#nanamixreader

Nanami’s eyes widened slightly. “You stole from Gojo and Geto?”

“Borrowed! They’ll get it back in ten years!”

Joining you and Nanami, Haibara fell to his knees and started digging into the dirt. The location was deliberate. Each of you could see it from your doom rooms, nestled under a tall, proud oak tree.

“I’m done. This is lame,” Nanami said as he started wiping his hands on his pants, yet he made no motion to stand.

With a warm smile, you placed the box in the hole. “I think we made good progress. This is deep enough.”

“Are you even going to remember what you put in there?” Nanami asked while picking dirt from under his nails.

“No, that’s the point.”

Haibara’s journal. Utahime’s hairbow. Meimei’s blank (voided) check. A lens from a pair of Gojo’s broken glasses. Geto’s hairbrush. Shoko’s empty blue lighter. A Polaroid of you kissing Nanami’s cheek while he looked absolutely bewildered.

“Geto is going to look for that brush instantly,” you commented.

“And we’ll just say ‘oh maybe you forgot it on your last long mission’ and get away with it!”

Nanami deadpanned. “You really think that will work?”

His audience of two both gave him a cheeky thumbs up. He sighed, defeated.

“Ten years from now. We’ll come back here and dig it up. Our time capsule,” you said with wonder in your tone as you started packing dirt around the container. “We’ll get together and laugh over the silly things.”

Haibara cheesed a grin. “Can’t wait to see you guys actually show affection! Who knows, maybe you guys will be married by then.”

Nanami groaned, a blush across his cheeks. He started helping bury the time capsule. “Stop looking into things that aren’t even there!”

Despite it all, you laughed. Packing the dirt in firmly, you grabbed a nearby twig and poked it into the center. “Promise me, boys. Ten years from now. 2016.” You stood up, the crunch of leaves under your shoes a nostalgic sound. “We meet up here, dig up our memories with our classmates, and look back fondly on our accomplishments.”

But that time never came. There was a giant hole in Japan where Shibuya used to stand. More and more disappeared as the hours ticked by. Two years overdue, you dug up the box.

The air around the time capsule was cold, stagnant, and smelled dry. The box was weathered in your hands, but looks like moisture stayed out.

Meimei’s blank check was slightly yellowed, Utahime’s bow felt a little stiff, Gojo’s glasses lens had a hairline crack, Geto’s brush hadn’t changed, Shoko’s lighter was also cracked, the color in your Polaroid had washed out a bit, and then… Haibara’s journal. It looked like it had some wrinkles from a damp environment. Did it look like that when you buried it?

Cracking open the cover, the first page had another photo. A group photo of the whole class, each student present in Jujutsu High at that time. Your Polaroid camera in your lap, head on Nanami’s shoulder. He was smiling. It was moments after that photo was taken that you took your candid Polaroid that was sitting in the box.

Tears leaked from your eyes, dotting the journal paper. Lifting the image to look at it closer, underneath it was a handwritten note scrawled in Haibara’s childlike handwriting:

Can’t wait to look back at these memories with my best friends!

You don't see him at first.

It's the voice that catches you. Low, measured, polite in that way that always made your chest ache because it was so distinctly him. "Just a black coffee, please. Large."

Your fingers freeze on your phone screen. You know that voice. You know it in the way you know your own heartbeat, in the way you know the exact number of steps from your apartment door to the elevator. Six months hasn't been long enough to forget it, though God knows you've tried.

Slowly, against every instinct screaming at you to turn around and leave, you look up.

Kento Nanami stands at the counter, wallet in hand, looking exactly as he always did—immaculate tan suit, hair perfectly styled, that perpetual expression of composed exhaustion that made him look older than his years. He's tall, so tall that you'd always feel dwarfed beside him, your head barely reaching his shoulder even when you wear heels. Now, in your flat boots, you feel even smaller.

He hasn't seen you yet. You could leave. You should leave.

But your feet won't move, and then the barista is calling out, "Next in line, please!" and Kento is stepping aside, and his eyes—those sharp, honey-brown eyes that used to soften when they landed on you—find yours across the small space.

The world doesn't stop. That's the thing about running into your ex-boyfriend in a coffee shop six months after the worst breakup of your life—the world keeps spinning, people keep ordering their lattes, the espresso machine keeps hissing, and you have to keep breathing even though your lungs have suddenly forgotten how.

"Hi," you say, because what else is there to say?

Kento's expression doesn't change, but something flickers in his eyes. Surprise, maybe. Or pain. It's gone too quickly for you to name it.

"Hello," he replies, and even that single word is careful, controlled.

The barista clears her throat pointedly, and you realize you're still holding up the line. Heat floods your cheeks—your full cheeks that you've spent years being self-conscious about, which Kento used to cup in his hands and call beautiful in those rare moments when he let his guard down.

"Sorry," you mutter, stepping forward. Your voice sounds strange, too high. "Can I get a vanilla latte, please? Medium."

You pay without really seeing the transaction, your hands moving on autopilot while your entire awareness is focused on the man standing three feet away, pretending to check his phone. You know he's pretending because Kento never checks his phone in public unless it's work-related, and it's 3 PM on a Tuesday—he should still be at the office.

Unless things have changed. Unless he's changed.

Unless you never really knew him at all.

The thought sits bitter on your tongue as you step aside to wait for your drink. Kento is still there, clearly waiting for his coffee, and the silence between you is so thick you could choke on it.

"How have you been?" he asks finally, and you almost laugh because the question is so absurd, so painfully inadequate for the weight of everything unsaid between you.

"Fine," you lie, because the truth—that you've spent six months trying to excavate him from your chest, that you still sleep on one side of the bed, and that you deleted his number but still know it by heart—is too much for a chance encounter in a coffee shop.

He nods, as if he expected that answer. As if he knows it's a lie but is too polite to call you on it.

"You?" you ask, because apparently you're a glutton for punishment.

"Busy," he says. "Work has been demanding."

Of course it has. Work was always demanding. Work was always the reason he came home late, the reason he was too tired to talk, the reason he couldn't make it to your friend's birthday party or your company dinner or that weekend trip you'd planned for months. Work was the third person in your relationship, and it always won.

"Black coffee for Nanami!"

He moves to collect his drink, and you think maybe that's it. Maybe you'll exchange awkward goodbyes and go back to your separate lives, back to pretending the other doesn't exist.

But then he turns back to you, coffee in hand, and says, "Do you have a few minutes?"

Your heart lurches. "Why?"

"I'd like to talk," he says simply. "If you're willing."

You should say no. You should take your vanilla latte when it's ready and walk out of this coffee shop and never look back. You should protect yourself, because six months ago, loving Kento Nanami nearly broke you in half.

"Okay," you hear yourself say instead.

You end up at a small table by the window, as far from the other customers as possible in the cramped space. Kento sits across from you, his long legs folded awkwardly under the tiny table, and you're struck by how surreal this is—sitting across from him like strangers, like you didn't spend two years learning every plane of his face, every subtle shift in his expression.

He looks tired. More tired than you remember, with shadows under his eyes that even his glasses can't hide. There's a small coffee stain on his tie that he probably hasn't noticed yet, and the observation makes your chest ache because you used to be the one who pointed out those things, who kept a stain remover pen in your purse just for him.

"You cut your hair," he says, breaking the silence.

Your hand moves self-consciously to your shoulder-length hair. You'd cut it a month after the breakup, in a fit of desperate need to change something, anything. "Yeah. Needed something different."

He nods slowly. "It suits you."

The compliment shouldn't affect you, but it does. You take a sip of your latte to hide the way your hands are shaking slightly. The vanilla is too sweet, cloying your tongue.

"Why did you want to talk?" you ask, setting the cup down with more force than necessary. "We said everything six months ago."

"Did we?" Kento's gaze is steady, unflinching. "I'm not sure we did."

"You said you couldn't do it anymore," you say, and you hate how your voice wavers. "You said the relationship was too much, that you needed space. That seemed pretty clear to me."

"That's not—" He stops, jaw tightening. Takes a breath. Starts again. "That's not exactly what I said."

"Then what did you say, Kento?" His name tastes like copper in your mouth, like blood from a bitten lip. "Because all I remember is you telling me you were done. That you couldn't handle the pressure of a relationship on top of everything else."

"I said I was failing you," he corrects quietly. "I said I couldn't be what you needed, and that wasn't fair to you."

"And then you left," you finish. "You made that decision for both of us."

He's quiet for a long moment, staring down at his coffee. When he speaks again, his voice is even softer. "Yes. I did."

The admission hangs between you, heavy and painful. Outside the window, people rush past in the grey afternoon, wrapped in scarves and coats, living their lives completely unaware of the way yours is cracking open all over again.

"Why?" The question comes out barely above a whisper. "Why did you give up?"

Kento finally looks up, and the expression in his eyes makes you wish you hadn't asked. There's pain there, raw and unguarded in a way he rarely allowed himself to be.

"Because I was drowning," he says simply. "And I was taking you down with me."

You don't know what to say to that. The honesty of it, the stark vulnerability, is so unlike the Kento you knew—the one who kept everything locked behind a wall of professionalism and composure.

"You never told me you were drowning," you say finally. "You never told me anything."

"I know."

"That's it?" Your voice rises despite your best efforts to stay calm. "You know? That's all you have to say?"

A woman at the next table glances over, and you force yourself to lower your voice, leaning forward. "You shut me out, Kento. For months, you shut me out. And when I tried to talk to you about it, when I tried to tell you I was lonely, that I needed more from you, you just... you just kept saying you were tired. That work was stressful. As if that was supposed to be enough."

"It wasn't enough," he agrees. "You deserved better than that."

"I didn't want better," you snap, and the words surprise you with their vehemence. "I wanted you. I wanted you to let me in. I wanted you to come home and actually be present instead of just... existing in the same space as me. I wanted to feel like I mattered more than your job."

Kento's jaw clenches. "You did matter."

"Then why didn't it feel like it?" Your eyes are burning now, tears threatening. You blink them back furiously. "Why did I spend two years feeling like I was begging for scraps of your attention? Why did I have to schedule time with my own boyfriend like he was a doctor's appointment?"

"Because I didn't know how to balance it," he says, and there's an edge to his voice now, the first crack in his composure. "I didn't know how to be good at my job and good for you at the same time. And every time I failed at one, I felt like I was failing at both."

"So you just quit?" You shake your head, disbelieving. "You just decided it was too hard and walked away?"

"I decided that you deserved someone who could give you what you needed," he says, and his voice is rising too now, controlled but strained. "Someone who could come home at a reasonable hour and ask about your day and remember your friends' names and actually be a partner instead of just... a ghost who slept in your bed sometimes."

The words hit like a slap because they're true. Toward the end, that's exactly what he'd been—a ghost, a shadow of the man you'd fallen in love with.

"You think I didn't know that?" you ask, and now the tears are falling, hot and angry on your cheeks. "You think I didn't see how exhausted you were? How much were you struggling? I tried to help, Kento. I tried so hard to be understanding, to be patient, to not ask for too much. But you wouldn't let me help. You wouldn't let me in."

"Because I didn't want you to see how much I was failing!" The words burst out of him, loud enough that several people turn to look. Kento doesn't seem to notice. His hands are clenched around his coffee cup, knuckles white. "I didn't want you to see that I was barely holding it together. That I was so tired I could barely think straight. That some days, the only thing that kept me going was knowing I'd come home to you, but then I'd get there and I'd be too exhausted to even have a conversation, and I'd see the disappointment in your eyes, and it would just... it would break me."

You're staring at him, tears streaming freely now. This is more emotion than you've seen from him in the entire last year of your relationship.

"So I pulled away," he continues, his voice rough. "I thought if I could just get through this busy period, if I could just prove myself at work, then things would get better. Then I'd have more time, more energy. But it never got better. It just got worse. And you were so patient and so understanding, and I hated it because I didn't deserve it. I didn't deserve you waiting up for me, saving me dinner, and pretending it was okay that I missed another date night."

"That wasn't your decision to make," you say, your voice shaking. "Whether you deserved it or not—that wasn't your call. I chose to be with you. I chose to stay, even when it was hard. You didn't get to decide for me that it was too much."

"You're right," he says quietly. "You're absolutely right."

The admission deflates some of your anger, leaving behind something rawer, more painful. You wipe at your face with the back of your hand, aware that your mascara is probably running and that you must look like a mess.

"I was so angry at you," you whisper. "I'm still angry at you."

"I know."

"You broke my heart."

"I know," he says again, and his voice cracks on the words. "I broke my own too."

You sit in silence for a while after that, both of you trying to compose yourselves. You're aware of the curious glances from other customers, but you can't bring yourself to care. Six months of unspoken words have just come pouring out, and you feel simultaneously lighter and more exhausted than you have in months.

"I saw you," you say eventually. "About two months ago. You were leaving your office building. I was across the street."

Kento looks up, surprise flickering across his face. "You didn't say anything."

"No. You trace the rim of your cup with one finger. "You were with some colleagues. You were laughing at something one of them said. And I just... I stood there and watched you, and I realized I hadn't seen you laugh like that in months before we broke up. Maybe longer."

He's quiet, processing this.

"It made me so angry," you continue. "That you could laugh with them but you couldn't even smile at me anymore. That you had energy for work but nothing left for us."

"It wasn't about energy," Kento says slowly. "It was about... with work, I knew what was expected of me. I knew how to succeed, how to meet the standards. But with you..." He pauses, searching for words. "With you, I never felt like I was enough. Not because of anything you did," he adds quickly. "But because I knew what you deserved, and I knew I wasn't giving it to you. And that failure felt so much worse than any failure at work ever could."

"So you just... stopped trying?"

"I stopped knowing how to try," he corrects. "Every time I disappointed you, it got harder to face you. Easier to stay late at the office. Easier to pretend that if I just worked a little harder, made a little more money, and got a little further in my career, then somehow that would make up for all the ways I was failing you."

You shake your head. "I didn't need you to make more money, Kento. I needed you to come home. I needed you to talk to me. I needed..." You trail off, the words catching in your throat.

"What?" he prompts gently. "What did you need?"

"I needed to feel like you still loved me," you whisper. "Like I wasn't just... convenient. Like you actually wanted to be with me, not just because we'd been together for so long but because you chose me. Every day, you chose me."

Kento's face does something complicated, a flash of pain so intense it makes you want to look away.

"I always loved you," he says, and his voice is rough with emotion. "Even when I was too tired to show it, even when I was failing at everything else—I loved you. That was never in question."

"Then why did you leave?" The question comes out broken, desperate. "If you loved me, why did you give up on us?"

"Because love wasn't enough," he says simply. "Not when I couldn't be the partner you needed. Not when staying together meant watching you slowly realize that you'd settled for someone who couldn't give you what you deserved."

"You keep saying that," you say, frustration bleeding into your voice. "What I deserved. But you never asked me what I wanted. You just decided, all on your own, that you knew what was best for me."

"You're right."

"Stop saying that!" You're crying again, angry tears this time. "Stop agreeing with me like it changes anything. You left, Kento. You made that choice. And I had to spend six months trying to figure out how to be a person again without you, trying to remember who I was before I became the girl waiting for her boyfriend to come home."

He flinches at that, and good. You want him to flinch. You want him to hurt the way you've been hurting.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "I know that's not enough, but I am. I'm sorry for shutting you out. I'm sorry for making you feel like you didn't matter. I'm sorry for being too much of a coward to have this conversation six months ago."

"Why now?" you demand. "Why are you saying all this now?"

Kento is quiet for a long moment, staring down at his hands. When he speaks, his voice is barely audible over the noise of the coffee shop.

"Because I've spent six months trying to convince myself I made the right choice—that you're better off without me. That I did the noble thing by letting you go." He looks up, and the raw honesty in his eyes steals your breath. "But I can't. I can't convince myself of that because every day without you has been... empty. And seeing you today, I realized I've been lying to myself. I didn't leave because it was best for you. I left because I was scared."

Your heart is pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat. "Scared of what?"

"Of failing you completely," he says. "Of watching you fall out of love with me slowly, day by day, until you looked at me and felt nothing but resentment. I thought if I left first, at least you'd remember me as someone you loved, not someone you grew to hate."

"That's the most selfish thing I've ever heard," you say, and you mean it. "You broke both our hearts because you were afraid of a future that might not have even happened?"

"Yes," he admits. "I did."

The honesty of it, the complete lack of defensiveness, takes the wind out of your sails. You slump back in your chair, suddenly exhausted.

"I don't know what you want from me," you say tiredly. "An absolution? Forgiveness? Because I don't know if I can give you that."

"I don't want absolution," Kento says. "I just wanted you to know the truth. That it was never about you not being enough. It was always about me being too broken to accept what you were offering."

"You weren't broken," you say, and despite everything, you mean it. "You were tired and overwhelmed and struggling. But you weren't broken, Kento. You just needed help, and you wouldn't let anyone give it to you."

"I know that now," he says quietly. "I've been... I've been seeing someone. A therapist."

That surprises you. Kento had always been so resistant to the idea of therapy, so convinced he could handle everything on his own.

"That's good," you say, and you mean it. "I'm glad."

"She's helped me understand a lot of things," he continues. "About why I am the way I am. About the patterns I fall into. About how I use work as a way to avoid dealing with emotions I don't know how to process."

You nod slowly. "I'm glad you're getting help. Really."

"I've made changes too," he says. "At work. I set boundaries now. I leave at reasonable hours. I take my vacation days." A small, sad smile crosses his face. "All the things you used to beg me to do."

The words sting because they're true. You'd spent so much time trying to convince him to take care of himself, to set limits, and to prioritize his own well-being. And he'd done it—just not for you. Not when it could have saved your relationship.

"I'm happy for you," you say, and part of you means it. Part of you is genuinely glad that he's taking better care of himself.

But another part—a smaller, meaner part—is angry that it took losing you for him to make those changes.

"I know it's too late," Kento says, as if reading your mind. "I know I can't undo the damage I did. But I wanted you to know that I heard you. Everything you said, everything you tried to tell me—I heard it. I just heard it too late."

You need air. The coffee shop suddenly feels too small, too warm, too full of ghosts and regrets. You stand abruptly, grabbing your purse.

"I need to go," you say.

Kento stands too, concern flickering across his face. "Wait—"

"No," you cut him off. "This is too much. I can't... I need to think."

You're moving toward the door before he can respond, pushing out into the cool autumn air. It hits your face like a slap, and you gulp it down, trying to steady yourself.

You make it half a block before you hear footsteps behind you.

"Please," Kento's voice calls out. "Please, just wait."

You stop, but you don't turn around. You can't look at him right now, can't see whatever expression is on his face.

"What do you want from me?" you ask, your voice carrying back to him on the wind. "What is the point of all this?"

"I don't know," he admits, and you can hear him moving closer. "I didn't plan this. I didn't expect to see you today. But now that I have, I just... I can't let you walk away without telling you that I'm sorry. That I was wrong. That losing you was the biggest mistake of my life."

You turn around then, and he's closer than you expected, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to look at him. He's so tall, and you're so short, and the physical difference between you has never felt more pronounced.

"You don't get to do this," you say, and your voice is shaking. "You don't get to show up and say all the right things now, after six months. After I've finally started to put myself back together."

"I know—"

"Do you?" you interrupt. "Do you know what it was like? Coming home to an empty apartment after you left? Sleeping alone after two years of sharing a bed? Having to tell everyone we broke up and seeing the pity in their eyes? Do you have any idea how hard I've worked to be okay again?"

"No," he says quietly. "I don't. But I know what it was like for me, and it was hell. And I know I have no right to ask anything of you. But I'm asking anyway."

"Asking what?"

"For a chance," he says. "Not to go back to what we were—I know that's not possible. But to start over. To do it right this time."

You stare at him, disbelieving. "You can't be serious."

"I am," he says, and there's an intensity in his gaze that makes your breath catch. "I know I don't deserve it. I know I hurt you. But I've spent six months becoming someone better, someone who might actually be worthy of you. And if there's even a chance that you might consider—"

"No," you say flatly. "Absolutely not."

The rejection clearly hurts him, but he nods, accepting it. "I understand."

"Do you?" You're angry again, the emotion rising hot and fast in your chest. "Because I don't think you do. You think you can just... what? Show up, tell me you've been going to therapy and setting work boundaries, and I'll just fall back into your arms? Like the last six months didn't happen? Like you didn't completely shatter me?"

"That's not what I think," he says, but you're not done.

"I loved you so much it scared me," you continue, and the words are pouring out now, unstoppable. "I loved you so much that I made myself smaller, asked for less, and convinced myself that the scraps of attention you gave me were enough. I lost myself in loving you, Kento. And when you left, I had to figure out who I was without you. I had to learn how to be whole on my own."

"I know—"

"And now you want me to risk that?" Your voice breaks. "You want me to risk becoming that person again? The one who waits and hopes and makes excuses? I can't. I won't."

"I'm not asking you to be that person," Kento says, and there's a firmness in his voice now. "I'm not asking you to make yourself smaller or ask for less. I'm asking for the chance to be better. To be the partner I should have been from the start."

"People don't change," you say bitterly. "Not really. Not in the ways that matter."

"Then I'll prove you wrong," he says simply. "However long it takes."

You shake your head, wrapping your arms around yourself. You're cold suddenly, the autumn air seeping through your coat. "I don't want to do this. I don't want to have this conversation."

"Okay," he says, and he takes a step back, giving you space. "Okay. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pushed."

The apology, the immediate respect for your boundary, is so different from the Kento you knew—the one who would have shut down, gone quiet, and retreated into himself. This Kento is present, engaged, and willing to be vulnerable even when it's uncomfortable.

It makes you want to scream.

"I hate this," you whisper. "I hate that you're different now. I hate that you're saying all the things I needed to hear six months ago. I hate that part of me wants to believe you."

Kento's expression softens. "I hate it too. I hate that I had to lose you to figure out how to be better. I hate that I wasted so much time being afraid when I could have been loving you the way you deserved."

"Stop," you say, but it comes out weak. "Please stop."

"I'm sorry," he says again. "I'll go. But before I do, can I ask you one thing?"

You should say no. You should walk away right now and never look back. But instead, you nod.

"Are you happy?" he asks. "Without me. Are you happy?"

The question catches you off guard. You open your mouth to say yes, to lie, to protect yourself. But something in his expression—the genuine concern, the lack of judgment—makes you pause.

"I don't know," you admit finally. "I'm... better. I'm healing. But happy?" You shake your head. "I don't know if I know what that feels like anymore."

Kento nods slowly, as if this is the answer he expected. "Thank you for being honest."

"Why did you ask?"

"Because if you were happy, I'd leave you alone," he says simply. "I'd walk away right now and never bother you again. Your happiness matters more to me than my own regrets."

The sincerity in his voice makes your chest ache. "That's not fair."

"What isn't?"

"You being... this." You gesture vaguely at him. "Emotionally available and honest and saying all the right things. It's not fair."

A small, sad smile crosses his face. "I know. I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing," you say, but there's no heat in it. You're too tired for anger now, wrung out from the emotional whiplash of the last hour.

"I should go," Kento says, but he doesn't move. "Let you get home."

"Yeah," you agree, but you don't move either.

You stand there on the sidewalk, two people who used to know each other better than anyone, now strangers trying to figure out how to say goodbye.

"Can I ask you something?" you say finally.

"Anything."

"If I said yes—if I said I'd give you another chance—what would that even look like? How would it be different?"

Kento considers this carefully, and you can see him choosing his words with precision. "It would be slow," he says. "We'd start from the beginning. Dates. Conversations. Getting to know each other again, because we're both different people now than we were six months ago."

"And work?" you press. "What happens when you get busy again? When there's a big case or a deadline?"

"I'd communicate," he says. "I'd tell you when I'm overwhelmed instead of shutting down. I'd ask for help instead of trying to handle everything alone. And I'd keep my boundaries, even when it's hard. Because I know now that burning myself out doesn't help anyone—not my clients, not my colleagues, and certainly not the people I love."

The people I love. Present tense. Your heart stutters.

"I'd also be in therapy," he continues. "Regularly. Not just until I feel better, but as an ongoing thing. Because I need help learning how to be in a relationship in a healthy way. I never learned that growing up, and I can't just figure it out on my own."

You're quiet, processing this. It all sounds good—too good, maybe. Like a script he's rehearsed.

"You don't believe me," he observes.

"I don't know what I believe," you admit. "Part of me wants to. But part of me is terrified that if I let you back in, you'll just hurt me again. And I don't know if I could survive that twice."

"I can't promise I won't hurt you," Kento says, and the honesty of it is startling. "I can't promise I'll be perfect or that I won't make mistakes. But I can promise that I won't run away when things get hard. I won't shut you out. And I won't make decisions about our relationship without you."

"Those are big promises."

"I know," he says. "And I understand if you don't trust me to keep them. I haven't given you any reason to trust me."

"No," you agree. "You haven't."

The words hang between you, brutal in their honesty. Kento takes them without flinching, without trying to defend himself or make excuses.

"I should go," you say again, and this time you mean it. "I need time to think."

"Of course," he says immediately. "Take all the time you need."

You start to walk away, then pause. "Kento?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you," you say quietly. "For being honest. For not making excuses. It doesn't change anything, but... thank you."

He nods, and there's something in his expression that makes your chest ache—hope and resignation and love all tangled together.

You walk away before you can change your mind, before you can do something stupid like ask him to come home with you, like pretend the last six months didn't happen. You walk until you can't feel his eyes on your back anymore, until you turn a corner and he's out of sight.

And then you stop, leaning against a building, and let yourself cry.

Three days pass before you can bring yourself to think about the encounter without wanting to scream. Three days of going through the motions—work, home, sleep, repeat—while your mind spins in endless circles.

You talk to your best friend, who listens patiently while you word-vomit everything that happened. She doesn't tell you what to do, which you're grateful for. She just listens and asks questions and reminds you that whatever you decide, she'll support you.

You make a list of pros and cons, like you're deciding whether to take a new job rather than whether to give your ex-boyfriend another chance. The cons list is longer, but the pros carry more weight.

You think about the Kento you fell in love with—the one who brought you coffee in bed on Sunday mornings, who listened to you talk about your day with genuine interest, and who held you like you were something precious. And you think about Kento from the end—the ghost, the stranger, the man who looked at you with exhaustion instead of love.

And then you think about Kento from the coffee shop—present, honest, and vulnerable in a way he never allowed himself to be before.

You don't know which one is real. Maybe they all are.

On the fourth day, you find yourself walking past his office building. You don't mean to—or maybe you do, subconsciously. Either way, you're there at 6 PM, watching people stream out of the building in their business attire, tired and ready to go home.

You see him at 6:15. He's walking out with a colleague, laughing at something they said, and your heart clenches because he looks good. Healthy. Less exhausted than he used to be.

He's keeping his boundaries, you realize. He's actually leaving at a reasonable hour.

He doesn't see you, and you don't call out to him. You just watch as he says goodbye to his colleague and heads toward the train station, briefcase in hand, looking like a man who has his life together.

You wonder if he's thinking about you. If he's spent the last four days spinning in circles the way you have, or if he's moved on, accepted your rejection, and started the process of letting go.

The thought of him letting go makes your chest ache in a way you don't want to examine too closely.

A week after the coffee shop encounter, you find yourself sitting in your therapist's office, trying to explain the situation without crying. You mostly succeed.

"What do you want?" Dr. Sato asks in that gentle but direct way she has.

"I don't know," you admit. "That's the problem."

"Let me rephrase," she says. "If you could have anything—if there were no risks, no possibility of getting hurt—what would you want?"

The answer comes immediately, without thought: "Him. I'd want him."

Dr. Sato nods, unsurprised. "And what's stopping you?"

"Fear," you say. "Fear that he'll hurt me again. Fear that he hasn't really changed. Fear that I'm being stupid and naive for even considering it."

"Those are valid fears," she acknowledges. "But let me ask you this: what if he has changed? What if he's done the work and he's ready to be the partner you need? Would you be able to forgive yourself for not taking that chance?"

The question sits heavy in your chest. "I don't know."

"You don't have to know right now," Dr. Sato says. "But I think you need to be honest with yourself about what you want. Not what you think you should want, or what would be safest, but what you actually want."

"I want to believe him," you whisper. "I want to believe that people can change, that love can be enough if you're both willing to work for it. But I'm so scared."

"Being scared doesn't mean you're making the wrong choice," she says gently. "It just means you're being brave enough to risk something that matters."

Two weeks after the coffee shop, you find his number in your phone. You never deleted it, even though you told yourself you did. You've just been avoiding the messages app, pretending it doesn't exist.

You stare at it for a long time, thumb hovering over the call button.

Finally, you type out a message instead: Can we talk?

The response comes within minutes: Yes. When and where?

You suggest a park near your apartment, somewhere public but quiet. Somewhere you can leave if you need to.

Tomorrow at 2? You type.

I'll be there.

You spend the rest of the night trying not to panic about what you're doing, trying not to second-guess yourself into paralysis. You don't know what you're going to say to him. You just know you need to see him again, need to figure out if what you felt in the coffee shop was real or just nostalgia and unresolved feelings.

He's already there when you arrive, sitting on a bench overlooking a small pond. He's dressed more casually than you've ever seen him—jeans and a sweater, no tie. It makes him look younger, more approachable.

He stands when he sees you, and there's a nervousness in the gesture that's oddly endearing.

"Hi," you say, suddenly feeling awkward.

"Hi," he replies. "Thank you for reaching out."

You sit on the bench, leaving space between you. He sits too, careful not to crowd you.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. You watch the ducks on the pond, the way they glide across the water with effortless grace.

"I've been thinking," you say finally. "About what you said. About starting over."

Kento goes very still beside you. "And?"

"And I don't know if I can do it," you admit. "I don't know if I'm brave enough to risk getting hurt again."

"That's understandable," he says quietly.

"But," you continue, and you feel him tense with hope, "I also don't know if I can live with not trying. With always wondering what if."

You turn to look at him, and the expression on his face is so full of careful hope it makes your heart ache.

"I'm not saying yes," you clarify quickly. "I'm not saying let's get back together and pretend nothing happened. But maybe... maybe we could try being friends first. Talking. Getting to know each other again."

"I'd like that," Kento says, and his voice is rough with emotion. "I'd like that very much."

"I have conditions," you warn.

"Of course."

"We take it slow. Really slow. And if at any point I feel like you're falling back into old patterns, I'm out. No second chances after this."

"Understood."

"And you have to be honest with me," you continue. "About everything. How you're feeling, what you're struggling with, and when you're overwhelmed. No more shutting me out."

"I can do that," he says. "I will do that."

"And therapy," you add. "You stay in therapy. And maybe... maybe eventually, if we get to that point, we could do couples counseling too."

"Yes," he agrees immediately. "Whatever you need."

You take a deep breath, trying to calm your racing heart. "Okay. Then let's try this. As friends."

"As friends," he echoes, and there's a small smile on his face—tentative but genuine.

You sit in silence for a while, watching the ducks. It's not comfortable, exactly, but it's not unbearable either. It's just... present. Real.

"Can I ask you something?" Kento says eventually.

"Sure."

"What made you change your mind? About talking to me again?"

You consider the question carefully. "I saw you," you admit. "Leaving your office. You looked... good. Healthy. Like you were taking care of yourself. And I realized that I wanted that for you, even if it wasn't with me. But I also realized that I wanted to know if maybe, possibly, it could be with me. If we could both be healthy and happy and together."

Kento is quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is soft. "I want that too. More than anything."

"Then we'll see," you say. "We'll take it slow and see what happens."

"Thank you," he says. "For giving me this chance. I know I don't deserve it."

"Maybe not," you agree. "But maybe that's not the point. Maybe the point is that we both deserve to be happy, and maybe we can figure out how to do that together."

"Maybe," he echoes, and there's hope in his voice—fragile but real.

The first month is awkward. You meet for coffee once a week, always in public places, always with an exit strategy. You talk about surface things at first—work, the weather, books you've read. It feels stilted and strange, like you're both trying to remember how to be around each other.

But slowly, gradually, it gets easier. The conversations go deeper. He tells you about therapy, about the things he's learning about himself. You tell him about your life, about the friends you've reconnected with, and the hobbies you've picked up.

He doesn't push for more, doesn't try to rush things. He shows up when he says he will, responds to your messages promptly, and respects every boundary you set.

It's so different from before that sometimes you have to remind yourself this is the same person.

Two months in, you have your first real conversation about the breakup. You're walking through the park again, and somehow the topic comes up naturally.

"I was so angry at you," you admit. "For months, I was just... furious. At you for leaving, at me for not being enough to make you stay."

"You were always enough," Kento says firmly. "That was never the issue."

"I know that now," you say. "Intellectually, I know it. But emotionally? It's harder to believe."

"I understand," he says. "For what it's worth, I was angry at myself too. I still am, sometimes. For being too stubborn and proud to ask for help when I needed it."

"Are you better at that now?" you ask. "Asking for help?"

"I'm trying to be," he says. "It doesn't come naturally. But I'm learning."

You nod, appreciating the honesty. "That's all any of us can do, I guess. Try to be better."

"I want to be better for you," he says quietly. "But also for myself. I don't want to be that person anymore—the one who was so consumed by work that he forgot how to live."

"Who are you now, then?" you ask, genuinely curious.

Kento considers this. "I'm still figuring that out. But I think I'm someone who's learning to set boundaries. Who's learning that my worth isn't determined by how many hours I work or how many cases I win. Who's learning that it's okay to be vulnerable, to admit when I'm struggling?"

"I like that person," you say softly. "I'd like to get to know him better."

The smile he gives you is small but genuine, and it makes something warm bloom in your chest.

Three months in, you have dinner at a restaurant—your first real date, though neither of you calls it that. He picks you up at your apartment, and when you open the door, he's holding flowers.

"I remember you liked these," he says, offering you the bouquet of sunflowers.

You take them, touched by the gesture and the fact that he remembered. "Thank you."

Dinner is nice. Easy. You laugh more than you have in months, and when he walks you back to your apartment, you find yourself not wanting the evening to end.

"Would you like to come up?" you ask, then quickly add, "Just for coffee. Nothing else."

"I'd like that," he says.

Your apartment looks different than it did when you were together. You've redecorated and made it more yours. Kento notices, commenting on the new artwork, the rearranged furniture.

"It looks good," he says. "Very you."

You make coffee, and you sit on opposite ends of the couch, the space between you feeling both vast and insignificant.

"Can I ask you something?" you say.

"Always."

"Do you think about it? About us, before?"

"Every day," he admits. "I think about all the things I did wrong, all the ways I failed you. But I also think about the good parts. The Sunday mornings, the quiet evenings, the way you used to steal my sweaters."

You smile despite yourself. "You always pretended to be annoyed by that."

"I wasn't," he says. "I loved it. I loved seeing you in my clothes, loved the way you'd curl up in them like they were armor."

The admission makes your chest ache. "Why didn't you tell me that then?"

"Because I was an idiot," he says simply. "Because I thought showing love meant providing and protecting, not... being present. Being soft."

"And now?"

"Now I know better," he says. "Now I know that love is in the small things. The everyday moments. The choice to show up, even when it's hard."

You're quiet for a moment, processing this. "I'm scared," you admit. "Of letting myself fall for you again. Of getting hurt."

"I'm scared too," Kento says. "Of messing this up. Of falling back into old patterns. Of losing you again."

"So what do we do?"

"We keep being honest," he says. "We keep communicating. We keep choosing each other, every day, even when it's hard."

"That sounds exhausting," you say, but you're smiling.

"It probably will be sometimes," he agrees. "But I think it'll be worth it."

You look at him—really look at him—and you see the changes. The softness in his expression, the openness in his posture, the way he's fully present in this moment instead of mentally somewhere else.

"I think I'm ready," you say quietly. "To try this for real. Not just as friends."

Kento's breath catches. "Are you sure?"

"No," you admit. "But I don't think I'll ever be completely sure. And I don't want to let fear stop me from taking a chance on something that could be really good."

"We'll go slow," he promises. "As slow as you need."

"Okay," you say. "Then let's try this. For real this time."

He reaches across the couch, offering his hand. You take it, and the touch is electric, familiar, and new all at once.

"Thank you," he says softly. "For giving me another chance. For being brave enough to try again."

"Thank you for doing the work," you reply. "For becoming someone who's ready for this."

You sit like that for a while, hands linked, both of you afraid to move and break the moment. Outside, the city continues its endless rhythm, but in your apartment, time feels suspended.

"I should go," Kento says eventually, though he doesn't move. "It's getting late."

"You could stay," you offer, then quickly clarify, "on the couch. If you want."

He smiles. "I'd like that."

You get him a blanket and a pillow, and you say goodnight at your bedroom door. It feels both strange and right, having him in your space again but maintaining boundaries.

That night, you sleep better than you have in months.

The next few months aren't perfect. There are moments when old fears resurface, when you catch yourself waiting for him to disappoint you. There are times when he gets stressed about work and you see him start to retreat, and you have to remind him to communicate instead of shutting down.

But he does communicate. He tells you when he's overwhelmed, asks for space when he needs it, and always comes back to talk things through. You learn to trust again, slowly, one day at a time.

You start couples counseling, which is hard and uncomfortable and necessary. You talk about the past, about the patterns that broke you the first time, about how to build something healthier.

Six months after that day in the coffee shop, you're lying in bed together—your bed, in your apartment—because you're not ready to move in together yet, but you're ready for this. He's tracing patterns on your shoulder, and you're listening to his heartbeat, and everything feels right in a way it never did before.

"I love you," he says quietly. "I know I don't say it enough, but I do. I love you so much it terrifies me sometimes."

"I love you too," you reply, and it's easier to say than you expected. "Even though you drive me crazy sometimes."

He laughs, and the sound rumbles through his chest. "I'll probably drive you crazy a lot. I'm still learning how to do this."

"We both are," you say. "But I think we're getting better at it."

"Yeah," he agrees. "I think we are."

You fall asleep like that, wrapped around each other, and for the first time in a long time, you're not afraid of what tomorrow will bring.

Because you know that whatever comes, you'll face it together. Not perfectly, not without struggles, but together.

And maybe that's enough.

Maybe that's everything.

Epilogue

A year after the coffee shop encounter, you're back in that same café. It's become a tradition of sorts—meeting here on the anniversary of the day you ran into each other, the day everything changed.

Kento is across from you, and he's smiling in that soft way he does now, the one that makes your heart skip.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks.

"How different things are," you say. "How different we are."

"Better different?"

"Much better," you confirm. "Though I never thought I'd say that a year ago."

"Neither did I," he admits. "I thought I'd lost you forever."

"You almost did," you say honestly. "If you hadn't done the work, if you hadn't been willing to change... I don't think I could have taken you back."

"I know," he says. "I'm grateful every day that you gave me the chance to prove I could be better."

"You are better," you say. "We both are."

He reaches across the table, taking your hand. "I have something for you."

"Kento, we said no gifts—"

"It's not a gift," he interrupts. "It's more of a... symbol."

He pulls out a key, setting it on the table between you. "It's to my apartment. I know we're not ready to live together yet, but I want you to have it. I want you to know that you're always welcome, that my space is your space."

You pick up the key, turning it over in your fingers. It's such a simple thing, but the meaning behind it makes your eyes sting with tears.

"Thank you," you whisper. "For trusting me with this."

"Thank you for trusting me with your heart," he replies. "Again. I know how hard that was."

You lean across the table, kissing him softly. "I love you."

"I love you too," he says against your lips. "So much."

As you sit back, key clutched in your hand, you think about how far you've both come. About the pain and the growth and the choice to try again.

It wasn't easy. It's still not easy some days.

But it's worth it.

He's worth it.

You're worth it.

And together, you're building something new—something stronger than what you had before, something built on honesty and communication and the willingness to keep choosing each other, even when it's hard.

Especially when it's hard.

Outside the coffee shop window, the world continues its endless rhythm. But inside, in this small corner of Tokyo, two people who almost lost each other are finding their way back.

Nanami was a collected man. He worked an office job, and through amazing work ethic and labor, he managed to find himself in a well paying position, the raise that came with the promotion was more than he initially thought. He was great with communication, handling clients, leading a team. Nothing ever really distracted him from work, until...

Until the new intern showed up. You. A pretty young thing. Fresh out of college, and into the work force. You were an intern, being one of Nanami's primary assistant, since his last one had put her two weeks in. They had her train you before her final days.

Your little cubicle was just outside of his office, the tall clear doors. The rest of the team placed not too far from his office.

Your little tight skirts and one button too unbuttoned blouses had his cock aching, just wondering what it was like to just slip inside you. Once he had accidentally knocked a pen off his desk, and you bend down without a thought to retrieve it, exposing just a peek of your cute little pink underwear underneath your pencil skirt. He furrows his brows as he turns away from the heavenly sight before you catch him undressing you with his eyes. He seemed to grow more clumsy around you, knocking things off by accident.

Nanami considers himself a disciplined man, but the first time he sees your cute little face smiling at him through your lashes as he gives you a tour of the building, it's like all professional barriers he had put between you and him in his head just collapsed.

You had him fisting his cock at night thinking of you. This was now nearly a daily occurrence. He'd imagine you on top of him pushing his huge cock into your tiny cunt. Or your mouth swirling over his tip. Fucking you into a mating press. Endless scenarios played in his head for months, but he knew nothing would compare to the real thing.

A huge project deadline was coming up. He knew he'd be working overtime. There were nights like this, where he'd be in late until the AM's, getting the last few things finished before the next function.

The office had cleared out for the day, it was past 6:30, leaving Nanami sighing in his office chair, leaning back as he sighed. The lights were all off with the exception of the warm lamp in his office. The huge windows that made up his wall showed the view of the night city sky. More money means more responsibility, which means more late nights. He notices that someone had left their computer not fully shut off, and he groans in annoyance.

He gets up, opening his office door making his way to the computer left on. He's leaned against the table, squinting his eyes as he maneuvers the mouse to the shut down button. The small chime of the shut down goes off.

Just as he turns around, you turn the corner and bump right into him, water splashing onto the both of you.

"Ack-! I-I'm sorry sir!" You say scrambling for the paper cup and papers in your hands.

Nanami is startled for a moment, wondering why you're the only one left. "You haven't gone home yet?" He asks, gently using his arm to give you balance. "N-No sir," You say straightening your full hands. "You haven't gone home yet."

It's dark, but Nanami can see the huge water stain on your button up, leaving it completely see through to him. He's trying to not notice, but it's making his dick half hard. He can see your light colored bra, and of course, you've got one button that just breaches the line between corporate dress code to too casual, unbuttoned. It seems that you don't even realize how exposed you actually are.

"I was just finishing out the rest of my tasks in the copy room, and I was bringing this water for you." You say embarrassed that you've now made not just a mess of yourself, but the freshly copied papers you'd now have to reprint.

"Oh," He says leaning casually behind the cubicle wall, hardly enough to notice, but enough to somewhat hide his growing hard cock that might as well be springing out of his pants. "Well, you're free to go as soon as it hits 5. People usually completely clear out of here by 6:30." He's clenching his jaw trying to avert his gaze.

You smile, "Yeah, well, maybe you should too. It's late and you don't look so well. You should get some rest?"

"Yeah, I think that might be best for us both." He says with a sigh. He feels so much pressure in his body, he's afraid he'll burst right in front of you.

"See you tomorrow then," You say smiling as you turn to make your leave.

"Be safe," Nanami says as he watches your back until you exit the room.

He lets out a sigh he didn't realize he was holding. His cock is throbbing in his pants, and he can't help but palm himself over his slacks. He needs to get home, shower, fist his cock thinking of your soaked chest, and sleep.

And that's exactly what he does.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

You walk towards the kitchen, grabbing a drink of water to decompress as Rob and the other escorts work on closing every curtain in the house. Nanami, obviously furious, walks to the living room, grabbing the TV remote. He turns it onto TMZ, where they’re talking about you out for lunch at Cecconi’s in West Hollywood earlier today.

“Are you fucking kidding me? I give you one fucking rule, don’t leave the damn house without me!”

“Kento, I-”

“Then, not only do you leave without me, you leave without an escort. Anything could’ve happened to you!”

The next clip shows you throwing your middle finger up to an undercover paparazzi taking pictures of you while you were eating, causing Nanami to begin pacing about the living room.

“And that, what the fuck is that? You’re practically begging to get bombarded with negative articles.”

You fix your face into a fit and walk up to Nanami in the living room, slamming your things down on the table, you two yelling at this point.

“Negative articles, that’s what you’re worried about? Excuse me, MR. BIG TIME MOVIE STAR, I didn’t mean to go outside to take a breather and spend time with myself. ALONE. ”

“That’s not what I’m saying and you know it. I could care less about what they say about me, I’m trying to protect you! Every fucking thing I’ve done has been to protect you!”

“I’m tired of this shit, what did you want me to do? Smile for the fucking picture while I chow down on my fucking ravioli?”

Nanami sighs and wipes his hand down his face, walking up to you and grabbing your hands in his.

“You know what? I’m tired of this shit too. Trust me when I say I love you, but I can’t have you going through this constantly. We should get a divorce.”

At that moment, you felt your entire world crashing. Your house began falling apart brick by brick, the curtains were burning, and the floor was crumbling. You throw his hands out of yours, pacing back and forth with your hands in your hair. Long story short, you were losing your shit.

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do. It’s the only way-”

You know that there won't be a high wall I can’t climb and find the things that I find.

“Kento, you’re not serious. You’re not fucking serious right now. Is it because I didn’t listen to you? I’m sorry, okay? I should’ve stayed put and waited for you or Rob to take me out.”

“It’s not that simple. You’ve been harassed for weeks on end, just for fucking breathing at this point. I can’t keep seeing you hurt.”

“I can go back to Bel Air and hide out there again. I’ll stay there as long as you need me to!”

“So they can follow you there? And then what, hm? We have to move you all over again? No, we get a divorce and then my fans and the media will leave you alone.”

“But, baby, I, just please…”

“I’M NOT ARGUING WITH YOU ANYMORE. Start packing your things and Rob and the others will help you move them out. I’ll get you an apartment in Soho, but you’ll have to wear a disguise for a while. I won’t be seeing you anymore, it’s for your own good. ”

 I'll have to leave them where they are, I don't want to go far.

And with that, you begin to cry. Grabbing your purse off the table, you wipe away your tears and run towards the grand staircase, throwing your MACH & MACH heels over the balcony. Nanami hears the sound of your heels hitting the floor, rushing to the lower landing to ensure your well-being, only to be met with your clothes being thrown over the balcony at him.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“Throwing all of the shit you bought for me out! Keep all of this shit, I don’t want it anymore.”

“Oh, don’t be such a goddamn cunt about this. You know I fucking love you.”

You stand at the top of the balcony, looking him in his eyes as you throw your rolex over the edge, diamonds scattering all over the floor below.

“Fuck you.”

A tear-stained pillow doesn't seem to help me, I can't make you change your mind.

You begin to grab your cosmetics out of the master bathroom, frustratedly dropping toothpaste and lotion bottles amidst your tirade. You run back into your separate closet, scouring the shelves for a bag big enough to hold your clothes, but alas, you realize your efforts were in vain when all you find are your Birkins. Pacing about the room, looking for the clothes you had before you met Nanami. Then you remember, you have your Goyard duffle in his closet, which as much as you hated it, you were gonna have to use. Walking across the hall, you see Nanami coming up midway on the staircase. You chuckle a bit, running to the closet to grab the duffle before he can stop you. Unfortunately for you, when you turn around to exit the room, Nanami stands in the doorway.

I look through my window and I see all I want to, how can I leave it all behind me now?

“What the fuck are you doing?”

You push by him, pissing him off even further. You’re walking back to your closet now, Nanami closely behind.

“What do you mean, Kento? I’m packing my things.”

“No, you’re going on a rampage!”

As you walk into the master bedroom again, you get a glimpse of the backyard through the window, memories of you and Nanami dancing on the patio together and friends coming over for discrete cookouts. And now here you are, leaving it all because he was picking his fans over his wife.

I've done all I can do, I want to stay here.

“A rampage? Bitch, I can show you a rampage.”

With that, you walk back into your closet, throwing clothes off hangers as he stands in the doorway, scorching with anger. Every piece of clothing you throw, Nanami picks up and places in a pile on the bed, presumably to organize later. In revolt, you walk out into the bedroom, throwing them back on the floor again.

“The fuck are you doing?”

“The fuck am I doing? You mean, the fuck are YOU doing?”

This could be my home forever, but you say I can't come back ever.

You walk up to Nanami, glaring up at him, considering he was much taller than you (not to mention his bigger frame).

“You tell me you want a divorce, how do you expect me to react? Be a good little wife and kiss your ass, ‘Oh, Kento, I understand.’ Then you must be fucking DELUSIONAL!”

Picking up the clothes from the bed, you begin throwing them at him.

“You ungrateful motherfucker… I BUILT THIS HOUSE, ME! I picked the goddamn floorplan and the furniture and everything? Who do you think manages things around here when…you’re off shooting another movie…or screenwriting another TV show? Me, you asshole! You get to come home and relax after working, and what do I get?... Harassed by your…fucking…fans…because you’re too scared…to tell them to FUCK OFF!”

You don't know just how much I wish I could stay in this house forever… 

In a swift motion, Nanami comes over to where you’re standing on the other side of the room, grabbing the back of your neck and kissing you roughly. At first, you try to push him off, but eventually, you give in. You know you can’t resist him, not when he’s kissing you like he’s gonna eat you alive. He quickly brings his hands up to lift your legs off the floor, wrapping them around his waist as he drops you on the bed, much too frustrated to be gentle with you. And that’s where the love bites come in, licking and sucking at your neck like some kind of animal and it just feels so good. Especially when he brings his hand up to your tits, pulling your shirt down to release your breasts, expeditiously putting one in his mouth, rubbing your nipple between his tongue and teeth. You push him back, leaving him in an upright position where he has the perfect view of you. Frantically, you begin making work of his button-up, and when you get caught on the top button, he rips his damn shirt off. But who cares right? What’s another $300 shirt? He makes it quick when he pulls your shirt off of you, then your shorts, and finally, flips you onto your stomach so he can unstrap your bra. His lips are back on you now, licking and sucking his way down your back, breathing down your spine as you let out soft moans into the pillow. He stops at your panties, bringing the fabric of your thong between his teeth as he brings his fingers up to hook under the strap. He rips them off, which was the least of your concerns, especially when your husband is lifting your lower body up so that you’re on your knees.

…I don't want to ever leave.

Nanami pulls you closer to him, hooking his arms under your legs to bring you close to his face. And then, well, he goes to town. His tongue starts to pump in and out of your pussy, hearing the mewls and squeals you’re trying to hide in the pillow. He pulls his tongue away, watching you squirm and whimper for it to come back.

“Stop moaning in to the pillow, I wanna hear you, baby.”

“Oh, I thought I wasn’t your ‘baby’ anymore?”

He’s angry, bringing his face down to eat you again, and he’s fucking amazing at it, making you feel like a virgin with how fast your orgasm was coming. He’s got your clit now, sucking at the bud like there’s no tomorrow. And you’re a mess, moaning his name into the air and gripping your fingers into the bedding. Nanami bring his hands up over your legs to massage your ass, gripping and slapping the skin and he swears he’s fallen in love with you all over again. 

You’re nearly at the end now, that fire burning inside you and Nanami’s tongue being the damn gasoline. Sure, you were still mad at him, but currently, all you could think about was the way he was fucking his tongue into you, lapping your juices up happily, dedicated to making you cum on his face. And that’s exactly what you did. As your body began to jerk, he brought your pussy closer to his face, so close that it was suffocating him, but who cares if he couldn’t breathe? His pretty little wife was cumming so lovely on his lips, to which he drank up, fully indulging your essence. As you were coming down, your body turned to mush and you sank into the bed, but that didn’t stop Nanami from continuing.

“Ken, I can’t…”

“I know you can, pretty girl. Give me one more.”

How could I ever live in another?

Overstimulated and spent, you come down from your second orgasm, but you knew Nanami wasn’t done with you. He quickly pulled you to the end of the bed, pumping his fingers inside you to prepare you for his dick, which he was pulling out of his pants. Your mind was still fuzzy, because you hadn’t even heard his belt fall to the floor, or his pants, or his boxers, or his watch, or his chain. Well, you woke up pretty damn fast when you felt him slowly sink into you. You swear you died in that moment, drowning in lust as Nanami parted your pussy like the red sea. But now, he was teasing you, moving his hips at a terribly slow pace, and to be frank, it was pissing you off.

“Kento…”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Please, just fuck me already!”

“If you insist, dear.”

You’re beginning to wish you hadn’t said that. Nanami started fucking you at a dangerous pace, bouncing you back onto his dick just to slam his hips back into you again. His hands were on your hips now, fucking you deeper and harder, making you moan gibberish into the air. He brings a hand up to slap your ass, reveling in the sound of it smacking against his stomach. He laughs a bit as you moan with every slap.

“Look at you, such a brat earlier, and now you’re falling apart on my dick.”

“Fuck you.”

“Trust me I am.”

Immediately, Nanami halts, pulling up your upper half, his hand gripping your shoulder as he begins fucking the shit out of you. If you thought you were going mad before, it was definitely happening now. All you can say is his name as he drills his dick into you, hand around your throat as he makes your eyes roll into the back of your head. You can tell he’s close from the way he’s panting and moving at a more rhythmic pace. He lets your shoulder go slowly, bringing your body back down to meet the sheets. One hand on your side and the other gripping the bed, he lowers down to your face, sucking on your neck as he fucks into you deep and slow. His face is nuzzling in your neck and hair, taking in your scent as he hears you moan and groan at the pace of his hips. You’re so close and Nanami knows too, that’s why he’s fucking that spot in you that has you throwing your head back and losing yourself on his dick.

“C’mon baby, give it to me. I wanna feel you cum for me.”

That was it for you, body spasming from your third orgasm. You ride it out as you feel Nanami fill you up, groaning and whimpering your name into your ear, sucking the skin there and panting.

“That’s it, that’s my good girl. My pretty little wife.”

This is where I want to be.

Nanami falls to your side, groaning sadly as he pulls his dick out of you. Both of you stare at the ceiling now, panting like you ran a marathon. He looks over at you and then gets up to go to the bathroom, you hear him organizing something as you remember you pretty much moved like a tornado in the bathroom trying to pack your things. Shortly, he come out with a washcloth in hand, cleaning you up while you squirm from overstimulation. He cleans himself and throws it into the hamper in the bathroom, walking back to you on the bed and lays down. He pulls his arm around you and you can’t bring yourself to take it off of you. 

“I’m gonna get you more security and tint the windows on the Ghost, the Aventador too. We should probably get you therapy too for all the stress and anxiety this has given you. I’ll have Alexandra fix your things back in the closet and I’ll take you to replace the damaged items. I’m gonna talk to my manager and see if he can organize paying some of the snappers to fuck off, I’ll be going on to my socials to tell my fans to relax. Can’t keep fucking with my girl.”

As he kisses your forehead, you feel yourself exhausted, lying on Nanami’s chest as you fall asleep. He nuzzles his face in your hair, holding your hand and rubbing his finger against the 4-carat diamond ring that adorned it. There’s no way he could leave his pretty little wife.

You know that I don't want to go.

♱ the song used in this story is 10 james orr street by strawberry switchblade. 🖤

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𝖆𝖚 𝖗𝖊𝖛𝖔𝖎𝖗, 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖑𝖔𝖛𝖊𝖑𝖞𝖗𝖚𝖎𝖓.