#nanamiweek

Yuji Itadori was new this year. A mid-year transfer who had, miraculously, skipped all the usual hurdles and growing pains of social integration. No sulking in the corner, no anxiety-stricken tugs on your sleeve. The boy had walked in, grinned at you with gapped and missing teeth, and within forty-eight hours had more friends than you could count — probably even more than you had yourself. 

You hadn’t met his father. Radio silence on that front aside from slips and papers returned signed in neat calligraphy, and one brief, clipped phone call before Yuji’s first day. The mysterious Mr. Nanami remained just that: a mystery.

But Yuji wrote his own mythology. 

According to him, his dad was very tall, very strong, very good at math, and — most importantly — the best dad in the world.

You’d seen at least four crayon portraits of the man. A scribbled head of blonde hair. Always in a suit. Always holding Yuji’s hand. One even featured a big spotted paddle (sword?), though Yuji was quick to assure you that it wasn’t real. You’d raised a brow and let it slide. You were used to dads in superhero capes and interpretive renditions of fist-fighting monsters. This wasn’t odd. 

When the phone rang that night, you’d answered with the upbeat warmth you always offered new parents — a smile in your voice, ready to build that bridge. But Nanami Kento crossed it first. 

His tone was even, no-nonsense. Not unfriendly, but certainly not one for pleasantries or menial small-talk.

He informed you, calmly and concisely, that his family was undergoing a period of adjustment.

That if Yuji struggled — academically, socially, or emotionally — you were to contact him immediately.

He thanked you. Briefly. And ended the call with a curt, “Enjoy the rest of your evening.” 

No mention of a mother. 

None from Yuji, either. 

You’d read between and colored in enough lines in your career to understand that well enough. 

And even in the brevity of those clean, clinical lines of his voice, you caught a glimpse of him — this man Yuji so obviously admired. Serious. Sharp. The kind of parent who showed up and cared, even if not always in person. 

Still, you hadn’t expected him to show up at all. 

Not until his name appeared on the list for Bring Your Parent to School Day. 

And certainly not with the kind of presence that would make you double-check the dress you wore that morning.

You’d been welcoming parents for the last twenty-five minutes, and each one brought with them another blur of motion — squeaky sneakers pelting down the linoleum hallway, the slap of a hand against the doorframe, a gleeful shriek of your name. You’d pop your head out with a wide smile, crouching low to greet each student like your own, your voice warm and sunflower-bright. 

“Good morning!” 

A gentle pat on the back, and off they’d go — nudged toward the long folding table piled high with boxed donuts, pastries, and room temperature juice boxes. You’d done your best to make this morning a special one within your limited means. 

The parents made for an even more eclectic bunch than their children. Some arrived in scrubs, others in hard hats, mud-streaked boots trailing across your clean rug (you winced, mentally tabbing another steam-clean rental).

One mother came in juggling mannequin heads. Another brought a stethoscope, which she graciously let the kids try on. And one father — clearly playing for keeps — arrived with a black lab from the fire station in tow. The dog wriggled and basked in the attention of twenty sticky-fingered admirers, tail a blur like an overdriven metronome. 

You would definitely have to steam clean the rug. 

There was always one family that stole the spotlight, and this year's frontrunner had all but cinched it with four paws and a lolling tongue. That was hardly fair play. 

Still, as you subtly ushered parents toward the foam cups and coffee station, you couldn’t help but notice one bright face conspicuously missing. Yuji Itadori wasn’t exactly the type to blend in, and he’d never missed a day of school.

You frowned, glancing up at the wall clock just as the minute hand slipped neatly into place. 

8:29. 

Right on cue, the hallway outside your classroom erupted. 

There was a screech — rubber soles skidding like brakes on blacktop — and then Yuji exploded into the room with the exuberance and subtlety of a category five hurricane, sending art projects fluttering and bulletin boards rattling in his wake. He collided into your legs and wrapped himself around them. 

“Told you we were gonna be late!” he howled, already twisting to glare over his shoulder. 

You barely had time to ruffle his hair before a second voice — measured, calm, and cut from a different cloth entirely — followed behind. 

“And I told you we would be right on time.” 

The clock ticked. 8:30 on the dot. 

“And we are.” 

The crisp click of dress shoes in long, confident strides heralded the arrival of a man you’d heard so much about, even if written in the strokes that belonged in something as fantastical as The Odyssey. 

Brown leather shoes shined within an inch of their life, gleaming like mirrors beneath long legs dressed in tailored beige — an unusual suit color, but you decided not an unflattering one. It was immaculate. Pressed. And the faint creases at the elbows and knees were the only lifeline cast to save you from the broad chest and shoulders beneath his jacket, and his face— 

What did Yuji say his dad did for work again…?

You couldn’t tell. He came empty-handed without props or costume, only deepening the mystery and leaving you to your own intrigued speculation. 

A model, maybe. Editorial spreads. GQ. Gentleman’s Digest, something. It had to be. 

You were staring. You were still smiling and you were still staring, and at some point Yuji had un-velcroed himself from your legs and launched into a new tirade, tugging eagerly at his fathers hand. 

“I wanna show you my art! And my favorite toys, and all my friends, and—oh! Nanamin, there’s a dog!” 

Nanami who’d been looking at you turned to his son and took a knee, and you witnessed a 3-second timelapse of glacial melting in the stern lines of his face. His eyes went soft and his mouth untensed into the suggestion of a smile. 

“I’ll look at everything in a moment,” he said, voice gentled for Yuji alone. “May I speak with your teacher first?”

You nodded encouragingly, voice tugging itself back into your throat. 

“Why don’t you grab some breakfast real quick, Yuji? Then we’ll get started.” 

He peeled away, drawn to the scent of sugar like a moth to flame, and behind your back came the cacophony of reunion as if it had been years and not yesterday since his classmates had seen him last. You smiled as Nanami stood, the gentleness in his expression already evaporated. Not unkind, but compartmentalized. 

His warmth was not meant for you. But rather than snubbed, you felt undeniably endeared by such uninhibited paternal adoration. 

“You must be Mr. Nanami,” you greeted amicably, a hand already outstretched to grasp his with a welcoming tilt of your head. He met your handshake with a firm grip, and you self-consciously tightened your own. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” 

“All good things, I hope.” 

His voice was low — husky with fatigue but smooth enough to suggest that this was just the way he always sounded. He looked tired. Moved like he’d made peace with it. You figured he’d just been designed that way — quiet, composed, and just slightly too serious for a room filled with googly eyes and glitter glue. 

“Only the best,” you assured with a smile. 

There was a small pause. Not awkward — just considered. 

“Thank you,” he said at last. “Yuji speaks about you often. It’s clear he feels safe here.” 

It was rare to receive gratitude for your efforts with your students, and rarer still for it to be delivered with such conclusivity. Non-effusive, Nanami’s appreciation was simply a fact, a fact which made it feel all the more sincere in its lack of grandiosity. 

Your smile softened. “That means a lot. He’s a great kid, you must be really proud.” 

“I am.”

Just like that, it passed — his gaze shifted briefly behind you and his mouth twitched, a convection between an exasperated smile and down-turned fluster, already slipping past you. “Yuji! Wash your hands before eating if you’re going to pet the dog—“ * The morning began in earnest not long after you pressed a conciliatory coffee into Nanami’s hands. Chairs shuffled and screeched into a half-circle and name tags were peeled from their sticker sheets and affixed to breast pockets, labels, scrubs, and sleeves. You ran a quick welcome with your own steaming espresso in hand (god knows you needed it) before handing the floor over to the parents. 

Suddenly your second grade classroom was a parade of bladeless scalpels and stethoscopes, a menagerie of machinery and manicure sets. Laughter bloomed bright and uninhibited in the kids as each grown-up took their turn in the spotlight, answering questions as palatably as possible for their innocent audience. 

You knew one mother was a cardiovascular surgeon, but in front of the class she simply said, “I help hearts feel better when they’re sick,” folding a model valve between her fingers. The lawyer in the corner — slim briefcase at his feet, a heavy gavel making its rounds like a party favor — told them he made sure “bad guys went to jail.” No mention, of course, of the murder trial he’d wrapped up the week prior. 

You encouraged questions, and your students — bless their lack of tact — took you at your word. The shy ones curled against a parent’s leg with owlish eyes, while the bolder kids launched a barrage of increasingly personal inquiries: Has anyone died? Have you ever been to jail? Has your dog ever peed in the fire truck? You did your best to redirect the worst of them, gently steering the conversation away from blood and bladder-related incidents. 

And through it all, Nanami watched it unfold. Tucked into one of the red plastic chairs you’d borrowed from the snack table, he looked like he might snap the thing in half just by breathing too hard. His limbs folded into reluctant submission up toward his chest, tragically origamied, the entire chair tilting forward with each shift. He’d finished his coffee by then and now quietly sipped on a comically tiny juice box. 

Stone-faced, but not indifferent. His gaze tracked each speaker with judicial interest. And when the air grew too thick with awkward silence after a hesitant finish, it was Nanami who occasionally lifted one long arm to ask a polite question — enough to nudge things back into motion and, you suspected by the nature of some of his questions, simply to satisfy his own curiosity of the subject. You liked him for that. 

“Alright…!” You clapped your hands. “Yuji, why don’t you send your dad up here next?” 

Yuji’s eyes blew wide, his mouth popping open in an exaggerated ‘O’, then he swung at Nanami’s arm, batting at him and tugging on his sleeves.

“Gogogo!” he whisper-shouted. 

Nanami looked up at you and you smiled. You spread your arm wide with a flourishing ‘the floor is yours’ gesture. 

Nanami stood, unfolded himself and his ensemble with a smooth brush of his palms over the fabric. He stepped forward to take your place at the front of the room and you happily shifted aside, sitting upon the corner of your desk and crossing your ankles. 

From where he stood, a paper caterpillar peered just over the top of his head with big wobbling eyes. 

He straightened the cuffs of his jacket and adjusted his tie, pinching the pristine Windsor in his palm and hiking it up to his throat. He scanned the room, meeting eyes, chin down-tilted to examine his under four-foot tall crowd. 

“I work in finance,” he began. “Specifically, I manage assets and perform risk assessments on financial portfolios to ensure return on investment, primarily through domestic and international equities.” 

A long silence followed. One of the kids in the corner let out a tiny sniffle. 

Unperturbed, Nanami pressed on. “What that means is I analyze companies and determine whether it is strategically sound to invest money in their future operations. I also track market fluctuations and perform cost-benefit analysis on various classes of stock.”

You saw it happen in real time — the eyes of your students glazing over like the sticky donuts they’d grubbed from the table. Even a few parents tilted their heads, bewilderment blooming in the stitch of their brows as though suddenly realizing they’d forgotten something on the stove.

One girl leaned sideways to whisper to her mother, “Is he saying math?” 

Yuji was practically vibrating in his seat. Elbows on his scuffed knees, chin in both hands, he stared up at his father with the full, undiluted adoration of a boy watching his hero. Nanami could’ve explained the intricacies and importance of counting grains of rice and you were sure Yuji still would’ve looked at him like he’d hung the stars himself. 

If Nanami realized his audience was all but lost to him, he didn’t seem to show it. Not when he turned around to face the white board to erase the cheerful doodles of the water cycle drawn by the meteorologist who’d gone before him, nor when he uncapped a black marker and began sketching out a meticulous diagram — boxes and arrows, sloping trend lines in red and blue, neat little yen symbols penned with paradigm precision. 

He spoke the whole while, low and steady, detailing the invisible scaffolding that held up the adult world: markets, investments, value over time. He laid out the bones of capitalism, and at points showed his true feelings toward the structure with how he’d slice and jab the marker to make particularly impassioned points. You got the impression this particular machine was one he raged against often. 

“And that,” Nanami concluded, recapping the marker and adjusting his tie again, “is the basic structure of my work in a securities firm. Thank you.” 

Silence. 

Yuji led the charge. Loud, earnest applause that rang out in sharp claps, his face split in a grin wide enough to rival the sun. A few other children joined in, more from peer pressure than understanding, while a mother near the back whispered to another nearby: “God, he’s quite serious, isn’t he?” To which the other nodded, “It’s kind of hot.” 

You had to agree. 

You clapped along with them, encouraging the display until it naturally died down. “Thank you, Mr. Nanami! That was… incredibly thorough!” You beamed, he looked at you sideways. “Does anyone have any questions for Mr. Nanami?” 

You hadn’t expected a single hand to raise… except maybe Yuji. But he instead whirled around in his seat, pleading with wide brown eyes and a trembling lip for any excuse to keep his dad at the center of attention. Because really, what would a bunch of second graders want to know about stock exchange or insider trading? But to your delight, one by one, tiny hands shot up like spring sprouts. 

Nanami, too, looked taken aback. He gestured to a boy in the second row.

“Do you have a dog?” 

Nanami blinked. “… No.” 

There was a ripple of dissatisfaction at that. You saw him shift his weight to the opposite leg as he called on a young girl. 

“Are you rich?” 

“Depends on how you define it,” he said. 

“Do you go to the gym?” 

“… Yes.” 

“Ohhh,” someone whispered, followed by a murmur of approval as if this, at last, was finally relevant information. 

Then the questions poured in: 

“Can you lift a car?” 

“Do you fight robbers?” 

“What’s the strongest thing you’ve ever punched?” 

“Can you fight my dad?” 

Nanami blinked once. You watched him recalibrate his entire moral framework in real time. 

“I don’t make a habit of fighting people’s fathers,” he said.

“But could you?”

That made the corners of his mouth twitch — enough that you could tell he was debating the ethics of indulging a six-year-old’s thirst for chaos. 

“I suppose if your father were endangering others, and all other options had been exhausted—” 

Helpfully, Yuji shouted: “He could! I know he could!” 

You saw that boys father shrink in the back, a sickly sallow overtaking his face. He clearly didn’t fancy his odds. 

Nanami glanced at you like he was seeking diplomatic extraction. You gave him a bright, innocent smile and shrugged your shoulders. He should’ve predicted this larger than life reputation set forth by his son with that statistical brain of his. 

“They’re very engaged,” you whispered, and he gave you a look that could only be described as deeply disappointed.

Mercifully, after three more questions about whether he could punch through a wall, you finally stepped in with a laugh, clapping your hands to wrangle the brewing chaos. “Okay, okay! Let’s all thank Mr. Nanami for visiting and giving us a peek into his very responsible, very serious job.” 

The children groaned their disappointment, already half-convinced he must moonlight as a superhero, but they still chorused their thanks with sticky-fingered enthusiasm. By the end, there was a suspicious sparkle in Nanami’s eye that made you think he may have liked the attention more than he let on. * By the time the final parent wrapped up and the dismissal bell rang, your kids and their short attention spans had all but forgotten about Nanami standing in the back of the room, arms crossed against a tall cabinet, clearly having forsaken his small seat. 

You dismissed your class one by one, sent off with folders tucked, backpacks zipped, and final reminders about homework and forgotten lunch boxes as small groups filtered out of the door. The glitter remained in every corner of the room, as did the smell of bleach and acetone from an unfortunate and entirely predictable accident with the fire dog. 

Yuji bounced over to collect his things, tugging at his fathers sleeve as they turned to go. 

“You forgot to tell them about the time you beat that cursed—“ 

Nanami coughed. “—Budget shortfall,” he said, the words surgically clipped in two. 

Yuji frowned. “That’s not what I was gonna—“ 

“Cursed budget shortfalls,” Nanami repeated. “They can be quite aggressive.” 

Yuji pulled a face, eyes narrowed suspiciously and scampered off to barter holographic stickers by the cubbies. A friend had gotten a shiny tiger, which was decidedly much cooler than his dinosaur. 

Nanami hovered by the door a respectful distance from you, his gaze drifting across the emptying classroom. A couple of rogue pencils lay belly-up beneath desks. Someone had left their water bottle weeping onto the reading rug. There was a half eaten donut hooked over the pot of your plant on the windowsill. It seemed he was just as interested in where his son spends his day as the students were in where the adults usually spent theirs. 

You watched him quietly. There was something about Nanami Kento that drew you — nothing overt, not even that he had a nice face. But there was something so… artificial about his authenticity. He presented himself as a boring man, dressed in boring colors, with a boring job, and had a voice that could probably put you to sleep. The type that probably ate oatmeal for breakfast every day, and bland conbini meals on the train home every evening. It’s like he was trying to be unassuming, to snag no second-glances. 

Frankly, you thought that it was bullshit. 

Your intuition was sharp. You knew when your students stole from each other, and could sniff out the culprit in record time. You knew when the dog had actually eaten someone's homework, or if they’d just forgotten it at home. There was something more to Nanami, and you would’ve picked at that thread if you had more time to do so… but curiosity would not kill the cat today. 

But there would be other days.

“Thank you for coming,” you said instead, a sly smile in the Cheshire curl of your lip. “You made quite the impression.” Maybe more on you than on the kids. 

“I’m not sure that’s a compliment,” Nanami said.

“Oh it is,” you beamed, gesturing to the boardroom-esque diagram still drawn on the whiteboard. “I think I may be teaching the next generation of stock brokers and market analysts here.” 

Nanami grimaced, turning his shoulder away to scrub a hand over his face. “It was a cautionary tale,” he tsked. “They should find something that’s worth doing. Like meteorology. Or baking. Anything but office work. Teaching is a much more rewarding and worthwhile occupation.” 

There it was. The little glint of something more. A cautionary tale of slipping into monotony and tedium, suffering a daily slog with no end in sight, a mere cog in a machine that nobody would notice if it suddenly broke off the belt. Your students would notice your absence. Their parents too, if only because of the inconvenience. But who would notice Nanami, one man in a suit standing on a train full of other men in suits? 

“Well… it made Yuji’s day,” you suggested, softened — not sharp — with conviction. “In fact, he’s going to talk about this until summer break, I can already tell.” 

A preternatural stillness took the business-casual mannequin as he looked over at his son — all spiky pink hair, too-big puffer jacket, trading up his stickers with enough business savvy to make Nanami proud. 

Eventually he sighed, heavy like he’d been holding it in all day as he adjusted the strap of his watch. “He mentions you at home,” he said again.

You smiled, no less warmed by the repetition than you were the first time.

“He’s a pleasure to have in class, honestly. I’m really amazed by how well he settled, most kids struggle to acclimate but…” you watched as Yuji hopped in a circle, one shoe on as he wrestled with the other. “Not him!” 

Nanami gave a small nod, his gaze still fixed outward but you reckoned his attention was much closer. 

“Apparently you give out gummy stars.” 

“… Only for exceptional behavior,” you said with a wide grin. “Or sometimes for being unusually charming.” 

That got you a glance — dry, inscrutable. 

“Then I imagine he’s amassed quite the hoard… and I have you to blame for the frequent sugar highs.” 

You weren’t not flirting with him. Subtle enough to fly over his head if he chose not to acknowledge it, and you had no intention of pushing your luck much further. It was a small miracle you’d met the man behind the mythos at all. But you couldn’t resist a final parting shot. 

You turned and stood on your toes, reaching for a wicker basket stashed high on a shelf, rifling through crinkly cellophane wrappers to procure one such gummy star. You held out your hand — and found yourself pleasantly surprised when Nanami reached out to accept it. 

“For exceptional behavior,” you declared. Or for being unusually charming. 

He regarded the gummy with an expression you couldn’t read, his mouth a neutral set frown that you’d noticed seemed to just be his default expression. He didn’t speak, not until his fingers creaked closed around the treat and retreated into his pocket. 

A win, you think. One glittering, citrus-sugar coated win. 

“Thank you.” 

You merely smiled, gracefully bowing out of the tentative curiosity you’d cast in his direction, just in time for Yuji to veer back towards you both. 

You said your goodbyes and your “see you next week”s, then with one hand swinging Yuji’s backpack and the other resting steadily atop his head, the last of your stragglers stepped out into the sunny hallway. 

You watched them go. 

The gummy star was still in Nanami’s pocket. 

Are you finding about us just know? Please make sure to check out our carrd, where you will find all important information, including our guidelines in multiple languages! Also, feel free to leave a comment or send an ask if you have any further questions!

Join our Discord!

Would you like to join a community of like-minded Nanami fans? Do you need a place to share wips and keep you motivated during the months ahead? Then look no further and join our discord! We even have a Nanami server tag for you to adopt! Details below:

---

You gently knock at the half opened door to your oldest two daughters' room and creak it open. In the middle is Kento, his long legs practically hanging off the small bed with your oldest with her head on his stomach, your middle daughter in a cozy heap near his feet, and your baby boy tucked under his right arm.

"Don't mind us." You whisper as you sneak in, tiptoeing to the rocking chair on the other side of the room with your baby girl in your arms.

"Well hello." Kento smiles with his eyepatch retired for the evening in his grey t-shirt and fleece pajama pants, warmth in his expression as he catches sight of your daughter being bashful.

"We've got room for one more if you'd like, darling."

"What do you think, Noodle? Wanna go cuddle with Daddy? Oop, looks like Bubba wants to trade you places."

Your baby boy reaches out to you, begging for a spot in your lap and your little girl hesitates, but then eagerly gets down and allows Kento to scoop her up with his free arm so she's laying against his chest.

"Comfy?" Kento asks her and she responds by closing her eyes as she nuzzles closer against him.

"What's the story tonight, sweetheart?" You ask, shifting so your son doesn't crush your arm.

"Junie B. Jones: Boss of Lunch."

Noodle's face lights up with glee.

"See, honey? I knew you wouldn't want to miss it. You love Junie B."

Kento flips the page back. "We're going to start over so Noodle can catch up, is that alright with everyone?"

Your children nod in agreement and Kento clears his throat as he reads from the beginning.

It was adorable how expressive Kento could get, but only in moments like this when he was in the domestic shelter of little ones you created together, the inflections of his normally calm voice became more goofy, less serious, more warm than he usually was, if that was even possible.

He narrates Junie B. Jones' current adventure where the first grader was excited to open her brand new lunch box during class.

"And I reached way down. And I lifted up the lid of my brand-new, shiny—

“LUNCH BOX!” hollered out May. “JUNIE JONES JUST OPENED HER LUNCH BOX AGAIN, MR. SCARY! AND YOU TOLD HER NOT TO DO THAT ANYMORE! REMEMBER?”

May is the tattletale girl who sits next to me.

I do not actually care for her." credit: Barbara Parks

A faint smirk fights to spread on Kento's face as it appears the protagonist of the story also has a classmate she's rather not fond of.

You don't have to guess to know the white haired image that pops into your brain and you give Kento a look that says "Behave." And he continues with a hum.

"After that, I held my lunch box way high in the air so all of Room One could see it. “See all the birdlets, children? There are owlets and eaglets and ducklets and chicklets,” I explained.

I put my lunch box on my desk. And I took out the thermos.

“And see this thermos, people? This thermos has pictures of bird nests on it. Isn’t that cute?”

May made a face. “Ick,” she said. “Who wants to drink out of a stinky, pooey bird’s nest?”

I made a face at her. “ I do, that’s who, May!” I said. “I love drinking out of stinky, pooey birds’ nests.”

May reached into her desk and pulled out a lunch ticket. “Well, I buy my lunch, Junie Jones,” she said. “Bought lunches are much better than brought lunches. Bought lunches don’t sit around all morning and get soggy.” credit: Barbara Parks

Kento raises a brow. "I beg to differ. Perhaps May's mother doesn't toast the bread."

"Ken, honey, keep reading the story."

Kento continues.

"I crossed my arms at that girl. “That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard of, May,” I said right back. “ Brought lunches are way better than bought lunches. ’Cause brought lunches are made special by our very own mothers!”"

credit: Barbara Parks

"Good for her!" Your oldest chimes in from her spot on Kento's stomach.

"I agree, love."

Kento continues reading into the next chapter where Junie B's class goes to the cafeteria for lunchtime and all her friends decide to buy hoagies instead of bringing their lunches.

"I think even you would like this hoagie, Junie B.,” he said. “Look. It has ham and salami and cheese and lettuce and tomato.”"

credit: Barbara Parks

"Mmm!" Your kids react to the description, except for your middle daughter.

"Casse Croutes are better."

Kento ruffles her hair with pride. "You're very right about that, Bee."

Kento reaches the end of the chapter and puts a bookmark in and your kids groan in disappointment.

"We wanna find out what happens!" Your oldest pouts as Kento shuffles with all the others in his arms, allowing her to crawl under the covers as he tucks her in and you take care of the others.

"Tomorrow, Jellybean." Kento reassures her. "If we keep reading then we'll finish the book already."

"That's not fair! I saw Daddy reading past his bedtime last night." Your middle daughter tattles as you tuck her under the blankets.

"That so?" You shoot Kento a playful side eye.

Kento smirks, addressing your daughter. "And just what were you doing awake at such a late hour to know such things, Bee?"

Your daughter shrinks back under the covers with a giggle.

"Well, I'll just have to talk to him about that." You turn out the light to the bedroom. "Looks like Noodle and Bubba are already out."

You smile as Kento approaches with your other two sleeping babies. You take Noodle from him while he handles Bubba, and walk down the hall to the nursery, bundling them up in their respective cribs until the house dissolves into a peaceful snooze fest.

------

"I don't know if I like the lessons those books are teaching our children." Kento remarks as he slides into bed on his side.

"Sweetheart, be serious."

"I am, darling. This whole cafeteria bought hoagies versus homemade lunches thing."

"It's a story, Ken. I think it's good for them to read about spunky heroines like Junie B. Besides, Bee saw right through it."

Kento puts a thoughtful hand on your stomach, pulling you closer to him. "Hm. You're right about that."

"You worry too much, my love. But I agree about banning some of the princess stories. At least not the modified versions."

"Ah, the ones where there is consent and the prince doesn't know her when she's still a child while he's an adult?"

"Yep, those ones."

He smiles. "I'm glad we're on the same page."

"I love you."

"I love you...."

More hangs on the tip of your tongue, and you and him both smile at each other knowing it never does any good for you to say it, lest you open another loving can of worms for your eternal banter of back and forth.

"Now, shall we resume our own story?" Kento smiles as he reaches across from you, keeping your face against his heartbeat as he opens a copy of The Princess Bride.

"Mhmm. I'm listening." You murmur, but he doesn't make it through three pages before you're lost to sleep against his chest.

He just smiles and kisses your cheek, stowing the bookmark back where it was as he shuts off the light, until the drumming of raindrops encourages him to tranquil dreaming at your side.

Despite his best efforts, the dull hallway lighting does nothing to help his vision as he blinks quickly, willing the memories to fade just for today. Just for right now.

In this vast school haunted by too many ghosts, this hallway carries an uneasy intimacy—dark and silent, holding the voices of the dead who fought until there was nothing left in them. Only one set of doors line the corridor, steel and tall, and the last time he was here and held any semblance of joy in his budding life of misfortune, he was a teenager with fringe. 

“Why would you ask me that?”

“Because I want to know! Don’t tell me you’re boring even in philosophical discussion?”

Nanami sighs, tucking a stray lock of blonde behind his ear as he throws the black paneling of the basement walls a pensive look. 

“It’s a comforting thought, but there is no evidence for it. When we die, we die. That’s it.”

Looking back through that foggy lens, Nanami remembers just how fiercely he believed that at the time. In their world, when they sacrifice every ounce of their being for the people who know nothing about them, there is no comforting notion of the afterlife. Their world is too grim to believe that something is brighter on the other side. The same cycle of rinse and repeat, generation after generation, only reaffirmed this belief he held. 

In the cruel grand scheme of things, he wishes more than anything that the memory could be mundane, irrelevant in the face of now. Perhaps it’s what followed that is responsible for why Nanami is forced to feel things with an unrelenting ferocity. Perhaps it was the look of mild disappointment on Haibara’s face, a sight so very rare, those large brown eyes shadowed with apprehension rather than enthusiasm. 

Perhaps it was the feeling that flooded Nanami right after, a sense of shame for upsetting his friend, a fear of a conversation he would probably have to have. Or perhaps it was the fact that he promised himself to apologize later that day at their usual friendly dinners.

A dinner that was cancelled because they were called on a mission. A mission that was too intense to warrant a serious conversation because Haibara was trying to focus. A level of focus that resulted in Nanami in this very hallway, angry with burning tears in his eyes that he shrouded beneath a washcloth while his dear friend lay dead on a slab.

After many years of denial that molded into careful management, he’s gotten better, turning his grief into something tangible, taking the bad and creating something good. The frequent nightmare that was that mission that jolts him awake in a cold sweat, converted into an intentionally peaceful day. A lightning strike of sadness during his morning read turned into a decompressing walk to stretch his burned muscles. 

But it’s that last conversation that he never got to fix, that “I could never be mad at you Nanami!” that he never got to hear.

Just as it had years ago, that guilt manifests in the shake of his hands, the precarious gallop of his heart, the trickle of sweat sliding down his neck when he overheard Panda whispering to Nobara about how Yuta’s mission had gone wrong. 

It settled heavy in his gut like he’d indulged too much, that same sensation of dread weighed him down as he walked as fast as his tired left side would allow, pushing through the familiar but still unpleasant ache between his joints as he rushed down the steps to the very corridor that’s wrapped around him like an awful embrace.

So maybe that is why this memory surfaces now, reminding him of that paralyzing fear that held him down as a teenager, now rendering his fingers stiff as they space over the ‘Infirmary’ sign on the steel doors.

His heart hammers, a quiet, almost desperate ‘please’ slipping past his lips as he begs to anyone, anything that will listen before he pushes the doors open.

The smell of antiseptic burns the back of his throat, mixing with something heavier—the metallic tang of blood and exhaustion. The hair on the back of his neck rises, collecting dew drops of cold sweat, his body tense and poised, ready for the inevitable sadness and madness that grief brings. 

Thankfully, the sight brings a rush of relief so overpowering that he almost falls to his knees.

Shoko is hard at work once again, her chestnut hair falling over her shoulders in shining waves, healthier than years before when their lives were nothing but grief and misery, the thought of self-care a distant dream. One of her hands rests against a tanned chest, her fingers glowing a luminescent purple that ebbs and flows over the sweaty skin. Her other hand moves in practiced ease, weaving with two fingers that are pinched around surgical needle and thread.

It’s second nature to her, the ability to heal. A gift weaved into her bones like cursed silk the very moment she took a breath, and harnessed as she grew to only provide for others while her own existence went unnoticed. Like Nanami and his journey with undoing the bad, Shoko is better now. Still weathered in the eyes, still smoking, but better.

Now she teaches other young students how to hone their RCT, mindful to show them they are more than just their power. Now she sleeps. Now she smokes one pack a day instead of three. Now, those tired eyes are filled with determination rather than the resignation that comes with an autopsy on someone she once shared a class with, and for Nanami, that sight kills what remaining dread he had sitting like an anvil on his chest.

“Looks like your cover’s blown,” Shoko mumbles, a hint of amusement coloring her otherwise monotone cadence.

Across the sterile slab table, Yuta stands, looking as uneasy as ever. His posture is stiff, arms crossed over his chest, shoulders drawn up tight to his ears as a means to protect himself from his own criticism.

“Nanami-san,” he croaks in acknowledgement, offering a shaky bow before looking back to the patient on the table.

Against everything Nanami feared, Yuji lies there—equally as quiet, equally as uneasy, but flushed with fever-warm color, albeit sweaty, his chest rising steadily, and Nanami can breathe. Because he’s alive, and that memory can sift back into the recesses of his mind, forgotten until the next time Haibara decides to show his presence.

In the cold, heavy silence that follows, that usual “Nanamin!” is absent, the owner of those words staring up at the ceiling with glossy eyes. A laceration decorates Yuji’s side, deep and flaring an angry red, the skin around it slightly tinted cherry with blood that was hastily wiped away. 

From years of experience, Nanami knows the application of Shoko’s technique allows the wound to heal slowly, and he can see the jagged edges shrinking while she seals the wound shut. 

Despite the inhuman level of strength that he possessed even before Sukuna’s demise, Yuji isn’t resilient. Five years of calculated observation—from that pink-haired fifteen-year-old to the young man sitting before him now—Nanami has always been able to see through that invincible veneer.

The way Yuji would flash a jovial smile even with scratched cheeks and bandaged limbs, trying to convince everyone he was fine when he clearly wasn’t; trying to show his sensei that he valued life transactionally like the rest of the sorcery world, so he could get the job done. 

But in this moment, there’s no curve to his lips now, his jaw set in stone, eyes fixed stubbornly above, shame sitting leaden on his shoulders. 

It’s with this quick assessment that Nanami decides on his next course of action.

With a modest hitch in his step from years of arduous physical therapy, he strides calmly across the room, resting his cane against the mahogany counters before opening the cabinets above. 

“What happened?” He maintains a steady voice even though his heart is thrashing in his chest, the expectation of a deep conversation hanging just beyond the horizon.

A brief silence, long enough to pick up the steady hum of Shoko’s RCT, the drip of a faucet, the thick pierce of Yuji’s skin as she stitches.

“A rogue curse,” Yuta finally squeaks. “W-we…we had already cleared out the entire church, and I was about to break the veil when one snuck up behind me. I’m not sure how I missed it. I’m not…Yuji, of course, pushed me out of the way. I didn’t sense it in time….I’m so sorry Nanami-sensei.”

Internally, Nanami blanches at the formality. Yuta was more of Gojo’s student than Nanami’s and quickly stepped into the role of teacher not long after his death. There’s a weight of respect to the title that Nanami still has not gotten used to, the weight of expectation that those younger than him hold for him. He’s held in such high regard in this big school filled with few people.

He thinks of Ino's unwavering faith in him, the way the younger sorcerer hangs on his every word during training sessions like they're gospel, seeking approval that Nanami isn't sure he deserves to give. It feels odd to be seen as someone to look up to when he feels like he’s barely getting through each day, stumbling through his early thirties, but still learning. 

“There’s no need for an apology,” Nanami supplies simply, pushing aside a few plastic boxes to wrap his hands around a small tin.

It’s no bigger than his palm, rusted along the seam but shining back the fluorescent lights and his blurred reflection. He does not need a smooth surface to know what reflects back at him—the black eyepatch that cuts across the left side of his face, blonde hair that is now shorter on that same side, growing slower, with flecks of grey at his temples, the lattice of now pale scars that trail down his neck and disappear beneath the collar of his navy button up. 

“A sorcerer of your calibre was unable to sense the curse—”

“I know, and that’s why—”

“That only shows there was something we did not anticipate upon our initial assessment before you and Yuji were sent out. There will always be a level of error, no matter how powerful you are.” 

Nanami won’t allow Yuta’s usual self-depreciation to show in this moment. Not when he’s pulled off the impossible in this life they cradle—coming back from a mission alive. Mentally devoured, scratched up, and emotionally drained, but alive.

How quickly Nanami has learned to clutch that term with such care since being given a second chance.

Nanami grips his cane with measured pressure as he makes his way back to the table where Yuji rests, the young man still willfully ambivalent to the atmosphere around him. 

“What did you learn, Yuta-kun? Could you sense something vaguely? Vestiges in cursed energy?”

“A little, right before it…” he trails off, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Then that means you know that feeling. Focus on grasping it during your training. Creating a better awareness of it will allow you to recognize it quickly in battle.”

Yuta’s eyes widen in recognition before he nods incessantly, wrapping his hand around Rika’s ring that rests on his collarbone

“Yes, Nanami-sensei.”

Nanami uses Yuta’s self-reflection to peer down at Yuji. Without his usual cheerful chatter, Yuji looks impossibly young. His eyelashes slightly dewy and dark against tan cheeks, the planes of his face soft and vulnerable. But it’s the look in his eyes that makes Nanami’s heart thump pitifully in his chest.

That same tortured fear he’d probably felt in Shibuya’s wreckage, when Sukuna had relinquished control and left Yuji to stare at the devastation he’d caused. To finally meet Nanami’s eyes in the bowels of that subway, riddled with rotting curses, could he see his past and present so clearly. 

The fear of what he’d done, of so many of his friends wounded and dead. The fear of not knowing how to fix it. The fear of not being in control.

Is this how he truly feels right now? That he should have been in control of every aspect of the mission? That he should know everything all at once, just like Gojo had the unfortunate talent of having?

In the aftermath of Shibuya’s devastation, Yuji has thrown himself into becoming better with a willpower that has both impressed and worried Nanami.

More vigilant in training, refusing to stop until he understands every technique, every counterattack, every strategy. Always asking questions, always pushing himself harder with a jovial disposition that a younger Nanami would have envied. That a younger Nanami had seen so much before in Haibara—that same eager devotion, that same need to protect everyone around him, and still love life at the end of the day.

“Shoko, once you’re done, would you and Yuta mind giving us a moment alone?”

“Yep. Just about done.”

Nanami gives Yuji his space, retreating his gaze to focus on opening the tin in his hands with the limited dexterity he has. It’s a slight struggle, the way his marred fingers grip the seam, the weakened sensation along his fingertips as the lid gives and finally twists open. From his peripheral he notices Shoko straighten, the glow of her hand ebbing away, the clatter of utensils echoing in the room as she finishes up her stitching.

“You know the deal,” she recites, tossing the used utensils into a sharps container that rests on the wall. “Take it easy for the next few days.”

She offers a light hum to Yuji’s mumbled thanks, snapping off her gloves before digging into her white lab coat. She fishes out a pack of cigarettes, throwing one between her lips before catching Nanami’s eye. For a beat, something passes between them—the recognized weight of what they carry, watching the youth hurt themselves for a world that will never notice. The fear that one day, the outcome won’t be so favorable. But that beat passes, and with a familiar nod in his direction, she brushes out of the room, Yuta following close behind.

The double doors drift shut behind them, their pace slowing with each lingering second until they settle together with a muted thud, leaving only the hum of the fluorescent lights, the distant tick of a wall clock, and the evasive roar of Yuji’s thoughts.

Nanami waits, hoping dimly that the silence will be enough of an awkward push for Yuji to begin some sort of conversation. But the seconds drag into a full minute with no result, Yuji’s eyes remain fixed on the ceiling, cheeks slowly taking on a ruddy complexion from rising embarrassment.

Nanami ambles closer, resting his cane against the lip of the table Yuji rests on, throwing the tin lid on the steel side table next to him.

It’s a salve, a greasy concoction of oils and herbs his mother had pressed into his hands the night before he left for Jujutsu Tech, her worried and shaky fingers smoothing over his arm as she instructed him how to use it. 

“For the small injuries,” she had whispered, as if she already knew the larger ones would be well beyond her reach. 

It soothes the smallest of cuts in ways that have nothing to do with cursed ability and everything to do with a mother’s love distilled into something tangible. It’s practically useless, but to Nanami, it’s a step in a routine he’s repeated for years, a bridge between who he was and who he has become. A soothing reminder that care doesn’t have to be specific to be profound. And it's remained untouched in the infirmary cabinets unless it’s his hands reaching for it.

He dips his fingertips into the salve—cool and slightly gritty between his fingers as he rubs them together, smelling faintly of eucalyptus and something medicinal. When he glides a generous amount along the edge of Yuji’s wound, the boy flinches slightly, muscles twitching from the cool temperature, a hiss escaping his lips.

But still he says nothing.

Still, he says nothing as Nanami rubs the salve along the top of his wound, careful to avoid the sutures.

Still, he says nothing as calloused fingers brush along the raised sides, the skin already blooming red with inflammation.

Still, Nanami waits patiently, the silence like pressure on his eardrums, until Yuji’s throat clicks when he opens his mouth.

“It was careless.”

Sharp as Nanami’s dull knife, Yuji’s words slice through the tension in the air, his voice layered with so much admonishment that Nanami can practically taste acidity.

“I was so careless.”

“You made a mistake.”

Yuji doesn’t offer a retort, his gaze narrowing, the whites of his eyes glossing over with unshed tears. The unspoken response is clear: there is no room for mistakes in their job. A mistake is a guarantee of death, no matter how small. For Yuji, that mistake doesn’t threaten his own life—it threatens everyone he’s sworn to protect.

Nanami recognizes it so clearly, and watching Yuji embody the same fatal nobility that once consumed him is nauseating, bile rising, burning, and sour in the back of his throat.

“There are days when I feel helpless because I’m unable to be on missions like you.” Nanami swallows the horrid taste, the desire to mold this trait into something palpable that he has no choice but to continue. “I can…but I have grown to value my life and the things I would leave behind if I held onto that weight as I did before.”

Yuji huffs a watery laugh of disbelief, blinking away the haziness in his vision but still refusing to look in Nanami’s direction.

“That sense of duty. The need to protect the youth at all costs and accepting that my life was expendable as long as I fulfilled that purpose. That came with the understanding that any mistake I made was unforgivable but clouded my real conviction, the real reason I was actually fighting.”

Nanami’s fingers pause in their gentle ministrations as he sighs, resting his hand on the table. “While it is commendable to have the same idealism as I once had, that kind of thinking will not make you a better sorcerer, Yuji. It will make you carry burdens that aren’t yours to carry.”

Yuji finally flickers his gaze to rest on Nanami, a wave of that fear he calculated earlier washing over him with the force of a tsunami. He sits up, wincing through the pain and cupping his stitched side gingerly as he throws his legs over the side of the table.

“But you told me to take it from here,” Yuji’s voice cracks slightly, honeyed emotion sloshing inside of him and seeping through the cracks of formidable walls. “That duty you gave me. I want to carry it. I want to be worthy of it.”

And oh, does Nanami’s chest constrict to a painful degree at the raw honesty in his voice, at the way he’s looking at him like he’s afraid of disappointing him. 

The recollection of that day is as clear as any memory he’s ever had, no matter how much he tries to suppress it. The ache in his bones as he sliced through curse after curse with his dull knife, voice shaking with fury and desperation. The persistent thoughts that threatened to obliterate his focus. 

“Will Ijichi be okay?”

Keep fighting. Keep slicing. Calculate the chances of survival for Shibuya’s innocent if you allow a curse to escape the subway—

“Gojo is sealed, but where is he?”

Push through the pain. Push through the blackened vision on your left side. Push through the despair of your dreams that may never come to fruition.

“Is Megumi-kun okay against his father?” 

Megumi doesn’t know about Toji. He should have known the part Gojo played. But he’s just a boy—

“Please, please let Nobara-kun not act in bravery without thinking it through.”

But loudest of them all, repeating like a broken tape over and over, louder and louder until he could hardly tell his own thoughts from hallucination to compensate for the blinding pain or reality—

“Yuji. Where is Yuji?”

And Nanami remembers all too vividly that look of hopelessness on Yuji’s face when he finally saw him. When he hallucinated Haibara, he accepted the task of saying what he hoped to have a little more time for.

“You take it from here.”

How proud he had been, even in that moment, on the brink of death, to entrust something so important but burdensome to someone he believed in so completely.

Now, slightly incapacitated but alive, watching Yuji carry that weight with honor but the same self-destructive determination Nanami once had, he realizes application of this measure requires more than just responsibility.

“I should have sensed it,” Yuji whispers, shame lacing his words with an intensity that doesn’t shock Nanami. “I should have been faster. Should have been better prepared. I train every day until I have nothing else left to give, and I study every technique because I can’t—I won’t let anyone else get hurt because I was not good enough.”

Nanami can sense the spiral, can practically see its vines wrapping around Yuji’s neck, thorned and digging as he struggles to get out every word in his tirade of untethered emotion. 

“Itadori-kun—”

“You trusted me with something important. This life, these missions, the ideals I have. And I can’t mess it up. I can’t be the reason someone else dies. I can’t be the reason you or Yuta or anyone else gets hurt because I was too slow to see what was coming.”

“Itadori-kun—”

It’s not enough to stop him, because still Yuji persists. 

“You’ve given me so much responsibility…taught me so much and believed in me when no one else did, and I just…I need to be better. I need to be worthy of what you’ve given me.”

His cheeks red from exertion, his eyes welling with tears, his knuckles bleach bone-white as he grips the edge of the table. His shoulders are tense, drawn up to his ears as if a child being scolded, his body shaking with a vibrating anxiety Nanami once had after his very first mission as a first-year. 

The sight of it all kicks some instinct, some dormant feeling in Nanami’s gut that makes him want to reach out, to rest his hand on his shoulder, to tell him everything he needs to hear that he probably never received as a child.

So he does.

Nanami grabs a rough-textured rag from the side table and wipes the remaining salve from his fingers before casting it aside. He wastes no time with his next action, resting his hand on Yuji’s shoulder, warm and sweaty, absorbing the impact of his flinch from the touch. He watches those shoulders relax slightly, feels the shakes in his body subside with every breath he takes. As if the touch is soothing.

“You have taken on this task in ways I never could have imagined. But I want you to do better in ways I lacked. I want you to carry that duty while still thinking about yourself. While still valuing your own life. Because Yuji…” 

The next words curl up his throat, the pressure enough to make the corners of his eyes sting with their severity. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, more vulnerable in ways he hardly allows than outside the privacy of his own home and those he renders important to him. 

“I would rather see you sitting here with stitches, frustrated and alive, than dead on a slab.”

Yuji’s breath hitches, and for one devastating moment, he looks so young, childlike and cherub, but so overwhelmed by the burden he’s been carrying.

“And furthermore...if you have ever carried an ounce of doubt about my pride in you, please know those feelings are false.” 

Yuji furrows his brows, the skin between his eyebrows pinching slightly as he takes in his sensei’s words, disbelief painting his features minutely.

Nanami sighs, the weight of what he wants to say sitting on his chest, gripping him in a fear that once they leave, they’ll turn into another self-imposed curse he carried from keeping Haibara so close.

He pats the side of Yuji’s neck affectionately, the corners of his lips curling just so. 

“I am proud. Of who you were when we first met. Of the strong sorcerer and man that you are now. My pride in you knows no bounds. Please never think otherwise.”

Once the words finally slip past his lips, he feels lighter than he’s ever been. The anxiety of the possibility of that pride taking root into a curse still lingers, resting on his shoulders like a phantom weight, but for the first time in a long time, he takes comfort in knowing he had the strength to still act despite it all.

As for Yuji, the tears that have been budding on his lower lashes finally spill over, rushing like rivulets down his cheeks, and suddenly he’s moving—launching himself forward and into Nanami’s arms with the kind of desperate need that bypasses all thought.

He’s heavier than he looks, and it takes Nanami aback, a grunt of surprise leaving him as he wobbles precariously on his weakened side, his arms flailing as he tries to regain his balance.

“Thanks, Dad.”

Unexpected. That’s the only way he can describe how the words hit him. Their weight substantial enough to force him to the floor if he allowed it. Their connotation equally as devastating. His breath catches in his throat, his arms now freezing mid-air as the words continue to echo in the sterile room. In his ears like a persistent ringing.

Dad.

A myriad of emotions flood through him. 

Surprise, because this is a term of endearment Yuji has never expelled into the air, even if a Freudian slip. Nanami has long ago forgone the insistence to correct Yuji when he calls him ‘Nanamin’, choosing instead to look the other way with a faux air of dismissal, even as something akin to fondness swells within him every time he hears it.

While unpleasant given the moment, dread wiggles like a maggot in his stomach, threatening to devour the good inside of him. Dread from that unspoken role Nanami has taken on with his students. Protector, advisor, confidant in battle, someone to look up to. Someone to strive to be. He’s come a long way in accepting that the sensation he feels will always be present, but never strong enough to overpower him. The unexpectedness of life carries some degree of dread, and he applies that mentality to the sorcery world as well.

But there is something deeper. Something more visceral in magnitude, a fierce protectiveness, a warmth that spreads from his belly up to the cavity in his chest. A warmth that floods him at the thought of knowing there is a sorcerer like Yuji in this world. Someone who, beneath the bloodshed and misery of the life they live, has a heart filled with so much hope and love for the world that there is nothing that could blacken it. Not even the grips of mangled fingers of Sukuna’s soul could deter him.

His mind slows from its frantic pace, thoughts finally finding their rhythm, and his arms settle around Yuji’s shoulders, one hand coming up to rest against the back of peach pink hair. The embrace is tentative at first, almost awkward, then firmer as he allows himself to accept what Yuji has just offered him.

Dad.

Before his second chance at life, Nanami had never given too much thought to having a family. But lately, he’s begun to ponder. To wonder what it feels like to be paternal. To hope that every day is filled with happiness and joy. But perhaps that’s not all it is.

Perhaps it is that festering wrongness that filled him when he first met Yuji, to see someone so young cursed with a strong entity like Sukuna and forced to prove to those older and more ignorant that his life had value. 

Perhaps it is that shock when he first saw Yuji’s conviction, his drive to be better. 

Perhaps it is the fright that rushed through his veins like ice water when Yuji fainted after intruding on Mahito’s domain. 

Or the profuse feeling of desperation of wanting Yuji to just stay away when Mahito placed those puppet-stitched hands on Nanami’s chest in the subway, ready to wipe him from existence.

It is the way Nanami wishes he could have been that person for Yuji growing up, instead of alone, without a mother and father, and left under the care of a grandfather who was still grieving the loss of his son. 

It is the way he brims with barely restrained excitement at the realization that he has someone to teach, to watch grow and smile, to watch laugh and love the world when it only shows its evil underbelly.

If Yuji realizes his own slip of words, he doesn’t acknowledge it. Nanami can feel the pool of moisture on his shoulder, can feel the slight hiccup where his hand rests on Yuji’s trembling back.

He realizes quickly, with a damning sense of clarity, that he would rather experience the pain of being burned again than to correct Yuji.

There’s nothing more to say.

He can feel the trust and appreciation in the air around him that bloomed to life from that single word. He understands something he’d never been able to name.

This boy—this young man—has become precious to him in ways that transcend duty or mentorship. Manifesting instead in the satisfaction that if the word were to slip again, Nanami would never say a thing unless Yuji looked to him for acknowledgement.

But he knows how awkward Yuji is going to feel once this delicate moment ends, so Nanami does it for him. He pulls away softly, patting his shoulder once more to drive the moment home to a gentle conclusion that doesn’t require more conversation.

“Reapply once more.” Nanami presses the sealed tin into Yuji’s open palms, tapping the lid three times. “I prefer applications twice a day, once in the morning and once before bed. An additional application is also best after training.”

Yuji’s hands curl slowly over the tin, trapping it inside his large hands, cradling it as if it were something fragile. He snorts quietly, shaking his head. “You got it. I’ll bring it back once Shoko gives me the all clear.”

Nanami hums in dismissal, already turning his attention to cleaning off the side table with a distracted efficiency. “You need it far more than I. Salve and RCTs will do nothing for my wounds.”

There’s an unspoken agreement in the air, resting on the heaviness of the gravity of Nanami’s wounds. But Nanami peers at him quickly as he tosses the threadbare rag into the trash, taking in the way Yuji’s smile grows slowly, his grip tightening on the can. He’s not sure what he’s thinking, but Nanami feels nothing but pride regardless. Perhaps when Yuji has taken on the role of sensei in the future, there will be that one student who excels in a way he deems worthy to dedicate the care of this salve.

Nanami hopes he’s still around to see who that student may be.

The infirmary doors burst open, steel metal swaying rhythmically as a shorter man with platinum blonde hair walks through. Inumaki, his mouth free of the protection of his high collar, his cursed markings glowing with importance in the bright lights. His purple eyes dart between Nanami and Yuji, taking in the situation in that quiet way he’s had to learn growing up.

“Mustard Leaf?”

Nanami has never been able to discern what Inumaki says in his clipped vernacular. Truthfully, he feels as if the students make up their own dialogue, and Inumaki crafts his words given the situation. It brings a faint sense of fondness to his chest, their behavior echoing many inside jokes he had with Ijichi and Gojo in their youth.

Yuji hops down from the table, eyes dry and slightly red, smile bright as always. “I’m good! Shoko and Nanami cleaned me up.”

“Tuna,” Inumaki parrots in response, flashing his phone in a question that Nanami quickly gives up on trying to decode.

“No way? You got the tickets!” Yuji rushes over to his friend, snatching his discarded shirt from the bottom of the table and slowly sliding it on.

“Salmon Roe.”

“The bad special effects are the best part!” Yuji laughs, a bit watery but still genuine, the sound finally painting the room in something other than discomfort and death. “Nanami, you should come watch Human Earthworm 7 with us.”

Nanami huffs a slightly affronted noise, blinking rapidly at the invitation. “Thank you for the offer, but I think I will pass.” 

He watches as Yuji bustles around the room, wiping down the table with sanitation wipes, closing the cabinets before automatically reaching for Nanami’s cane that rests on the table. He offers it to him with the same unconscious care he always shows in everything he does.

“Here you go.”

Nanami collects it with a simple nod, his throat tight as he finds that groove in the wooden head he’s grown comfortable with.

They make their way out of the infirmary together, Yuji chatting excitedly in between Inumaki’s one-worded responses. There’s pitched laughter and a rush of words about movie monsters and plot holes, their voices echoing down the hallway. Nanami follows silently behind them, refusing to correct the way they automatically adjust their pace to ensure he is not left behind. 

He watches with a newfound fascination and profound grief. These students have managed to form bonds with each other even though their lives are constantly on the brink of death. But Yuji, once a pariah, now flourishes with every relationship he makes, every handshake he creates, every grimace Megumi throws his way that holds no heat, every bag of Nobara’s that he carries with fake complaint.

It’s almost like a flash into the past. No longer Inumaki and Yuji, but now himself and Haibara, and that conversation comes back once more.

“Do you believe in reincarnation, Nanami?”

His previous assessment of the question remains the same.

“It’s a comforting thought, but there is no evidence for it.”

But his sentiments feel shaky as he watches Yuji now—the way he gestures animately with his hands, the bright curiosity in his voice that pulls laughter from Inumaki, the unconscious kindness in everything he does—Nanami feels something knot harshly in his chest. 

It’s not reincarnation, he tries to reaffirm. Souls don’t return in new bodies with the same generous hearts.

And yet.

And yet Yuji carries that same unshakeable optimism, that same fierce determination to protect everyone around him. The same way of finding joy in small things—awful movies, shared meals, quiet moments between battles. The same ability to make those around him want to be better, to hope for something beyond the darkness of their world.

Just like Haibara.

“When we die, we die. That’s it.”

But maybe there are other ways for them to live on. In the lessons they leave behind, in the love they instill, in the way their spirit finds new homes in unexpected places. In this school, constantly floating around a good-natured young man with peach-pink hair and a tenacity for never giving up. 

In a way, Haibara has never left. Nanami simply feels his presence so much more.

It’s not reincarnation. But it is in the way he sees vestiges of Haibara in the glow of Yuji’s smile, in the way that long-ago conversation about hope and second chances has led him to here, to this hallway, following two young men who have become something he never thought he’d have.

A family. Or more specifically, a son who shares no blood with him, but trusts him enough to call him ‘Dad.’ It’s a weight of responsibility—not a burden of mentorship or duty he once held, but a privilege of being someone Yuji looks to for guidance, for comfort, for protection—and that settles in his chest like something warm and permanent, rooting on his veins that lead to the thankful thrum of his heart that has given him life again. 

It’s a challenge Nanami is more than happy to accept, a role he never expected to fill, but he cannot possibly imagine living without. 

Kento watches you, lust at bay but desire ever present as you dress your naked body in your bikini, mesmerized as the soft straps of blue cloth carefully cover all the areas he strategically marked with his mouth over the course of your stay.

The muted blue against your complexion seriously contends with the sea outside, he thinks.

You clip your hair up, and a scarred finger with a white gold ring adorning the hand attached catches a loose strand, letting it fall as the tips of his fingers barely brush your cheek.

"You're a vision, my love." He utters the title like it's holy, yet it barely encapsulates the justice it owes you as his hands come to replace your own at the straps of your bikini.

His greed barely keeps him from unraveling the progress of your handiwork, and the bed that was just made, but his hands remain reverent as they secure the strings in a knot, soaking up as much softness that your barely concealed skin offers as they linger at your back.

"Ready?" He murmurs. His chestnut eye, roaming over you until he lingers on the colorful scarf draped across your hip as it wraps you like a gift.

"Ready, sweetheart."

----

The spot he had in mind is completely empty, much to both your delight. You smile each at each other as you sneak away like teenagers in love.

You might as well be young in this place that bottled you in a capsule where time has no bearing, full of nothing but each other, the infinite rays of glimmering sun, and the boundless waves of the eternal sea.

The rainforest is lush and alive with the heart of birdsong and chattering wildlife hidden away in palm leaves. The humidity blesses your skin and allows your hair to fall like a halo, more wisps framing your face like an angel.

The smell of petrichor here is unique from the kind back home and mixes with the orchids that sprinkle the ground in colorful bursts of white and pink, a stray hibiscus he picks up and weaves into your hair.

"Why thank you, sweetheart."

"Of course. They suit you."

He tugs you deeper into the trees, one where the dark canopy of leaves shields prying eyes from view, almost completely tucked out of sight in an unmarked path.

The overgrown vines suggest that this path hasn't been navigated for some time, the rocks lining it covered in a healthy coat of green moss, flowers budding as nature ran rampant between any spare cracks.

Finally you see it, a small falls within distance, two streams of dribbling water running in a cascade between two large rocks.

In front of you is a crystal clear pool, a few koi fish you can pick out in their hues of tangerine and white, the surface scattered in lily pads with blossoms that would promise to open when the crescent moon rose higher in the sky to replace the sun from behind the fluffy clouds.

"This is absolutely stunning." You marvel and look at Kento. "How've we never been here before?"

"Wanted to save it for a special occasion." Kento replies modestly.

His birthday was two days ago, but today does seem to hold a weight more special than the others, although you can't exactly place what it is.

Still, you smiled and shedded your flip flops, leaving them near the rocks.

Kento enters the water first, shirt and eyepatch discarded by his sandals on the rocks next to yours, the ripples flowing away from his body, the scarred muscles easing of all tension with every step he takes, a beautiful sight blessing you as he leans his head back for a moment, releasing a sigh.

He turns around, offering you a smile first, and then his hand.

"It's the perfect temperature."

His thumb swipes across your knuckles and his lips open slightly with a shuddered breath as the green sarong slinks away from your body like a leaf being peeled back from a budding flower, leaving your lower half bare except the small pair of swim bottoms which he indulgently recalled left much to be admired in the back with your beautiful ass.

He guides you in front of him, stealing a look at it and you're reminded of his presence on all accounts as he keeps his hands in their frequented spot on the small of your back, your bare skin a privilege to feel he never takes for granted.

The water is warm, just like he promised, but he feels even warmer. The front of his chest tickles the delicate planes of your back where goosebumps start to appear, the faint trickle of water dissolving into a chill up your spine, but in the very best way as Kento's fingers dance up and down your arms.

You close your eyes, listening to the symphony of cicadas, the calling of birds in the veils of leaves overhead, the impatient rustle of palms in the wind, and cacophony of rushing water.

You're the only two people breathing in this moment.

He's the only one you want to feel for the rest of your life, he's a vow you will never grow tired of making, a soul inside a body you'll never lose fire for making love to.

You exhale as you feel the warmth of the wetness of his palms all over your breasts.

"Oh, Kento..."

The tranquility of the water is enough to distract you from the dull soreness of the blooming hickeys he left on your nipples as he rubs and strokes your pussy through your bikini.

"You're so beautiful." He whispers as he nips your ear, tongue flicking past the small diamond stud as he massages your right tit with his free hand.

"I love what the water does to your skin."

He gently swirls his thumb around your nipple through the soaked fabric, loving how pointy it gets underneath his touch.

"Makes you so soft and responsive when I touch you."

He grips your pussy in his palm as your eyes roll back.

"Ken, will someone-"

"Nobody will see." He whispers. "We're quite safe here."

His hand moves from your pussy, skimming the soft skin of your belly to play with your left breast, joining the right in a slow, sensual massage.

"Relax. And let yourself focus on the pleasure." His breathing slows as he lets your head rest against his chest, softly twisting and rubbing your breasts while the water trickles down the rocks.

"Mmpphh, Kento. So good..."

"Mm...And you were so good to me this morning, I had to repay the favor."

He holds back a groan as his fingers on your nipples knead in such a way that makes you arch your back.

"You sounded so angelic. Just like you are right now." He murmurs.

Your hand wanders back, feeling up the large bulge between his legs and he shudders as he impossibly hardens under the soaking fabric, feeling it hotly pulse and move underneath your hand.

He spins you around and captures you in a kiss that starts out rushed, but quickly slows. You ground one another in this natural spring, the dance of the water, the breeze between the trees, the beauty of the mangroves.

His mouth is so soft and pliant. You lick greedily into it while his hands resume their chasteful spot for now on your back.

You pause, and pull away, holding the moment in a playful tease over his head with that gorgeous smile on your face, leading him to the small waterfall.

"Wanna keep exploring."

He smiles, left a little breathless with his cheeks blooming a heavenly pink as he nods at you in return.

"Lead the way."

You bob in the water until your feet can't touch, dog paddling and giggling as the waterfall douses both of your hair as you pass underneath.

Behind the waterfall is a small alcove, with more budding bushes of tropical flowers. It's quiet except for the rushing water, shielded by the rocks, the curtain of the waterfall affording you more privacy in the secluded space.

You turn to him and his lips are immediately on you again, an ember of craving noticeably more desperate than before. Your body is slippery against his as he gently reclines you back, catching your head without departing your lips as he kisses you ardently in the small waterfall cave.

Your bodies are so slippery, but softened by the water, the tensions heightened from being locked inside the seclusion of nature that skyrocketed your hunger for one another into something deeply primal and passionate.

He moans into your mouth and you moan back, half a prayer and half a plea of his name, which he answers swiftly with a wandering hand to your soaking bottoms.

You follow him, sitting up as you allow the bikini strings at your back to unravel in tandem, freeing your breasts completely, beaded in droplets like kisses from the water, nipples bumpy and hard as they greet the cool air of the cave.

You look up at him with water-sprinkled eyelashes. His hair is dripping and hanging in that endearing mop of blond bangs by his eye, lean muscles tensioning and relaxing with his mosaic of scars he wore without shame under the soothing reassurance of your love, thin lips parted, cheeks brought out with a pink fluster only you could ignite.

He's absolutely divine like this, although he treats you like you were the celestial one.

His hand roams down your belly, pausing as he gently pulled away your swim bottoms. The fact that you were completely naked in this cave makes you feel so open. You become a pornographic vision to bless his memory with unceasing repetition later on as your wet hair falls back.

He keeps his gaze on you, his face leaning down, jaw coaxing the plush meat of your thigh before his lips kiss it, the left, followed by the right.

"Ken..."

"Let me take my time." He inhales close to your sex, the coat of wetness mixed with the earth warms him all over and his knuckles turn white as he grips your hips.

"God, you're so..." He mumbles, words failing him as soon he takes in all of you underneath him.

Sometimes you wonder why he was the one that was so whipped with worship, when every moment for you was spent in the complete opposite.

You've done this so many times but he treats every one like it's the first. He licks slow, the smooth ridges of your folds bending over his warm tongue and he laps until he settles on that gentle rhythm that makes you cant your hips.

"Kento..."

The sounds he can derive out of your pretty lips every time he slides between your legs drives him insane. He can't describe your taste that always has him throbbing for seconds. It's warm and earthy, and it runs like buttery silk.

"You always taste so perfect." He coos, raising your soaking offering even closer to his face.

He loves giving, but he loves watching you receive even more.

"I adore seeing you like this..." He murmurs. "Is it too possessive of me to say that it feels like you're mine when you moan that way?"

"N-no..." You manage to shudder out. "I'm yours, Kento."

"God, say it again? Please?" He whispers, his voice tinged with hope.

Your heart breaks a little knowing the implications behind it, that whisper of doubt etched in his physical and emotional imperfections that he long believed made him unworthy.

"I am yours. I love you so much, Kento Nanami." You whisper with the absolution of lust, chiseled with the resolution of unshakeable truth that's immortalized in the quiet bubble surrounding you.

It's one that you couldn't change, even if you wanted to that surpassed every wordly connection that could be forged in this lifetime. Rather, it was one that resembled something ancient, out of reach, older than stars and it was only in intimate dealings like this that cemented just how clear it was;

"You're scored on my soul." You murmur, whining as he breaks away but not pausing your pleasure as he rubs your clit with his fingers, pressing his forehead against your own.

"I'll spend every lifetime reminding you if I need to. I don't mind, and it's an honor to." Your vow is whispered that tapers into a moan as he curls his fingers against that magical spot.

"You're so beautiful to me, fuck, ohhh my God, you're everything to me...." You continue with difficulty under the strain of your orgasm that was bearing down on you like a shadow.

Every word sinks into bone, into flesh. It's sacred simply because you said it and it's something he'll carry with him long after he departs this earth and use it to find and recognize you in the next.

"And you're mine..." He whispers back. "More than I can give words to. Every moment I spent on regret over the life I gave up before you entered it, I'll pay back loving you."

"Oh, Kento...think I'm going to cum..."

"Are you, sweet thing?" He purrs. "Let me help you even more."

He returns to drinking you like a fountain, his lips slurping up your pearly essence, working and laving his tongue in torturous strokes, dipping into the flowing oasis of honey from your pussy like an ink pen to write a love letter with his tongue, the salt and heat from your natural musk causing all rational thoughts to vacate even before their conception.

"Give me your cock, Kento." You moan. "Fuck, please. Don't wanna cum unless you're inside me."

Kento sighs as his balls wind in a vice. "You told me you didn't take your birth control earlier, love."

"I know but fuck, oh my God... I changed my mind."

Something between a growl and a groan rumbles in his throat. Your words alone weren't helping, and if you're implying what he thinks you are...

"Are you saying that to tease me, or do you really mean it?"

"I mean it, Kento. I don't want to try to prevent anything anymore..."

"You..."

"I'm ready, darling." You pant. "I'm ready if you are. Fuck fuck...I, mmmm....I'm not necessarily expecting it to work but I want to see how things go..."

Kento cups your face in his hands. He looks at you. Tears were all but rare for him, and you're amazed as you look back at him to discover wetness building around the rims that was separate from the waterfall.

"Ken?"

"You don't understand what that does to me. I'm excited, happy, emotional...a lot of things at once." He utters.

You understand. You understand what a road it has been for him. A lifetime ago, the things he had endured were so severe he shouldn't have walked away from them, but now...

Now he's free to a lifetime of you. An existence of affirming that fate wasn't done with him despite what little belief he had in it. That rain could be a beautiful thing. An unexpected thing, that delivered him to you.

"We'll try." He whispers. "We'll try. Nothing changes in spite of what might happen. But you tell me at any time if you feel differently?"

"I'm ready." You breathe and the words hit him like deliverance, and he enters heaven as he slowly enters you.

Your bottoms are now completely discarded, both of you completely naked behind the sanctuary of the falls. You hold onto his shoulders and he cradles you before he's sheathed inside with care. There's slight resistance due to his size, and he brings his thumb to your clit, rubbing you and taking another nipple in his mouth to soothe the stretch.

The feeling is warm where you're connected and so utterly full. The chill of the cave prompts him to slowly roll his hips inside you to keep you both moving. The slick builds with every thrust, both of your mouths fall open, wider and wider.

You've had some incredible moments during intimacy with Kento, but none quite like this.

None in a beautiful place tucked inside a corner of nature that should have stayed an apparation behind your eyelids, the deeper meaning extended way beyond lovemaking and translated with the intention of creating a life.

It's like he's pouring into you as his gaze doesn't depart you the entire time. Like he needs to impart every moment of this possible conception to his memory because it was one he wasn't sure the stars would ever permit him to see, reaffirming that he is indeed here. With you. Inside you. Passionately loving you in his idea of a dream vacation.

His strokes build in intensity the longer he stays inside you. It's smooth, and deliberate. The ease of how he slides out and the fullness of him pushing back in is almost too good. He's holding back his noises and using all his focus to look at you, the water droplets that are still clinging to your breasts, the diamond necklace in the center that sways so satisfyingly with every passionate jut of his hips.

You get him to give in just a little as you clench him just before he tries to withdraw his cock. His eye rolls back and you chuckle, biting your lip as you do it again, clenching him even harder the next time, then pulsing your pussy in a dizzying rhythm against his shaft, again, and again.

"Darling..." Kento exhales as he thrusts back, trying to keep his control.

"At least let me enjoy you for a moment." He groans.

"I'm just helping."

"You're...fuck. You're exacerbating. Not helping." He murmurs, kissing your jaw to speak directly in your ear, punishing you with a harsh thrust after every sentence.

"You know exactly—thrust—where to squeeze around me —thrust— and I don't intend on this fuck, this moment to be over so quickly."—thrust, thrust, thrust"

"Kento! Mnhhhh...."

"Please." He murmurs with a sigh, before slowing down slightly, pausing with himself still completely inside as he fills the silence with a deep, passionate kiss, the slick noise of your lips parting softly as he keeps his forehead pressed to yours, his thumb barely brushing the underside of your cheek.

"If you must take everything from me. Then at least let me have this first. Just for a moment."

"...Okay." You whisper and he hums before he kisses you again without letting you speak another word.

You stay like that for a long time in your passionate exchange of intense tongue kissing, knotted and tangled up on the floor of the cave, his fingers thumbing your nipples, cock occasionally twitching inside you against the deep warmth of your walls that held him tight whenever you moaned prettily into his mouth.

By now, though, you're dying for friction, and it seems like he's in no rush. You're not sure which is making you feel more aroused, feeling his soft mouth and lips moving against yours, the wet roll of his tongue and nips of his teeth, or the fact that he wanted to prolong this more than you did, merely staying with you, the simple act of being inside you that felt much more intimate than it should.

The thought of it only begs for him to fuck and breed you that much harder.

You're not sure how it resumed, whether he had enough of you squeezing around him or whether it was despite the fact his tongue was down your throat you managed to prioritize uttering his name, but now he's pounding into you, hard.

His pretty face shifts from pink to red, almost as deep a color as the scarred half of him, holding your hips tightly as he essentially fucked you in his lap to spare you from the rocky floor of the cave.

You're sweating too. You stabilize yourself on his shoulders, gazing in his eyes, not holding back the mantra of his name that was begging to be released from your mouth and you let him have all of it.

He yanks you into him and you hold him like a lifeline, a warm flood of cum dribbles out of his tip.

You seize and clench around him to keep all of it in, his lips against your pulse, sweat glistening in the afterglow as the waterfall trickled in front of you without pause.

He slowly lays you down, keeping himself inside, kissing you as your back meets the ground, keeping his hand behind your head as a pillow.

He groans, and lets his exhaustion allow his head to flop forward, finding sanctuary in your neck as you stayed connected.

The silence hangs as the song of the rainforest continues. You might have conceived your first child and you're not sure that fact sank in completely.

Whatever transpires from this, you don't regret the moments you shared that led to it.

Kento slowly pulls out and he sinks his ring finger in, all the way to the band, a bead of cum trickles around the diamond as he can only pray his seed will take, giving you a smile and a sweet little kiss as he begins to slowly pump against your g spot to make sure you get your happy ending too before you leave the cave.

The packet of your birth control that stayed on the dresser back at the villa would go to waste.

But, worst case, you still had more than a week of vacation left to get creative.