in a relationship, he’s measured with affection in a way that’s intentional, never careless. he shows love in structure and reliability.
he walks you home even when it’s out of his way, remembers your favorite things, things you mention only once. he reminds you to eat when you’re busy and stressed. knows or exact orders.
you, on the other hand, have always wanted to be closer to people.
you’ve wanted the hugs, the leaning, the casual warmth of being allowed into someone’s space. you’ve watched friends and couples do it so easily—arms looped, hands intertwined, shoulders pressed together.
you wondered what it would feel like not to hesitate every time.
the want has always been there but you’ve never acted on it. ever. not with your family. not with your friends.
you’re awkward. you overthink. your body always manages to freeze even when your heart says go.
you’re touch starved. so what? it’s all you’ve ever known. but definitely not because you don’t want it. you just… never know how to reach for it.
you’re clingy. only in your head.
and nanami kento made it worse for you. your want for him screams at you louder than bombs.
every time he sat beside you, you felt the pull toward him like gravity. every time he stood too close to your liking, your arms ached with the urge to hug him, to be hugged, just once, just to know what it would feel like.
you’d imagine it vividly—his weight, his warmth, the way he’d feel solid under your hands—and then immediately scold yourself for even thinking it.
you stay careful like usual.
too careful.
when he sits next to you during work dinners, you both leave a respectful inch of space between your shoulders, even though every part of you wants to close it. you keep your hands busy.
but at times, you let it slip, forgetting yourself. one hand lifts, hesitates, then falls back into your lap like it forgot what it was reaching for.
your urges never go away with time. they only get worse.
when you start dating?
it doesn’t feels real.
being with nanami feels like a dream you’re going to wake up from. you expect the ground to vanish beneath your feet or for him to suddenly tell you there’s been a mistake. him choosing you feels impossible.
the need hums under everything—conversations and silence alike. you want to lean onto his shoulder. you want to tuck yourself against his side. you want to hug him and feel him hug you back.
instead, you hover. you angle closer. you daydream the same exact way you did before you started dating. it feels like nothing has changed since he confessed and you confessed back.
you’re terrified he’ll notice your odd hesitation. terrified he’ll think you’re needy or that he’ll think you don’t know how to show love at all.
the first time you grab his arm it’s an accident.
you’re walking leisurely in the cold together, conversation tapering off, when that familiar ache swells in your chest. before you can think, your fingers curl into his sleeve and you tug his arm toward you, hugging it to your chest.
and then reality crashes back in.
you freeze. your grip loosens. heat rushes to your face.
“sorry,” you mumble, already pulling away. “i didn’t mean to- i just—”
nanami slows.
not flinchingly. not with surprise. just enough that you have to slow too.
he looks down at you, expression calm. not judging or confused. it’s almost like he’s been aware of you all along.
then he gently shifts his arm back into your grasp. settles it there.
“you don’t need to apologize, honey,” he says, the words dripping like the sweetest chocolate. “if you want to hold onto me then please do.”
your breath stutters and you feel too warm despite the cold.
after that, it all becomes a quiet unreal constant.
you hold onto his arm when you walk together. it’s tentative, like you’re testing whether you can really do this or not. you still glance up at him, checking, but he never pulls away. never stiffens.
but still, you always still hesitate. you’re not used to the feeling this comfortable and safe with a person.
when you sit beside him on the couch? you tell yourself you’ll wait. give it a minute. be normal. but it never lasts long. you’re always hyperaware of him. so eventually you find yourself leaning into his broad shoulder.
you brace for him to move.
he never does.
sometimes you catch yourself gripping his bicep too tightly, overwhelmed by how good it feels, and you immediately start to pull back.
that’s when his hand settles over yours.
warm. grounding. unshakable.
he doesn’t say anything. he doesn’t need to. his thumb traces slow, absent minded circles against your knuckles, like reassurance spoken in a language you finally understand.
being with him still feels like a dream you’re afraid to break.
but kento stays and lets you stay too.
soon enough you learn his hugs are devastating, much like everything about him.
the first real one catches you off guard. you’d meant it to be brief—arms barely around him, already preparing to pull away—but he wraps you up properly, one arm firm around your back, the other settling at your shoulder like it belongs there. he holds you close without squeezing or rushing like he assumes you’ll stay as long as you need.
you short circuit.
but then you’re melting into him before you can stop yourself. your fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt like it’s the only solid thing in the world.
his warmth seeps into places you didn’t realize were cold as his hand rubs slow circles into your back.
you start finding excuses—lingering goodbyes, quiet moments where you hover close enough that he opens his arms without a word.
he knows you so well it scares you.
each time, it feels like you’re borrowing something you’re afraid will be taken away if you ask for too much.
and somewhere along the way, you realize your touch starvation doesn’t stop there.
it spreads.
you start noticing his mouth even more than you did before.
it’s unfair, really. the way his lips curve when he smiles at you—small, restrained, meant only for you. the way they part when he exhales, when he speaks quietly, when he’s concentrating. you catch yourself staring far too often, eyes dropping to his mouth before you can stop them.
and want them badly to be on yours.
the realization startles you every time.
your body leans forward before your brain catches up. your gaze lingers a second too long and you have to look away, flustered, heart racing, hoping he hasn’t noticed.
but he has.
one evening, you’re sitting close on the couch, supposed to be listening to him talk. your attention keeps slipping—eyes flicking to his mouth, then back up, then down again. each time you tell yourself stop and each time you fail.
nanami pauses mid sentence when it happens for the fifth time.
you look up, startled, only to realize he’s already looking at you. amused.
“are you going to kiss me… or should i?”
you freeze, mortified. your mouth opens, then closes. “i- i wasn’t! i’m sorry, i didn’t mean to stare, i just—”
he shifts closer with a huff.
he lifts a hand, fingers brushing under your chin, just enough to tilt your face toward his.
“you don’t have to apologize,” he says quietly. “i just wanted to know what you wanted.”
you swallow.
the answer feels terrifying and simple all at once.
so you lean in—terribly clumsy and hesitant but there.
more a brush than a kiss at first like you’re testing whether this is real. for half a second, you’re convinced you’ve done it wrong.
then nanami hums softly and closes the distance for you.
the kiss is gentle. he keeps it slow, like he’s letting you adjust, letting you realize you’re allowed to want this. his hand stays warm at your jaw, thumb resting lightly near your cheek, steadying you as your body instinctively leans closer.
you sigh into it without meaning to.
you clutch at him, the ache in your chest easing little by little. when he pulls back, it’s only far enough to rest his forehead against yours.
your breath is shaky. your lips tingle.
nanami doesn’t tease or rush.
“you can do that anytime you want.”
and somehow the tender words makes your chest ache all over again.
18 days without posting anything but i’m back🙏 writers block and stress has been getting to me. but also i really need to stop wanting men who i’ll never have (…both fictional and irl don’t get me started)
Kento sleeping on the sofa seems to be a sign that attracts his children with him...
✦ ⎯⎯ㅤִㅤ୭ ୨♡୧ ৎㅤִ ⎯⎯ ✦
Kento comes home tired, with that quiet exhaustion that doesn’t complain. He takes off his watch, carefully folds his jacket, and almost without realizing it, ends up lying face down on the couch, one arm hanging loose, his breathing deep and steady. He didn’t plan to fall asleep… but his body decides for him.
And as if it were an unwritten law, the children feel it.
The oldest arrives first, the boy. He already understands that dad needs to rest, so he doesn’t wake him. He sits carefully on the floor beside Kento’s head, his back against the couch. He pulls out a book or a quiet toy. Sometimes, without thinking, he rests his hand over Kento’s, like an anchor.
Then the girls arrive. One by one.
One climbs onto his back with extreme care, as if stepping onto sacred ground. She settles between his shoulder blades, using her father as a warm mattress. Another curls up at his side, her cheek against his shoulder. The youngest tries to copy the others and ends up half on top of him, half sideways, breathing slowly.
Kento doesn’t move, he only lets out a deeper sigh. Because even asleep, he knows. He knows his children are there. He knows they trust him without question.
And his body, large and steady, becomes what it has always been for them: a refuge.
Sometimes he murmurs something in his sleep.
A barely audible “It’s okay.”
A name. No one startles. No one moves.
Because dad is there.
And you watch them from the doorway, your chest tight with love, seeing how your four children gather around Kento as if he were the center of the world. And maybe he is.
Because to them, Kento Nanami is not just their father. He is warmth. He is safety. He is the place where the world stops hurting.
And when he wakes up, his body stiff, one girl asleep on his back, another holding his arm, the oldest still at his side…
cw: 18+, explicit sexual content, choking, rough sex, degrading language, power dynamics, toxic communication, possessiveness, soft aftercare. m.list.
You’re fighting again. Loud enough for the neighbors to hear it through the fucking walls, probably. But at this point, you don’t even care.
“You don’t tell me shit, Nanami!” you yell, arms crossed as you trail him into the kitchen. “You just vanish for a week on ‘assignment,’ and then act like I’m crazy for asking questions!”
He slams the fridge closed hard enough to rattle the glass. “And you act like a spoiled brat every time I don’t tell you something,” he snaps. “It’s classified. You knew that when you started fucking a sorcerer.”
“Oh, so now I’m just someone you fuck?” you hiss, eyebrows raised. “Cute. Didn’t realize that’s all I was—”
“Don’t start,” he warns, tone cold.
You do start. Of course you do. “Don’t start?” you echo, letting out a laugh. “You mean don’t ask questions? Or don’t get upset when you treat me like shit?”
Nanami turns around slow. His jaw tight, lips pressed into a flat line like he’s holding back the full weight of what he wants to say. “Careful,” he warns again.
You tilt your head, biting down on your bottom lip. “What? You gonna run off again? Maybe tell Gojo I’ve got too much attitude this week and beg him for a reassignment?”
“I’m not going to let you twist my words into some pathetic little performance of insecurity just because you’re mad I didn’t call,” he growls, stepping in close, crowding you back toward the couch with effortless force. “You want to fight? Fine. Let’s fight.”
He shoves you, sending you stumbling back until your knees hit the edge of the cushions. You fall with a frustrated gasp, eyes wide as he stalks toward you, loosening his tie.
“You think fucking me’ll fix the fact that you lie to me?” you fire back, even as your legs part instinctively when he steps between them. “You really think your cock is that magical?”
His hands are on you before you can blink—one gripping your jaw tight, forcing your chin up so your eyes stay locked on his. The other grabs the collar of your tank top and rips it down the middle, the sound obscene. “You don’t get to talk to me like that,” he growls. “Put your hands behind your back.”
You grin, “What’s that, Nanami? Hm?”
And then he’s kneeling between your thighs, spreading them wide, not giving you a second to breathe before he’s burying his face between them. “I said, ‘Put. Your. Hands. Behind. Your. Back.”
“Nanami—!” you gasp, back arching off the couch as his mouth closes over your clit, hot and unrelenting, tongue flicking just right, just fast as you reach for him, bury your fingers in his hair, but he grabs your wrists again, pinning them above your head with one hand, never once pulling away from you.
You’re writhing now, thighs trembling with your arms straining against the iron grip he has around your wrists. “Nanami—fuck—” you sob out, voice wrecked, like you're still trying to argue through the pleasure.
He groans low against your cunt, “Keep talking,” he murmurs, lips slick with you. “I dare you.”
You whimper, nails digging into the couch cushions where your hands are pinned. "Y-You're still an asshole," you pant, even as your legs shake. "Still treating me like—like I’m something to control, not someone you—"
He pulls back just enough to look up at you, chin wet, hair a little disheveled now—gold tie hanging loose, glasses slightly askew. “Not someone I what, sweetheart?” he asks mockingly. “Careful now. Choose your next insult wisely.”
“Not someone you love,” you throw back. The moment the words leave your mouth, his expression looks hurt—and for a second, you think maybe you pushed too far.
But his hands—grabbing your hips and flipping you over like you weigh nothing, yanking your shorts and ruined tank down and off, dragging your ass up until you’re on your knees, cheek smashed into the cushion.
“You want to know if I love you?” he growls, lining up behind you, cock dragging through your soaked folds without warning.
“This is mine,” he mutters into your shoulder, voice hoarse. “You think I’d risk my life every damn week if I didn’t love you, you insufferable little brat?”
You barely manage a gasp before he thrusts into you, “I hate you” you moan, eyes half-lidded as you rock your ass back into him. He drives into you again—again—relentless. He leans forward, one hand sliding up your spine, wrapping around your throat as he presses his chest to your back.
“Good,” he growls. “Hate me more. Fucking take it.” You try to bite your lip, to keep quiet, to hold something back, but your whimpers and moans escape you.
He exhales a curse, hips still rocking—slower now. “You want the truth?” he rasps, voice gone rough. “I lose sleep over you. I count the fucking hours I’m away. I come home half-dead just to make sure you’re still here.”
He pulls you up by your throat again, your back flush against his chest now, “You gonna come?” he grits, grabbing your jaw again, angling your face toward his. “Or are you too busy trying to prove a point?”
Your laugh is a sob. “Can’t—can’t think—”
“That’s my girl.” He fucks into you harder, deeper.
You come again with his name in your throat, choked on a sob that melts into a moan. He follows moments later, grinding deep, filling you up with a rough groan of your name and something like I’m sorry whispered into your shoulder.
Later, as you're curled into his chest, boneless and exhausted, you mutter, “Next time just send a text or something.”
He sighs. “Next time, stop picking fights just because you want to get fucked.”
You grin. “No promises.”
You expect him to pull away. But his arms wrap around your waist instead. He kisses the back of your neck and buries his face there. You blink tears from your eyes. “I hate how much I love you,” you murmur back.
He hums softly against your skin. “Good. We’re even.”
𓏲˚ ۪ ❤︎⊹. Older!Nanami trying to understand his younger!gf
“Explain it to me again, darling.” Your husband says in confusion, sleep laced in his voice and making it sound even deeper. “You are crying because your teddy fell on the floor?”
“No! I’m crying because our child fell to her death and neither of us were there to save her,” you defend quickly, brows furrowing as you pout, gaze fixed on Nanami as your arms remain firmly wrapped around the soft toy.
Even in the dark room, you could see the utter confusion on his face, blinking sleepily before looking at the time. “Okay, darling. Well, she’s safe now, yeah? You can cuddle her to sleep again and I’m sure she’ll forgive you.”
You don’t budge from your seated position, the occasional tear still slipping down your cheeks. You frown. You wanted to protest that you weren’t a child despite him treating you like one but truthfully, what he said comforted you more than what anything else would have done.
With a huff, you slip underneath the covers again and snuggle into Kento, burying your head deep into his warm chest.
“We will cuddle her to sleep. And she will forgive us.”
“Of course, my darling. I’ll make her breakfast tomorrow as well,” he mumbles, delirious from lack of sleep.
A few days later, your teddy somehow manages to interfere with Nanami’s love life again. First cuddling, now sex.
“Nghh- kenny you feel sooo good,” you babble and grip the pillow in front of you, eyes rolling into the back of your head in pleasure. In speedbump, Nanami leans over you and presses his chest against your back, groaning right next to your ear as his hips thrust at a consistent pace.
When you lift your head again and look to the right, you see your teddy staring at you. Cute, innocent eyes having to witness such a vulgar act.
You reach one hand back, clumsily tapping Nanami on the side as you try and form a coherent sentence. “Ken… can you- hmgh- kenny move her.”
Nanami follows your gaze to the teddy sat on the side of the bed. His movements slow down to a stop. “Move her?”
You nod. “Mhm. She can’t watch us.”
“Darling, it’s a teddy.”
You whip your head around to glare at him. “So? That’s our child. We can’t traumatise her by having sex in front of her. Just turn her around.”
Nanami quietly sighs before leaning over and turning the teddy one-eighty degrees. “Is that better?”
OlderBoyfriend! Kento Nanami, posted on his instagram??..
you’d recently taught your older boyfriend, Kento, how to use Instagram so you could tag him in posts and stories of the two of you. But you never expected him to eventually engage in posting online, so it was a surprise when you refreshed your feed, only to find a short video of your boyfriend lifting weights at his gym, with an ancient heavy metal song overlapping the background noise he didn’t mute.
And lord behold, he has over fifty thousand likes on all his posts, equaling up to four. Four singular posts. And he's already on top-charts of instagram, without hashtags, and only one previous follower, you.
You currently were sitting in the living room of the shared apartment you'd bought with him a while back, sliding off the couch and walking to the bathroom where he was showering, since he'd just got home from the just mentioned gym.
You knock on the bathroom door, before walking into the steam filled room, shower running and fan on. “Baby.” you say, pulling the curtain aside, staring at him.
Kento wipes his face of water and turns to you, a small concerned frown on his face as he sees your odd expression, “sweetheart, are you alright?” he says quickly, turning the knobs of the shower to stop the water.
You held up your phone that was displaying his page, “you didn't tell me you started posting videos?” you say, legs shifting slightly as you spoke, and of course, he noticed.
He grabs his towel and wraps it around his waist, stepping out and taking the phone out of your hand and putting it down on the countertop softly, pulling you into a small embrace, looking down at you, “is that the matter, darling?” he mumbles, kissing the top of your head, “I’ll delete them if you'd like, i just thought other men would like to see the process-”
You stop him, placing your fingers to squish his lips together, “I’m just surprised you didn't tell me, that's all, I’m not mad.” you say quietly, “but I do want you to put my username in your bio.” you finish, kissing his cheek and letting him go.
neighbor!nanami fixing your car and earning himself a cute date!
“can you hand me the screwdriver?” your neighbor, nanami kento, asked. he wiped his sweat dappled forehead using his shirt that he’d tossed aside, standing across from you shirtless as sweat dripped down his chest.
you almost couldn’t hear what he’d said, way too busy staring at him because what the hell?
that morning, before you’d driven off to the cafe, with all the easiness of a deserved off day for you’d worked nonstop all through the week, you were happy and content and peaceful.
until your gaze caught up on the steam creeping across the cool floor beneath the hood. and let out a horrified scream loud enough to wake the whole neighborhood up.
which, was also the reason your neighbor, nanami kento ended up on your garage, shirtless and sweating.
he talked about some hose clamp and how it loosened, but honestly, you were way too focused staring at his biceps to comprehend what he’d just said.
as he tightened the clamp, he uttered a silent “fuck,” his knuckles splashed with coolant and the warm breeze upon his bare chest made him slightly shiver. ‘this,’ you thought, ‘is the hottest thing i’ve ever seen.’
“what can i help with?” you asked him, purely out of courtesy. kento breathed heavily as he leaned into the car, his arms tightening along. at the beginning you’d wondered if it was that necessary for him to take his shirt off, now thinking again, it certainly was needed. it was a necessity. your eyes lingered on his arms.
“nothing really— it’s almost over anyway.” he muttered under his breath, his muscles still flexing along his every move. “that must’ve scared you.” he added.
“yeah, honestly, once i saw that steam i almost thought the car was gonna blow up.”
he laughed with a strained voice, and you thought how the dry summer air must’ve been making it unbearable, let alone the heated breeze fluttering through the garage here and there.
“thank you, really, you didn’t have to do this.” you kind of felt guilty about how he was wasting his whole weekend morning on fixing your car, but then again, it was him who’d rushed out of his house once he’d heard you scream. with his mug full of coffee on his hand. and his surprisingly cute slippers.
well, you’ve always known that he had a rather unique approach on fashion.
“don’t mention it. i had nothing better to do anyway.” he smiled up at you, his cheeks reddened with a slight flush. his hair was messy in a way that made your heart throb.
“hmm.” you tilted your head to watch him as the leak stopped dripping and he slowly rose up, the warm breeze rippled through the branches across the garage and summer sun stretched across his flushed skin with a soft glow.
he was finished. probably.
“really, thank you so much nanami-“ you tried but he cut you off.
“kento. please.” the words tumbled out as he ruffled his hair with a nervous urgency. although you’d been familiar with each other through years of silent good mornings and shy attempts at conversation, you’d never crossed that invisible distance before. you smiled warmly upon his words.
‘fuck, just go for it,’ you cheered for yourself. there was no way you were letting that shirtless man leave.
“thank you so much kento. genuinely-“ you bit your lip, “actually, i was just about to get my morning coffee. there’s a really nice place i know nearby. how about,” you fidgeted with your hands. “a thank you coffee? my treat.”
you breathed out the last words with such haste that even you couldn’t comprehend what you’d said for a few seconds.
“well, that’s a bit generous for just fixing your car, isn’t it?” he laughed gently.
“a coffee?”
“you.” oh.
with heat creeping into your skin, you giggled, avoiding his gaze. “no, i think i’d say it’s exactly what you’ve earned.”
he, again, breathed out a laugh as he shook his head. wearing his shirt back, with a muffled voice he said, “i don’t think i could ever say no to that.”
“I want mama!” your son screams, tears filling up his eyes—the same color as Nanami’s.
And speaking of Nanami…he feels helpless.
The boy won’t stop crying, won’t stop calling for you. His little face is red and scrunched up, his cheeks wet, chest heaving with each shaky breath. You’d told him you’d be gone for a few hours—explained it gently, with a kiss to his forehead and a promise that Papa would take care of everything. But none of it seemed to matter.
You’re gone and his world feels like it’s ended.
“Please, baby…Mum will be back any time soon.” Nanami spares a glance at the clock, in thirty minutes you’d be here. “Should we finish your meal in the meantime, mh?” He tries, voice tight, panic folding over his usual calm.
But your son only screams louder, fists pounding the highchair tray, tears flowing freely.
It’s been hours, and Nanami has come to the conclusion that : he doesn’t want me.
He stares at his son’s red, tear-slicked face. There’s no hatred in it, just unfiltered, helpless longing.
“I want Mamaaaaaa!!” Nanami flinches. Exactly, the toddler is longing for you.
The little boy’s small chest rises and falls in erratic sobs, hiccupping on the edge of breathlessness.
Nanami exhales slowly through his nose. You can do this, he tells himself. You’re his father. You can do this.
So, he tries.
He pulls out the little wooden train you carved together one weekend. Places it on the floor. “Do you want to show Papa how fast it goes again?” he asks, voice as gentle as possible.
No response.
He tries the animal book—the one with flaps and texture that always make him giggle. “Tell Papa where’s the lion. Can you find the lion for me?”
Nothing.
Just a heartbreaking, hoarse little “Mama…”
Nanami even tries to put on the cartoon with the talking blue bear. The one your son usually dances to.
As nothing seems to work, Kento feels his heart breaking inch by inch. He picks him up despite the flailing little arms, holds him against his chest, firm but not tight, like you’ve teached him.
His son won’t stop. Not even a little. The screams turn into an open-mouthed wail, the kind that turns cheeks purple and voices raw for hours.
Nanami’s hands tremble slightly. He sits down on the floor with the boy in his lap, gently cradling him, head bowed. He’s never felt this powerless.
Not during cursed missions, not under pressure—but here, in his own home, with his child breaking apart in his arms… He feels not enough.
Not soft enough.
Not warm enough.
Not you.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers into the crown of his son’s head. “I’m trying. Papa’s trying so hard.”
And that’s when the front door creaks open. “I’m home!”
And just like that, your son’s head snaps up from where he’s been sobbing into Nanami’s lap. Your husband doesn’t even have the time to rise to his feet that the boy is squirming violently in his arms, “mama! Mama! MAMA!!” Nanami lets him go without resistance. He stands slowly as your son flings himself into your arms when you appear in the doorway.
Concern is written all over your face. “I’m here, baby. I’m here…” you look up and see Nanami standing a few feet away, shoulders sagging, eyes tired behind his glasses.
“he’s been crying for hours,” he says softly. “didn’t want anything from me. Wouldn’t eat. Wouldn’t play.”
You nod as your rubs your son’s back. “I’m sorry. He’s just been going through this clingy phase.”
“I know.” Nanami offers a tired smile, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “it’s okay.”
Later, after dinner and a bath your son is finally asleep, curled on your side of the shared bed, clutching one of your shirts tightly, your scent comforting him.
Nanami stands in the doorway, arms crosses, watching the soft rise and fall of your kid. You come up behind him, circling his waist with your arms, letting your cheek rest on his strong back.
One of his hands intertwin with yours. “He wouldn’t even let me hold him,” he says, barely above a whisper. “I’ve never felt that…useless before.”
“Kento…”
“I know he’s still small. I know it’s not personal. But…” he pauses, swallowing hard. “I tried everything. Toys, books, food, music. He didn’t want any of it. It felt like…like…I wasn’t enough. I wasn’t…probably am, not a good dad.”
Your heart twists at the words. “Can you please turn to face me, love?”
He lets out a deep exhale, like the breath hurts to let go, and turns. When his eyes meet yours, you feel like the weight of the whole world just collapsed onto your chest.
Nanami is silently crying.
His eyes are rimmed red, and cheeks drenched wet.
You gently cup his jaw. “You were more than enough Kento. You held him even when he didn’t want to be held. You didn’t get angry. You didn’t walk away. You didn’t even raise your voice once. That’s not just ‘enough’. That’s what a good dad does. That’s love.”
He closes his eyes, leaning into your touch as more tears gather in his long blonde lashes. “I just…” his voice breaks. “I just wanted to be what he needed.”
Nanami wraps his arms around you tighter, letting his forehead drop to your shoulder. He breathes into your neck, letting your scent comforting him—just like his son does.
“I don’t mind not being the favorite,” he murmurs after a while, his voice quiet and raw. “But I hope, one day, he’ll reach for me too.”
You press a kiss the top of his head, pulling him impossibly closer to you. “He will. And when he does…he won’t want to let go.”
