And growing up overly conscious of error, oppressed verbally, and trained to bear the plights of other people, you turned your nose away from any notion of vulnerability, and any possibility of you taking on your mother's flawed behaviors.

I'd never treat my kid this way, you would tell yourself, holed up in your closet with your face burrowed in your arms, tears streaking down your heated face as your mind replayed the accusations of disrespect and the belittling of your character for expressing opposing opinions. I never want to be like this.

For a while, you think swearing by this oath will work some kind of magic on you, wipe away your genes, and free you of all the memories and experiences you have with overpowering emotion, with your mother.

You think that when you fly the coop, you'll get a clean slate.

But suppression only leads to explosion.

You hide away behind a wall of toughness, as you've long struggled with letting people in, with letting them see the real you for fear of their judgment. Every time anyone has ever managed to peel away at the layers and expose the truth in your unsaid thoughts and your overthinking tendencies, they villainized you.

You've accepted a lot of bullshit in your early years, thanks to the skillful way your mother formed you into a durable doormat for others to stamp their complaints into. Boys guilting you into having sex, expressing insecure possession - declaring you too friendly, uncaring, rude for speaking your mind.

Excessive blame for things outside of your control, lies about secret attraction toward friends, forcing you to drive everywhere, to pay, to be at their beck and call but not to bother them while they're occupied.

Lack of communication. Hours into days without texts. Weaponized incompetence. Never thinking to hold the door, never cleaning you up after sex, gaslighting, lusting, preying.

And they were never like that in the beginning. Always scheming, always putting on a mask to be able to say that they could obtain you, a prize, then letting it drop once you were within their grasp.

Disheartened by betrayal, tolerance worn thinner with each disappointment, the very worst act upon your tender heart. You crumble, you burst, you pour out the years of pent up anguish. Every moment you've held onto when you felt belittled, or ignored, or unseen by those you've trusted rockets from your chest into a spew of heavy, harmful truths that sever the connection between yourself and others.

In moments of unreciprocated action and the antagonization of your pleading words, you step outside of your body to look down upon yourself - you realize that you aren't much different from your mother.

Overexplaining, pleading with someone to hear you though they can not provide the things you need, to understand your pain, to feel the sorrows you feel every day. You've begged for someone to lean on. Someone who can handle knowing you, who can learn about you without tilting his head and saying that your emotions are...

A lot.

But that someone has yet to come.

You recall telling your mother the same thing in your early college years, when you finally worked up the courage to advocate for yourself. To fight back. To create a sense of self separate from hers.

You shiver at the comparison. Kids really are doomed to be their parents from birth. You know, now, that there is no escaping it.

You aren't good with friendships. You're horrible with relationships. You don't trust others with your love, with your whole self. You've only ever truly felt safe within your own mind, where no one else can harm you. Where you can't harm anyone else.

You tell yourself that you don't mind being single. In fact, you're better off. You have more room to develop yourself, to work toward your goals, build upon your career, nurture yourself in a way that you know you can't when you are in love and consequently overextending.

You try to push down the feelings of loneliness that often consume you when you see a happy couple walking by. You ignore the longing, the desire to be seen and loved in such a way by someone other than yourself. You convince yourself that it will never come, so you don't wait for it. You push on and try to forget.

Then, you meet Nanami completely by accident.

You're having a particularly unpleasant day, and after your shift, you decide to treat yourself to a fresh baked pastry to soothe your troubles and consequently destroy the diet you've put yourself on.

You're in front of the line, scanning the assortment of baked goods, and you finally decide on a tea and a chocolate croissant half the size of your head that's been calling your name. The lady behind the counter smiles politely and tells you the total you owe. When you reach for your purse, however, you realize that it is not on your person, but recall that it is lodged under the passenger seat of your car, after you'd tossed it off of you upon leaving work.

Embarrassed and annoyed, you sigh heavily and close your eyes. "I'm so sorry. I - forgot my wallet in my car. I'll be right back to go get it."

Before you can turn to go, someone walks up to the counter beside you. You think, at first, that he is rushing you, so you shoot him a hard glare, but instead, you are met with the side profile of quite a handsome man, tired and softspoken as he interjects.

"No need," he starts, voice formal and low with fatigue. He slots his fingers through his wallet calmly, clad in a grey work suit that brings out the soft yellow color of his blonde, fluffy hair. "I'll cover hers as well as mine."

You freeze, face falling with shock. "Oh god, don't do that," you step toward him again, reaching your hands out as if you can stop him, but he's already handing the lady a couple of bills as he recites to her an order that she seems to be all too accustomed with.

He turns to look down at you with the kindest chocolate eyes. "I assure you. It's not a problem."

"Really, though, my wallet's only a few steps away. I'd hate for you to pay for something I can easily take care of."

"Perhaps, but then you'd have to wait in line all over again. I figure this is more convenient," he explains simply, and you furrow your brows with a blink. The lady behind the counter darts her eyes between the two of you, hesitantly reaching for the money that is still extended toward her, unsure of what the consensus is.

"Sir, please," you chuckle awkwardly. "You're... too kind, but I can pay for myself."

"I insist."

"No, I insist. You don't even know me."

"I hardly think that matters."

"But-"

"Girl, just let the man pay! Damn."

Both of your heads swivel to the older woman behind you, her hand propped on her hip with a sour impatience scribbled onto her wrinkled face. Your brow twitches, and you turn to look up at the stranger beside you and catch the ghosting smile that graces his exhausted, pretty features.

You open your mouth to protest, but then consider the long line behind you, and deflate. "Okay fine." You nod toward the lady at the counter who finally takes the man's money.

She grins, counting the bills then putting them into the register. "We'll have your orders out shortly. Thank you! See you at the end of the week, Nanami!"

You step to the side as the man who paid for you nods into the woman's direction with appreciation and familiarity, before stepping to the side along with you.

The two of you stand next to each other awkwardly, your arms folded over your chest, and you clear your throat. "Thank you," you manage.

The man shakes his head. "Don't. Really. It was my pleasure."

"Still, you didn't have to do that. It's not like I forgot my money at home."

"I was happy to. Regardless." You slim your eyes with skepticism, unsure of his angle. He seems to catch your suspicion with a soft chuckle, as he proceeds to ask, "I take it you don't believe me."

Slightly taken by his forwardness, you stumble to explain. "It's not that I don't believe you, I just don't really get... why?" you shrug, smiling awkwardly with your teeth.

The handsome blonde ponders you thoughtfully. "Does there have to be a reason other than me wanting to?"

"No one ever wants to cover someone else," you wave him off.

"I just did."

Your mouth curves up. "Out of obligation."

"Because I wanted to," he corrects you for the third time.

You press your lips together tightly, and he chuckles something light and unexpected. "Are you laughing at me?" you quirk a brow.

"No."

Your eyes slim. "Liar."

The handsome man shakes his head, a smile line creasing over his warm skin. Tired eyes blink before landing back on you out of the corner of his eye. "Not at all," he says earnestly.

You look away. So does he.

You find yourself unsure of what more to say, so you let more awkward silence fill the small space between you as the cramped bakery grows busier. You tap your foot against the floor as you wait, and the man named Nanami checks his watch multiple times. You're keenly aware of his presence beside you. You try not to let it further bother you.

It shouldn't bother you, but the excited flutter of your heart proves otherwise, though you endeavor to ignore it and brush it off as nerves.

The call of your name soon comes, and your brows furrow as you and the blonde stranger move to grab your order at the same time. With hands outstretched, you find each other's gaze again, and you frown skeptically - Nanami seems to have reached your warmed croissant and hot drink before you.

"I was closer," he offers as he turns to you, tea in one hand and bag in the other. Your brow twitches as you hastily take your order from him. He lets you, his hands falling instinctively to his sides as though to surrender power back into your jurisdiction. "You would have had to push through-"

"I'm aware," you cut him off. "You don't have to go doing everything for me now."

"That wasn't my intention..." the brown eyed man trails off. Suddenly, his name is called behind him, and his head turns slightly at the sound but his eyes remain on you as he fumbles with his thoughts, bearing an indifferent expression. "I'm sorry. I've offended you."

You watch as he grabs his own order, nodding toward the worker with pressed lips of acknowledgement. You look down at your own order in your hands, and back up at him. "No... you haven't. Sorry. It's - just been a long day. Not used to random acts of kindness," you say as an excuse.

The man faces you again, a large loaf now tucked under his arm as his veiny hand clasps his coffee. "I understand."

A lull in the conversation strikes once more when the two of you realize that you have nothing more keeping you within the establishment. "Well, thank you. Again. Really, that was... unnecessarily nice of you."

"You don't need to keep thanking me. It really was nothing."

He walks a few paces behind you as you both go to leave the bustling bakery, and as he lunges from behind to stretch his free arm toward the door, pushing it open from the angle he discovered just above your head, your brows pinch again. And you thank him. Again.

You give him a tight smile before turning over your shoulder to walk to your car, when you hear his steady, polite, subtly hesitant voice.

"Pardon me, but you're very beautiful."

Your heels halt their clicking against the pavement. You freeze, whipping your head over your shoulder with tight muscles and wide eyes. The suited man stands there in the middle of the sidewalk, face blank and eyes honest. He does not try to perform. Does not try to add anything more to the compliment. He simply lets it linger in the air, making himself known to you for fear that he would never see you again.

Your lips part, your breath hitches. You're hardly new to such praises, but the gentleness of his tone when he spoke, the humility in his words, the lack of expectation in his eyes is what frightens you.

You see his lips tighten under your gaze, and he shifts the bread under his arm. "That's all."

"Is that why you paid for my order?" you ask suddenly, cheeks warm and brain stirring with confusion. “Because I’m beautiful.”

Something in him dissipates, as though the tension in his body has eased slightly at your voice. "Partially. I saw you walk in before me. You looked stressed so, I thought I'd try to make you feel better."

"And how would you know if I was stressed or not?"

"Because I'm stressed all the time. I can sense it from a mile away."

There is, once more, no performance behind his words. Just truth in exasperation, in the lidded state of his warm eyes and the lines creasing beneath them. You inhale to speak, but the words get caught in your chest again. You have nothing to bite back with, nothing to scoff at, no excuse to chastise, and you're unsure of how to go forward accordingly.

You swallow hard. "Well, I hope you don't think that buying me something when I don’t even know you is gonna give you some kind of advantage."

"I don't think that," he shakes his head simply. "Like I said before, it was my pleasure. I don't expect anything from you in return."

You raise your brow, unconvinced. "Really?"

"Truly."

Your brows come down and your teeth sink into the inside of your lip. A light smile returns to the stranger's lips, something soft and observant. "Then," you start, drawing your tea close to your chest. "I'll be taking my leave now."

You wait for an outburst, an explosion, for him to go on a tangent about how you haven't even given him the decency of providing a number, or at least for his expression to shift with irritation. But none of which comes. Instead, he just nods simply and goes to walk off as well. "As will I. Have a wonderful day, miss."

Your jaw drops when he walks away, slow, easy, tired strides, and you stand frozen in place, watching the back of his head as he moves away.

You clamp your lips shut and swallow hard, moving to turn around as well, but something in you fights back. You clench your jaw hard and close your eyes before- "Excuse me!" you call out. Now a few yards away, he stops and turns over his shoulder with surprise and curiosity. Your lips crinkle, your skin flushing as passerbyers glance at you, and the blonde's attention is once again yours.

You can't believe you're doing this.

"W-What was your name again?"

He blinks, genuinely surprised that you stopped him to ask. "Kento Nanami."

You nod. “Okay. Good. Goodbye.”

You swiftly turn over your shoulder and leave, and the blonde watches you, shocked, before smiling.

You see Kento a handful of times before you finally give in and give him your number and your full name. You realize that, due to his frequent appearances in your recent life, that he must live within the same vicinity as you. A few hopeful conversations and approaches initiated by the blonde, cautious yet earnest, and a text from your friend is what pushes you to finally give him access to you outside of short interactions in the middle of the cereal aisle.

You're guarded from the beginning, terrified by his generosity, his respectful good morning texts, the way he checks in on how you're doing when he has free time in the day - unprovoked, unpressured, seeking no ulterior motive.

You would stare at the lit phone screen with your chin propped angrily in your palm, fingers thumping against your lips as your glare sharpens on his perfect grammar. You're waiting for the gentleman routine to die away, to fade out, but it remains steady over a week of phone conversation. Still, a week is just a week. Hardly enough time to know someone's true motivations, and you've been with men who have kept up the act for months before finally revealing his hidden, careless identity.

But then, Kento asks you out.

You read the text over and over after having initially dropped your phone and jumped away upon receiving the message.

Kento | I would love to take you to dinner, if you would be willing to let me.

It's a trap, you immediately think. You can't remember the last time you've been on a date, the last time a man actually asked you properly, the last time a man planned something for you without expecting you to jump through hoops to see him. You're prepared to tell him no, or that at the very least you'd think about it, but after leaving him on read for nearly six hours, and another call with your best friend, you accept, as she claims that you would be crazy not to go out with him.

But she can not account for the discomfort that seizes your body when he meets you outside of the nice restaurant he picked, after you insisted on driving separate cars; when he opens the car door for you and stretches his hand inside the vehicle to gingerly take yours in his; when his eyes capture your face and not your body as he tells you that you look absolutely stunning; when he pulls out your chair for you to sit down, having guided you by your hand throughout the twists and turns of the dimly lit space, an air of natural dominance crowding him when he interacts so calmly with the staff.

He does not suffocate conversation with arrogance, but asks you questions about your life, holding your gaze as you speak to show that he is truly listening. When you notice him staring, he apologizes, ducking his head with the intrusion of stifled shyness as he continues to compliment you, your mind, your beauty.

You're out of your depth. Your heart flutters the whole night as your (e/c) hues hold his warm ones, and your skin crawls with something you can't quite name. You don't remember the last time you felt so seen, so prioritized, so catered to. And more than Kento's swiftness to pay without blinking an eye or letting you even see a peep of the bill, and more than his haste to make sure you aren't too hot or cold, that your food is just the way you wanted it, is the manner with which he treats you. As though wining and dining you at some fancy place you always wanted to try is nothing near a chore, but something he feels that you are entitled to, that he is expected to do as a man in pursuit of your heart.

And at the end of the night, after he has offered to walk you back to your car, instead of expecting once more, he asks if he can take you out again.

You look at him with a dumbfounded gaze for a long moment, as you likely have for the majority of the night, and you mindlessly nod, your skepticism warping into fear.

Fear over the fact that this is the first man you've felt a genuine connection with after years of shielding your heart from any possible vulnerability.

You wreck your brain, wondering what this man could possibly want from you. Sex? A mistress? Someone to manipulate? 

The speculations die one by one with each date you have with him, with every fact you learn about his personality and his daily life, about his morals and values, his drive, his grit, his responsibility. Three dates fly by, and he has yet to ask you to join him at his place or to accompany you at yours. He keeps a respectful distance whilst continuing to pursue you, to treat you, to court you as a man should.

You feel yourself actually beginning to like Kento, and that prospect alone is enough for you to disappear for a couple of days after your discovery. You tell him that you've been busy, that you don't have the time you once had to talk on the phone every night or plan your next outing.

Ordinarily, you get away with your habitual isolation, but one rather serious text is enough to tell you that you won't be able to get away with such things with Nanami, especially since he has made his intentions with you very clear - that he plans to be yours.

Kento | Hello, beautiful. I understand you need your space. Please correct me if I'm wrong, but from your tone and distance, I've sensed that you are upset about something. I recall you mentioning that you tend to take steps away when you aren't feeling like yourself. I won't further intrude in honor of your space, but whenever you feel ready, I am here to talk or listen. I sent you something to help take your mind off of whatever is bothering you. I hope you like it.

You open your door to find a bouquet of flowers lying at your doorstep, and a note attached with Kento's name and I'm here written in cursive. Your nose flares and your eyes glaze over as you look down at the thoughtful gift. No one's ever sent you flowers before. Not like this.

And no one's ever noted your habits, ever paid enough attention to you to tell when you're overstimulated or overthinking. You'd mentioned that about yourself one time, and Nanami remembered. And he didn't just remember, but he acknowledged it. He didn't antagonize you for it. He made himself known, and reminded you that you aren't alone. That you don't have to be anymore. That he sees you and wants to continue seeing you in every sense of the word.

Your heart pangs. You like him and you're terrified.

You don't reach out to him until the next morning. You've placed your flowers on the counter for display and lean against the kitchen sink with your phone in hand. Your leg bounces restlessly against the cabinets as you harshly tap on his contact to call. It's the weekend, so he answers rather swiftly.

"Hello?"

"You scare the shit out of me," you bluntly confess into the speaker, voice tight.

The other line is silent for a moment before Nanami's voice, low and thoughtful, comes back in. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to," he apologizes. You click your teeth with a huff of a laugh. "Could you tell me what I've done to make you feel that way?"

You suck in a sharp breath, for there truly is no way to get this man to show any bad side. Your gut trusts him, but your mind screams at you to run, while your heart yearns to feel his arms encase you as he tells you that everything will be alright. You're at odds with yourself.

But you want him so badly.

"You're too nice," you exhale through an anxious laugh, looking longingly over at your flowers.

"...Too nice?"

"Yes. I-It's confusing. You don't need to check in all the time or - or send me flowers-"

"You don't like them?"

"No," you quickly say. You sigh. "I mean... no - yes, I do like them. They're very sweet. T-Thank you. But that's not what I mean. I just mean... like... you're so..."

You stumble over your words, struggling to find the right way to express yourself whilst evading judgment. Your mind frantically searches for the right path and you fumble.

"(Y/n)," Kento calls gently.

"What?" you heave.

"Take your time," he guides. "Just tell me how you feel. It's alright."

You freeze. "...Wha...What?"

"I'm listening, sweetheart. Just take your time to sort it all out," he assures.

Your lips press together in a pout as you stare ahead, wide-eyed, your heart pattering in your chest. Your eyes sting with humiliation, and that hardness around your heart softens as you feel that you will finally be heard, that someone is happy to hear you.

You take in a shaky breath. "Why are you so nice to me?" you whisper.

"I'm happy that you think I’m kind, but I’m not trying to be nice, (Y/n). I've only aimed to be honest. I like you, and I want to be with you someday if you would like that too. I want to treat you the way you deserve to be treated. In all honesty, I haven't done anything very remarkable."

"You haven't-" you stop yourself with another laugh, sniffling slightly. "Kento, what do you mean you haven't done anything remarkable? You - you're so sweet to me all the time. You go out of your way to do things that you don't have to do."

"Like what?"

"Like... planning our dates all the time, or picking me up, or sending me things, or-or listening to what I say-"

"(Y/n), those aren't remarkable things. That's the least I can do for the woman I care about."

"You say that, but you don't get it."

"Perhaps I don't," he agrees. "But I'd love for you to help me understand what you're feeling more."

You trace your finger over the countertop sheepishly, blinking back the tears in your eyes. "Can you come over?"

"Absolutely."

And he does. And the two of you talk for hours, or rather, he listens to you spill your vulnerabilities, your feelings, vent your concerns and frustrations with a trust that you did not realize you had formulated with him. And unlike every guy who brushed you off or told you that you were too demanding or too emotional, Nanami holds your hand, looks you in the eye, tells you he hears you, and means it.

Your bottom lip trembles as the past month or so spent with him flickers through your mind. You can feel the race of your pulse against the blonde's skin, and you frown at yourself. At how giddy he makes you feel. "I know how I get," you say. "When I have feelings for someone, they're not something I take lightly. I'm not casual. I can't pretend not to care, and I don't want to feel like I'm grasping for attention when you finally get me. I don't want to delude myself into thinking that just because you're nice, you can't do what other people have done."

Nanami watches you with a fondness you can't name, silent and steadfast, warm and enticing. His thumb traces over the back of your hand as he sits close to you on the couch, unhurried, patient, present, and grateful to be.

"I can't pretend to know what other men have put you through, or how deeply it continues to impact you. I know you're scared. You have every reason to protect yourself the way you do," he begins. "But I'm not that kind of man. When I say something, I mean it. When I promise something, I have every intention of fulfilling that promise. When I treat you one way, it's not for show. It is how I intend to treat you for as long as you will allow me. I know trust is not something that can be built overnight, but I'm willing to do the work. I want you to feel safe with me. I want to make you happy. I won't try to rush that happiness or that trust. You're entitled to your space when you need it. You owe me nothing. But when you're ready, I'll be here. I'm not going anywhere unless you tell me to."

You sink into his words, your walls cracking, your heart surging. Glassy, red eyes search his face for some trick, and you once more come up empty handed. He presses his lips together in that tired, half smile, reminding you that it's okay.

Moved, you lean forward and press your lips to his impulsively, parting shortly after with a soft smack and sad eyes. You go to start apologizing when his palms raise to hold your face and your lips are slowly brought back into his.

Nanami kisses you for the first time like he is holding something precious. He does not attack you, but he savors you, slow and kind like his voice and the way he interacts with the surrounding world. You feel your chest tighten and warm, your skin tingle all over, and your flesh run hot as he holds you to him carefully, politely, gliding warm lips over your own with an appreciation so firm, he can't bear the thought of breaking away.

You part for a moment with heavy eyes, his thumb tracing over the skin of your cheek. Your hands press to his shoulders as you release a hot breath. "Please don't hurt me," you plead against his mouth, surrendering yourself from this point forward.

Nanami cradles you close. "I'll do everything in my power not to."

And even then, his words ring genuine, for Kento is aware that he can not promise such things, that people hurt their loved ones without attempting to all the time. But more importantly, he will work to honor your desires, to remember your triggers and fears, to know you well enough for that not to happen as long as he can control it.

And that, to you, means more than he could even begin to understand.

The two of you take it slow. You don't have sex until after he has asked to be your partner, and when you do, Kento asks for your permission before making any move to touch you further. He sees, feels the anxiety in your eyes and your body language, the fear that sexual intimacy will draw him further away from you, but he stays.

He stays with you while making love to you, holding your gaze, interlacing your fingers, pressing his body flush to yours, eliminating any exposure to the cold, keeping himself present. 

He stays with you after, holding your shivering body against his, murmuring soft praises into your ear and pressing warm kisses to your skin.

And rather than creating a distance, sex brings you inexplicably closer. The passion is thick in Nanami's enamoured eyes every time he sees you, every time he utters your name. After months of chipping away, you mirror his smitten nature, opening yourself up to the affections he always, always provides.

That's what Kento is, a provider, financially, physically, and emotionally. You feel light with him by your side, like the burdens of the world have lifted from your shoulders just long enough for you to breathe and simultaneously enjoy the good that it has to offer.

You never find yourself overexplaining your frustrations, because Kento has already noticed them and taken action to help you through them. 

You never feel as though you are carrying anything alone, because Kento is always there to share the load or take it on himself.

And you never experience a moment in which you feel unloved, because Kento ensures that he spends every second of every day reminding you what you mean to him, showering you with unforced, unconditional ardor.