Jealous Nanami (part 2)
in for a long ride?
Nanami Kento had always slept like a man who was being paid by the hour to conserve energy. Back straight. Arms at his sides. Breathing so measured you sometimes checked his pulse just to make sure he hadn’t quietly expired from sheer efficiency. Not a twitch. Not a roll. Not even a subconscious foot nudge.
You, on the other hand, slept like a starfish having an identity crisis.
Arms flung. Legs bicycle-kicking the sheets. Face smashed into his pectoral at 2:14 a.m., then migrating to spoon his kidneys by 3:07, then somehow ending up diagonal with your heel pressed lovingly against his spleen. You didn’t mean to. It just… happened. Your body apparently believed sleep was an extreme sport.
For six months Nanami endured this in total, stoic silence.
He never complained.
He never moved you.
He simply developed faint purple crescents under his eyes and started brewing coffee at 4:45 a.m. instead of 6:00 like a normal person who had actually slept.
You noticed on week seventeen.
You were brushing your teeth when you caught him staring blankly at the coffee machine. The man looked haunted. By you. By your subconscious interpretive dance.
So you did what any loving girlfriend would do.
You exiled yourself to the far edge of the mattress.
You curled into a tight ball near the cold wall.
You suffered.
Because Nanami’s sleep mattered. Because he already carried the weight of the world (and several cursed spirits) on those broad shoulders, and you refused to also be the reason he woke up feeling like roadkill.
You lasted eleven nights.
Eleven nights of shivering, hugging your own knees, waking up with your face smushed against the headboard because you’d unconsciously tried to army-crawl back toward warmth in your sleep.
On the twelfth night you woke up crying — quietly, pathetically — because you missed him. You missed the solid wall of his chest. You missed the way his heartbeat sounded like the most boring, perfect metronome in the world. You missed sleeping like a normal human disaster instead of a rejected sausage roll.
That was the morning Gojo Satoru texted you “happy early birthday, bestie ♡” followed by seventeen party popper emojis and a photo of… something large, rectangular, and wrapped in violently pink paper.
You stared at the screen.
You stared harder when the delivery arrived two days later.
Life-size.
Plush.
Gojo Satoru — in doll form.
White hair made of the softest synthetic silk. Blindfold embroidered with tiny silver stars. Long limbs stuffed with memory foam that actually hugged back when you squeezed. The torso was stupidly wide. The arms were long enough to wrap around you twice. And when you pressed the little heart-shaped button over his heart—
A smooth, unmistakable drawl purred through a hidden speaker:
“Good night, princess~ Sleep tight for me, yeah?”
You screamed.
Not in horror.
In pure, unhinged delight.
You immediately dragged the doll to bed that night.
You wrapped yourself around it like a koala on a eucalyptus IV drip.
You slept.
Deeply. Motionlessly. Blissfully.
For the first time in months, you didn’t wake up with your face in someone’s armpit or your foot in someone’s ribcage.
Nanami came home at 11:42 p.m.
He loosened his tie in the doorway.
He walked into the bedroom.
He froze.
There, in the middle of his bed — his bed — was Gojo Satoru.
Gojo Satoru’s stupidly long arms were curled around his girlfriend.
Gojo Satoru’s smug plush face was pressed against the top of your head.
And you were drooling happily onto the doll’s collarbone like it was the love of your life.
Nanami stood there for seventeen full seconds without breathing.
Then he very calmly, very rationally, very Nanami-ly walked to the closet, took out a spare blanket, and made himself a pallet on the floor beside the bed.
He did not speak.
He did not wake you.
He simply lay down, folded his hands over his stomach like a corpse in a coffin, and stared at the ceiling until dawn.
The next morning you woke up cuddling the doll and found Nanami already dressed, sipping black coffee at the kitchen island, expression so blank it was almost translucent.
You beamed. “I didn’t kick you once last night!”
“Correct,” he said. Voice flat as asphalt. “You did not.”
You hugged him from behind. “Thank you for being so understanding. The doll is literally saving our relationship.”
Nanami’s grip on the mug tightened until the ceramic gave a faint, concerning creak.
Then you buried your face in his back and inhaled.
And froze.
Because you smelled… blue sugar. Expensive aftershave. That stupidly sweet, unmistakable Gojo scent that clung to everything he touched like glitter from hell.
You pulled back.
You sniffed the doll still clutched in your arms.
Same smell.
Stronger.
Gojo had clearly doused the thing like it was auditioning for a cologne commercial.
Nanami hadn’t said a word about it.
But the way the veins in his forearm stood out while he held that poor, innocent coffee mug told you everything.
Nanami turned his head exactly fifteen degrees.
His eyes were calm.
Terrifyingly calm.
Then — very slowly — he reached over, plucked the doll out of your arms, and set it on the highest shelf in the kitchen.
The heart button got pressed in transit.
“Good night, princess~” the doll sang cheerfully into the silence.
Nanami’s eyelid twitched.
Once.
Twice.
Nanami exhaled through his nose. Long. Slow. Like a man counting to ten in four languages.
(He didn’t burn it. Not that night, anyway. But the doll definitely spent the next three evenings mysteriously relocated to the living room couch. Face-down. With a throw pillow aggressively placed over its head.)
(He is lying on his back on the living-room floor because the bedroom has become enemy territory. The couch is right there, perfectly serviceable, but he chose the floor. Harder surface. More discomfort. Feels appropriately punitive. The doll is back in the bed again because you retrieved it at 10:18 p.m. with the soft little “I can’t sleep without it” that should not have made his stomach perform a full rotation, and yet.)
This is irrational.
I am aware it is irrational.
It is fabric and memory foam and a frankly insulting quantity of polyester fiberfill. Its structural integrity would collapse under approximately forty-seven seconds of Grade 2 cursed energy output. I could dismantle it with a kitchen knife in under ninety if I were so inclined. I am not inclined. Yet.
Still.
That thing is touching her.
Its arm—its plush, cartoonishly long arm—is draped across her waist exactly where my forearm belongs. The angle is wrong. Too high. Amateur. I would rest it lower, across the small of her back, thumb brushing the dip of her spine. That placement is deliberate. Optimal weight distribution. Maximum contact. Maximum claim.
This doll has no concept of claim.
It simply… exists. Smirking. Blindfolded. Smelling like imported vanilla and Gojo’s ego.
I can smell it from here.
Through two closed doors.
That should be medically impossible.
Perhaps it is psychological. Olfactory hallucination induced by prolonged exposure to psychic warfare. Gojo has turned passive-aggression into an olfactory weapon. I did not think it was possible to hate bergamot this much.
She sighed in her sleep earlier. Content. Deep. The kind of exhale she used to make against my throat at 3:47 a.m. when her cold nose found the warm hollow under my jaw. Now she makes it against synthetic white hair.
I counted seventeen of those sighs tonight.
Each one felt like a personal indictment.
She hasn’t kicked me in four days.
My sleep has never been better.
I have never been more exhausted.
Logically, the problem is solved. She is no longer contorting herself into origami shapes against the wall to avoid bothering me. She is warm. She is held. She is resting. REM cycle data would probably show dramatic improvement.
I should be relieved.
I am not relieved.
I am calculating the precise tensile strength required to strangle a six-foot plush toy without waking her.
(Answer: disappointingly low.)
She called it “Satoru Jr.” this morning while pouring cereal.
She laughed when she said it.
Laughed.
Like it was charming.
Like it was funny.
Like the idea of another man—even an inert facsimile—occupying the space I have spent three years quietly, methodically carving out beside her was somehow… amusing.
I smiled back.
Of course I smiled back.
The ratio of my outward composure to inward homicide ideation is currently sitting at approximately 7:3.
It is not sustainable.
She pressed the button again tonight.
“Good night, princess~”
The pitch modulation on that recording is engineered to trigger dopamine. I know this because I spent seventeen minutes on the manufacturer’s website earlier today reading customer reviews while pretending to answer emails.
Seventy-four percent of reviewers mention “instant calm.”
Thirty-one percent mention “makes me feel special.”
One reviewer said, quote, “My boyfriend hates him lol.”
There are currently 1,847 five-star ratings.
I want to commit tax fraud against whoever gave it five stars.
She fell asleep approximately four minutes later with her cheek pressed to its stupid embroidered collar and one leg hooked over its thigh.
Its thigh.
I have never experienced jealousy over an inanimate object before.
I once watched a Grade 1 curse try to swallow her whole and felt only focused, sequential rage.
This is different.
This is petty.
This is corrosive.
This is her curling tighter around something that smells like my professional nemesis while I lie on hardwood and stare at the ceiling like a man awaiting execution.
I should talk to her.
I should say: “I find the presence of this object distressing.”
I should say: “Its cologne is an act of psychological aggression and I would prefer it removed from the premises.”
I should say: “I miss being the thing you reach for in your sleep.”
But the words feel… juvenile. Undignified. Beneath the man who files his taxes in March and never raises his voice in meetings.
So instead I lie here.
Counting the seconds between her breaths.
Wondering if she dreams about blue eyes under that blindfold.
Wondering if she notices I’m not there.
Wondering if I’ve become so predictable, so safe, so relentlessly contained that she needed to import chaos in plush form just to feel held.
I hate that doll.
I hate that I hate it.
Most of all I hate that tomorrow morning she will wake up happy, stretch like a cat, pad into the kitchen smelling like bergamot and domestic bliss, kiss my cheek, and say something devastatingly innocent like:
“You’re so quiet lately. Everything okay?”
And I will say, “Everything is fine.”
Because I am fine.
I am calm.
I am rational.
I am simply experiencing a temporary, low-grade existential crisis over the fact that my girlfriend is currently cuddling a life-sized tribute to Gojo Satoru more affectionately than she has cuddled me in recent memory.
That is all.
It is not a big deal.
It is not.
(He exhales once. Very slowly. Then rolls onto his side so he can face the bedroom door.)
…If it says “princess” one more time tomorrow, I’m feeding it to the wood chipper at the park down the street.
And then I’m buying her a new pillow.
One that smells like me.
Only me.
(A long pause.)
…And perhaps some restraints. For scientific purposes.
To test whether memory foam or 230-thread-count cotton better contains involuntary limb movement.
Purely academic interest.
Nothing personal.
(He closes his eyes. The doll does not speak again that night. Small mercies.)
He still doesn’t sleep.
You woke up on the fourth night without it and immediately knew something was wrong.
The absence hit like a missing limb.
No soft wall of chest to burrow into. No ridiculously long arms looping around your waist like they’d been custom-measured for exactly your proportions. No faint, smug bergamot lingering in the sheets.
You sat up, blinking in the dark.
“Satoru Jr.?”
Nothing.
You patted the mattress like it might be hiding under the duvet out of spite.
Gone.
You flicked on the lamp.
The bed looked… normal. Too normal. Empty. Clinical. Like a crime scene after the body’s been removed.
You checked under the bed (dust bunny, one rogue sock, no six-foot Gojo facsimile).
Closet (his suits stared back judgmentally, no plush intruder).
Living room couch (where it had been “mysteriously relocated” the past two nights—also empty).
Kitchen shelf (the one Nanami had dramatically hoisted it onto like it owed him money—bare).
You even opened the trash cans. Both indoor and outdoor. Nothing. Not even a tuft of white synthetic hair.
By 6:13 a.m. you were pacing the kitchen in Nanami’s too-big sleep shirt, hair a disaster, eyes bloodshot, clutching a mug of coffee like it was the last friend you had left.
Nanami walked in at 6:30 sharp, already in his suit, tie knotted with surgical precision.
You whirled on him.
“It’s gone.”
He paused mid-pour of his own coffee. Didn’t look up.
“The doll,” you clarified, voice cracking like you were reporting a missing child. “Satoru Jr. is gone. I looked everywhere. It’s just… vanished.”
Nanami took a slow, deliberate sip.
“Tragic,” he said. Completely monotone.
You narrowed your eyes.
“You didn’t—”
“I did not dispose of it in a wood chipper,” he answered before you finished. “Nor did I set it on fire. Nor did I feed it to the neighbor’s overly enthusiastic golden retriever.”
You stared.
He stared back. Expression so neutral it could’ve been used as a paint swatch called “Emotionally Unavailable Beige.”
“But you know where it is.”
“I do not.”
“You’re lying.”
“I do not lie.”
You threw your hands up. “Kento. I can’t sleep. I tried the edge of the bed again last night. I woke up hugging the headboard. My back hurts. My neck hurts.”
Nanami set his mug down with the softest clink.
“I see.”
You waited.
He said nothing else.
You groaned and dropped your forehead onto the counter.
“I miss my giant, scented, talking boyfriend pillow.”
A muscle in Nanami’s jaw ticked. Just once. But it was enough.
That afternoon Gojo appeared uninvited (because of course he did), leaning in the doorway with a shit-eating grin and two iced Americanos like he was making a peace offering.
“Heard the little guy went AWOL,” he drawled. “Tragic. Should I order another one? Same model. Overnight shipping. I’ll even throw in extra spritzes of my cologne so she doesn’t have to miss the full experience.”
Nanami, seated at the dining table with expense reports spread like battle plans, did not look up.
“No.”
Gojo tilted his head. “No? You sure? She looks like she’s about to start crying into her cereal again. Very tragic. Very preventable.”
“No.”
Gojo’s grin widened to something demonic.
“Okay, okay. Compromise. What if I get one that looks like you? Big shoulders. Severe expression. Tiny little glasses. We could program it to say—” he dropped his voice into a perfect Nanami impression, “‘The acceptable ratio of skin contact is 7:3. Please adjust your limb placement accordingly.’”
Nanami finally lifted his gaze. Slowly. The look he gave Gojo could’ve sanded varnish off wood.
“I will pay you,” he said quietly, “to leave this apartment within the next seventeen seconds.”
Gojo laughed so hard he nearly spilled both drinks.
“Touchy! Fine, fine. I’ll just text her the link to the custom-order page. She can decide.”
He sauntered out.
The door clicked shut.
Silence stretched.
You were in the bedroom, aggressively fluffing pillows that refused to hug back.
Nanami stood in the doorway for a long moment.
Then he crossed the room.
Without preamble.
Without asking.
He simply lay down on his back in the center of the mattress, arms open.
“Come here.”
You blinked.
“What?”
“I said come here.”
You hesitated. “You hate being touched in your sleep.”
“I never said that.”
“You literally sleep like a corpse in a three-piece suit.”
“I sleep efficiently. There is a difference.” He exhaled. “I am attempting to be… inefficient. For you.”
You stared.
He waited. Patient. Calm. Arms still open like he was offering a tax refund.
You crawled over.
Tentatively.
You settled against his side first.
He immediately wrapped one arm around your shoulders and tugged until your cheek was pressed to his chest.
Then the other arm came around your waist.
Tight.
Not polite.
Not careful.
Possessive.
You froze.
He smelled like cedarwood soap and the faint trace of whatever expensive dry-cleaning magic kept his shirts crisp even after twelve-hour days.
No bergamot.
No sugar-rush vanilla.
Just him.
You shifted. Threw a leg over his thigh the way you used to before you started self-exiling.
He didn’t flinch.
He exhaled once—long, slow, almost relieved—and pulled you higher until you were half-draped across him like a human weighted blanket.
Your head tucked under his chin.
His heartbeat under your ear: steady, unhurried, the same boring-perfect metronome you’d missed so stupidly much.
His hand slid up your back. Fingers threading into your hair. Not petting. Just… holding.
You felt his entire body unclench.
Shoulders dropped.
Jaw softened.
Breath evened out in a way you hadn’t heard since before the doll arrived.
He murmured against your hair, so quiet you almost missed it.
“I was wrong.”
You lifted your head. “About?”
“About this.” His arm tightened. “About thinking I didn’t want it. I thought it was… disruptive. Unnecessary. I was wrong.”
You felt his lips brush your forehead.
“I don’t want to go back.”
You swallowed.
“Back to what?”
“To sleeping like I’m waiting for an audit. To waking up and feeling like I’ve conserved energy at the cost of everything else.” Another slow breath. “I like this. I like you on top of me. I like your cold feet and your elbows and the way you mumble nonsense against my throat at 3:14 a.m. I like being the thing you reach for.”
A pause.
“I like being the only thing.”
You felt something hot and tight bloom behind your ribs.
You buried your face in his neck.
He smelled like home.
Not cologne.
Not competition.
Just him.
You whispered, “Where’s the doll, Kento?”
He was quiet for so long you thought he wouldn’t answer.
Then, very softly:
“In the attic. Behind three boxes of my old tax documents from 2018. Under a tarp. Face-down.”
You snorted against his skin.
He huffed—almost a laugh.
“I considered the wood chipper,” he admitted. “Briefly.”
You lifted your head again. Grinning.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m smart.”
“Same difference.”
He rolled suddenly—flipping you both so you were under him now, caged by those broad shoulders, his weight pressing you into the mattress in the best way.
He looked down at you. Eyes dark. Serious.
“No more dolls.”
You reached up. Touched his cheek.
“No more dolls.”
He lowered his head until your foreheads touched.
“Good night,” he murmured.
Not “princess.”
Just your name.
Soft.
Certain.
Yours.
And for the first time in weeks, neither of you moved an inch all night.
Not because he was a statue.
But because neither of you wanted to be anywhere else.
good night princess~~~
if you hadn't already, please consider subscribing to my friend's blog: @projectpravaha also, I forgot to say in the last update the economy is super bad, and i know lots of people have small businesses and I would love to support you, but i am broke myself, so the least i can do is to do free advertising for you all. i don't have much, but still some following so if you need any help, need me to forward your messages (not scams or stuff like that), let me know, i'll be more than happy to help <3
