you find your husband in the kitchen just past six. saturday morning. no work today—not in the strict sense—but he’s still dressed with care: sleeves rolled once at the forearm, shirt clinging to his back from the steam rising off the rice cooker. his tie lies forgotten beside the lacquered bento boxes. you rub the sleep grit from your eyes, leaning against the doorway.
“you’re up early.”
“we’re visiting your parents today,” he portions hijiki beside roasted sweet potato (peeled, exactly how you like it.) his hand presses the lid with a muted snap. you usually make the bentos during the week: neatly stacked and wrapped before he slips into his coat. but today is a weekend. you’d slept through his stirring, and unsurprisingly, he hadn’t woken you.
“breakfast is on the table. eat something before we leave,” he says without inflection. still, his gaze catches on the chest area of your sleep shirt, lingering for a second longer than propriety might allow.
“you didn’t have to do it yourself ken. i could’ve helped,”
“i know. but i thought it’d be nice if you woke up to it.”
a pause. you’re still processing that when he steps past you to rinse the rice paddle. water rushes against metal.
“you’re already thinking about dessert, aren’t you?” he asks over his shoulder, tone dry—though there’s a smile in it, somewhere. you hum, grabbing two mugs and reaching for the coffee tin. “you’re projecting, love.”
you think it’s over there. a shared moment, soft and done.
but that night, after pleasantries and tea and the train ride back, when he’s got you bent over the same counter where he’d stood this morning, your panties shoved aside, your combined cum dripping down your legs. you think: maybe he’d been thinking about dessert too. ever since morning. maybe even before that.
The sickness had been lingering like a shadow—never quite announcing itself, but never leaving either. It crept in quietly, first as a dull queasiness, then as a persistent nausea that clung to your days like fog. You’d brushed it off at first. A bad batch of takeout, maybe. A stomach bug. Something transient. But the days passed, and the unease remained, growing roots in your body.
Now, you were hunched over the toilet, your breath ragged, your skin clammy with sweat. The porcelain was cool against your cheek, grounding you in its sterile stillness. Your hair stuck to your face in damp strands, and the taste of bile lingered at the back of your throat. You felt hollowed out.
Kento had noticed, of course. He always did. His concern had been quiet. He’d taken over the kitchen without a word, preparing meals with the kind of care that bordered on reverence. Every ingredient was inspected, every dish crafted with precision. You’d teased him about it—called him your “private chef”—and he’d only offered a soft smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“I just want you to feel safe,” he’d said one night, setting down a bowl of miso soup with hands that had defeated countless curses and still found gentleness.
But even his cooking couldn’t chase the sickness away.
You pulled yourself up from the floor, legs trembling beneath you, and leaned against the sink. The mirror caught your reflection—a pale, gaunt version of yourself. Your eyes looked too big for your face, your lips cracked and red at the corners. You looked like someone who’d been trapped in a basement for days.
You opened the cabinet above the toilet, rummaging through the clutter until your fingers brushed against a small, forgotten box. The pregnancy tests. Bought months ago, back when you and Kento had first begun to speak in hypotheticals. Children. Futures. Not plans, not yet. Just possibilities.
You stared at the box for a long moment, your heart thudding in your chest. You peeled it open, the plastic crinkling like thunder in the quiet room. Reading the instructions twice, then again, your hands trembled as you followed them. When it was done, you set the test on the counter and backed away, as if distance might soften the blow.
You sank to the floor again, knees drawn to your chest, the cold tile biting into your skin. The minutes stretched, elastic and cruel. Your mind spiraled—memories and fears colliding in a storm of thought. You remembered the way Kento had looked at you the last time you’d talked about children—his gaze steady, but shadowed. “It’s not that I don’t want them,” he’d said. “It’s just... the world is so uncertain.”
And it was. Gojo’s sudden reappearance had thrown everything into chaos. That boy—Yuuji, with the cursed energy stitched into his bones—had become a new variable in a world already teetering on the edge. Missions were piling up. Kento was being pulled in every direction, and you could see it in the way he moved—like a man walking through a minefield.
This wasn’t the time.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
You didn’t hear the alarm on your phone go off.
But Kento did.
He stepped into the apartment, the door clicking shut behind him like punctuation. His tie was loosened, his brow furrowed, his shoulders heavy with the weight of another day spent navigating the wreckage of other people’s lives. The chime echoed from the bedroom, and he followed it, toeing off his shoes with the grace of someone who’d learned to move quietly through chaos.
He found you in the bathroom, eyes glazed, leaning against the cabinet like a ghost of yourself. The alarm blared from the counter, shrill and insistent.
“Hey,” he said softly, silencing it with a tap. “What was that for?”
You blinked, startled, then bit your lip.
There was no use lying. No use waiting.
“I... I think I might be pregnant.”
Silence.
Kento didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak. Just looked at you with that unreadable expression he wore when the ground beneath him shifted. You shrank into yourself, bracing for disappointment.
He glanced at the counter. “Did you check?”
You hesitated. “Not yet.”
He nodded once, slowly. “Let’s see.”
You reached for the test, hands still trembling, and held it out to him. “Can you... I’d rather you tell me.”
He took it gently, his own breath held as if he were diffusing a bomb. His eyes scanned the result, and for a moment, you thought you saw his hands tremble. Just a flicker. Then a tear slipped down his cheek, quiet and unannounced.
“It’s positive,” he said, voice cracking into a laugh that sounded like relief and disbelief all at once.
You gasped, knees buckling, but he caught you before you hit the ground. His arms wrapped around your elbows, steady and warm.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, the words tumbling out. “I didn’t mean for this to happen now. With everything going on—Gojo, Yuuji, the missions—you’re already stretched so thin, and I don’t want to add to it, and I know we aren’t trying, and—”
“Sweetheart,” he interrupted, pulling you close, pressing kisses to your damp forehead, your cheeks, your temple. “How could I ever be upset about this?”
You blinked up at him, tears welling. “But it’s not a good time. We didn’t plan for this. It might mess up your—”
“No,” he said firmly, brushing your hair back. “It won’t mess up anything. I’ll just adjust my plans around this. Around you. Around our child.”
You stared at him, heart thudding, the weight of your fears slowly lifting.
---
By the next morning, he had already booked the appointment. You hadn’t even asked. You woke to the sound of his voice in the hallway, low and clipped, the kind of tone he used when speaking to superiors. When he returned to the bedroom, he sat beside you and placed a hand on your thigh.
“Tomorrow. Nine a.m. OBGYN had a cancellation.”
You blinked at him, still groggy, still unsure if this was real. “You didn’t have to—”
“I did,” he said simply. “It’s not negotiable.”
That night, he stayed up late. You woke once to the soft glow of his laptop, casting a pale light across his face. He was reading. Medical journals, parenting blogs, forums filled with anxious first-time fathers. His brow was furrowed, his fingers curled around a mug of tea gone cold. You watched him for a moment, then drifted back to sleep.
By morning, the kitchen had transformed. The counter was lined with prenatal vitamins, ginger chews, and teas labeled “safe for pregnancy.” He’d printed out a list of dietary restrictions and taped it to the fridge, right next to the photo of the two of you in Kyoto—smiling beneath cherry blossoms.
Your meals became fully overseen by Kento. He cooked with reverence, measuring spices, double-checking every label, every temperature. You teased him once. Called him your “bodyguard”, and he didn’t even smile. Just said, “Someone has to be thorough,” and handed you a bowl of steamed vegetables with the care of a man offering a prayer.
One afternoon, you went out for lunch together. The restaurant was quiet, the air fragrant with soy and citrus. You scanned the menu, eyes landing on the sashimi platter. You hadn’t had it in weeks, and the craving was sharp, almost physical.
“I think I’ll get—”
“No,” Kento said, gently but firmly, his hand closing over yours. “Raw fish is off-limits.”
You blinked. “It’s just—”
He launched into a quiet, impassioned explanation about mercury levels, parasites, and the risks to fetal development. You stared at him, amused, touched. His voice was calm, but his eyes were fierce—like he was around Yuuji.
You ended up with a miso-glazed salmon, cooked thoroughly, and he watched you eat like he was memorizing the way you chewed.
Another time, at a gathering with friends, you reached for a plate of fruit. Pineapple, papaya, mango. The colors were bright, the scent sweet. But before you could take a bite, Kento appeared beside you, gently taking the plate from your hands.
“Some fruits have enzymes that can trigger contractions,” he murmured, replacing them with slices of apple and pear. “Better to be cautious.”
You should’ve been annoyed. You should’ve rolled your eyes and told him to relax. But instead, you felt something warm unfurl in your chest. His protectiveness wasn’t suffocating—it was grounding. It was his way of coping with the nervousness of stepping into the new, fitted shoes of fatherhood.
He began waking with you during your bouts of morning sickness, no matter how early, no matter how exhausted he was. You’d stumble to the bathroom, and he’d be there mere moments later, holding your hair back, dabbing a damp cloth on your forehead and collar, whispering reassurances in a voice that felt like balm.
He brought you ginger tea in your favorite mug.
One morning, after a particularly rough spell, you collapsed into his arms, trembling. He held you close, his chin resting on the crown of your head.
“You’re doing beautifully,” he whispered. “I’m so proud of you.”
Your fingers curled into his shirt.
---
The bedroom was quiet in that late-afternoon way—sunlight slanting through the curtains, casting long golden streaks across the floor, the air still and warm. You were barefoot, standing in the middle of it all, folding laundry with slow, practiced movements. The scent of clean cotton and lavender clung to the fabric, soft and familiar. A half-finished basket sat beside the bed, shirts and towels stacked in neat piles.
Kento was nearby, sitting cross-legged on the rug, matching socks with determined focus. His sleeves were rolled up, and he had that look on his face—the one he wore when he was deep in thought. You’d grown used to the silence between you. It was full of small things. Shared space. Shared breath.
You reached up to place a folded stack of shirts in the top shelf of the closet, stretching just slightly. Your shirt lifted with the motion, exposing a sliver of skin above your waistband.
Kento noticed.
He paused mid-fold, eyes catching on the curve of your lower stomach. It was subtle—barely there. He stood up slowly, like he didn’t want to disturb the tranquil moment.
You were still stacking more shirts when you felt his arms wrap around you from behind. Warm. Solid. Familiar. His hands settled low on your belly, gentle and unmoving, and you froze for a second, startled by the sudden closeness.
“Kento,” you said, laughing softly. “You scared me. I didn’t hear you get up.”
He didn’t answer right away. Just pressed his palm a little more firmly, like he was checking. Like he needed to feel it for himself.
“You’re showing,” he said quietly, almost like he didn’t believe it until now.
You blinked, then looked down. “Really?”
He nodded, then guided you gently toward the mirror without a word. You let him. His hands stayed on you, steady as ever, and when you stood in front of the glass, you saw it—just a slight curve. A soft swell. Nothing dramatic, but it was there.
“I didn’t even notice,” you murmured.
You smiled, reached up to touch his cheek. “You’re staring.”
“I’m allowed,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “You’re carrying our child.”
You leaned back into him, letting your weight rest against his chest. His arms tightened around you, and you felt his breath against your neck—slow, steady. His thumbs moved in slow circles over your belly, like he was memorizing it.
Your hands joined his over the curve of your stomach. The laundry sat forgotten on the bed. The sun kept sinking. And for a little while, you just stood there—wrapped in each other, wrapped in the moment.
He shifted slightly, brushing your hair back behind your ear, then kissed the side of your neck. “You’re beautiful,” he said, voice low. “Even more than usual.”
You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you. “You’re just saying that because I’m growing a tiny person.”
“I’m saying it because it’s true,” he said. “But the tiny person helps.”
You laughed, soft and breathy, and turned in his arms just enough to rest your forehead against his collarbone.
---
The clinic was quiet in a way that made everything feel more serious. Not sterile—just still. The kind of quiet where even the sound of your shoes against the tile felt too loud. You sat beside Kento in the waiting room, your fingers loosely laced with his. He hadn’t said much since you checked in. Just nodded when the nurse called your name, just squeezed your hand once when you stood to follow her.
You could feel it in him. Not nerves exactly. Just something tightly wound. His thumb kept brushing over your knuckles, slow and rhythmic, like he needed the contact to stay steady. You glanced at him once, and he gave you a small smile.
Inside the exam room, the lights were dimmed. The technician was kind, her voice soft and practiced. You lay back, shirt lifted, gel cool against your skin. Kento stood beside you, one hand resting lightly on your shoulder, the other curled into a fist at his side.
Then the sound filled the room.
A heartbeat.
Fast. Steady. Alive.
You turned your head toward him. His eyes were wide, mouth slightly parted. He didn’t speak, didn’t move. Just stared at the monitor like it was something sacred.
You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. Kento didn’t say anything until you were dressed again, the printed scans tucked into a small envelope in your hands. On the way out, he asked for a copy of the heartbeat recording. His voice was quiet, but firm.
The drive home was quiet. You sat with the envelope in your lap, fingers tracing the edges, then pulled out the scans one by one. The tiny form. The curve of a spine. The outline of a head. It didn’t feel theoretical anymore. It didn’t feel like a maybe.
It was real.
Kento tapped his phone, and the heartbeat filled the car again—soft, steady, looping. You stared at the scans, tracing the shape of the baby’s body with your fingertip, and something inside you cracked open.
You sniffled once. Then again. Tears welled up, uninvited, and spilled over before you could stop them.
Kento glanced at you, alarmed. “Hey—are you okay?”
You nodded, but the tears kept coming. You tried to speak, but it came out as a hiccup. He pulled into the driveway quickly, parked without turning off the engine, and was out of the car in seconds. Your door opened, and he was crouched beside you, arms already reaching.
“Come here,” he said, voice low and urgent.
You let him lift you, let him carry you inside like you weighed nothing. The scans were still clutched in your hand, crumpled slightly now. He settled you onto the sofa, sat beside you, pulled you into his chest.
You cried into him, face buried in the soft cotton of his shirt. His arms wrapped around you, firm and steady. One hand cradled the back of your head, the other rubbed slow circles into your spine.
“What happened?” he asked softly. “Is something wrong?”
You shook your head, sniffling. “No. It’s just... it hit me. On the drive. That there’s a heart. A real heart. And it’s beating. And it’s inside me.”
He brushed the hair from your face, wiped a tear from your lips with the pad of his thumb. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were warm. Deep.
“I’m carrying a whole person,” you whispered. “And they’re growing. And they’re okay.”
He didn’t speak. Just held you tighter, rocking you gently like you were the child. His hand smoothed down your hair, again and again, until your breathing slowed.
“You’re doing so well,” he murmured. “I’m so proud of you.”
You hiccupped once more, then went quiet. The tears had stopped, but your face was still damp, your fingers still curled into the fabric of his shirt.
“I’m sorry,” you mumbled, voice small. “I didn’t mean to make a scene.”
He tilted your chin up gently, made you meet his eyes. “You didn’t,” he said. “You’re allowed to feel this way.”
You nodded, eyes glassy. He leaned in and kissed you softly. You melted into it, into him, into the gentle hum of the house around you.
---
Gojo arrived first, as expected—arms full of takeout bags and a bottle of sparkling cider he claimed was “the good stuff, non-alcoholic, baby-safe, and blessed by the gods of celebration.” Shoko followed not long after, hair still damp from a late shift, a box of pastries tucked under one arm and a quiet smile on her face. Yuuji showed up last, a little breathless, cheeks pink from jogging up the stairs, holding a bouquet of sunflowers he’d clearly picked up on the way.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, grinning. “I didn’t know what to bring so I brought... these.”
You laughed, taking the bouquet. “They’re perfect.”
Dinner was easy. The kind of night where conversation flowed without effort, where laughter came in waves and the food disappeared faster than you could plate it.
You waited until everyone had settled, until the table was cluttered with empty dishes and half-finished drinks, before you cleared your throat.
“So,” you said, glancing at Kento. He gave you a small nod, the corner of his mouth twitching up.
“We wanted to tell you something,” you continued. “We’re having a baby.”
For a second, there was silence. Then—
“No way!” Gojo practically shouted, nearly knocking over his glass. “You’re serious?”
Shoko’s eyes widened, then softened. “You’re really pregnant?”
You nodded, and Yuuji let out a whoop, throwing his arms in the air. “I’m gonna be an older brother? That’s so cool!”
Gojo leaned back in his chair, grinning. “Uncle Gojo has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
“God help us,” Kento muttered under his breath.
Shoko laughed. “I call dibs on being the cool aunt.”
“You’re all going to corrupt our child,” you said, smiling despite yourself.
“Corrupt?” Gojo gasped, mock-offended. “I’ll have you know I’m a pillar of moral excellence. Speaking of which—do you think the baby will like mochi? Because I feel like mochi is a personality trait, and it’s never too early to start.”
You rolled your eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet, here I am,” he said, raising his glass. “To the baby.”
Everyone echoed the toast, glasses clinking, laughter spilling into the warm air of the apartment. It felt good. It felt real. Like the future was already beginning to take shape around you.
Hours later, the house was quiet again. The dishes were done, the lights dimmed, and the two of you had been in bed for a while now. Kento had fallen asleep easily, one arm draped over your waist, his breathing slow and even.
You, on the other hand, were wide awake.
You shifted. Tried closing your eyes. Tried counting your breaths. But the craving had crept in slowly, then all at once—sharp and specific and impossible to ignore.
You turned onto your side, nudging him gently. “Kento.”
He stirred, groaning softly. “Mm?”
“I can’t sleep.”
He blinked, voice thick with sleep. “What’s wrong?”
You hesitated. “I’m... hungry.”
He sighed, already sensing where this was going. “What is it?”
You bit your lip. “Garlic butter pasta.”
He didn’t move.
“And... red bean mochi.”
There was a long pause. Then, muffled into the pillow: “I’m going to kill Gojo.”
You laughed, sheepish. “I’m sorry. I tried to ignore it.”
He sat up slowly, rubbing his face. “You’re lucky I love you.”
“I know.”
He reached for his coat and keys without another word. You sat up too, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed.
“You don’t have to come,” he said, glancing at you.
“I want to,” you replied, already pulling on a hoodie. “I feel bad.”
He looked like he was about to argue, then stopped himself. He just nodded, quietly accepting that this was one of those things you couldn’t help.
The mochi was easier to find than expected. The pasta, though—he insisted on making it himself when you got home. You sat on the counter, legs swinging, watching him move around the kitchen in sweatpants and a hoodie, hair still rumpled from sleep.
He didn’t complain. Just muttered things under his breath about “Gojo and his cursed influence” while he stirred the sauce.
When he finally set the plate in front of you, you nearly melted at the first bite. The pasta was perfect—rich and buttery, with just the right amount of garlic. The mochi was cold and chewy and exactly what you’d been craving.
You didn’t even finish the plate. Halfway through, your body gave in to the warmth and the fullness and the comfort of it all. Your eyelids grew heavy, and you leaned against Kento’s shoulder with a quiet sigh.
“Sleepy?” he asked, brushing your hair back.
“Mhm.”
He scooped you up without hesitation, carrying you back to bed. You didn’t protest. Just curled into him as he pulled the blankets over you, his arms wrapping around you like a second skin.
He kissed your forehead, then tucked your head beneath his chin.
“Better?” he murmured.
You nodded, already half-asleep. “Thank you.”
He didn’t say anything. Just held you, steady and warm, until the world faded out.
---
The third trimester had arrived like a tide—slow at first, then all-consuming. Your belly had grown into something undeniable, a round, heavy presence that shifted your center of gravity and made even the simplest tasks feel like uphill climbs. Your feet ached constantly, your back throbbed in a dull, persistent rhythm, and your ankles had begun to swell by mid-afternoon no matter how much water you drank or how often you elevated them.
You’d started groaning involuntarily when you sat down. Or stood up. Or turned over in bed. Kento had taken to watching you like a hawk, his eyes narrowing every time you winced or rubbed your lower back.
The two of you had been overjoyed to learn you were having a girl. The moment the technician had pointed to the screen and said, “Looks like a daughter,” Kento had gone quiet in that way he did when something hit him deep. Later, in the car, he’d whispered, “A girl,” like he was still trying to believe it.
Since then, he’d thrown himself into preparing the nursery. He’d insisted on keeping everything gender-neutral—soft greens, warm wood tones, muted creams. “I don’t want her to feel boxed in before she even gets here,” he’d said, adjusting the height of the mobile above the crib.
You’d laughed. “She’s not going to be forming opinions for a while, you know.”
He’d looked at you, completely serious. “She’s already a person. I want her to feel free.”
And that was Kento. Thoughtful to the bone. Headstrong in ways that made you feel safe even when your body didn’t.
Tonight, you were in the kitchen, leaning against the counter and trying to stretch out your spine. The ache had settled deep into your lower back, a kind of pressure that made you want to cry and crawl out of your own skin. You groaned softly, pressing your palms into the edge of the counter, trying to shift the weight forward.
Kento walked in, barefoot and sleepy-eyed, heading toward the sink for a glass of water. He paused when he saw you, his brow furrowing.
“Back again?” he asked, voice low.
You nodded, teeth gritted. “It feels like someone’s wedged a brick between my spine and my pelvis.”
He set the glass down and walked over, placing a hand on your shoulder. “I saw something online. Want to try it?”
“At this point,” you said, “I’d let you hang me upside down if it helped.”
He smiled, then moved behind you. You felt his hands slide around your belly, fingers interlacing beneath the curve. He adjusted his stance, braced himself, and gently lifted.
The relief was instant.
The weight shifted forward, off your spine, and you nearly whimpered. Your knees went soft, your shoulders dropped, and your head fell back against his collarbone with a quiet, broken sigh.
“Oh my god,” you breathed. “Don’t move.”
“I’m not,” he murmured, arms steady beneath you. “Just breathe.”
You did. Slowly. Deeply. The pain didn’t vanish, but it dulled—muted by the shift in pressure, by the warmth of his body behind yours, by the quiet strength in his hold.
You stayed like that for a while. Minutes, maybe. His arms didn’t tremble or falter. He just held you, patient and still, like this was the most natural thing in the world.
“I don’t deserve you,” you whispered, eyes closed.
“You do,” he said simply.
You turned your head slightly, cheek brushing his shoulder. “Your arms are going to fall off.”
“They won’t,” he said. “I’ve got you.”
Eventually, he eased you back upright, his hands lingering for a moment before releasing. You turned to face him, eyes glassy, body lighter.
“Thank you,” you said.
He kissed your forehead, then reached for the glass of water he’d forgotten. “Anytime.”
You watched him drink, watched the way his shoulders moved, the way his hair fell into his eyes. And you felt that overwhelimg onslaught of love for your husband.
---
The bedroom was quiet, lit only by the soft amber glow of the bedside lamp. You were already in bed, propped up against a stack of pillows, your legs stretched out and ankles wrapped in a warm compress Kento had prepared earlier. The ache in your back had dulled to a low hum, but your skin felt tight, stretched across the curve of your belly like it was holding something too precious to contain.
Kento emerged from the bathroom, towel slung over his shoulder, a small glass bottle in his hand. His new favorite part of the bedtime routine.
He climbed onto the bed beside you, settling in with quiet focus. “Ready?”
You nodded, lifting your shirt just enough to expose the soft swell of your belly. The marks were faint, thin, silvery lines that had begun to bloom across your skin like whispers. You hadn’t minded them much. They felt like proof. Like evidence of something growing.
Kento poured a few drops of oil into his palm, warming it between his hands before leaning in. He kissed one of the marks, then another, then another.
You giggled softly. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m thorough,” he murmured, lips brushing the curve of your belly. “She’s growing in here. I want her to know she’s loved.”
“She’s not going to remember this.”
“I will.”
He began massaging the oil into your skin, his touch gentle but firm, moving in slow circles. You closed your eyes, letting yourself sink into the warmth of it, the intimacy of being cared for like this. His hands moved with intention, tracing the shape of you like he was memorizing it.
After a while, you opened your eyes again, watching him work. “You know,” you said, voice casual, “sex is allowed during pregnancy.”
He didn’t pause. “I know.”
You blinked. “You know?”
He nodded, still focused on your belly. “I read about it. It’s safe. As long as you’re comfortable.”
You stared at him. “Then why haven’t you... I mean, we haven’t...”
He finally looked up, eyes wide. “Wait—you thought I didn’t want to?”
You shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. “I don’t know. I figured maybe I wasn’t... appealing right now.”
He sat up straighter, panic flickering across his face. “No. No, no, no. That’s not it at all. I’ve wanted to. I just... I didn’t want to push. I was waiting for you to say something. I didn’t want you to feel pressured.”
You blinked again, heart thudding. “You’ve wanted to?”
He nodded, earnest. “I’ve never been more attracted to you. You’re carrying our daughter. You’re glowing. You’re... you.”
You reached for him, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck. “You idiot,” you whispered, and then you kissed him—firm, hungry, grounding.
He responded instantly, hands finding your waist, your back, your face. The oil bottle tipped onto the sheets, forgotten. The lamp stayed on.
---
There was a low, dragging ache in your back. You were standing in the hallway, one hand pressed to the wall, the other cradling the underside of your belly, trying to breathe through it. You’d felt tightness before—Braxton Hicks, pressure, discomfort—but this was different. This had rhythm. This had teeth.
You called for Kento without raising your voice. He was already watching you from the kitchen, glass of water halfway to his lips. He set it down, crossed the room in three strides, and placed a hand on your spine.
“Is it time?” he asked.
You nodded, eyes squeezed shut. “I think so.”
The drive to the hospital was quiet. You didn’t speak much. You couldn’t. Every few minutes, another wave would hit, and you’d grip the door handle, breathing like you’d practiced, like it would help. Kento kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh, his thumb moving in slow circles.
At triage, they confirmed you were in active labor—but not ready yet. “Six centimeters,” the nurse said, cheerful in a way that made you want to scream. “We’ll get you admitted. In the meantime, walking helps. Or the birthing ball.”
You stared at her. “You want me to walk?”
“It helps move things along.”
Kento helped you into the gown, his hands steady as he tied the back. You leaned against him, forehead to his chest, breathing through another contraction.
“I don’t want to walk,” you muttered.
“I know,” he said. “But staying still makes it worse.”
You glared at him. “You’re not the one whose pelvis is trying to split open.”
He nodded solemnly. “I’m aware.”
You shuffled down the hallway, one hand gripping the rail, the other clutching his. Every few steps, you stopped, bent slightly, and groaned through the pain. You cursed. You cried. You leaned into him like he was the only thing keeping you upright.
Eventually, you returned to the room and eyed the exercise ball like it was a personal enemy. Kento crouched beside it, patting the top.
“Just for a little while,” he said. “I’ll be right here.”
You lowered yourself onto it with a groan, gripping his forearms for balance. The pressure shifted—not relief, but something different. You winced, breathing through it, forehead pressed to his abdomen.
He just held you steady, murmuring encouragement, brushing your hair back when it stuck to your face.
Time blurred. The pain sharpened, then dulled, then sharpened again. You squeezed his hand so hard he winced, but never pulled away. You swore at him. You apologized. You swore again.
When it was finally time, Kento stayed beside you, his hand in yours, his voice low and steady.
“You’re doing so well,” he said. “I’ve got you.”
You didn’t feel strong. You felt like you were being torn open. But he stayed with you, through every push, every scream, every insult you hurled at him in the heat of it.
And then—
A cry.
Sharp. New. Alive.
You collapsed back against the pillows, chest heaving, tears streaming down your face. Kento stood frozen for a moment, eyes glassy, before the nurse placed her in his arms.
Your daughter.
Tiny. Pink. Real.
He looked down at her like she was something sacred. His voice cracked when he whispered, “I’ve waited so long to meet you.”
He brushed a thumb over her cheek, then looked at you—exhausted, trembling, radiant.
“I’m going to protect her,” he said. “With everything I have.”
You nodded, unable to speak. The nurse helped you position her against your chest, and she latched almost immediately, her tiny mouth searching, finding, feeding.
Kento sat beside you, one arm around your shoulders, the other holding his phone. He snapped a few quiet photos—your face soft with awe, your daughter nestled against you, the room dim and warm.
For memory. Because your lives had changed completely from this moment onwards.
Dawn hadn’t fully crested the sky outside, but the world was already soft with that early hush—the kind that seemed to wrap around everything like a blanket. The air was cool, the sheets warm. Everything else was still quiet and undone.
Except you.
You were propped on your side, elbow braced against the pillow, holding your daughter to your breast with the kind of instinct that had grown sharper every day since her arrival. Your eyes were half-closed, fluttering now and then, and your head tipped just slightly forward with each drift toward sleep.
The baby suckled quietly, mouth rhythmically tugging, one tiny fist pressed to your heart like she’d claimed it—and she had, really. You didn’t notice the damp ring of milk that had bloomed across the fabric under her cheek, or how your hair had stuck slightly to your temple, a mix of warmth and weariness. You didn’t notice the low creak of the mattress when Kento stirred beside you.
He blinked awake slowly, just pulled gently from sleep by a shift in the atmosphere. And when his eyes landed on you—bent, curved protectively around the smallest part of your shared life—he forgot how to breathe for a second.
You looked… luminous. You were glowing in that raw, tangible way that only came from love and exhaustion interwoven. There was a faint flush across your cheeks. The scent of milk clung to your skin—sweet, familiar, grounding—and your daughter’s little breaths fogged against your collarbone.
Kento stayed still, soaking in the image. His gaze lingered on the slope of your bare shoulder where the blanket had slipped, on the strands of hair plastered to your skin, on the curve of your back as you supported your baby even though your arm was clearly trembling from the effort.
His heart tugged painfully.
This is what love looks like, he thought.
He leaned in, brushing your hair gently from your cheek. You stirred then, slowly blinking up at him with bleary eyes.
“Kento,” you mumbled, voice frayed at the edges. You didn’t lift your head. You didn’t have the energy to.
“I’ve got you,” he said softly, his palm finding your back. “You look like you’re about to fold in half.”
“She wouldn’t settle,” you murmured, eyelids dipping again. “Didn’t want her to cry and wake you…”
“You think I’d rather sleep than see this?” His tone was warm—murmured reverence. “I could watch you like this forever.”
You blinked at him, a faint, sleepy smile twitching at your lips. “You’re being charming again.”
“No. Just honest. Let me take her,” he said, voice low and sure.
He reached for the baby with practiced ease, curling a hand beneath her as he gently eased her away from your breast. She gave a soft protest, a sleepy huff, but didn’t stir much more. As her mouth slipped free, a tiny string of saliva stretched and broke—followed by a few lazy droplets of liquid gold that beaded at your nipple, shining like pearls in the low light.
You flinched at the cool air on your skin. Without a word, Kento tugged the blankets up, covering your chest with care as he murmured, “There you go.”
His hand lingered for a second, brushing your arm. Then he stood, holding your daughter against his chest. She burrowed into the heat of him automatically, face turned inward, fingers twitching in her sleep.
He carried her down the hall to the nursery, her little body tucked safely against his chest, one hand resting on the back of her head like she was made of glass.
“You’re a curious little thing, aren’t you?” he murmured, barely louder than a breath. “So small. So loud. So new.”
Her soft sigh puffed against his chest.
“You don’t know it yet, but you’ve already taken over everything. The whole house listens for you now. Even the light comes in quietly—like it doesn’t want to disturb you.”
He smiled faintly, more to himself than anything, shifting her weight as he reached the crib.
“You have your mother’s mouth. She hates when I say that, but it’s true. You make the same face when you’re thinking...”
He paused, gaze lingering on the curve of her cheek, the flutter of her lashes.
“She’s going to teach you how to be kind, I think. How to love like it’s second nature. And I’ll teach you to fold your laundry and budget your allowance,” he added dryly, then chuckled under his breath.
He leaned over the crib and laid her down with a reverence that couldn’t be taught. She wriggled once, then sank deeper into sleep, her hand still curled in a tiny, imaginary grip.
Kento stood there a moment longer, fingertips brushing her blanket.
“Your mother is my whole world,” he whispered. “And you… she'll be yours too.”
Then he turned and padded back to you softly.
You hadn’t moved, except to shift deeper beneath the blankets. One hand was curled where your daughter had been, your face soft in sleep. Kento slipped back into bed beside you and wrapped an arm carefully around your waist, pulling you close with tenderness.
"Ken?", you murmured, vaguely aware of the shift in the bed's weight.
He brushed a kiss to your temple, lingering there. His voice was warm and steady against the stillness of the room.
“Sleep, sweetheart,” he murmured. “I’ve got her. I’ll watch over her. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”
You let out a faint sigh, your face nuzzling deeper into the pillow, already half-lost to the quiet comfort of his presence.
“I’ll wake you if she needs anything,” he whispered again, pressing another kiss to your forehead. “Just sleep.”
Kento held you close, feeling the rhythm of your breathing against his chest. In this shared silence, in the darkened morning that wrapped around you both, he found his heart full in a way he’d never known. He wished for many more mornings like this.
“Love you,” he whispered softly, letting those words settle in the atmosphere, knowing that somewhere in the universe, they had been carved into stone from the moment he'd met you.
A sorcerer. A salaryman. A mentor. A friend. A husband.
But with you, he was simply a man.
A man who carried the quiet weight of his day in the slump of his shoulders, the slow blink of tired eyes -- and who, in your presence, could finally shed the armor and just be.
With you, he was just a man -- not some untouchable figure carved from iron and discipline, but a raw, imperfect human being. A human who broke down when no one was watching. A man whose quiet exhaustion ran deeper than tired muscles or a heavy eyelid. A man who needed to be held, to be seen, to be reminded that it was okay not to have all the answers -- that even the strongest sometimes cracked and needed softness to fill the gaps.
You stood by the stove, the warm glow of the kitchen light pooling over the wooden countertop where fresh vegetables waited to be chopped. The gentle sizzle of olive oil and garlic filled the air, mingling with the soft scent of rosemary from the herb jar on the windowsill.
The door’s lock clicked-- a familiar sound you’d learned to anticipate like a heartbeat. Then came the low thud of shoes sliding off, deliberate but slow, followed by the soft, resigned drop of his briefcase onto the floor beside the entrance mat.
You turned just in time to see him standing there -- coat slumped off one shoulder, tie loosened, the crease between his brows deepening beneath tired eyes.
“Welcome home, Kento,” you said quietly, your voice a warm thread weaving through the stillness.
He didn’t answer, not with words. Instead, a soft hum -- low and almost reluctant -- escaped him, paired with a tired grunt that spoke volumes without saying a thing.
You offered a small smile and turned back to your cooking, fingers resuming the slow dance of stirring the sauce.
But then he was there, behind you, close and steady. His arms slid around your waist, careful, grounding -- a quiet anchor after a storm. You leaned back just enough to welcome him, shifting so he could settle more deeply, the familiar weight of him a balm against your spine.
His cheek pressed into the tender hollow at your neck, warm and real, seeking comfort without words. His chin found a resting place just beneath your ear, steady and sure.
Your hand rose almost without thought, the softest gesture -- fingers curling to cradle his jaw. You brushed your thumb along the faint roughness of his stubble, then slipped your hand up to thread through the tousled strands of hair, now damp and tousled from the day’s work. You scratched lightly at his scalp, watching his shoulders loosen, his body melt further into yours.
A deep, contented hum thrummed from his chest, a sound full of release and trust.
“Long day,” you whispered, your voice a secret shared only between the two of you.
“Mm,” he replied, voice low, steady -- a sound heavy with everything he didn’t say.
You pressed a tender kiss to the curve of his temple, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your lips.
“You’re home now,” you murmured, a promise woven in softness.
“Home,” he breathed, a low, slow affirmation -- and with the word, he pressed a few gentle kisses against your neck, trailing soft warmth along your jaw, then resting a quiet kiss on your cheek.
You gently pulled back just enough to meet his tired eyes. “Why don’t you freshen up before dinner?” you said, your voice soft but firm, carrying the steady warmth you reserved for moments like this.
Instead of answering, he pressed his lips into a sudden, almost childish pout-- an expression so genuine, so raw in its stubborn vulnerability, it made your heart ache. His hand found yours, tugging at your fingers with quiet insistence, holding you close like a child reluctant to let go of safety.
“I don’t wanna,” he murmured, voice low and edged with fatigue, the weight of the day settling into his words.
You hesitated, a flicker of resistance stirring within you-- there were things left undone, the kitchen still hummed with warmth. But the pull of his hand, the closeness of his body leaning into you, the way he sought comfort in you so simply and purely-- those things unravelled your resolve.
With a soft, reluctant smile, you stepped away from the stove, turning off the burner with a quiet hiss that seemed to sigh along with you. Then, surrendering fully, you let your fingers intertwine with his, giving in to the quiet gravity of his pull.
He wrapped his arms around you, steady and warm, as he guided you through the dim apartment toward the bedroom. His steps were slow and measured, as if he were afraid to break the fragile spell the evening had cast.
…
The warm water wrapped around you both like a soft embrace, steam curling and mingling with the quiet rhythm of your shared breaths.
Your hands moved over his skin with slow reverence, tracing the lines of his shoulders, easing the tension knotted deep beneath. You lathered the soap between your palms, sliding your touch over him as if to wash away the weight of the day itself.
His eyes closed against your touch, and when he reached for you, his fingers were gentle but sure, returning the favor with equal tenderness. He washed over your arms, your collarbone, the small curve where your neck met your shoulder -- places you didn’t even realize you needed touched.
As your fingers brushed through his damp hair, he leaned in quietly, pressing a kiss just behind your ear -- soft and lingering, an unspoken confession.
You smiled against his skin and responded with a gentle kiss on his jawline, fingers threading into the nape of his neck as if to anchor him there, to hold him safe.
He sighed, a breath heavy with relief and quiet joy, and kissed the curve of your cheek, slow and steady, as if memorizing the feel of you again after a long absence.
You caught his lips in a fleeting kiss, eyes fluttering closed -- a whispered hello, a soft “I missed you.”
He smiled against you, voice barely above the water’s murmur. “Good to be home.”
…
The water stilled, and you lingered for a moment longer in the fading heat before stepping out together. Steam clung to the air, curling in soft ribbons that blurred the mirror.
Without needing to speak, you both reached for towels -- the rhythm of it as familiar as breathing. You handed him his, and he draped yours gently around your shoulders, rubbing slow circles down your arms before patting at the droplets along your hairline.
You did the same for him, pulling the towel over his broad shoulders and down his back, the cotton dragging away the last traces of the day. He leaned forward slightly, letting you run the towel through his hair, your fingers combing and fluffing until it stuck up in damp tufts.
It was ordinary. It was everything.
When you padded into the bedroom, you didn’t have to ask -- he already had that worn old t-shirt in hand. The one you’d stolen years ago and refused to give back, now soft and faded from too many washes. He held it open for you, and you slipped into it without ceremony, the familiar scent of him already woven deep into the fabric.
He watched you tug it down over your hips, his expression somewhere between amusement and quiet adoration. You smoothed the hem, pretending not to notice, though the warmth in your chest gave you away.
Returning to him, you cupped his jaw briefly before setting to work again with the towel, tousling his hair until he caught your wrists with a low chuckle. His eyes were soft, the corners faintly crinkled, and in that moment, you felt the full weight of the years -- every shared routine, every small care, every quiet moment like this that had built a life together.
…
Later, in the bedroom, the golden pool of lamplight made the space feel warmer, closer. You sat cross-legged at the edge of the bed, folding one of his laundered shirts absentmindedly, while he sat leaning back against the headboard, watching you with that steady, unreadable gaze of his.
When you looked up at him, he tilted his head slightly, a slow, thoughtful gesture. Then, without a word, he reached for your hand. His palm was warm, his grip steady as he gave the gentlest tug.
You came willingly, letting him guide you into his lap. His arms settled around your waist like they’d always belonged there, anchoring you as you straddled him. You could feel the heat of his body through the worn cotton of the shirt he’d dressed you in earlier, the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath your palms.
“Missed you so much today,” he murmured-- not desperate, but deeply, achingly sincere.
Your lips found his before you even realized it, a soft, tentative brush that ignited a spark you’d been carrying all day. His hand slid up your back, fingers pressing into your spine, pulling you closer until every nerve felt alive. The first kiss was slow, exploratory, teasing-- like a question neither of you needed to answer.
Then his lips pressed harder, warmer, tongues tangling, teeth grazing in a teasing rhythm. Your hands threaded through his damp hair, tugging, kneading, gripping as if anchoring yourself to him might keep you from floating away. Outside the bedroom, the world ceased to exist. The hum of the city, the creak of the bed frame, the faint hiss of water dripping from the shower earlier-- all faded. There was only him.
His thumb traced your jawline, down your neck, along the hollow of your collarbone. A shiver ran through you. You arched into him instinctively. His other hand slid lower over your hip, pressing, tugging, guiding. Your breaths came in short, ragged gasps, punctuated by low, almost desperate moans.
“Kento…” you whispered, breath hitching, voice trembling. “Please…”
He only chuckled, breath hot against your skin, lips trailing down your neck, teeth nipping gently, leaving marks. He was teasing, taking his time, and the ache in your chest sharpened, hungry. You tugged at his pants in frustration. His laughter, low and husky, sent a thrill through you. With a tilt of his hips, he eased them down, leaving you both bare.
He flipped you onto the mattress gently, his hands tracing your sides, memorizing every curve, every inch of bare skin. His mouth followed, hot and wet, teasing your chest, flicking your nipples with the tip of his tongue. You arched sharply, hands clutching at his shoulders, nails digging in as a strangled ahhh tore from your throat. Every nerve ending burned, alive with anticipation.
Then he found you. His mouth pressed against your clit, wet, insistent, teasing. A sharp gasp tore from you as his tongue stroked and flicked in perfect rhythm. Your knees bent, legs pressed to your chest instinctively, and your hips bucked. He held you there, anchoring you with his hands intertwined with yours, letting you shiver, tremble, quiver. Hngh… Ken… Your words dissolved into moans as wave after wave of pleasure ripped through you, leaving you trembling, fingers clutching the sheets above your head.
Your body shook as your orgasm crashed over you, muscles clenching, back arching, breath ragged, heart pounding. He held you through it, lips brushing your ear, fingers stroking soothing circles along your pelvis, murmuring your name like a prayer.
When you could breathe again, voice soft and raw, you whispered, “Kento… up, please.”
He shifted, climbing between your thighs, cupping your face in his hands, brushing damp hair back, thumbs tracing your cheekbones. His lips found yours in a slow, deliberate kiss, teeth grazing occasionally, tongues tangling in a wet, languid rhythm. You hummed, moaned softly into him, running your hands over his chest, feeling every taut muscle, every tremor, every heartbeat.
He positioned himself at your entrance, pressing in slowly. The stretch made you gasp sharply, a soft ugh escaping your lips, muscles instinctively clenching around him. His forehead rested against yours, breath hitching, a low mmph vibrating in his chest. He paused, giving you space, letting you adjust, every inch deliberate.
When you whispered, “Move,” he obeyed, slow at first, letting the friction build, tip brushing against your G-spot. Your hips lifted to meet him, a low moan escaping, and he adjusted, pushing deeper, every movement a conversation of bodies. Wet slap against skin, soft thrum of shifting sheets, panting, sighs, gasps-- all blended into the room.
Hands roamed instinctively. Yours explored his shoulders, back, hair, skin; his cupped your breasts, squeezed your hips, fingers pressing into the curve of your waist. Every touch was a question answered in gasps, moans, trembles. You whispered his name, over and over, voice breaking, raw and needy, each syllable pulling him closer, deeper, faster.
The rhythm built naturally-- push and pull, tilt and thrust, bodies sliding, muscles quivering, sweat-slicked, glued together. Your toes curled, nails pressing into his back, thighs clenching around him, hips rocking to match his. Every shallow gasp, every breathy moan, every low, guttural ngh from him fed your desire, and you fed his.
You arched, shaking, climax crashing over you again, waves rolling, hips bucking, nails raking into him as your voice broke into high, breathless cries. He followed, deep, guttural groan of your name leaving his throat, spilling into you as his body tensed, shuddered, released. The sheets rustled, bodies slick, heartbeats pounding, breaths panting in unison.
---
The sheets were damp and warm beneath you, a lingering reminder of what had just passed, but it was the weight of Kento next to you that held you utterly still. His arm draped over your waist, pulling you flush against his chest, and the warmth of him seeped through every inch of your skin. Your legs tangled with his, hips pressed together lightly, and you let your head fall against his shoulder, eyelids heavy.
Your breaths were slow, uneven, the remnants of climax still trembling through your body. Fingers lazily traced the line of his chest, brushing against taut muscles, feeling the rise and fall of his heartbeat. His hand moved in gentle, lazy circles along your back, then down to your hip, kneading lightly, as if memorizing your warmth all over again.
“You okay?” he murmured, his lips brushing your temple. The voice was low, thick with afterglow, tinged with softness that always made your chest ache.
“I… I’m fine,” you whispered, voice hoarse, barely above a breath. “Just… tired… but happy.”
“Good,” he said, pressing a soft kiss to your hair, then the corner of your mouth. “I like it when you’re happy.” His hand slid up your side to cup your face, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones, fingertips tracing your jaw.
You let out a soft hum of contentment, pressing a small kiss to his collarbone, then nuzzling into the crook of his neck. His warmth was grounding, the gentle pressure of his hand on your back anchoring you to the moment. He murmured low, affectionate noises as his fingers traced circles along your spine, making you shiver.
After a long, quiet stretch of tangled limbs and soft breathing, he shifted slightly. “Come on,” he murmured, voice rough with lingering desire. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
You blinked sleepily, letting him lift you from the bed. He carried you to the bathroom with ease, your arms around his neck, legs half-draped across his hips. He set you down carefully on the toilet edge first, hands checking your balance. The small gesture made your heart swell. Even now, every tiny act of care reminded you why you trusted him so completely.
“I’ll get the water,” he said softly, sliding the shower door open, adjusting the temperature. You heard the soft hiss of the stream as he tested it with his hand. “Perfect,” he murmured, smiling down at you. “Just right.”
You leaned back slightly, letting him guide you under the warm spray. The water ran over your skin, soothing every nerve still tingling from pleasure. His hands stayed on your shoulders, along your sides, down the small of your back. Occasionally, a thumb would trace lazy, feather-light circles over your spine, sending little shivers down your body. The warmth of the water combined with the warmth of him, and you let out a soft, almost sleepy sigh.
“You feel better?” he asked, voice low, a teasing lilt beneath the care.
“Much… better,” you murmured, tilting your head back against him, letting the water run over your face. “Thank you.”
He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Always,” he whispered. “I’ve got you. You know that.”
After ensuring every droplet was rinsed away, he lifted you out carefully, holding you against him as he wrapped a towel around your shoulders, then gently helped you step out. The bathroom steam clung to your hair and skin, mixing with the scent of him, the warmth lingering on your body.
He guided you back to the bedroom, arms around your waist, pressing you gently against his chest. He lowered you onto the bed carefully, brushing damp strands of hair from your face. Fingers traced along your jaw, down your neck, shoulders, arms, all with the same gentle reverence. Every touch said I love you, I’m here, I’ve got you.
You curled into him, arms around his waist, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat. His hands brushed over your back, lingering along your spine and down to your hips. A quiet chuckle escaped him as you rested your head on his chest. “You look… perfect like this,” he murmured.
“Lazy, messy, sticky,” you teased softly, voice hoarse but full of warmth.
“Still mine,” he whispered, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. His lips traveled down the curve of your neck, shoulder, then to your forehead, light, reverent, savoring every inch of you.
You let yourself melt against him, the room quiet except for your shared breathing. Your hands rested over his chest, tracing lazy circles. His hand slid over yours, fingers intertwining, thumb brushing soothingly over the back of your hand. You whispered his name, soft, affectionate, and he hummed in response, low and warm, brushing his lips against yours again in a tender kiss.
Then he drew a slow breath, resting his forehead against yours. “Thank you,” he whispered, voice rough, almost shy. “For… taking care of me, too. Even when I don’t say it. Even when I’m stubborn or tired or…” He exhaled softly, letting the words linger between you. “I don’t say it enough, but I notice. I… need you. You make it… easier to handle. All of it.”
Your chest tightened at the confession. You pressed another kiss to his lips, soft and lingering, wrapping your arms tighter around him. “Always,” you whispered back. “I’m always here. I married you to share your burdens, remember?”
He let out a long, relieved sigh, nuzzling into you, arms tightening around your waist.
And there you stayed, wrapped in each other’s warmth, breathing together, hearts settling, letting the aftershocks of desire fade into a quiet, perfect intimacy. A moment of vulnerability, trust, and love. A moment where Nanami Kento, the strong, disciplined man, could finally rest entirely in the softness you offered.
Nanami Kento was many things.
A sorcerer. A salaryman. A mentor. A friend. A husband.
i loved ur piece on nanami and his wife 🤗 but do you think you could do nanamis wife treating him cuz he’s too tired to do anything after work PLEASE🙏🙏
thank you for ur request, anon !! i'm sorry that this is super late,, but i hope you like it !! <33 (happy valentine's day !!)
it's dark when nanami finally gets home. all the lights are turned off save for a small light in the kitchen where two plates of food sit on the table - one eaten, the other cold. he lets out a heavy sigh, upset that he couldn't have made it home sooner to have dinner with you.
carefully, he tries his best to be quiet so as not to wake you. he decides to make his way to the bathroom to wash of the exhaustion of the day. he tells himself that he can eat later. as he walks down the hallway, his body feels heavier with each step, eyelids fighting to stay open.
all he wants is to go to you and rest in your arms. you give him a sort of peace that he's sure he'll never find anywhere else. a silent solace in your warm embrace. because only you can make him feel so certain. only you can make him feel so at home. only you can make him feel so loved.
nanami fills the bath up with hot water, his body already aching to soak in the warmth. he manages to discard his semi-bloodied tie, unbutton his top, and shrug off the rest of his clothes so he can sink himself into the bathtub. he lets out a small groan as his body makes contact with the water, already feeling just how spent he really is. his eyes close, and he's afraid that he’ll be taken by sleep until he hears you knock on the bathroom door.
"nami? can i come in?" he hears you ask softly, sleep still evident in your voice.
nanami can barely manage to speak so instead he lets out a low hum, signalling for you to enter. eyes still closed, he feels you press a soft kiss to his forehead and he leans in to your touch. a gentle smile graces his lips and he allows himself to linger in your comfort.
"welcome home, nami." you smile at him, carding your fingers through his wet hair.
"did i wake you, my love?" he asks softly, opening his eyes slowly to see you smiling sweetly at him.
"i couldn't sleep properly." you confessed, kneeling down beside the bathtub to kiss his cheek. "i missed you."
nanami melts, his heart aches to think about you losing sleep simply because he wasn't there. he reaches out for you, taking your hand into his, and he presses a gentle kiss to the wedding ring fitted perfectly around your finger.
“i missed you too, love.” he says it with such sincerity that there's no room to doubt his love for you.
he peppers slow kisses across your knuckles, eyes never leaving yours, "i'm sorry that i came home so late."
you shake your head at him. "it's okay, kento. i understand." you offer him a warm smile, "i'm just glad you're home safe."
you move to grab a bar of soap and run it along your husband's scarred skin, washing away the sweat and the grime. you know that he's tired. on nights like these, you know that nanami's exhausted to the point that he can barely move. his eyes are tired but full of love when they look at you. a loving look that seemed to ask you "how did i get so lucky?". a gentle gaze that said "how could it be anyone else but you?". you love him, that's undeniable, and you would do anything for him.
nanami takes your hands into his and looks at you with a fondness that could bring the very earth to its knees.
"you don't have to, sweetheart." he says kindly, trying his best to pretend that he isn't so worn out so you wouldn't have to worry. "thank you, my love, but you don't have to. i can-"
"kento, please." you chuckle softly. "you can barely keep your eyes open. let me do this for you."
he lets out a small laugh then slowly nods his head. "okay."
you wash him, your soft hands running over his skin. it soothes him, calms him in a way that eases his very soul. his eyes never leave you, watching you as you lather conditioner in his hair. he can't help it. he's just so in love with you. when you're done helping him bathe, you hand him a soft towel, and he thanks you by leaving a kiss on your neck. he steps out of the bathtub and wraps the towel around his waist. he makes his way over to you, hair still wet, and pulls you close to him. you giggle when water drips onto your nose and cheeks, and nanami laughs with you.
"kento! you're getting it all over my face, stop!" you try to back away from him, but nanami has you in his arms, and he doesn't plan on letting you go.
he presses his forehead against yours, hands resting at your sides, and he smiles against your lips when he kisses you. his heart warms in content.
"i love you." he confesses. "more than the stars. more than the sea."
"i love you, nanami kento." you smile and kiss him again. "more than anything."
