#kentoxreader

“Stop moving s’much. You said we didn’t have to do anything, just sit like this.” He complains, his words smushing together and coming out as a drag.

“We are just sitting like this.” You inform him, wrapping his arms around you as you attempt to focus on the story line of the show. This is something you’d planned out. You knew what you were doing when you started this. You knew he wouldn’t say no to this. And you also knew that one movement too many would get him to want to fuck you. It was all a part of your plan, which he has now caught unto.

“For now, till you start wiggling then that’ll make me wanna come and then I’ll have to move which is what I don’t want to do. I feel sleepy.” He murmurs, taking slow and long blinks, attempting to keep himself awake. He nuzzles his head in the crook of his, closing his eyes.

“Aww my pussy’s putting you to sleep.” You coo, taking a finger and playing flicking his lips. “I don’t know if I should be offended.”

“You should just stay still.” You can feel his voice through your body.

“How about,” you begin, swivelling slightly to get a better look at his face, “you just sit and I’ll do the moving, gets the job done. It’s a win win situation.”

“Not a chance. You’ll quit soon and then you’ll start whining that you’re too tired to carry on and finish the job you started. Then I’ll have to muster up energy to move, which I do not have. So until further notice, we’re staying like this.”

“For a man who’s oh so tied he is talking quite a lot.” You huff, pinching his nose, instead, he attempts to swat your hand away.

No one can ever make you feel this sugary-like rush, no one can fill you up to your brim and over your limit, no one can make you scream his name as he pounds into you.

Your smaller body with freshly made love bites. It was an enthralling experience to have your body so pure treated and missed like a rag doll.

Your walls clench around his dick as your high approaches, though that does not cause him to slow down.

"Don't stop" you chant, your body trembling from this experience, your nails digging into the sheets to replicate the marks you left down his broad and muscular back earlier.

" What's my name, what do you call me?" He shouts, increasing the thrill so much more.

" Sir, keep going sir, please don't stop, ahh fuck."

" Well done." He momentarily pauses as he flips around only to continue. Soon after your high arrives, your toes curl, and you come all over his never-ending pound with you.

" Fuck, shit, holy fuck." Your string of curses doesn't stop and neither does he, soon you begin shaking beneath him causing tears to the brim from the corners of your eyes.

" You look so pretty for me like this." He compliments, using his thumb to wipe your tears.

" Thank you sir," you say with a smile as you look up at your teacher.

𖦹:･ﾟ⋆｡°⭒✩･::｡𖦹:･ﾟ⋆｡°⭒✩･::｡𖦹:･ﾟ⋆｡°⭒✩･::｡𖦹:･ﾟ⋆｡°⭒✩･::｡𖦹:･ﾟ⋆｡

Rewind to earlier in the evening. The two of you were preparing for this date, and somehow the topic of how far the two of you would go in bed came up. Nanami, overall, is an adorable guy—it's almost impossible to imagine him being into anything outside the realm of his charmingly vanilla nature. He seems like a man who likes things simple, the way he is. You on the other hand have been with guys who were into things you typically weren’t at first, until you gave them a try. You felt as though the debate you and Kento were having was pointless. It was clear to see he was softer than you in these things. However, he swore the same for you. He struggles to grasp the concept that you could be into things ‘hardcore’, after all, you’ve never asked for those things.

“Listen Kento, why don’t we drop this? We don’t have to prove anything to anyone, lets go and enjoy this date okay?” you say to him, applying the final touches of your makeup like second nature. You look at him through your mirror when you aren’t met with a response. That’s when it started. You could almost see the devilish plan formulating in his brain, with the way his brain started twisting with a smile. It was weird. “Kent-”

“Public kink.”

“What?”

“You know, that kink where people get turned on from doing sexual acts in public.”

You resume with your makeup, “I think you mean-”

“No matter what it means. I think you have that.”

“You’re saying it like its an illness I have.” you chuckle.

“No seriously. Am I right?”

You take a moment to think. Do you? It’s not something your exes have ever expressed interest in, and it’s not really something you thought about. You really weren’t sure.

“I don't know. I’ve never tried it before.” you place your brush down now, fully ready for the date.

“Well then let’s try it. Do you want to?” He asks, taking a step closer.

And that’s when a vibrator got shoved in your panties, nestled between your folds. He turned it on the moment the two of you entered the restaurant and he began talking to the waiter. He was nice at first, sparing you of embarrassing moments and giving you breaks, so you thought you’d be able to hold out till the end of the date.

You were so wrong.

The two of you are quickly seated, and you’re guided to a secluded area of the restaurant. The booth is dimly lit, which creates an inviting and relaxing atmosphere. Your hand pushes past the beaded wall that separates the area, from the others. The orange hues reflecting from the beads settle unto the wooden table, filling the corner with a warm glow.

“ How did you manage to get us in this section?”, you ask, still enthralled by this simple yet decorative area.

“You can get whatever you want when you have a little cash,” he responds, grabbing your coat for you before you sit.

The sounds of the restaurant turn into a barely audible hum, disassociating from your world.

“Can I get you two started on anything?” the waitress asks, notepad in her hand.

“Could you start you with martinis and keep ‘em coming?”

“Sure thing. Is there anything you’d like ma’am?”

“Um…”, your mind starts to blank, it starts to fog. From the corner of your eye you can see Kento smirking at your helplessness. You’re fighting the urge to close your eyes and to help you remember all the alcohoic beverages you’ve heard of, “I’ll just have some martini’s too.” you respond as a last resort.

“Coming right up.”

As soon as she leaves, the blond man chuckles lowly, his hand; partially covering his mouth, as it that would alleviate your shame. “Asshole,” you mutter refusing to look at him.

“What?” he asks, the laughter still evident in his voice.

“Asshole.” You say louder now, turning to face him, “You’re not allowed to do it whilst I’m talking.”

“Says who?” he retorts, leaning back in his seat with a grin.

“Says the rules.”

“What rules we never made any rules?” he says with faux innocence which grinds your gears even more.

“Yeah, but there are like unspoken rules-” you insist, jabbing your finger in his direction.

You’re quickly interrupted by the waitress upon her quick return, “Here are your martinis. I’ll give you guys a couple of minutes to decide what you’d like to order.” she says, placing down the martini glasses in front of the both of you.

“That was fast. Wasn’t she fast?” you ask.

“I suppose.” Kento brings the rim of the glass to his lips before taking a sip, not necessarily bothered by the speed of the waitress.

You decide to follow suit and try the martini too, the sharp, chilled flavour surprises you. “This is one heck of a martini.” you exclaim, taking another sip.

“Are you not going to react?” the blond asks, eyes peering over at your face to study your reactions. He’s genuinely curious as to how you’ve remained composed in these past few minutes, because the first few times he turned it on you couldn’t have been more obvious with your face, or changing how you stand, making it look like you wanted to pee yourself.

“React to what?” you respond nonchalantly, taking another sip of your drink.

“You know what.” he presses, his gaze narrowing slightly.

“If you’re going to play mean, I won’t give you the satisfaction you want. Now what should we get?” You open the menu in front of you, eyes quickly scanning the general sections until he turns up the intensity of the vibrator, now you’re glad you have a book covering your face. You’ve been attempting to discreetly squeeze your thighs underneath the table, attempting not to catch Nanami’s attention, but this hum that leaves your lips has definitely piqued Nanami’s interest.

“Don’t try to fight it,” he says murmurs softly, his voice like silk in your ear. It’s even harder to fight once he places his hand on your thigh, rubbing gently. “Atta girl, just relax into it.” It’s taking everything in you to silence your whimpers that are aching to come out, the same way your cunt is aching for attention.

“Fuck.” you moan softly, barely audible to him.

“Come on, let's pick our courses,” he says, grabbing his own menu. Suddenly reading has been the most difficult thing to do. Your mind can’t stay in one place, and keep drifting to elsewhere. Drifting to think about how your panties were definitely soaked through now, and if he wanted to Kento could lift your dress and see your wetness creating a patch on your underwear. “I think I'll go for the Canard aux, I’m not sure I can say the rest of that, it's the Seared Rosemary Duck Breast with Blackberry Gastrique, what do you think?” he asks, yet you’re still unable to respond. The words he says barely register in your mind, all you can think about is how good it would feel to have his face all up in your cunt, slobbering away at it and creating a big mess.

Upon seeing your head drop down to the table again, Nanami increases the intensity of the remote-controlled device, watching as you bite your lip, attempting to hold back your whimpers and cries of pleasure. You begin to rock your hips, rolling them forward and snapping them back, practically riding the vibrator. You place your hand on Nanami’s thigh, grabbing it instinctively as you resist the urge to come, and then all vibrations halt.

You exhale loudly, sighing in relief and attempting to catch your breath. After a moment or two, you finally regain your composure and lift your head off the table to take a quick glance at the menu. Your pussy is still throbbing from the achingly close high it was about to reach. The server makes her way back to both of your tables, ready to collect your orders.

“Are the two of you ready to order?”

“Yes. I’ll have the Seared Rosemary Duck Breast with Blackberry Gastrique, please,” Kento replies smoothly, his tone as polished as his choice.

“An excellent choice, sir. And for you, madam?” the waitress asks, turning to you with a professional smile.

You hesitate for a moment, tightly pursing your lips as he’s now turned the vibrator back on to its maximum speed, “…Spaghetti and meatballs.” is all you manage to get out, which earns you a confused look from both of them.

“An equally fine selection,” the waitress replies, jotting it down. “I’ll have your orders out shortly.” and she disappears behind the beaded curtains.

Before Kento can utter a word you immediately intervene in a low mutter, “Fuck Kento. Fuck I’m close.” you begin to grind our hips again to maximise your pleasure, feeling helpless that you can’t strip and have this man in next to you thrust his fingers inside you. “I’m close Kento fuck.”, he’s changed the pattern of the vibrator and it's nearly driving you near the edge. “Yes Yes fuck.” you feel the knot within you tighten and soon enough you’re coming. Your head falls onto Nanami’s shoulder as your mouth forms an O shape. Your sickly sweet juices pour out of your cunt, soaking your panties even further.

“I think I’m into this whole exhibitionism thing.” you breathe out.

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Now you’re on the floor, spine curled, eyes locked on the television’s dull, flickering light. There’s some meaningless show mumbling into the room like static, you don’t hear a word of what they say. Behind you, Naaila sits cross-legged on the sofa, fingers gently running through your hair as she slowly braids the strands together in a comfortable silence, heightening the tender moment. Her touch is the only thing keeping you tethered. And even then, your soul is still disturbed.

"It'll do you some good, Y/N," her voice breaks through the quiet like the first moments of sunlight emerging from the night. “I know you don’t want to hear it and it may seem shitty of me to say now, but I would rather you have your job, have something, just so you don’t feel like you’ve lost everything or have nothing. I’m not sure that feeling will be good for you right now. I just—” she sighs, resting her hands in her lap now. “I just don’t want you to feel like you’ve lost your way, or you’re all alone out there. Plus, haven’t they offered you therapy sessions?”

You nod meekly, unbraided strands slipping down the sides of your face like curtain threads, half-hiding the expression you’re too tired to wear properly. You feel pathetic. Like some sick dog, or a broken thing that people have to tiptoe around, something fragile enough to shatter under the weight of ordinary life. You hate it. This version of yourself that needs checking on, needs convincing, just to function. Why doesn’t the world pause for you, just for a second? Why does everything, work, rent, emails, life, keep moving like you haven’t fallen behind?

“Do you think you’ll go to them? The sessions?” she asks, her voice softer now, careful not to push too hard, like the question might bruise you. You sit in more silence and ponder; you’ve been doing a lot of that recently, yet after all this pondering, you still don’t have an answer to her question or anything.

You sniffle in response, “I don’t know.” Your quiet voice breaks Naaila’s heart every time she hears it. Seeing you like this, no love or light in your eyes, your jovial nature being dimmed. She just wants you back, and every time you speak, she’s reminded that you’re not here with her anymore.

She rubs your shoulder slowly. “It’s okay not to know. It’s okay. All of it.”

When the sun rises this morning, you decide you will try. You put on real clothes, not just the stretched-out hoodie that clings to your body like second skin. You even brush your hair. You think: Maybe today will be okay. Maybe if I pretend hard enough, it’ll pass for normal.

But the moment you step through the doors, you feel it. The air has changed; it’s thicker, sour, and clings to you. Heads turn when you walk in, not to greet you, but to glance, whisper, shift awkwardly. Footsteps slow when people see you, voices dip just slightly lower, but not enough to hide the undertone. Conversations die the second your name tag comes into view. Smiles curve but don’t reach eyes. She came back. You see it in their eyes. That flicker of surprise followed by thinly veiled disappointment. A coworker’s laugh cuts sharp like glass, just a second too loud, and you know it’s about you. You feel the shame burn your skin like you’re being branded. It takes everything in you not to turn back and go home.

By lunch, someone has “accidentally” taken your Tupperware from the fridge. By two, you overhear a muffled “well maybe if she wasn’t sleeping with—” followed by shushing. No one says anything directly to your face, but every silence, every glance, is heavy with accusation. You can feel it sinking into your skin.

Then comes the HR meeting after lunch.

Mandatory. Sudden.

Everyone crams into the too-warm conference room, chairs scraping, arms folded, air already stale from too many bodies and too little care. The projector buzzes to life as a supervisor clears her throat.

“We’ve received some concerning reports,” she says. “So today we’ll be reviewing the company’s policies on workplace relationships, professional boundaries, and harassment.” Her tone and every word she says always seem to flatten you.

You freeze.

It isn’t your name. But it may as well be.

All eyes aren’t on the screen. They’re on you. You feel them. Watching. Judging. Some with pity. Most with something colder. You can almost hear the thoughts behind their stares. She’s the reason we’re here. She made this messy. She brought this down on all of us. You look down at your lap, where your hands have curled into fists without you realising.

The words on the screen blur. The supervisor continues, droning on about consent and professionalism, about conduct outside of office hours, about reporting channels and support networks. It’s all scripted, sterile, and meaningless. You hear none of it. All you want to do is escape, for it to be over. It reminds you of elementary school, where you would look down into your lap to avoid people seeing the tears well in your eyes and your lip quivering.

You shrink into yourself, wishing for invisibility. Wishing for people to avoid seeing your eyes well with tears and lips quivering. You wish for erasure. For time to rewind, or fast-forward, or crack open at the seams and pour out everything you’ve held in until now. But nothing happens. The meeting goes on. The accusations linger unsaid, heavy in the air like cigarette smoke.

And you sit there.

When the meeting’s over, you decide it’s enough. any more of this treatment and you may not last any longer. After colleagues push past you, Annalise and Darios catch your gaze for a split second, their mouths opening as if to speak, then closing. You make your way to Nanami’s office. It’s like your body has a mind of its own, like it's controlling you, like it's steering you through the haze, leaving your thoughts trailing behind.

The door is slightly ajar. You can hear the faint tapping of Nanami’s fingers on his desk, and imagine the calm, measured expression he always wears, the one that never quite reaches his eyes.

You knock softly.

“Come in,” his voice is low, steady.

You step inside, trying not to look directly at him. Your eyes dart to the neat stack of papers on his desk, the window overlooking the city skyline, then back to your hands, which suddenly feel clammy.

“Mr.Nanami,” you begin, your voice quieter than you expected, “I— I need to request two weeks off.”

He doesn’t look at you, almost as if he’s not addressing you and you’re some type of ghost. He focuses on the ceiling, like he’s studying each tile carefully hand on his chin as he continues to remain silent. All feelings of awkwardness wash over you, you just feel alone. You want him back. You want to shout, “I’m sorry Kento! I miss you! Come back to me!” but you don’t.

Nanami nods slowly, shifting his head to look at the plain desk in front of him. “Two weeks... That’s a lot of time.”

You swallow. “I know. But... I need it.”

His gaze flickers to you for a split second, then away again. The silence stretches between you, thick and uncomfortable.

“You sure you want to do that?” he asks finally, voice careful. You notice a loose strand on the side of his face when he speaks.

You nod, biting your lip. “Yeah. I... I think I need it. Maybe even think about... something else. Another job.”

He blinks, clearly caught off guard. You can’t bear to look at him, you already feel the shame filling within you, and your face feels hot.

“I’ll allow it,” he says after a pause, voice soft but distant.

You offer a small, hesitant nod, then turn to leave, feeling the weight of those two weeks before the door closes softly behind you.

When you return home, you feel the weight of it all peel and roll off of you, as if you were covered in sludge. Walking to the kitchen, you find the sandwich and the container of leftovers sitting neatly on the counter, right beside a folded piece of paper with your name written in Naaila’s looping handwriting. The note is brief: Please take care of yourself. That’s all. Just the weight of someone trying to love you without making it feel like a burden.

It makes your throat tighten.

The sandwich is wrapped, the leftovers still warm from the stove, tucked into a container she clearly meant for you to eat as soon as you saw them. She even left out a fork. You stare at the food like it’s a test you’re already failing. The sight of it just makes your stomach twist. You walk past it.

You lower yourself onto the couch instead, bones aching, muscles too tired to hold tension anymore. The cushions dip beneath your weight, and you pull the throw blanket half-heartedly over your lap. The TV’s already on, playing something you don’t recognise—some sitcom with canned laughter that feels jarring in the thick silence of the house. You’re not watching. You’re barely there. Your eyelids begin to droop, heavy and hot.

Then comes the knock.

It’s not gentle. Three firm, measured hits against your front door. You jolt upright. You sit there for a moment, heart thudding. You don’t move, but you know. You know who it is. Of course you do.

Another knock. Slower this time. Waiting. Testing.

You don’t want to open the door, yet you open it anyway.

His haunting eyes are the first to greet you. You can’t identify if he is truly remorseful, or if he finds some sick, sadistic pleasure in ruining your life and having complete control over you, but you’re tired. “Leave,” you warn sternly. Choso picks up on how your voice doesn’t falter. “I’m serious. If you don’t, I’ll call the police.”

“Y/N, you don’t mean that-”

“I do. Leave now or I’ll get a restraining order on you.” Your grip on your door tightens. He thinks it’s a joke. The two of you have gone through these ups and downs, these motions repeatedly, over and over again. It’s what you do. He thinks you’re bluffing as usual, and you’ll let yourself into his arms again as he comforts you. It’s always been that way, until now; now you look exhausted, tired of this cat-and-mouse chase. Your skin is dull, your hair is nappy, and you seem to be on the leaner side.

“You want to get a restraining order on me? Y/N, do you hear yourself?”

“Yes! And honestly, I’m mad that you don’t.”

“Look Y/N, I’m sorry. I really am. I just didn’t think you and that guy were gonna stick it out.”

“That guy?” you scoff, unable to believe how unseriously Chosos seems to take this whole situation.

“I mean, look at how easily he bailed on you. He turned his back on you, Y/N. He turned his back and didn’t even think to turn around. Why would I let you be with someone like that?”

“That guy was all I had. He was special to me. He meant something to me. And you came to take that away, because you’re a selfish dick. We’ve had our time together, Choso, but you seem to be obsessed with the idea that we’re the dream team. That we’re the couple.”

“I’m not saying that—” he says, rolling his eyes.

“Then why'd you do this? Time and time again, you come back and ruin whatever relationship I’m in because you think I can’t move on? Because you think that I’m still hung up on you?”

“But you can’t move on. It’s who you are, and that’s okay. I’ve known you forever, you’ve always struggled to leave things of the past behind.” he grabs your hand and places it on his chest “Things you loved—”

“I may have loved you, Choso,” your voice serious as you point a finger at him “, but let me be clear when I say I feel nothing but hate and spite towards you. I loathe you, Choso Kamo.” The weight of those words sinks into Choso's chest. It feels like a full stop, it feels like finality, and he doesn’t know how to feel about that.

“But you say this every time. I’ll fly away, you’ll miss me, we’ll talk again, and you make me look like I’m crazy when I want you back. I mean, it’s like you’re leading me on.”

You’re taken aback by what he’s said, fully shocked, “How could you say that! What is wrong with you? How could you lie so easily? Lie to me, the only other person in the situation who knows damn well that you always initiate it again.”

“And you continue. If you didn’t want it, you’d turn me down.”

“But you’re not like that, God, what don’t you get about that, Choso, you still force yourself back.”

“Force?! Do you know how many people, how many possible relationships I had to turn down because of you? I can move on just fine, it’s just you who can’t. I only did this to show you how emotionally weak you can be. You can’t handle a guy who’ll just ditch you and leave you for naught when things turn south, you can’t handle that.”

“How do you know what I can and can’t handle? You’re not me. Only I know that, and don’t say it. Don’t say you know me, ‘cause it’s bullshit, Choso. Okay? Just pure bullshit.” You swallow in the new silence, both of you adjusting to this new ending. You speak up again, your voice quite this time, “We’ve been friends a while, but this is too far. I’m letting go of all of it—all of our history. This friendship, or whatever this is, is over. I’m not letting it ruin my life anymore, or yours. Because this can’t be fixed, and that’s okay. I’m tired of having to pick up life again every time you come around. I’m tired of putting Naaila through this. I’m tired of losing friends. I’m tired of all of it. But especially you.”

“You don’t mean it.” His voice falters slightly, like it might break under the pressure and the weight of your words. He looks off to the side, attempting to compose himself.

“What you don’t understand, Choso, is that I do. I really do. With all my heart. We will never see each other again. We will never speak to each other again.”

There’s another pause, except this one is more accepting, “I’ll always love you, Y/N,” he states like it’s a fact. A never-changing fact, and he looks at you when he says it because this time he means it.

“I loved you before, and I’ll have a piece of me that’ll care for you also. But this is goodbye forever, Choso.”

Just stillness, and then footsteps fading as he walks away from our life forever. You don’t watch him go. You don’t need to. The air feels different once he’s gone, like the pressure of his presence finally leaves the space, and what’s left behind is somehow worse. Emptier.

You back away from the door slowly. Return to the couch, legs heavier than before. The TV is still on, characters laughing at something you don’t care about. You turn it off. The room feels hollow without the noise.

And then it begins again, the familiar, sinking feeling curling around your insides. That cold ache of depression seeps back in like it never left. Like a fog that descends, thick and unrelenting, until even breathing feels like a task. The couch doesn’t comfort you now. It swallows you whole.

You wrap the blanket tighter around yourself, arms crossing over your chest.

You don’t cry. You just sit there. Staring at nothing.

Feeling everything.

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Name: Naaila Khalsa

Age: 22

Job: Social Media Influencer

Role: Best friend

Name: Nanami Kento

Age: 25

Job: Business Owner

Role: Main Love Interest

Name: Gojo Satoru

Age: 22

Job: Teacher

Role: Side Character's Love Interest

Name: Annalise Ashbluff

Age: 23

Job: Receptionist

Role: Side Character

Name: Darios Pierce

Age: 24

Job: Receptionist

Role: Side Character's Love Interest

and more characters . . .

Welcome to PERSONAL ASSISTANT

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When he finally turns around, he catches you staring, and the faintest smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. You’re prepared to feign innocence, but before you can, he steps close, slips his hand onto your hip, and leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. His touch, as always, is tender and unhurried, like he’s savouring every second. You lean into him, letting the warmth spread through you, basking in the softness of the moment. When he finally pulls back, your heart’s still fluttering, and a grin breaks across your face.

“Let’s go on a date,” you say, the words tumbling out on a whisper, as though voicing the idea too loudly might break the spell. “Like… an actual one.”

He pauses, brow lifting slightly as he picks up a dish towel and wipes his large hands. “Fine,” he replies, and there’s a faint gleam of amusement in his eyes. “Where?”

For a second, the possibilities dance in your mind—somewhere fancy, or maybe something simple, just the two of you away from the usual routines. But then, inspiration strikes, and you lean forward, eyes bright with mischief. “No, no, you’ve got to be like, ‘It’s a surprise,’” you say, adding dramatic air quotes and gesturing for emphasis. “Then I have to act like I hate it but secretly love it. Just imagine it.”

His lips curve in a deeper smile as he plays along, his voice shifting into something mockingly mysterious. “Alright,” he says, looking at you seriously, “it’s a surprise.”

“Exactly!” You beam, triumphant. “And then, naturally, I’m going to say, ‘Well, I need to know where so I know what to wear.’” You pause for dramatic effect, holding his gaze. “And then you—this is the most important part—you look at me and say, ‘I’m sure you look amazing in anything.’”

Nanami chuckles, folding his arms, his biceps flexing as he moves, he leans against the counter, his posture relaxed but his gaze intent. “Is that so?”

“Yes!” you reply, nodding fervently, convinced that this whole scenario is absolutely necessary. “And then, obviously, I’m going to get frustrated and say, ‘You just don’t get it,’ because… you wouldn’t.” You lift your chin in mock defiance. “And then I’ll have an entire meltdown about what to wear and end up in a full-blown fashion crisis.”

“A crisis?” he echoes, raising an eyebrow, clearly entertained by your growing theatrics.

“Oh, absolutely.” You nod with conviction, hands moving animatedly as you continue. “But here’s the twist: I’ll eventually pull myself together and come up with this absolutely brilliant, transformative outfit. Something that works anywhere. Like, I’ll have a jacket or something I can throw on or take off so it’s perfect for any situation.”

“Very resourceful,” he murmurs, nodding as though he’s genuinely impressed.

“Right?” You give him a knowing look, holding up a finger as if sharing a particularly juicy secret. “And then, when I show up, you’re just going to look at me and say, ‘Wow, you’re the smartest woman ever.’ And I’ll act humble about it, but deep down, I’ll know you’re absolutely right.”

A beat passes as he looks at you, clearly trying not to laugh. He steps closer, his hands settling on either side of you on the counter, his gaze steady. “That sounds… about right,” he says softly, his voice tinged with amusement.

There’s something electric in his closeness, the kind that sends a spark through you. You can’t help the smile tugging at your lips, but you cross your arms, trying to maintain your composure and tilt your head back in a mock-serious expression. “Of course it does,” you say as if this entire performance is a given. “Because I am, obviously, a genius.”

He laughs quietly, his eyes softening as he watches you, and leans in for another kiss. His lips are warm against yours, a grounding presence, and you melt into him, letting everything around you—the clinking dishes, the faint smell of toast, the early sunlight filtering in through the window—fade into the background. For a few moments, it’s just the two of you in this little bubble, warm and close and wrapped up in each other.

When he pulls back, there’s a hint of a smile still on his lips. He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering just a bit, and you feel your cheeks warm under his gaze.

“So,” he says quietly, his eyes twinkling, “let’s go on this date. You with your crisis-proof outfit, and me… surprising you.”

You can’t help but grin, excitement bubbling up in your chest. “Deal,” you say, giving him a little nod as you picture how the day might go. The thought of a real date—something beyond the usual routines and daily rhythms—sends a thrill of anticipation through you.

“Okay, genius,” he says, his voice gentle but teasing. “Since you seem to have thought of everything, what’s the rest of the plan?”

“Well,” you begin, resting your chin in your hand with an exaggeratedly thoughtful look, “after I conquer my closet and manage to arrive in my transformative outfit, you’re supposed to be completely awestruck, and maybe even question how you got so lucky.” You shoot him a mischievous smile. “But you play it cool, of course.”

He laughs again, reaching for your hand, tracing little circles with his thumb. “Naturally,” he murmurs, as if this plan is as solid as anything else on his agenda.

“Then,” you continue, warming to your own story, “we’ll go somewhere where we can talk without any interruptions. Maybe it’s a cozy little restaurant, or a place with a great view. You pick it, obviously, because it’s a surprise, and I’ll pretend to be skeptical even though I’m secretly impressed.”

“Ah,” he says, nodding, “I see you’ve really thought this through.”

“Oh yes,” you reply, unable to keep a straight face. “I’m nothing if not thorough.”

He gazes at you, his eyes warm with something you can’t quite place—a look that’s both fond and amused, but also carrying a depth that makes your heart skip a beat. He leans in, brushing his lips against yours, his voice low and soft when he says, “Then let’s make it a perfect date. Just you, me, and this foolproof plan.”

You kiss him back, savouring the closeness, your heart fluttering at the thought of an entire day set aside just for the two of you.

And as you sit there on the countertop, surrounded by the quiet morning, the scent of breakfast in the air, you know that this might just be the best start to any day—a promise of more moments like this, with him by your side.

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Kento Nanami.

Sometimes, you have to remind yourself to take a deep breath, or else you’ll keel over and die right here, in this very bed.

Painful memories swell within you as you’re reminded that this is the bed you used to share, yet now the bed you sleep in is your very own deathbed. You’ve always wondered what the end would feel like. Would it be loud and sudden, or quiet, slow? Would it be suffocating, torturous? Maybe it would’ve been something softer. But this?

This is unbearable.

It is more than pain, more than life itself. The taste of death is prominent on your tongue, and you hear your heart struggling to beat, struggling to keep you alive. Crying or screaming wouldn’t be enough to soothe the unforgiving ache surging within you. If you’ve already started to decay, it would be better than existing the way you are now.

Rest isn’t an option for the dead. Ironic. There’s a message on your phone, an email from work. You’re too hollow to bother or care. You try to blink your soulless eyes, trying to gloss them over again and hoping to blur the world back into meaning, praying it’ll wake you and pull you out of this trance- but it’s no use. Grabbing the phone and squinting your eyes, trying to adjust to the bright screen, you notice the email is from HR with the subject of “Follow-Up Regarding Recent Conduct — Mandatory Meeting.”

Opening the email, it reads:

‘Dear Y/N,

As directed by Mr. Nanami, you are required to attend a mandatory meeting with HR regarding recent complaints involving you and another party.

Please be advised that both of you are currently under formal investigation.

The meeting details are as follows:

Date: 23rd March 2025

Time: 9:00 AM

Your attendance is compulsory.

Regards,

Human Resources Department’

You wish you could recall when you got ready for your execution, all you can process is being called into a meeting with HR alone, again and again. The office is sterile, the walls cold and indifferent. The chair beneath you feels too hard, too official.

Each time, they ask if you’re okay. “Is there anything you want to say? Anything you need to tell us?” Their voices are polite but clipped, like they’re reading from a script you’ve heard too many times already. You want to say something—anything—but the words catch in your throat.

You nod, shake your head, stay silent.

They don’t press. Maybe they’re waiting for a confession, or maybe they just want to see how long until you’ll crumble.

After what feels like an eternity, they call you in one more time—but this time, it’s different. You’re not alone. Across the table sits the other person. Kento. His eyes flicker toward you, tired, guarded. You swallow because it all comes flooding back, just at the sight of him. You feel pathetic, but you can’t help it if his blond hair triggers all those sweet memories for you.

The HR representative clears their throat, breaking the heavy silence. You slowly lower into your seat, keeping your eyes focused on your lap.

“We’ve reviewed everything thoroughly,” they say, voice flat and measured. “Based on the evidence and the interviews, we’ve decided to let you both off with a formal warning.”

You blink, the words sinking in slowly.

A formal warning. Not a punishment, not an immediate consequence—just a cold, official reminder that you’re under scrutiny.

“Consider this a final notice,” the HR rep continues, eyes flicking between you both. “Any further issues, and more serious action will be taken.”

You want to say something, anything, but the room is suffocating, and the words don’t come. Instead, you swallow hard, feeling every ounce of exhaustion wash over you, the warning heavy like a chain around your neck. You hear the chairs shuffle against the marble floor, and you vaguely perceive the conversation between Nanami and HR; it’s all muffled to you. Deciding to stand to your feet, you prepare to leave, the only thing Nanami says that penetrates your attentive block are the words, “We’re lucky it’s only a warning,” and it stings, like he’s taking a secret dig at you, like he’s saying ‘Look world! This woman nearly ruined my business.’

For the first time in a while, you feel the pain prick your heart, and tears feel like thorns as they well up in your sore eyes.

“Miss L/N, if you could please remain seated, I still need to speak with you.” The door clicks softly as Nanami leaves, and a part of your soul leaves with him.

The HR rep—Mrs. Chen, you think, though you’ve never really listened, folds her hands on the table in front of her. There’s something too gentle about her expression. It makes you uncomfortable.

“We understand this has been… a stressful period for you,” she begins carefully, like she’s tiptoeing around broken glass. “Given the circumstances, the department is offering you a two-week leave of absence, fully paid. We’d also like to provide access to therapy services through our wellness program—private, confidential, and covered by the company.”

You stare at her. Not out of shock, not even relief. Just blankness. Your mind is a flatline.

She continues anyway, voice softening. “We’re not here to punish you. We just want to make sure you’re okay. That you have the space to recover from this.”

You nod slowly, mechanically. You don’t remember agreeing to anything, but she’s already sliding a folder toward you—details, paperwork, contact numbers. A script for healing, written by someone who doesn’t know what it means to unravel quietly.

When you finally leave the room, the folder feels heavier than it should. Like a verdict.

When the weekend rolls around, you wonder if you should feel so heavy, so meaningless, so void. You’ve been so detached lately, and you know this is a cry for help, but this is a cry that you can’t make. All you can think about is how you wish you could’ve kept him and how you managed to let paradise slip through your fingers. Then you're surrounded by the comfort you felt when your fingers would slip through his hair. You love it the most when it isn’t gelled back, just free. In the dead of the night you miss him. More than you ever have, with your whole being. You miss him more than is possible, so much that you're weak and nauseated. Immobile.

Annalise and Darios have made vast and numerous attempts to reach out to you, and you do feel terrible for not reaching back out to them, for not lying and saying ‘everything’s okay thanks for asking’, for ignoring every all sent your way, but confronting this issue and telling them that you’ve been engaging in a secret relationship with their boss, is a fear too big for you to handle. You don’t want to crash.

“Y/N baby,” it’s Naaila’s voice, you lift your head slightly to see a distraught face. You’re a wreck, and it terrifies her; she can’t even disguise it in her face when she begins to tremble. That pang of guilt is the feeling you wanted to avoid, “Oh Y/N”, she wraps you in her embrace and sits on the bed next to you and for the first time in a while,

You cry.

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