook slightly. "Did I… did I do anything terrible last night?"
You were quiet for just a beat too long.
"Nothing terrible," you said carefully. "You just… declared your undying love for me. Loudly. To your entire team. And several waitresses. And possibly some people in the parking lot."
He froze, the glass halfway to his lips.
"Oh no."
"Oh yes."
"How bad?"
"You cried about my eyes being stars," you said, counting on your fingers. "You lectured Yamamoto about proper dish-washing technique. You told everyone we've been together ten years and you still feel like a teenager around me. You insisted on carrying everything including my scarf. And you yelled 'she's so pretty' at least four times in public spaces."
Nanami set the glass down and covered his face with his hands.
"I'm never going to work again."
"You absolutely are," you laughed, leaning in to kiss his forehead. "Because I spent twenty minutes this morning pressing your suit and making you a bento with a very embarrassing note inside, and you're going to march in there and own it."
"I can't own this," he said, his voice muffled. "I talked about you wrapping around me like an octopus. I talked about your hair smelling like jasmine. I was weeping, wasn't I?"
"Openly and enthusiastically."
"God."
You stood, smoothing your hand over his bed-rumpled hair. "They were jealous, you know. All of them. You could see it on their faces."
"They were horrified."
"They were jealous," you repeated firmly. "Now get up. Your soup's getting cold. And Kento?"
He looked up at you, miserable and hungover and still somehow devastatingly handsome despite the despair in his eyes.
"I loved every second of it," you said softly. "Every embarrassing, loud, poetic second. I kept the note you wrote me at dinner. It's in my jewelry box."
He stared at you, something vulnerable moving across his face.
"Even the octopus part?"
"Especially the octopus part."
The office was already buzzing when Nanami arrived, precisely on time despite his condition. He'd taken your advice—showered, shaved, put on the pressed suit, and marched in with his chin up and his sunglasses firmly in place to hide the death in his eyes.
He made it to his desk without incident. Set down his briefcase. Removed his coat. Hung it with mechanical precision.
Then he opened his bag and found the bento.
You'd written on the lid in your familiar handwriting: "To my star-eyed boy. I love you more than yesterday, less than tomorrow. - Your octopus 🐙"
He stared at it, feeling his ears burn, and quickly shoved it into his desk drawer.
"Nanami."
He looked up. Takahashi was standing at the edge of his cubicle, holding two cups of coffee. The older man looked uncomfortable, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
"I, uh. Brought you this. Black, two sugars. Figured you'd need it."
Nanami accepted it slowly. "Thank you."
They stood in silence for a moment, the unspoken weight of last night hanging between them.
"Look," Takahashi finally said, not quite meeting his eyes. "About yesterday…"
"Please don't," Nanami said quietly.
"No, I—" Takahashi sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I just wanted to say… you were right. About what you said. About the dishes and… and all of it."
Nanami blinked.
"I went home last night," Takahashi continued, his voice low. "And my wife was asleep on the couch waiting for me. She'd made me food even though I was late. And I thought about what you said, about someone waiting for you, and I…" He stopped, his jaw working. "I sat there and cried like an idiot. Woke her up. She thought I was having a stroke."
Nanami didn't know what to say.
"I've been taking her for granted," Takahashi said simply. "For years. And you… you made me see it. So. Thanks. I guess. For being embarrassingly in love with your wife."
He walked away before Nanami could respond, leaving him standing there with his coffee and his bento and his pounding headache.
It continued throughout the day.
Yamamoto stopped by his desk to ask about the dish-washing technique—"for real, the soaking thing, does that actually work?"—and ended up admitting that he'd bought his wife flowers that morning for the first time in five years.
Sato, the young associate, cornered him in the break room and asked, with desperate sincerity, how he'd managed to keep the "honeymoon phase" alive for ten years. "Is it… is it just her? Or do you do something specific? Is there a book?"
Even the department head, a stern woman in her fifties who rarely engaged with junior staff, paused by his desk on her way to a meeting.
"Nanami," she said, her expression unreadable.
"Yes, ma'am?"
"Your wife. She's a lucky woman."
"Thank you, ma'am. But I'm the lucky one."
She studied him for a long moment, then nodded once, sharply, as if he'd passed some kind of test.
"Keep that," she said. "Don't lose it."
By lunch, Nanami had fielded three requests for relationship advice, two confessions of marital neglect, and one awkward invitation to "double date sometime" from a colleague he barely knew.
He retreated to an empty conference room with his bento, seeking solitude, and found your note waiting inside: "Proud of you. Eat your vegetables. I love you. - Your star."
He smiled despite himself, despite the headache, despite the mortification of the night before. He took a photo of the note and sent it to you with the caption: "They're all asking me for the secret. Should I tell them there isn't one? Just you?"
Your reply came immediately: "Tell them the secret is finding someone who looks at you like you're stars and sunshine and home. Tell them good luck."
He was still grinning like a fool when the door opened.
It was the entire team—Takahashi, Yamamoto, Sato, and three others from last night. They filed in with serious expressions, and Nanami stood, suddenly wary, wondering if this was some kind of intervention.
"Nanami," Takahashi said, stepping forward. "We talked. While you were gone."
"Unless," Sato added quickly, "you bring your wife."
There was a pause.
"She can be our designated driver," Takahashi explained. "And also… we want to meet the woman who inspired that level of embarrassing public devotion. We need to see if she's real. Or if you just made her up."
"She's real," Nanami said, his voice soft but certain.
"Then prove it," Yamamoto challenged. "Next Friday. Team dinner. Bring her. Let us see what we're missing."
Nanami looked at them—these men who had spent years complaining about their marriages, who had seen him weep and proclaim and make a fool of himself, who were now looking at him with something that wasn't quite envy but wasn't far from it.
"She might say no," he warned.
"Ask her," Takahashi said. "Properly. With that poetic stuff you do. The stars and sunshine thing."
Nanami thought about you. About your eyes, your smile, the way you wrapped around him at night. About ten years and still feeling like a teenager. About the note in his bento and the soup waiting at home and the life you'd built together, word by word, day by day.
"She'll say yes," he said. "She always says yes. Because she loves me. Even when I'm drunk and embarrassing and crying about her hair in public."
The men shifted, uncomfortable but unable to look away.
"How," Sato asked, his voice barely above a whisper, "how do you find someone like that?"
Nanami picked up his bag, his bento finished, your note tucked safely in his breast pocket.
"You don't find them," he said. "You become someone worthy of being found. You do the dishes. You remember the notes. You show up. Every day. Even when it's hard. Especially when it's hard."
He walked to the door, then paused, looking back at them.
"And you never, ever stop telling them how much they matter. Not even when you're sober. Not even when it's embarrassing. Especially then."
He left them standing there, staring after him, and walked back to his desk with his head high and his heart full.
That night, when he walked through the door, you were waiting—just like always, just like he'd told them, just like he'd promised.
"How was work?" you asked, taking his bag, his coat, pressing a kiss to his cheek.
"Better than expected," he admitted. "They want to meet you. Officially. They're… curious."
You raised an eyebrow. "Should I be nervous?"
"Never," he said, pulling you close, burying his face in your hair, breathing in vanilla and jasmine and home. "Just be you. That's all you've ever had to be."
"And you'll be there?" you asked, your arms winding around his waist, your cheek against his chest. "Being embarrassing?"
"Always," he promised. "Every day. Forever."
"Good," you whispered. "I like you embarrassing. I like you sober. I like you any way you come, Kento. Just come home to me."
He held you tighter, feeling the truth of it settle into his bones, permanent and perfect.
A/N: we need to get this boy some love!!! *english is not my first language!!
˚.🐯 ᵎᵎ Itadori Yuji is the kind of guy who would want to show you off to every single person. If he says ten words, nine of them are about his beautiful girlfriend. He would proudly announce you in his friend group like you are the most valuable person for him (Which you are)
˚.🐯 ᵎᵎ Don't get me STARTED on the dates. Most of them are really fun and always something thoughtful but... sometimes it goes absolutely wrong. It's not like he doesn't put effort on it, he actually puts way too much effort trying to surprise you. Like that one time he tried making dinner for you, burned the food and when you insisted in at least take a bite he was watching it like he just committed a crime and you were the judge. In the end, you ordered something (your preference of course) and watched some trashy horror movie.
˚.🐯 ᵎᵎ He loves to listen to you ramble about your interests and tries really hard to understand and memorize what you're saying, but he also rambles a lot so conversations are always very dynamic, but you two always end up gossiping about EVERYONE. It's like a secret only you two can have.
˚.🐯 ᵎᵎ Itadori always end up laying on you. On your chest, stomach, shoulder, thighs, and butt. You're his personal pillow.
˚.🐯 ᵎᵎ Physical touch. Don't even care about PDA but keeps it respectful. But hishands are always on you. Arm around you shoulder, holding your waist, even picking you up from time to time. He does it naturally, don't even realize it. But is just to make sure you're by his side.
˚.🐯 ᵎᵎ He's also the type of guy who wants to spend most of the free time with you. If he's going out with his friends he'll ask them if you could join them. Aaand it's NEVER awkward, he's always making sure everyone is comfortable (even though he's a bit oblivious sometimes)
˚.🐯 ᵎᵎ If you want to match outfits he'll absolutely love it. Not like those corny shirts with just something written on, im talking about use the same color palette, matching bracelets, something to make sure everyone could tell you're together.
A/N: Hiii!! This is my first time writing for tumblr and english is not my first language so sorry if i misspelled something. Enjoy your reading!
୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ Nanami Kento is the kind of man who has acts of service and quality time as his love language. You'll suddenly realize how every little problem disappears. Forgot to buy something for dinner? He remembered. Complained about a burn-out light bulb? He already fixed. Spent too much time alone and need someone? Yeah, he already predicted that and prepared a date for you. And he's not rubbing it on your face, he just wants to help and spend time with you.
୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ Nanami Kento is always inviting you to spend his lunch break with him. Or either calling you when he's not busy. Hearing your voice it's like a immediate stress relief.
୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ Nanami Kento who overworks himself more times than he could count and apologize for falling asleep without properly talking to you and wishing you a good night.
୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ Nanami Kento would absolutely love taking baths with you. Not always with ulterior motives, but because he truly believes that this is one of the most intimate things you two could do. He will always lean into your touch when you're washing his hair and he will gladly wash yours too. He would even help you dry your hair with a hairdryer or just a towel.
୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ Nanami Kento who always thinks about you when he passes by a bakery. I mean, he loves this places and wants to share this joy with you! (and spoil you with sweets.)
୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ Nanami Kento is going to kiss your entire body like you are a goddess to be worshipped if you're feeling insecure. And he's not going to say vague stuff like: "No, you're pretty!" He's gonna give you the most specific compliments in the world. Even though he's not a man of words, he takes this very seriously. Could spend hours complimenting you. He would say something like: "I remember the first time i saw you in that dress, it was like i fell in love again. Don't you dare say those things about your body, but if you do, i could kiss it away every time you want me too."
ּ֯ . ❥ ּ֯ ┆the times nanami tried to propose… and failed
it all started when nanami took you to italy for your eighth anniversary. you didn’t think much of it. just another trip, a whole week alone with your boyfriend.
but to nanami, this trip meant something more—he was going to propose. ever since the day you spoke about what made you the happiest, the way your cheeks ached from smiling and your eyes sparkled with excitement, he knew.
he wanted to drop down on one knee and make you his wife. after eight years together, he knew the time was right and he couldn’t wait to finally have you as his fiancé, after holding himself back for so long.
he had it all planned out, something romantic, something perfect. nothing could go wrong… or so he thought.
ATTEMPT ONE — his original plan.
nanami had planned to ask you to be his wife just one day into the trip. together, you wandered through italy’s landmarks, slipping into every restaurant that caught your eye. you didn’t want to miss a second of it.
after a full day out, nanami had you change into something a little more formal.
obviously, you didn’t think much of it. just that he might be taking you out for a fancy dinner, not knowing he was planning to ask the big question that night.
you being oblivious about it, changed into a sparkly gold dress, that draped over you like liquid light, its off-shoulder neckline soft and effortless. it hugged your figure with gentle ruching before flowing to the floor, shimmering subtly with every step.
your hair and makeup was all done before putting the dress on. all you had to do was put on some perfume and you were set.
while you were trying to pick out which one, you didn’t realise nanami was leaning against the bathroom door admiring you.
the way his eyes softened, not daring to leave your figure. you looked up to see him in the mirror. your face immediately lit up.
“hi baby” your voice, so soft, made nanami’s heartbeat pound against his chest. it was like he was the boy from college having a big crush on you, all over again.
“hi, darling. almost done?” nanami asked as he stepped further into the bathroom. he came up behind you and, without hesitation, slipped his arms around your waist.
you catch his gaze in the mirror and smile. “yeah, just gotta pick which perfume. can you pick for me?”
nanami leaned down, resting his chin on the crown of your head as he studied the perfumes in your hand. he hummed softly before pointing to the one you always wore.
you grinned, quickly spraying it on. but for nanami, he couldn’t wait for the perfect moment. the ring sat in his back pocket, and everything at the lookout was already set.
once you were ready, you stepped out of the hotel with nanami, your arm linked with his. your steps fell into sync, your heels clicking softly against the pavement.
as always, nanami opened the car door for you, gesturing to the passenger seat. “my lady.” you giggled at his formality.
“thank you, kind sir.” you say, dipping your head as you slide into the car. nanami circles around and gets in, leaning over to press a soft kiss to your cheek before starting the engine.
when you arrived, he handed you a blindfold. gou looked at it, then at him, then back again. “what is this?”
he chuckled. “nothing. just put it on.” you clicked your tongue, taking the blindfold. he’d never asked you to do something like this before, and it made you just a little suspicious.
of course, you didn’t think he was going to propose. you were more focused on whatever he had planned for you.
you slid the blindfold over your eyes, tying it snug. your only concern was the eyeliner you’d spent ages perfecting… maybe he should’ve warned you before you went to all that effort.
nanami stepped out, quickly circling to your side. he opened the door and gently guided you out.
you didn’t know, but just a minute away, a candlelit table waited at the edge of the cliffs—petals scattered along the steps, fairy lights glowing softly, and a heart-shaped arch lit in the middle was ‘will you marry me’.
he’d spent a small fortune on the setup, his heart racing despite the calm front he kept. beneath it all, nerves twisted tight. worried you might say no, leaving him standing there, foolish.
he knew you wouldn’t, but there was always that small, nagging possibility.
once he helped you out of the car, he guided you toward the spot. “why am i blindfolded again?” you asked, your hands hovering cautiously in front of you.
“shhh, just enjoy the moment.” nanami whispered in your ear, giving you shivers. he had that thing where he made you nervous without trying.
as you walked, a comfortable silence settled between you. the kind that felt right, perfect, like nothing could go wrong.
nanami could barely contain his excitement. any moment now, he’d ask you the question, silently hoping you’d say yes.
he’d been waiting so long for this moment, wanting it to be perfect—so perfect that neither of you would ever forget it.
but when you reached where everything was supposed to be perfectly set up, it was far from that. in that moment, nanami felt like the ground might swallow him whole.
the table that was meant to hold your dinner was now swarmed by birds, picking through the food, and the heart-shaped arch with the big question, lay toppled by the wind.
it looked as if the whole place had been ransacked.
nanami stopped you suddenly, making you nearly trip over your heels. “kento!” you shrieked, but he caught you, holding you steady against his chest.
“sorry… i think we came to the wrong spot.” he said, the lie slipping out a little too quickly. beneath it though, disappointment settled heavy. everything had been ruined.
“what?!” you said, brows lifting beneath the blindfold. you’d walked blindly for what felt like ages. for nothing.
you brought your hands up to the blindfold, already starting to peel it back. until nanami knocked your hand aside. not harsh, but firm enough to make his point “what’s wrong with you?”
“keep it on… uhm, we’re going somewhere else.” he gave a small, awkward laugh, already turning you around before you could question it. his hand lingered at your back, guiding. but his jaw had tightened, just enough to betray him.
everything had been set. every detail accounted for. he’d gone over it again and again, down to the exact moment he’d reach for your hand and now it was gone. just like that.
the irritation flickered through him, quick and hot, before he forced it back down. not at you. never at you. still, it clung to him, heavier than he wanted to admit.
he’s definitely going to complain.
ATTEMPT TWO — fancy restaurant
after the seaside disaster, nanami had spent forty-eight hours in a state of high-functioning irritation. he was a man of logic, a man of schedules, and yet the Italian wind and a flock of opportunistic seagulls had managed to dismantle his perfectly calibrated future.
he wasn't going to let it happen again. if the outdoors were too volatile, he would bring the proposal inside. to a place where the variables were controlled, the service was impeccable, and the birds were safely roasted and served with a side of truffle jus.
the winding drive to ravello was a blur of lemon groves and sheer cliffs, but by the time the car pulled up to the palazzo, nanami had regained his mask.
or so it seemed. internally, he was a ticking clock of anxiety. he had booked a table at a michelin-starred restaurant where the balcony felt like it was floating in the clouds, high above the unpredictable elements.
you wore your favorite dress, the one that made him lose his train of thought every time you moved, and the way he looked at you across the candlelight made your skin flush.
but as the night wore on, you noticed the signs. his foot was tapping a frantic, silent rhytm against the marble floor.
“you're being remarkably attentive to the dessert menu“ you teased, swirling the last of your wine. you had counted, he checked his watch every thirty seconds since the mains were cleared.
“expecting an urgent international phone call? or is the lemon curd time-sensitive?“
“expecting a result“ he muttered, his voice tight. he didn't elaborate. instead, he sat up with a sudden, rigid posture as a pair of waiters emerged from the shadows of the kitchen, silver trays balanced aloft.
this was the correction. he had tipped the head waiter a vulgar amount of money to ensure the ring was placed inside the lemon soufflé. it was a classic. it was safe. it was—
“wow! look at the height on that thing! it's like a yellow skyscraper!“
the atmosphere didn't just break. it was shattered by a man three tables over. he was wearing a neon-pink tropical shirt that seemed to vibrate against the sophisticated decor.
you watched, blinking in confusion, as the waiter. the very one nanami had spent twenty minutes briefing—placed a towering, golden soufflé in front of the stranger instead of on your table.
“honey, look!“ the man hollered to his wife, who was busy adjusting her hair. “i'm gonna demolish this. one bite, no regrets. hmmm, it looks so good.“ he brandished his spoon like a shovel, hovering it over the quivering center of the dessert.
nanami's soul seemed to leave his body for a fraction of a second, replaced by a gold, calculating fury. the 'result' was currently three feet away from being swallowed by a man who thought cargo shorts were evening wear.
nanami didn't merely stand. he moved with the explosive grace of a man intercepting a live grenade. he practically vaulted over the centerpiece of white hydrangeas. “sir! stop! do not consume that!“
the restuarant plunged into a vaccum of silence. the man in the pink shirt froze, his spoon centimeters from the crust. “whoa, take it easy, man! i paid for the tasting menu! get your own pudding.“
“hand over the utensil.” nanami commanded, his voice vibrating with a terrifying, suppressed rage.
“look, buddy, i don't know what your problem is,“ the man stammered, looking around the horrified diners. “is it gluten free? is there a calorie limit? piss off!”
“it is a matter of… internal integrity!” nanami snapped. he didn’t wait for permission. he lunged forward, seized the man’s wrist with one hand and the silver spoon with the other.
you sat in mortified stillness, watching your usually dignified boyfriend perform a frantic, surgical excavation of a strangers dessert.
he dug into the steaming egg-white foam, his jaw muscles leaping as he worked with desperate concentration. the tourist began to shout.
“hey! that’s my dessert! someone call security, this guys a lunatic! he’s trying to eat my soufflé!”
finally, nanami’s eyes flashed with a grim, bitter relief. he fished something out of the depths of the lemon cream. something small that he instantly closed his fist around, shielding it from view with speed of a card shark.
he didn’t explain, he didn’t drop to a knee. he simply marched back to your table, his face mask of a cold stone, his hand clamped shut like he was holding a piece of radioactive shrapnel.
he was fuming. the poetry of the evening had been replaced by the sticky reality of a botched delivery.
“kento,” you whispered, your face burning a shade of red that matched the wine. “what on earth was that? and what is in your hand?” you glanced back over at the man, to see him glaring at nanami.
“it is compromised,” he stated flatly. he grabbed a heavy linen napkin and shoved his closed fist inside it, scrubbing at the hidden object with aggressive, jerky motions.
he stuffed the entire bundle. napkin and all. deep into his blazer pocket. he adjusted his tie, his jaw set in a line of pure, unadulterated frustration.
“the logistics have failed,” he said, staring at the empty space between you, his eyes dark with irritation. “the moment is contaminated. we shall order the cheese plate instead. it is much harder for a fool to accidentally ingest something.”
he signaled for the check, his hand still resting over the pocket containing the sticky, napkin-wrapped ring.
another fail.
ATTEMPT THREE — the beach
the next morning, nanami was a man possessed. after the lemon-soufflé debacle of the previous night, his typical composure had been completely eroded by seventy-two hours of logistical nightmares.
avian sabotage, and jewellery that now smelled faintly of citrus. he wasn’t just a man trying to propose anymore. he was a man waging a war against a universe that seemed determined to keep him as a boyfriend.
at 5:30 am, he was shaking you awake.
“kento… it’s still dark,” you groaned, burying your face in the cool hotel pillows. “is the hotel on fire? are we catching an early flight home?”
“we are catching the light,” he replied, his voice a low, urgent rumble. he already had his trousers on and was buttoning a crisp white shirt with hands that moved with clinical efficiency.
inside, he was fuming. he had calculated the exact angle of the sunrise to ensure no shadows would obscure the moment. “dress warmly. quickly, please.”
you were half asleep and entirely bewildered, your hair a birds nest of tangled waves as he practically bundled you in the car.
he drove with a silent, white knuckled intensity, his eyes scanning the horizon as if he expected a meteor strike to ruin his third attempt. by the time he led you down a narrow stone path to a secluded cove, the sky was bruised purple, bleeding into a soft, hazy gold.
the sand was cool and damp beneath your toes, and the air smelled of seawater and the lingering chill of the night.
nanami stopped near a jagged outcrop of rock. he was breathing like he’d just finished a sprint. this was it. no birds. no tourist in neon shirts. no misplaced desserts. just the rhythmic pulse of the mediterranean and the woman he had loved for eight years.
“one last try,” he whispered, more to himself than you.
“a try for what? kento, you’re acting really strange.” you said, rubbing sleep from your eyes and shriving, despite having nanami’s hoodie on. “are we looking for a specific shell? did you drop your keys in the sand?”
he didn’t answer. he turned to face you, his hand reaching into his pocket. he was just about to reach for your hand, his body tensing as he prepared to make the good transition from ‘man standing’ to ‘man proposing’.
when his ears picked up a low, rhythmic thumping that seemed to vibrate through the ground. “ON YOUR LEFT! GO, GO, GO! VAI! VAI! VAI!”
the ground didn’t just shake. it roared. a thundering herd of thirty italian marathon trainers, all clad in blinding, yellow vest, exploded onto the beach from the trailhead.
they were a pulsating, panting mass of sweat and ambition, moving with the terrifying momentum of a freight train.
one runner, a particularly enthusiastic man with a headband, veered too close to nanami. his heavy sneakers struck the soft grit just inches from nanami’s feet, sending a literal wave of sand-spray directly into nanami’s face.
“SCUSA!” the runner yelled over his shoulder, not slowing his pace as the entire pack barreled past like a stampede of high-visibility wildebeests, effectively wedging a wall of neon between you and nanami.
nanami froze. he stood there, eyes squeezed shut, his mouth a thin line as grains of sand clung to his eyelashes and dusted the pristine white of his shirt.
he hadn’t even managed to get the box out of his pocket before he was nearly trampled. he slowly wiped a layer of grit from his lips, watching the retreating neon yellow blur with a look of such concentrated, murderous fury that the air around him practically hummed.
you, however, had reached your limit. the sheer, cosmic absurdity of timing, the way he looked like a statue of a very angry man covered in dust.
it hit you like a physical weight. you clutched your stomach, your knees buckling as you started to howl with laughter.
“it’s not funny.” he snapped, his voice tight, his hand still clamped firmly onto the hidden ring in his pocket.
“kento, it’s… it’s hilarious!” you gasped, doubling over and eventually leaning on him for support because you couldn’t stand. tears of laughter were streaming down your face, ruining whatever remained on your morning look.
“you dragged me here at dawn just to get sand-blasted by a track team! what was so important about this spot?”
he looked down at you—shaking with mirth and looking more beautiful in your disheveled state than you had in the gold dress.
a reluctant, weary smile finally began to tug at the corner of his mouth as he realised the ‘perfect moment’ had once again been trampled.
he sighed, the tension finally breaking as he pulled you into a hug, his hand staying safely in his pocket.
“i am a man of logic,” he muttered into your messy hair, his voice vibrating with defeat. “and the logic suggests that this beach is a safety hazard.”
“you’re so dramatic,” you giggled, completely oblivious to the diamond inches away from your hip. “let’s just go get a croissant.”
“fine,” he sighed, already mentally checking the local jeweller to see if they sold sand-proof boxes. “we shall eat. and i shall never speak of this cove again.”
ATTEMPT FOUR — the boat
by the fifth night, nanami’s spirit was held together by nothing but sheer willpower and a high-grade silk tie. the ‘vacation’ had become a tactical nightmare, a series of failed manoeuvres that would have made a lesser man surrender to the whims of fate.
but nanami did not surrender. he simply recalculated. If the land and the beach were hostile territory, he would seek the neutrality of the sea.
he had chartered a vintage wooden speedboat. a gleaming masterpiece of mahogany and chrome that smelled of expensive varnish and salt. as the sun began to dip, the amalfi cliffs turned a deep, burning gold, reflecting off the ripples of the mediterranean.
you leaned back against the plush leather cushions, watching him. he looked like a film star. in a crisp white shirt, dark blazer, and that focused, intense gaze that usually meant he was closing a multi-million-yen deal.
“you’re very quiet tonight, kento,” you said, reaching over to trail your fingers along his forearm. “is the 'overtime' of vacation finally getting to you? you've been acting like you're on a deadline since we landed.”
he offered a soft smile, turning to capture your hand. his thumb traced circles over your knuckles, a gesture that felt tender. “on the contrary. i’m thinking about investments. very long-term ones.”
nanami shifted his weight, dropping his voice to that low resonant frequency that always made your heart skip. “i’ve spent my life looking for stability, for a set of rules to follow. but i realised recently that stability isn’t a place or a job, or a schedule. it’s—“
he reached into the inner pocket of his jacket. you felt the air shift, the sudden, heavy weight of the moment. he looked at you with an intensity that suggested he was about to say something that would change the trajectory of your entire lives.
and then, the world tilted.
a massive, triple-decked mega-yacht, apparently piloted by someone with a blatant disregard for wake zones, roared past. Its massive displacement hit your smaller vintage craft like a tidal wave. the boat lurched forty-five degrees to the left.
you tumbled into the cushions with a startled yelp, but nanami, caught mid-reach and off-balance, was thrown forward.
at the exact micro-second, the onboard waiter had been stepping out of the small cabin with a tray of salmon antipasti.
SPLAT.
it wasn’t just a spill. it was a tactical spill. a dozen oily, caper-strewn slices of smoked salmon plastered themselves to nanami’s chest like cold, pink medals of dishonour.
“kento!” you gasped, scrambling up to help him. you reached out to wipe a stray caper from his lapel, but you stopped when you saw his face.
he didn't move. he didn't even breathe. he sat there, encased in fish and olive oil, the sunset gold glinting off the salmon scale on his lens.
the look on his face was one of pure, unadulterated defeat—the look of a man who had fought the law of averages and lost.
“i believe,” he said, his voice trembling with a suppressed, vibrating frustration as he reached up with two fingers to peel a caper off his glasses, “that the sea has voiced its final objection.”
“are you okay?” you asked, trying, but failing to hide the twitch of a smile. “you look… well, you look like a very expensive appetiser.”
nanami closed his eyes, a single drop of lemon-infused oil rolling down his cheek. he reached into his pocket, felt the small, velvet box that was now likely soaked in salmon brine, and decided to let it stay there.
if he took it out now, a whale would probably breach and swallow it whole.
“we are returning to the dock,” he stated, his voice a flat line of misery. “and i am going to burn this blazer.”
“kento, it’s just a little fish!”
“it’s not just the fish,” he muttered, staring gloomily at the horizon as the boat stabilised.
he was beginning to think the universe wasn’t just testing him. it was mocking him.
FINAL ATTEMPT — the cheap tavern
by the final night of the trip, the meticulous, high-stakes architect of romance had completely collapsed. the ‘perfect italy experience’ had been dismantled piece by piece. shattered by seagulls, hijacked by a man in a pink shirt, trampled by a marathon team, and finally, marinated in salmon oil.
nanami, a man who lived his life by the second and prided himself on his ironclad contingency plans, sat across you from you in a tiny, chaotic tavern tucked into a narrow backstreet of the village.
there were no white linens here. the floor was tacky with spilled peroni and the dust of a thousand footsteps. a jukebox in the corner was blaring a brassy, soulful tune that competed with the rhythmic clacking of local men playing cards and the distant, melodic shouting of kitchen staff at war.
nanami was a revelation. his tie was gone. likely discarded in a fit of pique three blocks back and his top two buttons were undone, revealing the hollow of his throat.
he was currently holding a greasy, folded slice of margarita pizza, looking less like a high-level executive and more like a man who had finally surrendered to the beautiful, messy gravity of real life.
you looked at him, really looked at him and saw the man behind the spreadsheets, and the rigid schedules. he looked exhausted, he looked human, and in the dim, flickering light of a birra moretto sign, he looked more handsome than you had ever seen him.
“you know,” you said, leaning over the scarred wooden table, your elbows resting on a paper placemat. “despite the boat, and the track team… this is my favourite night of the whole trip. no fancy clothes, just this.”
nanami paused, his pizza halfway to his mouth. he looked around at the peeling wallpaper, the sawdust on the floor, and the cracked ceramic carafe of house wine between you.
he started to laugh, a real, deep, belly aching sound that vibrated in his chest and crinkled the corners of his eyes. it was the sound of a man watching his last bit of control evaporate and realising he didn’t miss it.
“i have spent over eighteen thousand dollars this week.” he chuckled, shaking his head in a state of mild, humorous shock. “between the chartered speedboats, the private cliffside rentals, the michelin-starred bribes, and the 'emergency' dry cleaning for salmon-related incidents... i’ve burned through a small fortune trying to manufacture a single, sterile moment of perfection.”
he set the pizza down and wiped his hands on a thin, scratchy paper napkin, his movement finally devoid of that frantic, time-sensitive tension.
“and yet, here we are.” he said, his voice softening. “in a dive bar that smells like oregano and old wood. i was so worried about the logistics that i forgot the most basic rule of any investment. you cannot force the market to move before it is ready.”
he didn’t check his watch. he didn’t look at the lighting or scan the room for interruption. he simply reached into his pocket and pulled out the small velvet box.
it had survived a lot, it had been buried in a lemon soufflé, shoved into a sandy pocket, and splashed with fish oil—but when he slid it across the table, it came to a rest right next to a sticky salt shaker with a quiet, certain thud.
“i’m out of speeches.” he said, his eyes locking onto yours with a raw, beautiful sincerity that made the room feel suddenly, impossibly quiet.
“boat was a disaster, the food was stolen, the waiter gave the soufflé to someone else, the beach failed, and the universe clearly had a very long-standing grudge against my itinerary. i have no plans left. no back up. no schedule. just me. i love you. marry me?”
you didn’t even look at the diamond. you didn’t need to see the sparkle to know the weight of what he was offering.
you lunged across the small table, your fingers tangling in his hair, and grabbed his face to pull him into a kiss.
he tasted of cheap red wine, tomato sauce, and salt of the mediterranean, and his hands came up to steady you, gripping your waist with a fierce, relieved strength that told you he was never letting go.
“yes.” you whispered against his lips, the word vibrating between you. “a thousand times, yes. i would’ve said yes the first night, you idiot.”
nanami exhaled a long, shaky breath—the sound of a man who had finally reached home after a very long, very messy journey.
he pulled back just enough to slide the ring onto your finger, the diamond sparkling incongruously against the backdrop of the rowdy tavern.
for the first time all week, nanami leaned back in his creaky wooden chair, took a sip of the bitter house wine, and decided that everything was exactly on schedule.
★ synopsis nanami kento prides himself on his discipline, efficiency, and ironclad work ethic. you, on the other hand, are a paragon of spontaneity and relentless optimism. as ceo, you’re used to getting what you want—and your next business venture? winning him over. 17.8k words.
— pairing secretary!nanami kento x ceo!fem!reader
— tags fluff, angst, smut (desk sex, oral sex, fingering, protected sex, angry sex), ceo!au, office romance, mutual pining, idiots to idiots in love. profanity, alcohol consumption, inaccuracies about corporate life/corporate terms, discussions of arranged marriage, embezzlement, etc. please let me know if i missed anything!
— a/n reposted from my old blog. thanks for reading!
NANAMI KENTO IS A MAN OF ROUTINE. At precisely 7:26 A.M, he heads out of his apartment with his tie knotted perfectly and his shoes shined. At 7:43 A.M, he reaches the coffee shop he always frequents, and by 7:54 A.M, he walks out with an iced coffee with three shots of espresso (for himself) and a Mocha Cookie Crumble Frappuccino (for you).
If he drives fast enough, he can clock in at his workplace by 8:28 A.M, and by the time he reaches his desk, it’s 8:31 A.M. He waits patiently for you to arrive sometime between 8:36 and 8:49. Usually, you arrive exactly at 8:45 A.M, and until then, Nanami works on making a list of all the tasks scheduled for today, in order of greatest priority.
It’s when the clock starts inching towards 9:25 A.M and you still haven’t arrived, that Nanami Kento starts to get a little bit worried.
At 9:26 A.M, Nanami finally sets down his pen. He isn’t the type to fidget, nor is he the type to worry unnecessarily, but there’s an undeniable itch in his chest—a quiet, nagging thought that something is off. He checks his watch. Then his phone. No missed calls, no unread messages. Highly unusual.
The drink he bought for you sits untouched on your desk, the condensation already forming a damp ring on the pristine surface. You always take the first sip as soon as you walk in, mumbling some variation of how you need caffeine to tolerate capitalism.
He waits exactly three more minutes before standing.
If anyone notices the way he strides towards the elevator with more urgency than usual, they don’t comment. The building’s lobby is its usual mess of suits and hurried footsteps, but your usual entrance—heels clicking against polished tile, a cheerful “Morning, Nanami!”—is absent.
He exhales through his nose, tilting his head slightly as he debates his next move. Calling you outright would be overstepping. You are his boss. He is your secretary. If you were simply running late, you would text.
That means something must have happened.
Nanami adjusts his tie and makes the call anyway. The phone rings. Once, twice, three times—and then, finally, your voice; groggy and unmistakably hoarse.
“...Nanami?”
He clenches his jaw. “Where are you?”
You pause, followed by a rustling sound, as if you’re shifting under blankets. “Oh, shit.”
“You overslept,” Nanami states.
“Uh,” you say intelligently. “Maybe?”
Nananmi doesn’t sigh, though he wants to. You’re an excellent CEO—brilliant, quick-witted, sharper than most people twice your age. But responsible when it comes to your own well-being? Absolutely not.
There’s more shifting on your end, followed by a muffled groan. “I might be a little hungover.”
“Of course you are.” His glasses have slid down the bridge of his nose, so he adjusts the frame.
“Listen, it was my friend’s birthday—”
“That’s not an excuse.”
“Okay, mother.”
Nanami does sigh this time. He glances at his watch. If he leaves now, he can get to your apartment in twelve minutes, fifteen if traffic is bad. “I’m coming to get you.”
“Wait, what?”
“You’ll waste another thirty minutes trying to function. I’ll be there in twelve.”
There’s a long pause. Then, in a voice that’s entirely too suspicious for someone who just admitted to being hungover, you say, “...How do you know where I live?”
“I fill out your paperwork,” the secretary says.
Another pause. “This feels like an invasion of privacy.”
“You list it under the company address.”
“Well, I could be lying.”
“Are you?”
Silence. Then, begrudgingly, you admit, “No.”
Nanami does not have the time for this. He’s already halfway to the parking garage, briefcase in hand, and his patience—though formidable—is starting to wear thin. “Stay put. Drink some water. Don’t make it worse.”
You hum. “Define worse.”
“Don’t make me regret my employment here.”
There’s a chuckle on your end before the call clicks off. Nanami shoves his phone into his pocket and fishes for his car keys. The headlights of his white Toyota Corolla blink back at him. He slides into the driver’s seat as quickly as possible and starts the engine.
Nanami Kento does not speed. He is a very responsible driver. Yet, here he is, at 9:41 A.M, speeding towards your apartment because you overslept, are likely still half-drunk, and have a board meeting in less than an hour. Objectively speaking, this should not be his problem. But Nanami has long-since accepted that you are his problem.
There is a margin of error in his schedule now, and he does not like it. His mind is already running through the necessary steps to minimise the damage.
Best Case Scenario (Highly Unlikely): You’re already awake, dressed and hydrated. You recognise the consequences of your actions. You get in the car immediately. The meeting proceeds as planned. (The probability of this happening is about the same as Gojo Satoru from HR filing his paperwork on time.)
Most Likely Scenario (Unfortunate but Expected): You answer the door in your pyjamas. You have not consumed a single drop of water. You groan at him, complain about work, and stall for at least ten minutes. He has to herd you into productivity like a kindergarten teacher. He gets you to the office just in time—barely.
Worst-Case Scenario (God Forbid): You’re still in bed. You refuse to move. You throw up on his shoes (he will quit). You open the board meeting by saying something absurd like, “Gentlemen, what if we invested in a company that just makes really big spoons?” and Nanami Kento gets fired.
He adjusts his tie at a red light. No, he refuses to let it reach that point.
By the time he pulls up to your apartment, he is ready. He checks his watch once more. 9:53 A.M. Nanami forgoes the elevator in favour of climbing up the staircase two steps at a time. Your apartment is on the fifth floor, and he knocks twice. Firm and precise.
The door swings open, and you are—well. Exactly what Nanami had expected.
You’re standing in the doorway wearing an oversized hoodie and what are definitely not your pants. Your hair is a tangled mess, mascara faintly smudged beneath your eyes. Nanami is not a man easily shaken, but this is certainly not how he expected to start his morning.
“You look awful,” he says.
You groan, dragging a hand down your face. “Good morning to you too, sunshine.”
Nanami steps into your apartment uninvited. The place is surprisingly not a disaster, though for a luxury apartment, it does seem a tad bit shabby. An empty wine glass balances precariously on your coffee table, next to a half-eaten slice of cheesecake and—God help him—what appears to be a sequined tiara.
He chooses not to ask. Instead, he sets his briefcase down, rolls up his sleeves, and heads straight for your kitchen.
You blink. “What are you doing?”
“Fixing this.” He pulls open your fridge, scanning the contents with a critical eye. It is, to his horror, mostly condiments. “When was the last time you ate a proper meal?”
You scratch your cheek. “Um. Last night?”
He shuts the fridge a little harder than necessary. “Cheesecake doesn’t count.”
“Rude. That cake was expensive.”
Nanami ignores you, opting instead to fill a glass of water. He hands it over, watching as you take a slow, reluctant sip. “Drink all of it,” he instructs.
“You sound like my mom,” you say, squinting at him.
“Yes, well, if your mother were here, I assume she wouldn’t have let you drink half your body weight in alcohol the night before a board meeting.”
“Wait.” Your eyes widen. “The board meeting.”
Nanami resists the urge to point out that this should have been your first concern, not the last. “Yes,” he says, “the one that starts in thirty-five minutes.”
You suck in a breath sharply. “I need to shower.”
“Obviously.”
“I don’t have time to do my hair.”
“You’re wearing it up.”
“I don’t have time for makeup.”
“You keep a bag in your office.”
You scowl. “You’re very annoying, you know that?”
Nanami gives you a pointed look, taking your empty glass of water from your hands. “Yes.”
You grumble something under your breath before disappearing into your room, the door clicking shut behind you. Nanami sighs. He takes off his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose, before rolling his shoulders. He deserves a pay raise.
By the time Nanami drags you into the office, you’re at least functioning. He’s made sure of it. He forced you to drink two full bottles of water and a homemade electrolyte mix (which you gagged on); stopped you from wearing a sweatshirt that said Eat the Rich (your argument was that it was thematically appropriate); shoved a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich into your hands (which you sullenly ate in the elevator, glaring at him the entire time); and silently questioned all of his life choices.
And now, he stands beside you in the conference room, arms crossed, expression stoic, while you sit at the head of the long, polished table, addressing a room full of corporate executives.
To your credit, you’re holding your own. Your voice is even. Your sentences are concise. Your data is accurate. If Nanami didn’t know that you had been half-dead in bed forty minutes ago, he wouldn’t be able to tell.
The board members—a collection of old money, new money, and one guy who definitely inherited his position from his father—watch you with varying degrees of interest. Some, like Flower Bandana and Secret Tattoo from Marketing, nod along. Others, most notably, Wire-Rimmed Glasses and Charcoal Pants, pretend to skim the reports in front of them. Nepotism Baby, however, is very obviously checking golf scores under the table.
Nanami clocks all of it. Still, you power through.
“—and as you can see, our projected quarterly growth remains steady despite recent market shifts. However, to maintain momentum, we need to prioritise long-term investments in—” You pause. Nanami notices it immediately—a brief hesitation, a flicker of your fingers against the table.
You’ve forgotten what you were saying.
To the untrained eye, it is imperceptible. To Nanami, who has spent an ungodly amount of time observing you, it’s as obvious as a flashing neon sign.
Before you can recover, Salt-and-Pepper Board Member—the one who always speaks in a tone that suggests he hasn’t been happy since the Reagan administration—leans forward. “Miss CEO,” he says, adjusting his gold watch, “before we move forward, I’d like to address something.”
“Of course,” you reply smoothly, though Nanami catches the way your hands tense against the table.
Salt-and-Pepper clasps his hands together. “While we appreciate your insights, I have to ask—” a pause, carefully calculated for dramatic effect— “what exactly is your long-term vision for the company?”
The room stills. It’s a trap. A carefully laid, passive-aggressive, MBA-scented trap. Nanami watches you closely. He knows this type of boardroom maneuver—an underhanded way to question your competence without outrightly saying it. Testing the waters to see if you’ll crack, so to speak.
You, as always, rise to the occasion.
“My vision?” you repeat, tilting your head slightly, voice measured. “That’s an interesting question.”
Nanami presses his lips together. He can see the gears turning in your head.
You lean back in your chair, lacing your fingers together. “If I had to sum it up, I’d say my long-term vision is simple: Growth, innovation, and ensuring that this company doesn’t crumble under the weight of its own outdated bureaucracy.”
Salt-and-Pepper’s eyes narrow just slightly. You continue.
“Because let’s be honest, gentlemen—” (Nanami notes how you conveniently exclude the few women in the room; they could do no wrong in your eyes) “—we could sit here, shuffle numbers, and pat ourselves on the back for maintaining the status quo, or we could actually build something for the future. Something sustainable, something adaptive. Something that doesn’t leave us scrambling every time the market shifts.”
Impressive. Nanami hides his amusement behind a neutral expression. You’ve managed to say absolutely nothing while making it sound like you’ve said everything. A skill only a true genius could master. Salt-and-Pepper’s eyebrows pinch. He opens his mouth—likely to challenge you—but before he can, Nanami steps in.
“Further details on our strategic initiatives can be found on page five,” he says, flipping to the appropriate section in the report. “You’ll find that the CEO’s approach aligns with our projected financial goals and ensures continued shareholder confidence.”
Translation: Shut up and read the damn report. Salt-and-Pepper huffs in irritation.
The meeting continues. Charts are analysed. Projections are debated. Wire-Rimmed Glasses tries to poke holes in your marketing budget, only for Secret Tattoo to shut him down with three lines of data and an unimpressed eyebrow raise. Nepotism Baby suddenly develops an interest in the conversation only when someone brings up potential tax incentives.
Throughout it all, Nanami stands beside you like a quiet, immovable force of nature, ready to step in whenever necessary—though, to his silent chagrin, you seem to be having fun.
“You know,” you say, after redirecting a particularly obtuse question from Charcoal Pants, “I was going to bring this up later, but since we’re already on the subject of outdated models—”
Nanami immediately dislikes where this is going.
“—I’d love to discuss our executive compensation structure.”
The temperature in the room drops several degrees. There’s a long, pointed silence. Salt-and-Pepper visibly tenses. Wire-Rimmed Glasses stops pretending to read his report. Charcoal Pants blinks very fast. Nanami sighs. You are testing his patience. He’s not sure what you’re trying to achieve by discussing potential salary cuts to the Board of Directors, but it is too late now, and he is in too deep.
“Compensation structure?” Salt-and-Pepper repeats, as if you’ve just suggested setting fire to the stock portfolio.
“Yes,” you agree. “As you all know, our yearly executive bonuses amount to a significant percentage of our net profits. While rewarding performance is important, I believe we should also explore options that align with our long-term company health.”
One of Salt-and-Pepper’s eyes twitches. “I see. And what exactly do you propose?”
“A more balanced structure. Something performance-driven, sure, but also weighted in a way that ensures we’re reinvesting into the company and our employees. After all, a company is only as strong as its people.”
“That’s a… bold suggestion.” Salt-and-Pepper smiles, but it is a smile in the way a wolf bares its teeth.
“Oh, I know.” You flash him a blindingly fake grin. “But that’s what visionaries do, right? Think boldly?”
The discussion moves forward. The board members clearly have no interest in discussing executive pay cuts, and after five minutes of unproductive back-and-forth, Nanami steps in to smooth things over.
“We can table this discussion for another time,” he offers. “Let’s return to our key agenda items.”
Translation: You are all embarrassing yourselves. Move on. Thus, the meeting drags to an exhausting close. As the last board member exits, the conference room falls into silence. Nanami breathes out slowly. He turns his attention back to you—where you sit, still slumped in your chair, spinning a pen between your fingers.
You look pleased with yourself. Of course, you do.
“You’re mean,” he says plainly.
You grin, unapologetic. “But you’re still here.”
Nanami presses his lips together, but he doesn’t deny it. You’re right; he is still here. Still standing beside you, still following you through your commitments and obligations, still making sure you don’t self-destruct before lunch, let alone the fiscal year. Still watching.
Nanami Kento isn’t blind to his own habits. He is not a man given to sentiment, nor is he someone who allows himself to be distracted. He has spent years cultivating a certain discipline, a carefully maintained distance between himself and his work.
Yet, here he is.
Here he is, noticing things. Like the way your fingers tap absently against the table when you’re thinking. The way you tilt your head ever-so slightly when someone challenges you, as if already preparing a rebuttal. The way you wield charm and sharp wit like a weapon, disarming a room full of men who think they can rattle you.
Here he is, memorising things. Like the exact cadence of your voice when you’re amused versus when you’re irritated. The way you argue, not just for the sake of arguing, but because you genuinely believe things should be better.
Here he is, wondering things. Like why the sight of you so thoroughly holding your own in that room makes something in his chest feel curiously, infuriatingly warm.
He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t worry about you, shouldn’t be so aware of the way your presence has begun to take up space in his thoughts.
Nanami isn’t sure when it started. Maybe it was the first time you dragged him into a fight you had no business winning, arguing down a board member twice your age with nothing but facts and deduction. Maybe it was the morning you shoved a coffee into his hands without preamble, grumbling something about corporate capitalism slowly draining the life out of him. Maybe it was when he realised that despite your recklessness, despite your exhausting tendency to push every limit—
You were trying.
Maybe that’s why he stays. Not because you’re impossible. Not because you test his patience on a daily basis, but because, despite it all, Nanami believes in you. Maybe—just maybe—that belief is starting to feel like something else entirely.
He clears his throat, shaking off whatever momentary lapse has settled over him. “Your next meeting is in fifteen minutes,” he says, already turning towards the door. “Try not to fall asleep before lunch.”
“No promises,” you call after him, and Nanami forces himself not to look back.
The next morning, you arrive at 8:45 A.M on the dot, and though you don’t greet Nanami with a chipper good morning wish, you do shove a neatly-wrapped roll of melonpan into his arms.
“For yesterday,” you explain. “Thanks for picking me up even though it’s not a part of your job.”
Nanami stares at the melon bread in his hands. It’s soft, and still warm, wrapped in crinkly butter paper. For a moment, he simply blinks at it, as if it’s some kind of foreign object, something misplaced in the orderly structure of his morning routine. (It is.)
Then, he looks at you. You’re already at your desk, halfway through flipping through a manila folder, scanning through documents with your brows furrowed in concentration. But Nanami catches it—the way your fingers loosely hold the paper, the way your shoulders aren’t as stiff as they were yesterday. It’s an offering—but more than that, it’s you remembering, because the name of the bakery printed on the butter paper is his favourite one.
He sets the melonpan carefully on the desk beside his coffee. “It was never not part of my job.”
“Huh?” Your head snaps up.
“Looking after you.”
Your brows knit together in something Nanami recognises as your default setting: Suspicion. “That’s not in your job description.”
“It should be,” he says, shrugging.
Your expression flickers—just for a second—before you roll your eyes. “Great. So I’ve officially become a liability. Good to know.”
“You’ve been a liability since day one.”
“Wow. You’ve been holding onto that one, huh?”
“I’m simply stating facts.” Nanami picks up the bread, breaking off a piece, and takes a bite. The outer layer of cookie dough is crisp, and it melts on his tongue with just the right amount of sweetness.
Your lips press together, like you’re trying to fight off a smile. “So?”
Nanami chews, swallows, and nods once. “Acceptable.”
“Oh, shut up. You love it.”
He says nothing, merely covers up the bread with the butter paper once more and places it next to his coffee once more. You look pretty today, he thinks. You’ve recovered from yesterday’s series of meetings. You’re smiling more. It might turn out to be a good day after all. Nanami doesn’t allow himself to linger on the thought. He reaches for his coffee, taking a sip, while you return to your documents, flipping a page with a little too much force.
“You have a meeting at ten,” he reminds you.
“I know.”
“And a working lunch with Legal.”
You make a noise of protest. “Not the suits. Again.”
“They have concerns about the expansion,” Nanami says mildly.
“They always have concerns.” You sigh, tilting your head back against your chair. “I swear, they enjoy making my life difficult.”
Nanami hums noncommittally. It’s not an argument he’s inclined to entertain—mostly because he knows you’ll win, and you’ll be smug about it. Instead, he glances at his watch. “You have exactly ten minutes before the executive team starts pestering me about your whereabouts.”
You make a face, dropping your folder onto your desk with a soft thud. “Can’t I just—skip?”
Nanami gives you a look. You groan and stretch your arms above your head, letting out a soft sigh before reaching for your pen. He watches as you jot something down in the margins of your notes. You’re still tired, he realises. Maybe not visibly, not in the way you were yesterday, but he sees it. The way you rub your temple when you think he isn’t looking, or the way your posture shifts just slightly when you exhale. It’s ridiculous, really, how attuned he is to you.
He clears his throat. “I rescheduled your two-thirty to tomorrow.”
You blink at him. “Why?”
“Because you’ll need the break.”
You purse your lips, considering this, and for a second, he thinks you’ll argue. But then, to his quiet surprise, you nod. “...Okay.”
The ten o’clock meeting is exactly as tedious as Nanami expects it to be. The executive team drones on about projections and budget allocations, with at least three separate tangents about “synergy” and “maximising operational efficiency.” Nanami watches as you nod along at all the right moments, feigning interest while you fiddle with your pen. He knows you’re not actually absorbing any of it—your attention is already elsewhere, likely preoccupied with the looming meeting with Legal.
(He knows this because, at one point, you doodle a tiny stick figure on the margins of your notes. When the CFO asks for your thoughts, you barely miss a beat before delivering a perfectly rehearsed response.)
When the meeting ends, he follows behind you. You stretch discreetly, rolling out your shoulders, and when you glance at him, your expression is a silent plea for mercy.
Nanami sighs. “Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you expect me to spare you from your next obligation.”
“But you could,” you say, all mock innocence.
“I won’t,” he answers.
You heave a sigh. “You’re heartless.”
“I’m efficient.”
“Same thing.”
“You have twenty minutes before your next meeting,” Nanami says instead. “Eat something.”
“Okay, boss.”
Your secretary rolls his eyes. “You’ll thank me later.”
You do, albeit reluctantly. The legal team’s working lunch is predictably dull, full of jargon and contingency plans and hypothetical risks that you pretend to take notes on. At some point, you throw Nanami a look so filled with unspoken suffering that, if he were a softer man, he might have pitied you.
See? your expression seems to say over the rim of your coffee cup, eyes flat with boredom. This is my suffering.
Nanami lets his mouth twitch upwards. You’ll survive.
You don’t know that. You narrow your eyes at him.
You do survive—just barely—through an hour of suffocating legalese, sitting through discussions on compliance policies and liability frameworks with a blank notepad and polite nods. You haven’t written anything down except Help me in the margins, which Nanami had caught a glimpse of when you’d shifted the notepad slightly. When the meeting finally, mercifully, ends, you slump back in your chair, stretching your legs out beneath the conference table with an exaggerated groan.
“I deserve a reward for making it through that,” you mutter.
Nanami flips through his schedule. “Your reward is not getting sued.”
“That’s a terrible reward,” you retort, scrunching your nose.
“It’s an important one.”
“You’re no fun, you know that?” you say, but there’s no real bite to it. Just annoyance, not directed at him.
“I do,” Nanami says, without missing a beat.
You huff a soft laugh, shaking your head before pushing yourself to stand. He follows suit, gathering his notes. It’s only when you step out of the conference room that he notices it again—the way your fingers tap absently against your arm, the slight crease in your forehead.
You’re preoccupied. Not just with work—no, he’d recognise that kind of stress easily. This is something else.
Nanami doesn’t pry. He never does. If you wanted to talk about it, you would. But when you step into the elevator and don’t immediately pull out your phone or launch into complaints about Legal, he speaks before he can stop himself. “What’s on your mind?”
You turn to him, mildly surprised. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve been distracted all morning,” he says evenly.
“It’s nothing serious,” you say, a little softer than usual. “Just… something personal.”
That’s more than he expected you to admit. Nanami nods. He doesn’t push further or demand an explanation, but he asks, “Do you need anything?”
“I—” Your fingers still against your arm. “No. I’m fine.”
Nanami Kento doesn’t believe in prying. He’s spent years making sure the lines between professional and personal stay intact, clean and neat. You, however, have spent just as long ignoring those lines completely. He could leave it at that. Should, probably. It’s not his place to push, not when you so rarely let people in. But the problem is, he knows you too well—or, at least, better than most. He knows you well enough to recognise when you’re on the verge of running yourself into the ground, or to see through the half-hearted distractions you use to keep yourself from thinking too much.
The elevator doors slide open, and you step out first, wringing your hands like you’re physically squeezing out whatever was on your mind. He doesn’t comment when you pick up your pace, diving headfirst back into work as though you were never distracted in the first place.
It’s strange, he thinks, this feeling that lingers in his chest as he watches you settle back behind your desk. He’s always known his role in your life. He’s your secretary, your buffer against boardroom politics, the person who keeps your world running just a little more smoothly. He arranges your meetings, reorganises your schedule, and reminds you to eat when you’re too caught up in your work to remember.
Still.
There are moments like these—moments where the boundary blurs, where the concern twists into something deeper. Moments where he finds himself wanting to do more than just keep you organised.
It’s a dangerous thought, one he has no business entertaining, so he doesn’t.
Nanami Kento is not a morning person. He is, however, a responsible person, which means he is usually awake at a reasonable hour, even on weekends. Today is no exception.
His apartment is quiet, save for the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall—the minute hand inches towards 7:42 A.M—and the occasional rustle of a turning page as he reads. A fresh cup of coffee sits within reach, steam curling lazily into the air. It’s black, strong, and exactly the way he likes it—no unnecessary sweetness, no frills. This is how he prefers to spend his time off: A slow morning, a good book, and silence.
Then his phone buzzes. Nanami glances at the screen, frowning slightly at the name that appears. You. He sighs, already feeling a headache coming on. Nothing good ever comes from you calling him on a weekend. Or at all, really.
Still, he picks up. “What?”
For a moment, there’s nothing but silence on the other end. Then he hears you take in a breath, like you’re working up the nerve to speak. “Hey, um— Are you busy?”
“It’s my day off.” Nanami closes his book and leans back in his chair, his fingers pressing against his temple.
“I know,” you say quickly. Your voice sounds a little different—softer, almost unsure. That alone puts him on edge. He isn’t used to you hesitating. “That’s… actually why I called.”
His frown deepens. He recognises this setup. This is how people sound right before they ask him for something. Nanami shifts the phone to his other ear, already resigned. “What do you want?”
“Okay, first of all,” you say, defensive already, “I resent the implication that I only call you when I need something.”
“That is the only time you call me.”
“...Okay, fine. That’s fair.”
Nanami sighs again. He swears he isn’t the sighing sort of person, but you seem to bring out sides of him he never knew existed. “What is it?”
There’s another pause, longer this time. He hears the faint sound of movement—maybe you shifting your weight, maybe you fidgeting. He almost rolls his eyes.
“There’s a flea market today,” you say, but there’s something different about the way you say it. Your voice is notably quieter, almost hesitant. “I, um… I wanted to go, but I don’t really have anyone to go with.”
Nanami stills. You? Hesitant? You, who has no problem bossing him around at work, who never hesitates to demand his time and attention, shy about asking him for a favour? Something about the way you say it makes his chest unfurl with warmth.
“So,” you continue, voice uncertain in a way he isn’t used to, “I was wondering if maybe you’d wanna come with me?”
Nanami doesn’t answer right away. He could say no. In fact, he probably should say no. It’s his day off, and he has no interest in spending his weekend surrounded by noisy crowds, looking at secondhand trinkets he doesn’t need.
He exhales, already regretting this. “What time?”
“Be ready in an hour?” you ask hopefully. “Dress casual. But, like, not too casual.”
“I’m hanging up now,” he says.
“Wait—”
Nanami places his phone down on the table and stares at his coffee like it has personally betrayed him. How did this happen? One moment, he’s enjoying his peaceful morning. The next, he’s been roped into spending his day off at a flea market. It’s fine. He can handle this. He just needs a plan.
Best Case Scenario (Highly Unlikely): You’re already waiting outside when he arrives. You haven’t made any impulse purchases within the first ten minutes. You respect his personal space. You finish browsing in a reasonable amount of time, and Nanami returns home with his sanity intact. (This is about as likely as Gojo Satoru from HR suddenly developing the ability to stay awake for longer than five minutes during important meetings.)
Most Likely Scenario (Unfortunate but Expected): You’re ready, but you’re too excited. You get distracted by every shiny object at the market. You see a vintage typewriter and suddenly develop an unrealistic dream of becoming a novelist. You haggle dramatically over an item that costs the same as a cup of coffee. He ends up carrying all your bags.
Worst-Case Scenario (God Forbid): You’re waiting outside, but you’ve already made three online purchases while waiting. You spot a tarot card reader and decide he needs his fortune told. You find a vintage sword and somehow convince him to buy it. He loses you in the crowd and considers leaving you there. He doesn’t. (Unfortunately.)
Nanami arrives exactly on time, at 8:42 A.M, dressed in a dark olive button-up with the sleeves neatly rolled to his elbows, paired with well-pressed slacks and his usual leather shoes. His watch glints under the afternoon sun as he adjusts his glasses, scanning the crowd until his gaze lands on you.
You’re waiting near the entrance, shifting your weight from foot to foot with barely contained excitement. You’re wearing a breezy sundress, the colour bright against your skin. A canvas tote hangs from your shoulder. You rock onto your toes when you spot him, waving as if he might somehow miss you in the small crowd. Nanami sighs. You look pretty, he thinks, but when has he ever not thought so?
Just like that, Nanami Kento finds himself being led—against all better judgement—towards the market, where the streets are lined with stalls draped in colourful awnings, and the scent of saffron and cherries mingles in the air. Vendors call out their wares, old books are piled up in uneven stacks on wooden crates, and delicate silver necklaces and earrings gleam in glass cases. Somewhere, a musician plays a soft tune on a violin, the notes drifting through the air like the slow unraveling of a ribbon.
You walk slightly ahead, turning back every so often to ensure Nanami is still there, as if he might bolt at the first opportunity. How stupid of you. As if he’d go anywhere else. The man doesn’t miss the way your shoulders are loose, the way you no longer hold tension in your frame like a coiled wire. This is why weekends exist, he supposes.
When you reach a stall selling secondhand books, you stop abruptly. “See? This is nice,” you say, running a finger along the worn spine of a novel. “Better than sitting in a meeting with Legal.”
Nanami hums. His gaze is on you. You pick up a book with a cracked leather cover, flipping through its yellowed pages. Then, suddenly, you turn to him, holding it up.
“Tell me,” you muse, lips curving. “Have you ever been wooed in a flea market before?”
He blinks. “I don’t think so.”
You clear your throat and read aloud: ‘...and he regarded her with a most admiring countenance, struck by the quickness of her wit and the sharpness of her tongue…’
Nanami crosses his arms as you hold the book open like a scholar about to present a groundbreaking thesis. The corners of his lips twitch, but he schools his expression into something neutral. “Is that so?”
You nod solemnly. “A most admiring countenance,” you repeat, tapping the page. “That’s what it says. I think that’s a very poetic way of describing how you look at me all the time.”
He looks at you, ready to say something horrifically stupid, probably, but then you grin, mischief shining in your eyes, and he shakes his head with a quiet sigh. “You do realise that’s from a romance novel.”
“Oh, I’m very aware. I just thought, maybe, if I read enough passages, you might be so swept away by the romance of it all that you’ll fall madly in love with me.”
There it is. That ridiculous, absurd, entirely unserious thing you do—teasing him just enough to see if you can get a reaction. Nanami knows this game well.
“Hm.” He tilts his head slightly, his voice even. “And if I say it’s working?”
You blink. For once, you don’t have a quick-witted reply. Your fingers tighten around the book as you search his expression for something—anything—to indicate that he’s joking. But Nanami is frustratingly unreadable, his gaze steady, the sunlight catching the sharp planes of his face.
You shift, looking back at the book. “Then I’d say I need to find more material,” you mumble. “Something more compelling.”
He chuckles, amused at the way you retreat when met with your own words. “Of course.”
You huff, flipping through the pages again. He watches as your fingers dance over the old paper, as you scan each line with an almost childlike curiosity. There’s a sort of reverence in the way you handle books, as if each one holds a tiny universe inside. Nanami understands. He takes a step closer, just enough to catch the scent of your perfume—light, familiar. You’re so engrossed in your search that you don’t even notice.
“This one’s nice,” you murmur, tapping another passage with your fingertip before reading it aloud. “‘To be looked at with such devotion… it is a wonder she could bear it at all.’ Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”
Nanami doesn’t say anything. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet.
You brighten instantly. “So you are being wooed.”
He hands over a few bills to the vendor without acknowledging your comment. “Just buy the book.”
You chew on the inside of your cheek, barely holding back a laugh, before placing the book inside your tote bag. Your fingers brush against his briefly—just the lightest touch, gone too soon. The transaction is done, and the book is safely tucked away, but Nanami doesn’t know why his mouth suddenly feels too dry, or his clothes feel too warm.
“You’re a very easy target,” you say, tilting your head up to look at him.
“Enlighten me.”
“Well, for one, you act all stern and no-nonsense, but you just bought a book because I read one romantic passage out loud. That, Nanami, is the behaviour of a man who is, against his better judgement, deeply susceptible to my charm.”
Nanami doesn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he turns and starts walking down the narrow aisle between the market stalls, knowing full well that you’ll follow. You fall into step beside him, calling out, “Hey, I wasn’t done talking.”
“I know.”
“You’re so rude.”
“You’ll live.”
You roll your eyes and he lets you get distracted by the next few stalls—one selling mismatched ceramic mugs, another displaying old postcards with faded ink scrawled across them. You pause at a stall selling silver jewelry, fingers trailing over delicate rings arranged on a velvet-lined tray.
Nanami watches, hands in his pockets, as you try on a ring, twisting it around your finger before putting it back. “Not getting one?” he asks.
You shrug. “I don’t know. I like the idea of having one, but I don’t think I’d wear it often enough to justify it.”
He glances at the tray, his gaze settling on a simple silver band. He briefly considers buying it for you, but the thought unsettles him for reasons he doesn’t want to examine too closely. He says nothing and waits for you to move.
You wander through the market together, stopping here and there—laughing when you find a truly heinous painting of a cat, nudging Nanami when you spot a tarot reader just to see his reaction, groaning dramatically when he refuses to let you buy a vintage sword. (He doesn’t trust you with a sharp object. This is a reasonable stance, he thinks.)
By the time the afternoon sun hangs high, painting the streets in gold, Nanami finds himself carrying a small bag of your purchases despite his earlier aversion—not because you asked, but because, without thinking, he took it from you when your hands were full, and somehow, neither of you mentioned it.
Nanami Kento is brushing his teeth, already halfway through his night routine, when his phone buzzes against the bathroom counter. He considers ignoring it—nothing good ever comes out of late-night calls—but then he sees your name flashing on the screen, again. He closes his eyes. He spent half the Saturday with you at the flea market. It’s a Sunday night, and he’s already thinking about the miserable Monday morning waiting for him. He doesn’t need whatever nonsense you’re about to tell him. Still, he picks up the phone.
A sigh leaves him, muffled by the toothbrush in his mouth. He spits, rinses, and presses the call button. “What?”
“Nanami,” you say, pathetically slurred.
“Oh, for God’s sake.”
“No, listen, listen,” you insist, voice wobbly. “I have—a problem.”
“Of course, you do,” Nanami says. “Where are you?”
“At home.” There’s a rustling sound on the other end, like you’re rolling around on a couch, or maybe tangled up in a blanket that you don’t have the coordination to escape from. “I made it home all by myself. I think that’s really impressive. You should say you’re impressed.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re so mean,” you whine. Then, lower, in a voice so pitiful he almost snorts, “I think I’m dying.”
Nanami checks the time. 10:34 P.M. He should tell you to drink some water and go to sleep. He should just hang up. From the other end of the line, you let out a tiny, miserable noise. It’s barely a sniffle, more like a small whimper of distress—pathetic, and fleeting, but it sits wrong with him. He stands there for a moment, staring at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror, waiting for the irritation to take over. It never does.
Instead, his eyebrows furrow in something that isn't quite a frown, but close enough. Then, he grabs his coat. If he leaves now, he can reach your apartment in twelve minutes, fifteen if traffic is bad.
Your apartment is unlocked when he gets there. Nanami pushes the door open, stepping inside and toeing off his shoes. He barely has the time to take in the mess—your shoes kicked off in two completely different directions, your bag lying lifeless in the middle of the floor, clearly dropped mid-stride—before you come stumbling out of the kitchen, gripping a glass of water like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to this world.
“You came,” you breathe, eyes wide. “My saviour.”
He frowns. “Why is your door unlocked?”
You wave a hand, dismissive. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine.”
“Why are you mad?” You blink at him, wobbling slightly where you stand, and tilt your head like he’s the one being unreasonable.
Nanami presses his lips into a thin line. Instead of answering, he reaches out to flick you on the forehead. You yelp, nearly dropping your glass. “That’s for being careless.” He folds his arms. “How much did you drink?”
“Mm. Enough.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Enough to want to die, but not enough to actually die,” you clarify, solemn. “Does that help?”
“No.”
You snicker at his flat tone, but it quickly turns into a hiccup. Eyes wide, you slap a hand over your mouth, until you relent and start giggling uncontrollably. Nanami watches you, expressionless. He has never been more tired in his life.
Without another word, he moves past you and into your kitchen. “Sit down. I’ll make you something to sober up.”
“I don’t wanna sober up,” you whine, trailing after him.
He eyes you critically, pulling open a cabinet in search of honey and ginger. “What’s your excuse for getting drunk this time? Another friend’s birthday party?”
You snort. “Don’t be silly, Nanami. You’re the only friend I have.”
He stills. You blink at him, swaying slightly. He ignores the warmth creeping up his cheeks, and tells you to sit down before you fall over. You huff, but oblige, dragging a chair out and collapsing into it. Your head flops onto the counter, cheek squished against the cool surface. “You’re kinda good at this,” you mumble.
Nanami doesn’t bother looking at you as he fills the kettle. “It’s just tea.”
“No,” you say, voice thick with something close to admiration. “Like. Taking care of people.”
His hands still for a fraction of a second before he returns to slicing ginger. He doesn’t acknowledge your words, but something in his chest twists. It’s not like it’s hard to take care of you—you stumble through life with the kind of reckless abandon that practically demands someone step in before disaster strikes. He glances at you. Your arms are folded under your head, body lax, but your eyes are distant, slightly unfocused.
He asks, “What happened?”
You blink sluggishly, turning your head just enough to look at him. “Huh?”
“You don’t drink like this for no reason,” he says. “What happened?”
Your lips purse. You look like you’re debating whether to brush him off or tell him the truth. Then, with a hiccup and sniffle, you mumble, “My parents want me to get married.”
“What?”
Your nose wrinkles, like the very thought is giving you a headache. “It’s stupid,” you grumble. “They want me to meet some guy, settle down, be stable or whatever. Like that’s something I can just do.” You lift your head slightly, eyes glassy, lower lip wobbling. “I don’t wanna get married.”
Nanami swallows. There’s something painfully childlike in the way you say it, as if you’re afraid of being forced into something you can’t escape from. Your face is flushed from the alcohol, but your expression is unguarded. He could be rational about this—tell you that you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, that it’s your life. But he knows that’s not what you need right now.
Instead, he reaches out, pressing his palm against the top of your head, warm and steady. He hears your sharp intake of breath.
“You don’t have to get married if you don’t want to,” he says, voice quiet but firm. “No one can make you.”
You stare up at him, wide-eyed. The room is still. The only sound is the quiet whistle of the kettle coming to a boil. Then, like a switch has flipped, you sniffle, rubbing at your nose with the sleeve of your sweater. “You’re so nice to me, Nanami.”
“I really am.”
“I should marry you,” you say seriously.
He pulls his hand back immediately. “Absolutely not.”
“Why?” you say, lips quirking into a lazy grin. “You afraid you’d fall in love with me?”
Nanami levels you with a flat look. “I’m afraid you’d forget that we ever got married in the first place.”
You cackle, unbothered, and he shakes his head, exasperated. The kettle clicks off. Nanami turns back to the counter, pouring the hot water into a mug. He stirs in the honey and hears you sigh behind him.
“I mean it, though,” you say, softer now. “I don’t wanna get married. Not to someone I don’t love, or ‘cause my parents think I should.”
Nanami glances at you over his shoulder. Your face is half-hidden behind your arms again, but your eyes are clearer now, a little more serious despite the alcohol buzzing through your system. He walks over, setting the tea down in front of you, and says, “Then don’t.”
You blink up at him again. He nudges the mug towards you, and you wrap your hands around it, staring down at the amber liquid.
Nanami inhales slowly. “Now drink your tea and go to bed.”
You hum, blowing gently on the surface before taking a sip. Then, peeking up at him through your lashes, you say, “Will you stay?”
He hesitates. It’s late. He has work tomorrow. You have work tomorrow. But when he looks at you—tired, drunk, a little lost—he knows he won’t be able to leave until he’s sure you’re okay. “...I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”
You smile sleepily, satisfied, and take another sip of your tea.
The board votes.
Salt-and-Pepper calls it. Wire-Rimmed Glasses raises his hand first, the corporate equivalent of a teacher’s pet. Charcoal Pants follows, though his fingers twitch with uncertainty. Nepotism Baby—who has been thoroughly checked out for the past forty-five minutes—glances up from his phone just long enough to nod vaguely before going back to whatever meaningless app he’s scrolling through. Nanami watches you from the corner of his eye. You don’t move.
Salt-and-Pepper looks pleased. “Well, that’s that. We’ll move forward with drafting the initial—”
“Wait,” Secret Tattoo from Marketing cuts in. “Are we seriously doing this?”
Salt-and-Pepper’s eyebrows rise, as if he hadn’t expected resistance. Foolish of him. “Is there an issue?”
An issue? Oh, where to begin. Your fingers drum once, twice, against the table. “Zen’in Industries.” You say it like you’re testing the words, rolling them around in your mouth to see if they taste any less like poison. “That’s the best we could do?”
Wire-Rimmed Glasses adjusts his frames. “They’re the most viable partner given the timeline.”
“That’s debatable.”
“The most viable approved partner,” Salt-and-Pepper clarifies. “We’ve reviewed the alternatives.”
“You reviewed them wrong,” Flower Bandana mutters under her breath.
Secret Tattoo leans back in her chair, arms crossed. “I don’t like it either.”
“This decision was made with careful consideration,” Salt-and-Pepper says. His left eye twitches, and he turns back to you. “Miss CEO, while I understand your concerns, business decisions must be made pragmatically, not emotionally.”
Translation: Suck it up and sign the damn papers.
You tilt your head. “Right. And pragmatism is why we’re aligning ourselves with a company whose leadership has been, let’s see, sued five separate times in the last decade for fraudulent business practices, labour violations, and—oh, my favourite—potential ties to organised crime?”
Wire-Rimmed Glasses clears his throat. “Those cases were dismissed.”
“They barely avoided a federal indictment,” you say.
Nepotism Baby suddenly chimes in. “Zen’in’s big. They’ve got resources.”
Nanami resists the urge to sigh. Yes, genius, that’s how companies work. You shoot the boy an unimpressed look, and say, “They also have a history of—how do I put this politely—being absolutely terrible.”
Charcoal Pants shifts uncomfortably. “That’s a bit—”
“Am I wrong?”
Secret Tattoo raises a hand. “Would now be a bad time to remind everyone that they also had an entire warehouse shut down for safety violations?”
“That was an isolated incident,” Wire-Rimmed Glasses says.
“Was it?” you ask. “My notes say it happened twice.”
Nepotism Baby leans towards Wire-Rimmed Glasses. “Wait. Twice?”
Salt-and-Pepper clears his throat. “Miss CEO, I assure you—”
“No, really, help me understand.” You lean forward, elbows on the table. “Last I checked, we weren’t in the business of giving ethics violations a seat at our table.”
“This partnership will allow us to expand at a rate we can’t achieve alone.”
“Uh-huh. And remind me again, what’s the exact rate we’re aiming for? Because if you’re simply going to say something like, faster than usual, I feel like there are other ways to do that. Like, I don’t know, hiring more people. Investing in R&D. Not selling our souls to a family that definitely has bodies buried somewhere.”
Nepotism Baby looks even more alarmed. He leans back towards Wire-Rimmed Glasses. “Wait. Bodies?”
“Metaphorically,” Charcoal Pants says weakly.
You click your tongue. “Probably.”
“The decision has been made.” Translation: Sit down and deal with it. Salt-and-Pepper’s patience has officially run out. Flower Bandana shakes her head. Secret Tattoo mutters under her breath about corporate bootlickers.
Your fingers curl around the pen in front of you. Nanami, ever the observer, sees it immediately—the way you stiffen, the way your expression shutters, before you school it into something blank. “Fine,” you say coolly. “If that’s what the board wants.”
Salt-and-Pepper nods, pleased. “I’m glad we could come to an understanding.”
The meeting adjourns. The board members leave. Salt-and-Pepper sniffs condescendingly in your direction before stepping out. Nepotism Baby stretches, lets out an obnoxiously loud yawn, and wanders off. Charcoal Pants moves quickly, as if afraid you might call him back, and Wire-Rimmed Glasses follows him. One by one, they filter out, until the conference room is empty, save for you and Nanami.
Your fingers uncurl from the pen you’ve been gripping so tightly that there are deep grooves in your skin. You set it down. Tilting your head back, you stare at the ceiling for precisely three seconds before letting out a single, humourless laugh.
“Well.” Your voice is calm, but only barely. “That was fucking awful.”
“You handled it well,” Nanami says.
You let out a breath, somewhere in between a scoff and a sigh. “I shouldn’t have had to handle it in the first place.”
That’s fair, he thinks. You drag a hand down your face as if trying to smother the frustration bubbling just beneath your skin. It doesn’t work. “I knew they’d pull something,” you mutter, “but Zen’in? Of all the goddamn companies in the world, they want them?”
“It’s a strategic decision.” He knows it’s not what you want to hear, but he says it anyway.
You drop your hand and turn to him. “Say that again, and I’ll replace you.”
“I’m only pointing out the obvious.”
You sigh, but don’t argue. You both know the board sees nothing but numbers, nothing but projections and timelines and carefully-worded justifications. They don’t care about anything outside the bottom line.
“I don’t want to work with them, Nanami,” you admit.
He already knew that. But hearing you say it—softer now, tired—settles something heavy in his chest. He doesn’t like it. “You won’t do it alone,” he says simply.
Your lips twitch upwards, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
You study him, searching for something, but whatever you find must be enough, because you sigh and push yourself up from your chair. “Guess we’re stuck with this mess, then.”
“Seems that way.”
“If I’m suffering, then you’re suffering with me.”
“Unfortunate,” Nanami says, but he knows you know he doesn’t mean it.
You guffaw, tension easing—slightly. He can tell it’s still there, simmering beneath the surface. He’s still thinking about it, watching you as you head for the door. He sees the way your jaw is set too tightly, the way your shoulders are stiff. You’re angry. Not just irritated, not just frustrated—angry. It’s not just about the board’s incompetence. It’s Zen’in Industries.
“Let’s get something to eat,” Nanami says.
“God, Nanami. Are you asking me to lunch?”
He stiffens slightly at your teasing, but he doesn’t say anything. He just walks past you, already heading to the elevator. You laugh, falling into step beside him.
At lunch, you pick at a Greek salad with disinterest, stabbing a piece of feta cheese with your fork. The restaurant is a nice place—not overly extravagant, but tasteful in a way that suits Nanami’s particular preferences. He hadn’t put much thought into where to take you. He just needed to get you out of that boardroom.
Now, though, as he watches you pick apart your salad, he wonders if it even helped.
You roll an olive on your plate with your fork. Across from you, Nanami takes an absent sip of his lime soda, only half paying attention to the taste. The silence is not uncomfortable, but he feels awkward regardless. He should be focused on the partnership, on the logistics, on the long list of ways this shouldn’t be as much of a problem as you’re making it out to be. But instead, his mind drifts.
To you.
To your sharp edges and sharp tongue, to the way your expressions flicker just a little too fast sometimes, as if you’re trying too hard to rein yourself in. To the way you are so painfully aware of everything around you: Every person in a room, every slight shift in tone, every implication buried in corporate jargon.
You are, objectively speaking, a brilliant CEO. Ruthless when you need to be, charming when it suits you, but most of all, uncompromising. Yet, when it comes to this—when it comes to Zen’in Industries—your anger is not just professional. It is personal.
Nanami doesn’t like personal. Personal is messy. Personal gets in the way of logic, of utilitarianism, of clear-cut and efficient decisions.
He tells himself that is why he is still thinking about this. Not because the tightness in your shoulders makes his chest ache. Not because he has never once seen you almost falter the way you did today. Not because he has spent the past half-hour cycling through every possible reason for your reaction and coming up empty.
No, he tells himself, it is because this is a complication he cannot account for, and that is what bothers him.
You press your fork into the olive, just enough to puncture the skin. Then, so casually, you might as well be commenting on the weather, you say, “Did you know that I was in a relationship with Zen’in Naoya?”
Nanami freezes. His brain—normally so methodical, so efficient—comes to a screeching halt. There is no quick calculation, no immediate strategy to deal with this information. There is only the sound of your voice, so stunningly normal in its delivery, juxtaposed against the implication of the words themselves. His grip tightens around his glass of lime side. He doesn’t set it down or react outwardly—but he shifts in his seat.
Zen’in Naoya.
He knows the name well. Anyone even remotely involved in business does. He is a member of the Zen’in family—one of those Zen’ins. A man with power, influence, and a reputation that precedes him. Not for anything good, either. Nanami has never met him in person, but he’s read enough and heard enough to know that he would not want to.
He finally sets down his glass. For once, Nanami Kento does not immediately know what to say.
“Nothing to say?” you ask lightly.
Nanami studies you carefully. You are not looking at him, but he recognises this version of you—the one who pretends you’re fine, who deflects with indifference. The one who would rather fill the silence than allow it to become suffocating.
“You never mentioned that before,” he says slowly. It is not a question; just an observation.
You attempt to smile, but it comes out more like a grimace. “It never came up.”
Nanami is many things, but he is not stupid. The warble in your voice, the way your fingers tighten ever-so slightly around your fork—this is why you were so angry in the meeting. This is why you stiffened at the mention of the Zen’ins, why you dug your heels in so hard. He should have realised it sooner.
He breathes out slowly. “And now it has.”
“Yes,” you say simply. “Would you like me to tell you about our first date?”
Nanami does not react. He makes sure he sounds neutral when he answers, “No.”
You hum, feigning disappointment. “It was terribly boring, anyway. He took me to some overpriced restaurant with a six-course meal, and every single dish had foam in it.”
Nanami ignores the way his stomach twists at the thought of you on a date with someone like Naoya. It is illogical. Unnecessary.
“I was nineteen,” you continue. “Very stupid. I thought I knew everything. He was older, and it seemed impressive at the time. He said all the right things. I was easily impressed back then.”
Nanami’s fingers curl against the table. Back then. As if there is a before and after to who you are. He doesn’t like the insinuations of that. “You’re not now,” he says.
“No, I guess not.” For the first time in the conversation you look up at him. Nanami does not look away. You lean back in your chair and say, “So, now you know.”
Now he knows. Nanami doesn’t know what to do with that knowledge. It sits uncomfortably in his mind, wedged there like a stubborn wooden splinter. For now, he does the only thing he can do. He nods, takes another sip of his lime soda, and says, “Eat your salad.”
You laugh. It’s a short huff, but it almost makes Nanami smile.
“Miss CEO,” one of the Zen’in representatives—a wiry, balding man who sweats too much—says, visibly struggling to remain polite, “surely you understand that our current offer is more than fair.”
“Fair,” you echo, as if testing the word on your tongue. “That’s an interesting way to put it.”
Nanami—who has spent the last three weeks enduring these negotiations—already knows where this is going. He resists the urge to sigh.
“Would you care to elaborate?” Balding Man asks. He keeps his tone professional, but there is an undeniable sense of annoyance in his eyes. Nanami takes a deep breath. You, however, smile.
“Well,” you say. “I just think it’s funny—”
Oh, no. Nanami shuts his eyes for a brief moment, pressing his fingers to his temple. He has heard you say this exact phrase at least five times this week, and every time, what follows is never actually funny. It is, usually, a goddamn nightmare.
Balding Man shifts in his seat. “Funny,” he repeats cautiously.
“Mhm,” you hum. “I just think it’s funny that, in your latest revision, you’ve somehow—” you tilt your head— “conveniently removed the profit-sharing clause we originally discussed. The one your team proposed, by the way.”
“That was an adjustment made to account for—”
“—what, exactly?” you interrupt, leaning forward slightly. “Because as far as I can tell, it was an attempt to quietly slip in a clause that benefits your side while offering absolutely nothing in return. Now, I’m sure that’s just a simple oversight, right?”
Balding Man opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again, like a fish flopping around outside water. Nanami watches this unfold with an increasing sense of frustration.
You are doing this on purpose.
This is not a necessary discussion. The contract could have been finalised two meetings ago, but you have spent the last three weeks turning every single interaction into an exercise in endurance. You nitpick everything. You argue over semantics. You demand last-minute revisions on things that don’t even matter. At one point, you outright rejected a clause you had originally asked for—just to make them go through the process of re-drafting it.
And because Nanami Kento is your secretary, he has spent most of his time smoothing things over before the Zen’ins lose their patience entirely. It is, frankly, exhausting.
“We can revisit that clause,” Balding Man says tightly.
“Oh, we will,” you say, with a delightfully insincere smile. “In fact, let’s go ahead and set up another review meeting.”
Nanami finally steps in. “That won’t be necessary,” he says, voice clipped.
Your head snaps to him so fast that he almost regrets speaking. Almost.
“Excuse me?” Your voice is deceptively calm.
Nanami meets your gaze, unwavering. “Dragging out negotiations benefits no one.”
Balding Man exhales, muttering something under his breath. You, however, do not look impressed. Your fingers drum once, twice, against the polished surface of the table. “I wasn’t aware I asked for your opinion, Nanami.”
A sharp silence settles over the room. Nanami’s fingers curl into his palm. You do this all the time. You argue, you challenge, you push every meeting to its breaking point. When things spiral, he’s the one left cleaning up the mess. Now, when he finally intervenes, you’re mad at him? Fine.
Nanami sets his jaw. “I’m only saying what needs to be said.”
The corners of your mouth turn down—just a fraction—before you lean back in your chair. Without looking at him, you say, “Let’s wrap this up.”
Nanami doesn’t allow himself to feel relieved just yet, but at least you don’t push back any further. The rest of the meeting crawls towards a conclusion, with the Zen’in representatives clearly eager to be anywhere else. The moment the last pleasantries are exchanged, Balding Man all but scrambles out the door, leaving you and Nanami alone in the conference room. The silence is razor-thin, stretched taut like a wire about to snap.
“That was productive,” you say, standing up.
He closes the folder in front of him with a controlled snap. “It could have been productive three weeks ago.”
You don’t even look at him. “Tragic, isn’t it?”
He levels you with a stare, but you keep your attention on straightening the cuffs of your blazer, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles. The dismissal is blatant. His patience thins. “You’re making my job harder than it needs to be,” he says.
At that, you finally glance at him. “Then maybe you should stop getting in my way and embarrassing me in front of our collaborators.”
“I’m doing my job.”
“Are you? Because from where I’m standing, it looks more like you’re doing theirs.”
The words are like ice—controlled, but cold enough to cut. Nanami’s fingernails dig crescents into his palm. “You’re dragging this out for no reason,” he says evenly.
You hum, turning towards the door. “If you think that, then maybe you should stick to taking notes instead of giving opinions.”
That stops him in his tracks. You don’t wait for a response. You step out of the conference room without another glance, the steady click of your heels the only sound in the empty hall. Nanami exhales, fingers flexing at his sides.
You’re shutting him out. If that’s how you want to play, so be it.
It starts with the coffee. Nanami always brings it to you in the morning when he reaches his desk at 8:31 A.M—black for him, a complicated order with enough sugar to kill a lesser man for you. He knows the exact amount of cream that you like, and the precise temperature it needs to be when you take your first sip. But the morning after the meeting, when he sets his cup down on his desk, there’s no second cup. He hears the slight pause in your typing when you notice. A small shift of paper against paper.
“Nanami,” you say.
He doesn’t look up. “Yes?”
“Did you forget something?”
He smooths his tie down over his chest, eyes still on his tablet. “I assumed you wouldn’t need my help with something so simple.”
There’s a long, brittle pause. He knows you’re looking at him. He can feel your eyes upon him from across the room. But he doesn’t glance up, doesn’t shift. Finally, you close the file in front of you with a muted snap and rise from your chair. Your heels click sharply against the floor as you pass him, pausing just briefly at his side. “Hope your schedule’s clear,” you say, voice like glass. “You’ll need to redraft the acquisition proposal by noon.”
“Fine.” His mouth tightens.
He retaliates with paperwork. Nanami knows exactly how to drown someone in administrative hell without breaking a sweat. The next morning, he leaves a neat stack of contracts, memos, and reports on your desk, all unlabeled. He knows you hate that. The revised budget is buried beneath the expense sheets, and the acquisition report—still missing a key section—has no notes attached. He hears the scrape of a chair, followed by the clipped sound of your heels striking the marble floor as you stalk towards his desk.
“Did you think this was acceptable?” you say, tossing the report onto his desk. Nanami’s hands are still on his keyboard. He doesn’t look up. “The section on profit restructuring is incomplete,” you add.
“I assumed you’d prefer to review it yourself,” he says, “since you were so insistent on final approval.”
“Correct it,” you say, voice low. “And put it on my desk by the end of the day.”
Nanami closes his laptop with deliberate care. “Of course.”
Meetings become a war zone. He starts cutting in before you’ve finished speaking. You return the favour without hesitation. One afternoon, during a strategy meeting, he hears you inhale and knows exactly what you’re about to say. “Actually—” he begins.
“I don’t need clarification,” you say flatly, not even looking at him.
“It’s important to avoid miscommunication,” Nanami says. His eyes flick towards you.
Your smile is thin. “Then stop talking.”
Nanami’s mood darkens. Balding Man, sitting across the table, looks like he’d rather fling himself out of the nearest window. Nanami doesn’t care. You’ve made it clear how little you care about his input. If you want to micromanage everything, he’ll stop bothering to clean up your messes.
He starts adjusting your schedule. Meetings appear on your calendar without explanation—overlapping appointments, double-booked sit visits, late-night briefings. At one point, you get a notification for an 8 A.M call with the accounting department, only to find out Nanami cancelled it an hour earlier. You stride into his office. He doesn’t look up from his tablet.
“I thought you handled scheduling,” you say.
“I must have misunderstood your preferences,” he says without inflection. “Since you’ve made it clear that you prefer to handle things yourself.”
You stare at him. He still doesn’t look up. Finally, you scoff under your breath and leave. Nanami watches the door swing shut, something sharp and pointed pressing into his chest.
Lunch becomes unbearable. You still sit together—out of habit, perhaps—but the silence is cutting. Nanami eats his neatly-packed bento with steady, measured bites; you stab aggressively at your pasta, tearing the penne apart. Once, you push your tray an inch towards him and say, “Taste this.”
“I’m allergic to it,” Nanami says, scrolling through some news article on his phone.
“You’re not allergic to chocolate mousse.”
“I could be.”
You make a noise, sharp and irritated, and push the tray away. Nanami doesn’t look away from his phone. He feels the tightness in his shoulders. He hates this. He hates that you’re angry. He hates that he’s angry. Most of all, he hates that he can’t stop himself from pressing harder.
The final blow comes during a boardroom meeting. One of the department heads starts talking in circles, and Nanami—already at the edge of his patience—starts to cut in. “We already—”
“I think it’s important to clarify the terms,” you say smoothly, before he can finish.
Nanami’s gaze snaps to you. His eyes narrow. “There’s no need to clarify anything.”
“Just making sure,” you say, flashing him a bland smile.
Nanami closes his laptop with unsettling calm. You start gathering your papers. His hands curl into his lap. “If you want to manage everything,” he says quietly, “I’ll stop bothering to give input.”
You look at him; your eyes are ice when you say, “Maybe you should,” and walk out without another word. Nanami watches the door shut behind you. He clenches his jaw so hard, it begins to hurt. This is untenable, he thinks.
Nanami hears the clock ticking.
It’s past midnight, and the city outside the office windows glows faintly beneath the dark sky. The only light in the room comes from the soft, sterile glow of your laptops, casting cold shadows across the polished table. His tie is loose around his neck, and the sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled up to his elbows. Across from him, you sit with your laptop open, eyes fixed on the screen. Your hair is slightly disheveled. There’s an untouched cup of coffee beside you, gone cold hours ago.
It’s quiet, except for the sound of typing and the low hum of the air conditioning. Nanami reviews the document in front of him, trying to concentrate, but it proves to be a difficult task when his gaze keeps drifting towards you. He observes—the tightness in your jaw; the slight furrow of your brow; the way your fingers tap a little too hard against your keyboard. He knows you’re frustrated. You’ve been frustrated for weeks. So has he.
He hears the sound of a key sticking, followed by an annoyed exhale. “Fucking hell,” you mutter under your breath.
“You should take a break,” he tells you.
“I’m fine,” you snap.
Nanami sets his pen down. “You’re not fine. You’ve been working non-stop for—”
“I said I’m fine.”
He leans back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest. “Yes, clearly. That’s why you’ve been rereading the same page of that draft for the past thirty minutes.”
Your head snaps up. “I’m sorry, are you the CEO now?”
“Are you trying to sabotage your own company?”
“Oh, fuck off, Nanami.”
“Gladly,” he bites out, closing the folder in front of him. “Maybe then you can stop wasting my time.”
Your chair scrapes loudly against the floor as you push back from the table. “I’m sorry I’m such an inconvenience,” you say sharply. “God forbid you actually have to work for a change.”
Nanami’s expression darkens. His hands press flat against the table as he stands. “It’s not about the work. It’s about you actively making it harder for yourself—and for me.”
“And here I thought handling me was part of your job description.”
“I don’t mind doing my job,” he says icily. “I mind when you refuse to let anyone help you and then act surprised when things don’t go your way.”
“Then why don’t you quit?” you say, chin lifting. “If you hate working for me so much, why don’t you just leave?”
“Maybe I should.”
You suck in a breath sharply, shoulders tense, mouth tightening. Nanami knows he’s gone too far. He sees the flicker of hurt in your expression before you smooth it away.
“Do it, then,” you say coldly. “Walk out. It’s not like anyone’s forcing you to stay.”
You are, he wants to say. Because you are, whether intentionally or not. Nanami finds himself drawn to you, like a moth circling a very bright flame. If he was a sunflower, he thinks you’d be the sun. Nanami doesn’t say any of that. He steps towards you, walking around the table until he’s right in front of you. “Don’t—”
“Or what?” You smile, sharp-edged and bitter. “You’ll finally stop pretending to care?”
Nanami’s hands curl into fists. “Stop it.”
“Stop what?” you demand, turning away from him and bracing your hands on the desk. The papers underneath your hands crumple. “Stop trying to make sure my company doesn’t go fucking bankrupt, or stop—”
“I’m trying to help you—”
“No,” you say, breathless with rage. “You know asking for help means I can’t handle everything myself, and—”
“You’re so stubborn,” he says, finally. His heart hammers against his ribs. “You’re impossible to work with right now.”
“I am under pressure!” you yell, whipping around to face him. “You think I’m being difficult on purpose?”
Nanami stares at you, breathing hard. His hands brace against the table to keep from shaking. “Then what the hell is this?”
Your hands are trembling. Your eyes shine with something dangerously close to tears, but you don’t let them fall. “My parents are pressuring me to get married. And on top of that, I’m trying to close a deal with my ex’s company because of my stupid board of directors—never mind the fact that the Zen’ins engage in borderline illegal practices—and I have to sit across their representative and pretend I don’t know Zeni’in Naoya once tried to steal intellectual property from me. And the only person I trusted to be able to help me out has been treating me like a fucking liability.”
Nanami’s breath catches. “I’m not—”
“Then do something, Nanami,” and you sound pleading when you say it, and Nanami’s chest tightens.
You’re an anomaly in Nanami’s perfectly-structured, perfectly-planned out life. He has known this for a while, only he never acknowledged it until now. The thing is, Nanami thrives on order; on logic; on neat, clean lines and predictable outcomes. He works best when things make sense, when he can anticipate every possible outcome and adjust accordingly. He’s built his life around that certainty—disciplined and unwavering.
But there’s you.
You, who he can’t predict. You, who challenges him in every conversation, who barreled into his life with no premonition. You, whose moods shift so easily—stern one moment, playful the next, always just a little out of reach. You, a hurricane in the body of a woman. You, you, you.
You are the only thing in his life that doesn’t fit into a box. And yet, somehow, you’re the only thing he doesn’t want to let go of. You barreled straight through his rib cage and settled deep down inside his unsuspecting heart, and he does not think he could pry you away now.
Nanami breathes hard. His pulse is a frantic, erratic thing beneath his skin. It echoes in his ears as he stares at you—eyes flashing, chest rising and falling.
You’re close—close enough that he can see the tremor of your hands where they’re braced against the desk. Your mouth is parted and your breath is unsteady. There’s sweat beading on your forehead, and your eyes are narrowed when you look at him.
Nanami should step back. He knows this. He should take a deep breath and turn away before one of you says something you can’t take back. But his feet feel rooted to the ground. You look at him—really look at him—and whatever thread of control he’s holding onto snaps clean in two.
His hand moves before he can stop it, fingers brushing along the line of your jaw. Your breath hitches. You don’t pull away. He tilts your chin up, his thumb resting just beneath your lower lip, and your mouth opens slightly beneath his touch. His palm is warm, and then his hand slides to the back of your neck.
And then you’re moving—closing the distance between you without hesitation. Your mouth crashes against his, rough and desperate, and Nanami’s hand tightens at the nape of your neck as he kisses you back, hard.
It’s messy. Too fast, and too much. Your teeth catch against his bottom lip, and he exhales harshly, his other hand sliding down to your waist and yanking you forward until there’s no space left between you. Your fingers curl into the front of his shirt; you tug him down to you. His lips part against yours, and you deepen the kiss, all gasping breaths and frantic movements.
Nanami’s head spins. His hand slides beneath your blouse, finding the bare skin at the small of your back, and you shudder. You press closer, and he feels the quick, uneven flutter of your heart where your chest is pressed against his.
You break away first, just barely. Your breath ghosts against his mouth, shallow and ragged, before you lean in and kiss him again—slower this time, softer, but still aching with urgency. Nanami’s hand slips into your hair, his thumb pressing gently behind your ear as your lips part beneath his. You sigh into him.
Nanami knows he should stop. He knows he should pull back before this spirals out of control. But you breathe his name against his mouth, quiet and pleading, and Nanami’s resolve shatters.
He kisses you deeper.
Nanami doesn’t think—he’s past the point of rational thought. His hands slide down the curve of your waist, settling at your hips as he walks you backward, step by step, until the edge of the table presses against the back of your thighs. You’re breathless, flushed, lips swollen from his mouth. He watches your chest rise and fall, watches the slight tremor in your hands where they curl into his shirt.
His hands are on your thighs, lifting you effortlessly onto the polished surface. Papers scatter beneath you, forgotten, as his mouth trails down the column of your throat. His lips are soft, his breath hot against your skin, and you gasp when his teeth scrape lightly over the sensitive spot under your jaw. His hands are firm at your hips, sliding beneath the hem of your skirt as he coaxes your legs apart.
Your hands find his shoulders, clinging. He drops to his knees in front of you. His gaze lifts to yours, golden in the low light of the room. His hands slide down your thighs, spreading them wider, and his mouth curves slightly when he sees the way your breath shudders.
“May I?” he asks, a little bit hoarse.
You nod. “Yes,” you breathe out.
That’s all he needs. His mouth presses to the inside of your knee, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the soft skin of your inner thigh. Your head tips back when his lips brush higher, his breath hot against the lace between your legs. He pulls your underwear aside with a tug.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, thumb brushing along your inner thigh. His breath hitches as he watches your slick shine between your folds, already glistening with arousal. His thumb traces the line of your slit, parting you with a slow, teasing drag. “So wet for me already.”
His eyes flick up to meet yours. “Did you need this that badly?”
You open your mouth to answer, but you shudder when his thumb presses against your clit, rubbing a slow, lazy circle. A broken sound escapes you, hips twitching towards his hand. Nanami hums in approval, and says, “I’ll take that as a yes.”
The first stroke of his tongue is slow, like he’s savouring the taste of you. Your thighs twitch, but his hands find purchase beneath them, anchoring you firmly against the table as his mouth works against you. His tongue flicks over your clit, and your hands fly to his hair, fingers tangling in the strands. He groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating against you as his lips close around you and suck.
“Oh, my God—Nanami—”
He hums against you, pleased. His tongue slides down, dragging through your folds before pressing back up to your clit. He’s focused, the same way he is with everything else—this time, though, his only goal is to make you feel good. His fingers flex against your thighs. Your hips jerk, but he presses you down with a firm hand. His mouth leaves you for half a second, just enough time for him to say, “Stay still.”
Then, he’s back on you, tongue sliding over you in slow, wet strokes. His lips close around your clit again, sucking softly before flicking his tongue over it until you’re gasping. Your thighs threaten to close around his head, but his hands keep you pinned open.
“Nanami—Nanami, I’m—”
His mouth seals over your folds, tongue curling against you just right. Your back arches, a broken moan slipping from your lips. You sag against the table, breathless. Nanami presses one last kiss to your thigh before standing. His mouth glistens.
“Come here,” he tells you, and this time, he’s the one who sounds pleading.
He kisses you, hard and hungry, and makes sure you taste yourself on his tongue.
Nanami’s breath is ragged when he pulls back. His hands slide down your sides, steady even as his chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths. He undoes his belt with one sharp pull, the metallic jingle ringing in the quiet room. The sound makes his cock twitch, already painfully hard from how wrecked you look beneath him—forehead beaded with sweat, lips swollen, legs still trembling from the way he just made you come.
He draws himself out, cock slapping against his abdomen. He wraps a hand around the base, and strokes himself once, slow. His cock is thick and flushed, the head glistening with precome. His jaw tightens. He’s already so close, but he wants to take his time. He wants to savour this—savour you.
“Are you on the pill?” he manages to ask.
You nod, desperate and frantic. “Yes, yes—fuck, please—”
“Bend over,” he says, voice low.
You hesitate for a second, blinking up at him through heavy-lidded eyes. But his hands are already on you, guiding you up and turning you until you’re facing the table. His palm slides down the curve of your back, pressing your forward until your chest is flush against the cool wood. His hand lingers at the nape of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as he leans over you.
“You’ll let me have you like this, won’t you?” His mouth brushes against the shell of your ear. “Spread your legs for me.”
You do, and Nanami’s breath stutters. His hands slide down to your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh there as he pulls you open. His gaze drops to where you’re still slick from his mouth, the sight making his cock ache.
“Fuck,” he curses under his breath.
He lines himself up, dragging the flushed tip of his cock through your folds, coating himself with your arousal. He rubs the head against your entrance, teasing—but he’s barely hanging on himself. His cock throbs, and his grip on your hips tightens.
“Nanami—” you gasp out.
He sinks into you in one slow thrust. The stretch makes him moan, the tight heat of you wrapping around him inch by inch. His forehead drops against the back of your shoulder. He bottoms out, his hips pressing flush against you. “God,” he breathes, voice strained. His fingers curl against your skin, hard enough to bruise. “You’re so—”
He pulls back, almost all the way out, and then thrusts back in. You shudder beneath him. Nanami groans low in his throat. The sound vibrates against your skin as he sets a steady pace, hips rolling into you with each thrust. Each drag of his cock against your walls makes him see white behind his eyes.
“So tight,” he mutters, more to himself than you. His hand slides up your spine, spreading his fingers between your shoulder blades to press you down. His other hand grips your hip hard, holding you still. His cock stretches you open so perfectly that he can barely think straight.
He watches the way you take him—how you flutter around him each time he pulls back, how your legs shake when he thrusts deeper, how your eyes close and your lips part with pretty moans just for him to hear. He wants to see more. He slides a hand down to your front, his fingers finding your clit. He rubs quick circles, and the way you clench around him makes him hiss through his teeth.
“Nanami—” Your voice is wrecked, gasping, breaking.
“I know,” he says through gritted teeth. His thrusts quicken. His chest presses to your back as he leans over you. His mouth finds the side of your neck, and he sucks hard. “Let me—”
You come with a sharp cry, and the way you tighten around him makes his rhythm falter. His cock throbs as he fucks you through your orgasm, dragging out every last tremor. Your walls flutter around him, slick and hot and perfect. Nanami groans against your skin. His thrusts grow shallow and uneven, his breath ragged.
He comes with a low, guttural sound, hips pressed deep as he spills inside you. His hand stays on your hip. He presses his mouth to the back of your neck, groaning.
His breath is still ragged as he carefully pulls out, the feeling of his cum slipping out of you making his chest tighten. He slides a hand down your back, smoothing your hair away from your face as he leans over you.
“Stay there,” he murmurs, his mouth brushing against your shoulder. His voice is soft now, almost tender. “Let me take care of you.”
He tucks himself away, smoothing down his shirt before his hands return to you—lifting you gently from the table and letting you lean into his arms. “Nanami,” you say.
“Yes?”
“We’ve ruined all the contract papers.”
The office feels too quiet the next day.
Nanami sits at his desk, but his mind isn’t on the stack of reports in front of him. His pen hovers over the paper, unmoving. His thoughts drift back to last night. To you.
The way you looked beneath him, flushed with heat and trembling. The way your breath caught in your throat when he touched you. The sound of his name falling from your lips, breathless and perfect. Nanami exhales, trying to clear his mind. He pinches the bridge of his nose, but the memory clings stubbornly to the edges of his mind. His hands curl into fists. He should not be thinking about this—about you.
But it’s impossible not to. Especially when you’re right there.
He hears your voice before he sees you. He hears you let out a quiet laugh from across the room, the sound tugging at his attention like a thread pulled tight. His eyes lift automatically and he finds you standing at your desk, flipping through a folder with that little crease between your brows you always get when you’re focused.
You glance up, your gaze meeting his. Neither of you move, until you give him a small, polite smile and look away.
Nanami grits his teeth. His pen presses hard against the paper as he looks down, trying to will his pulse back to normal. Pathetic, he thinks.
He should be able to handle this. He’s an adult. A professional. He has handled far more serious situations with more composure than this. Every time you walk past his desk, his gaze follows you. Every time you speak, his attention hooks onto your voice like it’s a lifeline. His fingers itch to touch you—to brush a hand along your arm, to tip your chin up and steal a kiss.
It’s getting unbearable.
It’s not just the memories of last night that haunt him—it’s the aftermath. Because you’re acting… normal, and that’s the problem. You greet him the same way you always have. Your smile is the same. Meanwhile, Nanami is fighting for his life every time you walk within ten feet of him.
This morning, you’d handed him a report with your fingers brushing over his. “Morning, Nanami,” you’d said, bright and sweet.
His hand had twitched. “Morning.”
You’d walked off while he sat there, wondering how a simple touch could make him feel like his entire nervous system was short-circuiting.
But the worst part is that he’s not subtle about it. Not at all. It’s a problem.
Like when you walked into the office this afternoon, holding a cup of coffee, looking pretty in your blouse and trousers. Nanami had glanced up for half a second—and in that half-second, he’d managed to knock his pen holder off his desk.
“Are you okay?” you’d asked, setting down your coffee and crouching to help him.
Nanami had stared at the mess on the floor. “Fine.”
You’d smiled at him, amused. He’d looked away quickly, feeling heat creep up his neck.
Or earlier today, when you had stopped at his desk to ask about a meeting. “Did you get the email from Gojo?” you’d asked, leaning slightly over his desk.
Nanami had blinked at you, his mind immediately spiraling back to last night—the feeling of your body beneath his hands, the way you had gasped when he—
“Nanami?”
“Hm?”
“The email?”
“Yes. Yes, I saw it.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
You’d looked at him for a long moment, eyes narrowing slightly. Then you’d shrugged and walked away. Nanami had exhaled once you were out of sight, rubbing a hand over his face. He’s being so obvious, and that’s unacceptable.
“Nanami, could you grab those papers from my desk?” you ask that evening, glancing over your shoulder as you pack up your bag.
“Of course,” he replies, already standing. His legs carry him towards your desk before he can think better of it.
Your desk is neat, everything in its place—except for the book. It’s placed on the edge, slightly worn from use. He recognises it instantly. It’s the one he bought you at the flea market weeks ago, when you’d read out a few sentences in an attempt to “woo” him. He hadn’t expected you to actually read it.
Curiosity tugs at him. His hand drifts towards the book. The spine gives under his touch, loose—like it’s been held too many times, thumbed through on quiet nights. It falls open easily. There’s a dog-ear marking a specific page. Nanami reads the passage beneath the crease:
‘It hit him all at once, like the sun breaking through the clouds. That the way his chest ached every time he saw her smile was not fear or confusion—it was love. Had always been love. And how foolish he’d been, not to have known it sooner.’
Nanami Kento freezes. His fingers press lightly against the paper. He thinks of the way you smile at him; of the soft, half-lidded look you give him when you’re tired; of the way you always seem to find him first in a crowded room. He thinks of the warmth in your laugh, and the way you lean towards him when you talk, like you don’t even realise you’re doing it.
How had he not known?
His heartbeat stumbles. His gaze lifts to you, across the room.
You’re still packing up, tucking a notebook into your bag. Your brows crease slightly in concentration, the corners of your mouth tugging down. You push a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Nanami swears he forgets how to breathe.
Had you known before he had? Is that why you marked this passage and left it there for him to find? Or had you dog-eared it for yourself—because you had some sort of silly, idiotic hope that it was true?
You look up. Your eyes catch his. You smile—small and soft, easy as breathing. Nanami’s throat tightens. His chest aches in that quiet, unbearable way that’s starting to feel familiar. He sets the book down. You zip up your bag and turn around to the door. His gaze follows you without thinking.
Oh, he thinks, heart pounding. How foolish of me.
It hits him that night, when he’s in bed and thinking about you. You’d said that Zen’in Naoya had stolen your intellectual property once. His eyes widen, and he sits up straight, reaching for his phone that’s charging on his nightstand. He dials in your number.
You pick up after two rings. “...Hello?”
You sound sleepy. When he looks at the time, it’s almost midnight. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”
“Yes, but—” he hears you yawn— “it’s fine. I should savour the occasion, actually. It’s rare that you call me first.”
“Yes, well.” Nanami’s cheeks burn. “I wanted to ask you something.”
“Go on.”
“That night— The night we—” Nanami feels his entire face heat up. “The night we argued,” he settles on. “You mentioned that Zen’in Naoya stole your intellectual property.”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line. He hears you shift, the rustling of sheets punctuating the silence. “That was a long time ago,” you say quietly.
“What happened?” he asks.
“It’s… complicated.”
“I have time,” he says, settling back against the headboard. His hand presses over his mouth, his thumb resting just below his jaw.
“It was when I was still with Naoya,” you say carefully, like you’re trying not to give away too much. “I was working on a pitch for an international partnership. It was something I’d been preparing for months. And I—I made the mistake of showing it to him.
“He said he just wanted to look it over. But then he brought it to his family as his own work. Word-for-word. Even the phrasing in the executive summary was identical.”
“And no one said anything?” Nanami questions.
“People noticed,” you reply. “But it’s the Zen’in family. No one wanted to stir the pot, you know?”
“What happened with the pitch?”
“It tanked. Naoya didn’t bother to prepare for the follow-up meetings. He couldn’t answer half the questions that came up. It was humiliating—for both of us—but I was the one who took the fall. No one was going to take my side over Naoya’s. His uncle’s practically running the whole board. It was easier to let me look incompetent.”
Nanami feels his teeth press together. His free hand curls into a fist against his knee. “You should’ve told me.”
You huff out a laugh. “I didn’t know you at the time, Nanami. All this happened while I was working for the Zen’ins—before my dad retired and handed me his company.”
The Zen’ins hadn’t been circling your company. No, it had been Salt-and-Pepper who brought them in. The timing had been suspicious. The Zen’ins’ reputation is tainted—financial mismanagement, aggressive acquisition tactics, borderline illegal practices. The last thing you needed was to be tethered to a sinking ship.
But Salt-and-Pepper had managed to convince over half of the board of directors. Wire-Rimmed Glasses had been on his side from the start. So had Charcoal Pants and Nepotism Baby, albeit reluctantly.
“This isn’t just a business deal. Right?” he asks you. He understands, now, why you’d made negotiations with Balding Man—Zen’in Industries’ representative—so difficult. You’d tried to drag it on for as long as you could, trying to stall the deal from going through.
You stay quiet on the other end. Nanami takes that as confirmation.
“Okay,” he says slowly. “Okay. We can figure this out.”
“What are you thinking, Nanami?”
Salt-and-Pepper’s financials. His holdings. Any private deals with Zen’in Industries or overlapping investments. Nanami has access to all of it—board records, meeting minutes, even expense reports. If there is a paper trail, he would find it.
“Do you think,” he says, “you can handle a meeting with Legal tomorrow?”
It happens quickly after that.
Past papers are uncovered. Shady deals surface. It’s almost too easy. Nanami knows how these things work—no paper trail is truly invisible, no backdoor negotiation is as airtight as it seems. People talk, especially when the money starts moving.
Nanami digs through your company’s internal records the next day, tracking down the original licensing agreements for the software framework. The timeline doesn’t add up. Zen’in Industries’ supposed “internal R&D” was completed two months before the initial product proposal had even been drafted. That’s not just suspicious—it’s impossible.
He finds the buried reports: Memos from Salt-and-Pepper’s office, quiet requests to “streamline” the internal approval process. He finds—perhaps most damning of all—a forwarded email chain from Wire-Rimmed Glasses to Balding Man.
Need to close this by Q3. Zen’in Industries’ team will take over full oversight post-merger.
The date on the email reads for two weeks before the first joint meeting had even been scheduled.
He goes to the Accounting department next, via the internal compliance office. Someone from accounting had flagged a discrepancy in the financial statements weeks ago, but it had quickly been buried. There were payments made to an offshore account—small enough to be overlooked at a glance, but steady and consistent. It was linked to a shell corporation in Singapore.
A shell corporation owned by Zen’in Industries.
Nanami doesn’t hesitate. He sends the information to your private office line under encryption. The paper trail is too neat. This wasn’t just about a merger. It was a quiet takeover.
Salt-and-Pepper had gotten sloppy. He had to convince the board to sign over proprietary assets through the collaboration over the new product. Let Zen’in gut the tech. Then quietly dissolve the partnership and walk away with the intellectual property rights. Your company would be left holding the framework—and the financial fallout.
Salt-and-Pepper would walk away with his cut.
You’re surprised to see him when he walks into your office. His tie is askew. His shirt is rumpled. He is not the usual, put-together man he is. How could he be, when your own board of directors was secretly conspiring against you?
“Nanami?” you ask, setting down your bag.
He slides a folder towards you without a word.
The next day, the partnership with Zen’in Industries is called off, and Salt-and-Pepper is stripped of his position. (Translation: He was fired.)
When Nanami Kento officially decides to ask you out—because he has, officially, let the fact that he’s in love with you sink in—it is supposed to be methodical. He had planned out the worst-case, most likely, and best case scenarios in his head, as he always does.
Best Case Scenario (Highly Unlikely): You say yes immediately, without even pausing. He takes you to that quaint French place he knows you like, and the waiter winks at him approvingly because you’re clearly out of his league. You’re charming (you always are), and he’s witty (for the first time in his life). At the end of the night, when he walks you to your door, you kiss him. It’s perfect. Birds are singing. Angels are weeping. The stock market hits a record high the next day.
Most Likely Scenario (Fortunate and Expected): You blink at him, and then laugh—a little nervous, a little delighted—and agree to go out with him. He takes you to a good restaurant. You order something a little too expensive, but he doesn’t complain. You’re charming (you always are), and he is… passable. He doesn’t embarrass himself. He even manages to make you laugh once or twice. Instead of kissing him at your doorstep, you punch his arm lightly and say goodbye. He fist-punches the air like a teenage boy when you close the door.
Worst-Case Scenario (God Forbid): You reject him. You say you only think of him as a friend and nothing more. He blacks out for approximately five seconds. You stop bringing him melonpan. He stops walking with you to the elevator. He will probably leave the company. Years later, he hears you’re married to someone who’s the complete opposite of him (probably a racecar driver). He dies alone.
(He’s accounting for margin of error, obviously.)
Nanami reviews his options with the same level of focus he usually reserves for quarterly reports and balance sheets. He weighs the pros and cons, considers timing, and factors in your general mood over the past two weeks. You’ve been in good spirits since Salt-and-Pepper’s departure. An excellent sign.
Still, when he finally stands outside your office, his heart is pounding hard enough to disrupt his thought process. Which is utterly ridiculous. He’s a grown man. A professional. He’s closed million-yen deals under pressure, right by your side. There is no reason he should be standing here, debating whether to knock.
The door swings open before he can decide. “Nanami?” you say, blinking at him.
His mouth opens. His mouth closes. He’s completely blank.
You tilt your head. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” he says, except it sounds completely unconvincing. “I wanted to ask you something.”
You give him a curious look, stepping back to let him in. He follows you inside. His heart rabbits inside his rib cage. This is fine. He’s prepared for this.
“You look serious,” you say, sitting on the edge of your desk. “Is this about work?”
“No.” His hands are in his pockets. He takes a breath. He needs to rip the bandaid off. “Would you—” He stops. Closes his eyes. Starts again. “Would you like to have dinner with me? As a date.”
You don’t say anything—not right away. Instead, you snort.
Nanami’s eyes snap open.
You’re covering your mouth with your hand, but it’s not enough to muffle the sound of your increasingly uncontrollable laughter. Your shoulders are shaking with the full-body kind of laughter.
“Are you…” Nanami feels like his brain is short-circuiting. “Are you laughing?”
“Oh, my God,” you wheeze, tipping your head back. “You— You’re asking me out?”
“That is… generally how this works,” he says stiffly. His cheeks prickle with heat.
You dissolve into another fit of giggles. Nanami’s heart sinks. He’s about five seconds away from accepting defeat and leaving the country after changing his identity.
But then you slide off the desk and point an accusing finger at him, still laughing. “Nanami Kento,” you say, breathless, “do you have any idea how hard I’ve been trying to get you to notice me?”
“...What?”
You groan, wringing your hands together. “I have been trying to get you to notice me for months. You are literally the most oblivious person on the planet.”
Nanami opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. His brain is working overtime trying to process the implications of what you’ve just said.
You hold up a finger. “First of all—the book.”
“The book?” Nanami echoes, very intelligently.
“Yes, the book. The one you bought me at the flea market? You didn’t have to, so I figured you might feel the same way ‘cause you do a lot of the stuff I ask you to do, even though you don’t have to, and no one’s forcing you to. And the time you came over because I was drunk and I called you up and you made me tea and stayed until I fell asleep. And here I was, overthinking everything because I like you so much—too much, probably, and—”
Nanami steps forward, closing the distance between you in two long strides. Your eyes widen slightly as he places his hands on your waist, steady and warm. His thumb brushes the hem of your shirt.
“You,” he says, “talk too much.”
Your mouth opens—to protest, probably—but Nanami leans down and kisses you before you can say another word.
Your breath hitches, and then your hands curl into the front of his shirt. You melt into him. His lips are soft and sure, and the way you sigh into the kiss makes his heart stutter. He feels you smile against his mouth.
When he pulls back, you’re breathless, a little flustered. But your eyes are bright and happy, and that, Nanami thinks, is always good.
“Oh,” you murmur. “Was that the best case scenario?”
“Birds are singing,” he says. “Angels are weeping.”
“Stock market?”
“Remains to be seen.”
You grin and pull him down for another kiss.
Nanami’s apartment is quiet in the way he likes best. His bedroom is dark, save for the small pool of golden light from the lamp on the nightstand. His bed is warm, and so are you—curled beneath the blankets, your hair spilling over his pillow.
The book he bought you is sitting on the nightstand. There’s a new crease in the spine and a bookmark tucked partway through because he’s been reading it. He never used to care for fiction, but you’d smiled so brightly when he picked it up that now he finds himself reading it when he gets the time.
The mug of honey and ginger tea warms his hands. You blink sleepily when you see him, sitting up when he approaches the bed. Your hair is mussed, and you have a mark on your cheek where you’d turned into the pillow. His heart does that foolish, undignified thing where it stumbles in his chest.
“Tea,” he says, handing you the mug. “Drink.”
You smile when you take it. He sits down on the edge of the bed and watches you lift the mug to your lips. His hand finds your hair almost without thinking, fingers threading through it.
“We’re meeting my parents this weekend. You remember, right?” you ask, resting the mug on your knee.
“Are you turning into my secretary now?”
“No,” you say, and tilt your chin up defiantly at him. “Just so you know, I’m marrying you whether my parents approve or not.”
“Noted,” Nanami says.
“Good.”
“Why are you asking me?”
You shrug, a tad playful. “I don’t know. Thought you might’ve come to your senses.”
He makes a quiet sound—something like a laugh, though softer. “That would be difficult.” His thumb brushes the curve of your cheek. “I lost them a long time ago.”
You smile. Nanami leans back against the headboard, his arm resting across your shoulder as you tuck yourself into his side. The book is still sitting on the nightstand, waiting for him. He’ll pick it up later, after you’ve fallen asleep. For now, he lets himself breathe you in—warmth and honey and ginger.
“We have work tomorrow.” He tilts his head, and his lips brush against your hairline when he says it.
You laugh under your breath, your cheek pressed to his shoulder. “I am your work, Kento.”
Nanami smiles. He kisses your head again. His heart feels unbearably full.
Thus, he thinks, the courtship affairs of a common man have come to a very satisfying close.
normal life au (todos dessa série serão 💋), Nanami x femreader, fluff e sugestivo, pouquíssima diferença de idade (ele tem 35, você 29), kento assalariado fodido pelo capitalismo
ওㅤé o marido mais DOCE que alguém poderia ter, você quase tem diabetes por conta disso (e por conta da quantidade de doces que ele compra para você)
ওㅤmelhor momento do dia dele? ver você ainda dormindo de manhã cedo, quando a única luz presente no quarto é a da fresta da cortina
ওㅤa história de vocês começou no escritório onde ambos trabalhavam, era uma estagiária e ele deu mentir, mas quando o seu tempo de estágio acabou correu atrás de você feito um cachorrinho
ওㅤtem as histórias e os casos mais engraçados do mundo, noites de quarta são específicas para ouvi-las e beber chá!
ওㅤpor ser mais nova te trata como boneca de porcelana, sempre com muita delicadeza a cada toque e beijo
ওㅤadora beijar seu rosto e seu pescoço
ওㅤOBCECADO pelo seu cheiro, faz questão de comprar os mesmos cremes só para você manter aquele cheirinho frutado que ele ama
ওㅤo adulto responsável da casa, sempre te lembrando das coisas
ওㅤcustou a confessar, mas morria de medo do seu pai por não se achar o suficiente para você
ওㅤquando chega cansado do trabalho a primeira reação dele é: te abraçar até que você mande ele ir tomar banho, mas só quando for sua terceira vez falando para ele ir, se não, ele não larga
ওㅤama te apertar, tanto casualmente, quando na cama
ওㅤapertar sua bunda? seus seios? suas coxas e até mesmo a sua barriga? é com ele mesmo
ওㅤama te ver de lingerie, a favorita dele é a azul claro que ele te deu de presente
ওㅤem geral, vanilla, mas sempre vai atender seus pedidos
ওㅤ não admite, mas sente muito tesão quando você grita com ele, ou quando brigam e você fica com cara de brava
ওㅤmas é muito raro vocês brigarem, e ele não quer ser infantil e te provocar de propósito
ওㅤplaneja começar uma família assim que arranjar outro emprego
ওㅤ apesar de cuidar do yuji de vez em quando, é 100% pai de menina
ওㅤ provavelmente serão aquele tipo de família que vão sair vestidos combinando
ওㅤmoodboard do Sr. e Sra. Nanami (feat. Nanami Emi e Ayako)
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