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.
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."
"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.
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."
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."
"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.
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.
"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."
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 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.
"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.
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."
"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.
"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."
"Okay," Nanami said carefully.
"We've decided," Yamamoto continued, "that you're banned from future drinking events."
"Unless," Sato added quickly, "you bring your wife."
"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.
Always. He would always come home.
