Kento Nanami is a workaholic.

Not by choice and not because he loves it. He does it because he feels he has to. Because if he doesn’t bear the weight, who else will? If he doesn’t stay up all night exorcising monsters no one else sees, then someone else — someone softer and kinder might suffer instead.

He’s always been that way — precise,steady, reliable. Always. Always the first to stand up so no one else has to. You know this as deeply as you know the way he folds his sleeves before cooking for you, the way his hand rests on your lower back when crossing a busy street and the way he kisses the top of your head when he thinks you’re half-asleep.

You know every line in the palm of his hands - the hands that protect and carry yet hold you like you’re something rare and breakable. Hands that deserve to rest even if he won’t let them.

But today — today is different.

Today is Kento Nanami’s birthday.

And for once, you refuse to let him wake before you. You doze with one eye open just to beat him to it. You watch him lying there in the soft glow of dawn,watching the way his lashes flutter in dreamless sleep. There’s a faint crease between his brows, even now there's some imagined worry he still can’t let go of.

You lean in and kiss it him —once, twice,three times your lips brushing his forehead, the tip of his nose, the soft corner of his lips. He stirs under you, blinking awake with a low,sleepy rumble that sounds like the start of a laugh.

“Mmh… what’s all this? I must be in heaven” he murmurs, his eyes open - hazy, bleary, and so soft.

"Happy Birthday my love! If you're in heaven I suppose that makes me an angel?”, you giggle as you brush your nose against his.

“Then I’m convinced I’m in heaven. Thank you” he lets out a warm, breathy huff - half a laugh, half a sigh.

He sighs, eyes softening into a smile only you ever get to see. You're the only one who gets to see him like this - hair tousled, eyes droopy and the remnants of sleep etched onto his face. In front of you he doesn't have to be precise, calculated or strong being himself is just enough.

“Stay. There. No moving. No work talk. Or so help me, Kento Nanami — ” you urge as you slip out of bed.

“You’ll tie me down? With my leopard print tie? Promise?” he smirks.

You stick your childishly tongue out at him and disappear into the kitchen returning with your masterpiece: a tiny, homemade bento cake, slightly crooked, pastel frosting soft and swirled, a single candle flickering.

“You made this?”

You nod shyly. He looks at it like it’s a miracle. Like you’re the miracle. When you set the cake on his lap, he eyes it like he’s trying to figure out where the cursed spirit is hiding. You tap the little blue ribbon sticking out.

“Pull it.”

He raises a brow but obeys and you watch his brows knit together as one slip after another unfurls. All perfectly laminated so it stays protected. The last ticket trembles in his fingers. His voice is so quiet, you nearly miss it:

“Malaysia?”

“Surprise! Happy birthday, Kento!”

You crawl back onto the bed, straddling his lap, cupping his face in your hands. He just stares at you — like you’ve hung the stars just for him.

“You remembered,” he says, breathless, like it’s the most unbelievable thing in the world. “I mentioned that once. Years ago.”

“You always take care of everyone else. I wanted to take care of you.” you smile, brushing your thumbs over his cheeks.

But you can feel the worry brewing because that’s who he is. The man who shoulders the world.

“How did you afford this? How much did you save? You should spend your money on yourself, not—”

“I just — I’m sorry, Kento, I didn’t think it through. You’re going to be stuck on a plane for eight hours on your birthday. I should have planned it better, booked it for tomorrow, or later in the week, or—” you babble back, anxious now, words tumbling out in a rush.

You don’t get to finish because his hands slide up, gentle and sure, cradling your cheeks as he leans in and kisses you. Slow. Certain. Precise like always. The kind of kiss that says I’m here, I’m yours, I’m not going anywhere. When he pulls back, you’re both breathing in the same soft space, your foreheads pressed together. His eyes are warm and endless.

“I’d spend forever with you if you’d let me, eight hours is nothing. A lifetime still wouldn’t be enough.”

BONUS

Five hours later, he’s got your passports in a neat folder, triple-checks the gate number, lines up hours before the counter even opens. He even apologizes to the flight attendant for your overstuffed carry-on.

“You’d camp here overnight if they let you.” you tease.

He squeezes your hand, his thumb stroking your knuckles in that grounding way that makes your heart ache. “I’d camp here a year if it meant I’d get on that plane with you.”

And when the boarding call chimes overhead — when he stands, tugging your suitcase behind him, your fingers twined with his — Kento Nanami lets himself believe that for today, at least, the world can wait. Work can wait. Worry can wait.

Because heaven, he thinks, is eight hours in the sky if you’re beside him.