ㅤꨄ︎ Nanami catches his pregnant wife ransacking the kitchen at 3am. (Fluff)
Nanami lazily rubs his tired eyes as he sits up on his bed, sheets pooling at his lap. He looked at the time. 3:23 am. Why is he awake at an ungodly hour?
His light haze is interrupted by what sounds like a raccoon rummaging through the pantry downstairs and the loud rustling of wrappers. He looks at the spot on your side of the bed where you should be. Empty, of course.
He swings his long legs over the bed and pads downstairs, his bare feet quiet against the cool wooden boards. The rustling of plastic, the thudding of cabinet doors, and soft chewing get louder as he approaches the kitchen.
He squints as he tries to make out the round figure in the dark shadows of the kitchen; the thin stream of moonlight through the kitchen’s small window faintly outlines your face.
“Honey, what the hell are you doing this late?” He flicks the light on, both of your faces scrunching up by the sudden brightness of the room after a long period of only darkness.
He sees his wife, you, standing by the fridge in his old dark blue button-up long-sleeve shirt big enough to cover your pregnant belly, a cold half-eaten pizza in one hand, while the other holds half a ham sandwich. His gaze pans to the cluttered counter laid with a slice of bread with Nutella slapped on it, a half-eaten bag of Doritos, a ham package, an empty soda can, a bitten apple, and an old pizza box. No signs of anything balanced, nutritional, or healthy, maybe the apple counts.
He rubs his sleepy face and rakes a hand through his sleep-ruffled hair.
“What am I going to do with you?” He shuffles closer to where you are, squinting at your cheeks puffed with food.
“I was hungry!” You mumble, unbothered under his scrutinizing stare.
Nanami grimaces at the random bits of food that fly out of your mouth. He knows that your pregnancy cravings have been cranked up to the max since entering your 2nd trimester, but he’s still unused to you eating the house of stock just because you feel a little hunger.
“Sweetheart, you’re eating all of this right now? Do you know what time it is?” It’s like he’s scolding a child. Well, he could call this practice for future reference.
You close the fridge sheepishly and swallow.
“I didn’t want to wake you, and I didn’t want to cook anything, so I just ate whatever came to mind.” Your explanation makes him sigh, but you know he’s really not irritated. He just wishes you had woken him up even at this late hour if it meant providing you with something healthier than whatever junk you’re eating now.
“You should’ve woken me up,”
He grabs the Dorito bag, the old pizza box, and everything else on the counter and dumps it all in the trash. He doesn’t dare to grab the food already in your hands; he knows better than to anger a pregnant lady.
“You know I don’t mind cooking for you.” He grabs a pot and a pan. If you’re hungry, he’s going to feed you at least right.
“What are you doing?” You ask, confused.
“Making you something proper.” He grabs some ingredients from the fridge and the pantry shelves. The smell of eggs and veggies fills your nose.
You sit down by the counter, still eating the last of your sandwich and pizza. You watch his broad shoulders shift and strain under his thin sleep shirt. He’s such a sight for sore eyes. What could be more attractive than your caring, unbelievably sexy husband cooking you a meal without being asked at 3 in the morning?
He whisks the eggs and pours them into the buttered pan. He dumps the veggies and folds them into a perfect tamagoyaki. Basic but tasty, way better than what you were eating before.
“Here, eat up,” he places the freshly cooked food and crosses his arms, watching you pick up the chopsticks on the plate and eagerly stuffing your mouth.
“Aw, thank you, Ken. You didn’t have to,” your eyes sting with tears. It surprises you how easily your mood can shift from hungry to happy to sad. You feel bad for waking him up and make him feel like he has to take care of you all the time.
Nanami shakes his head, walking over to where you sat and wrapping his strong arms around you. He presses a kiss on the side of your head. He smells like his sandalwood shaving cream and cologne.
“Don’t cry, my love. I don’t mind doing anything for you as long as you’re content.” He kisses your leftover tears away, his eyes full of love for the mother of his little girl, Sachiko, and the light of his life.
You sniffle, beaming under his affection.
“Don’t you have work in the morning, Ken? I shouldn’t be keeping you up this late.”
He shakes his head, his large hand trailing down to rest on the curve of your belly. He feels a small nudge barely there, but still enough to make his heart flutter. His palm’s warmth seeps through the cotton of the button-up, grounding you.
“That doesn’t matter right now. You and the baby are more important to me than anything else right now.”
“You don’t mind me keeping you up late even though you have work?”
He shakes his head, his hands now coming up to cup your cheeks. You melt and lean into his touch, watery eyes blinking up at him.
“I don’t care if I lose sleep. Do you think I’d rather be asleep than taking care of you right now?” His voice is low and warm, comforting your guilt-clouded head.
You slowly move your head, no, letting his thumb wipe away stray tears.
“No… know you love doting on me.”
“Good. I want you to wake me anytime if you need anything. Promise you’ll do that for me?”
“I promise.” His shoulders relax at your promise. He presses a slow kiss on your forehead before pulling back to meet your eyes again.
“I love you,” he murmurs, only quiet enough for you to hear.
You giggle, grinning playfully.
“No way. I love you more.”
(In a perfect world I’m nanami’s happy pampered wife.)
