synopsis ŕ Ë. áľáľ when youâre too sick to care for your baby, nanami brings her to the office strapped to his chestâcalm, efficient, and completely unfazed as he gives presentations with a pacifier on his tie and a baby on board.
toriâs notes á°.á this is ridiculous iâm warning you
nanami doesnât even flinch when you croak from under the covers, voice raw and pitiful: âken, i canâtâi think i have a fever, and she wonât stop crying unless iâm holding her.â
your voice cracks halfway through the sentence. you look like a ghost of yourself, half-sunken into your nest of tissues and blankets, hair a disaster, eyes glazed and watery. the babyâs red-faced and sniffling too, sprawled across your chest like a little heater, tiny fists grasping your shirt like she knows you might try to hand her off.
nanami, standing in the doorway, calmly adjusts his watch.
you blink. âyou⌠you have three meetings today.â
âand now i have three meetings with a baby,â he says, already crossing the room like a man with a mission.
you canât even protest properly before heâs kneeling beside the bed and gently peeling her off you, expertly switching to his papa voice â warm and low, as if heâs de-escalating a tiny, fussy hostage situation.
âthere we go,â he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her forehead, then yours. âweâll manage. rest. you know what medicine you should take. call me if you need anything.â
ten minutes later, heâs at the front door in his usual tan coat, baby carrier strapped securely to his chest like sheâs a very warm, very giggly piece of office equipment. sheâs wearing one of those obnoxiously frilly headbands you swore youâd never put on her â but she screamed when he tried to take it off, and heâs not here to pick battles today.
diaper bag over his shoulder. bottle packed. pacifier clipped neatly to his tie. hair combed, shoes polished, baby securely swaddled and babbling.
âdonât let the interns try to hold her,â you wheeze weakly from the hallway.
âi would rather die,â he replies without missing a beat.
as he walks out, you hear him murmur to her, âno loud commentary during the finance report. we must suffer through it in dignified silence.â
cut to: the morning finance meeting, 9:01 a.m., in a fluorescent-lit conference room downtown.
the projector is humming. spreadsheets fill the screen. half the team is slumped in various degrees of caffeine withdrawal.
nanami kento walks in, perfectly on time, baby on his chest like itâs the most natural thing in the world.
he doesnât explain it. doesnât apologize. he walks straight to the head of the table, clicks open his laptop, adjusts the projector, and begins speaking with the same calm, measured cadence he always usesâ
except this time, thereâs a tiny foot sticking out of the carrier, gently bumping his blazer.
âmoving into Q3,â he says, clicking to the next slide, âweâre forecasting a moderate increase in asset reallocationââ
the baby lets out a soft, inquisitive coo.
nanami glances down at her, gives a very small nod, and says to the room, âcorrect. the Q3 projections are, in fact, unfortunate.â
from somewhere near the coffee machine, an intern tries to whisper, âis that aâ?â
nanami turns his head fractionally. just enough to shut it down.
âyes. sheâs here in lieu of her mother, who is unwell. please direct all questions to me or her, depending on the topic.â
she doesnât cry, not even once. in fact, she seems thrilled. she clutches his tie like itâs her personal emotional support ribbon and waves her tiny hand every time someone shifts in their chair. at one point, she lets out a high-pitched giggle, and nanami simply pauses mid-sentence, gently pats her back, and continues like nothing happened.
someone tries to make eye contact and smile at herâ
she beams and throws her toy at them.
nanami takes back the toy and sighs, âdonât encourage her. sheâll never stop.â
the entire time, he keeps presenting with his utmost precision, occasionally glancing down at her to tuck the headband back into place or swap her pacifier like heâs been doing this his whole life.
he wraps up right on time.
âany further questions?â
even the regional manager just gives a tight nod. no one wants to risk being shamed by a baby.
back home, itâs late afternoon when the door creaks open.
youâre still buried in blankets, half-delirious and clinging to a half-empty box of tissues. you blearily lift your head at the sound of keys in the bowl.
nanami walks in with the same exact expression he had when he left: calm, unreadable⌠except thereâs a little extra softness at the corners of his eyes.
the baby is still strapped to his chest. fast asleep now, one hand gripping his tie, the other curled against his collarbone. sheâs drooling slightly. he hasnât removed the headband.
âshe was very well-behaved,â he says quietly. âarguably more professional than half the team.â
you laugh â or try to, but it comes out as a croaky wheeze.
he crouches beside you, brushing a bit of hair from your face. âhow are you feeling?â
âlike death.â he nods and kisses your cheek.
you glance over at the baby. âhow was she, really?â
âchatty,â he says, straight-faced. âopinionated about quarterly earnings. but otherwise excellent.â
he lifts her hand gently, unhooks her fingers from his tie.
âyouâre insane,â you whisper.
he leans in to kiss your forehead, gentle and lingering.
âefficient,â he corrects.
âalso⌠she now technically works in accounting.â
âsomeone handed her a spreadsheet. she drooled on it. thatâs more than my latest intern did today.â
you laugh again, properly this time.
he finally unstraps her, carefully settling her into the bassinet. she doesnât stir â not even when he tucks her blanket in with military precision.
you lie there watching him move quietly around the apartment, sleeves rolled up, tie chewed, hair slightly out of place, and realize:
papa nanami could take over the world with a baby strapped to his chest and a pacifier in his pocket, and heâd still be home in time to fold the laundry.
