synopsis ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ you talk about your husband like he is a dream and, frankly, your coworkers think that you are making him up. that is until your husband shows up.
you talked about your husband all the time.
nanami this nanami that
“oh, my husband makes the best lunchboxes”
“he stayed up to help me with my report”
“he walks me to the station when i stay late”
you weren’t annoying about it. not really. just a little too consistent. always saying things like “he’ll pick me up after work today, we’re going to get pastries!” and showing off texts that made your coworkers tilt their heads and squint.
kento nanami sounded fake.
a little too nice. a little too attentive.
and when you tacked on the fact that he was hot — “blond, tall, glasses, kinda quiet but really handsome, you know?” — people at work started to think that maybe you were pulling everyone’s leg.
just a little.
not out of malice — no, never that — but maybe you were lonely. maybe you just needed a sweet little fantasy to get you through the day. who could blame you?
because no way someone like nanami existed. not the way you described him. it just didn’t sound real. not in this world. not in this economy.
but you never let up.
you beamed like a lovesick fool when your phone lit up with his name. you refused to make afterwork plans on fridays because that was “friday pasta night with kento.” you sighed wistfully every time someone so much as mentioned a bakery and then whispered, “kento always remembers my favorite,” like you were in some fairytale.
you weren’t smug about it either. it was just… relentless. like you were trying to manifest it into reality.
and maybe it would’ve stayed harmless water cooler gossip — “hey, what do you think her husband actually looks like?” or “maybe it’s just her roommate who makes all the food?” — if you hadn’t mentioned that he’d be picking you up from work one day soon.
“he’s on leave,” you’d said, head bent over a spreadsheet, smiling to yourself. “wants to take me out for dinner. he’ll be here early. maybe you’ll see him.”
you said it innocently. with that dreamy lilt you always got when his name was on your tongue.
but that set off everyone.
bets were placed. theories floated. some said he’d never show. others swore they’d catch you whispering to your reflection in the hallway like a crazy person. one guy from accounting said he saw you with a facetime open to a picture of a k-pop idol and he swore it was nanami. it was all harmless. mostly.
people just didn’t believe it.
until the elevator doors slid open.
and nanami stepped out.
he wore a tan wool coat, fitted slacks, button-up half undone at the throat — all that fine-tuned, elegant masculinity that seemed sculpted into place. hair slicked back, wristwatch glinting, and an expression that was all quiet restraint, the kind that turned heads on instinct.
and his eyes — sharp, deep, familiar — scanned the room once, then softened the moment he saw you.
“you ready, sweetheart?” he asked.
your coworkers went silent.
someone dropped their pen.
you lit up instantly. grinned, grabbed your bag, waved at everyone with a cheery, “see you tomorrow!” like this wasn’t the most monumental moment of vindication in the history of your office.
nanami took your coat from you before you even shrugged it off fully. guided you with a hand on the small of your back. leaned in and brushed a kiss to your temple so naturally that your coworker audibly gasped.
he glanced up then. noticed the sea of frozen faces.
“good evening,” he said politely, like he didn’t just obliterate the collective doubt of your entire floor with one gentle peck.
you left with him. smiling, chatting, looping your arm through his as he opened the door and held it for you.
and behind you — a stunned, stunned silence.
“…so,” someone whispered, finally. “that was nanami?”
“the nanami?” another croaked.
“that man’s real?”
“she wasn’t even exaggerating,” came the hollow, awe-struck reply. “she was under-selling him.”
and in the elevator, nanami turned to you and smiled, faint but amused. “you were right,” he murmured, “they really didn’t believe i existed.”
you snorted and leaned into his side. “i told you. now they’ll think i made you in a lab.”
“i wouldn’t be bothered by that,” he said, tugging you closer, kissing your knuckles as the doors closed. “you did a perfect job, if so.”
