#soft nanami

Nanami knows perfectly well that he shouldn't have given you that damn key.

Not because he needs to regain his well-known solitude, or because he finds you annoying, or for any reason that would classify your company as negative. Quite the contrary. You are too good for him. And someone like Nanami, who has only had overtime and solitude as his closest companions, will never be able to get used to situations like this.

‘What did we say about working... like this?’ Your voice, polite but tinged with a hint of concern, broke the silence that had fallen since you used that damn key to break into his flat. Truthfully, he deserves it, but he'll never admit it.

That same morning, you had seen each other at work, as you did every day. The monotony of your routine (one he greatly appreciated) remained intact... except that his eyes looked much more tired than usual, all the tissues he used in a day and the flush on his cheeks were clear indicators that the man had no less than a fever. Yes, even someone as strong as him can't avoid catching a cold every now and then. However, his stoic nature led him to convince you with elaborate arguments that he was fine, that he didn't need your help, and that he certainly didn't need a rest. Even though he was aware of your ruminative nature, he decided to take that path.

But, of course, even after you insisted throughout his entire working day that he should go home, he didn't listen to you. In fact, when he got home, he started working even harder. Which you weren't going to allow. How could you allow your beloved to demand so much of himself? And for what purpose?

‘Y/n... what did we say about showing up at each other's flats unannounced?’

‘Nothing. You literally told me that I didn't need to bother letting you know every time I came over.’ He can't deny it. That's how it was, after all. He continues to stare at me, somewhat flushed due to that annoying fever that keeps rising. Your expression makes his heart skip a beat: you're not upset, far from it. You have a sweet smile, somewhat worried, but sweet... ‘On the contrary, you know perfectly well that you like it. So much so that you're regretting giving me those keys: you're going to have to stop working, and you're going to have to be pampered by me until that cold of yours is completely gone.’

Your boyfriend exhales, letting out a low groan, as he finally decides to put down his damn pen and place it on his wooden desk, which is still covered with documents. His small action makes you smile, and it works like a magnet: you feel a great need to simply hug him. And that's what you do. While he remains seated, you hug his head, taking the opportunity to plant multiple kisses on his slightly tousled blond hair. When he realises that this is the first time all day he has managed to relax, all thanks to you and your great ability to understand him, he feels a great urge to sit you on his lap and kiss every inch of your face as usual. However, you have other plans for him.

‘Kento, I'm going to get angry.’ In reality, there is not a hint of anger in your tone of voice. It sounds more overprotective than anything else. ‘I said today is your day to relax...’

‘By now, you should know that there's not much else that relaxes me other than your company.’

‘I love you, but you know perfectly well that's not what I mean.’ You take the opportunity to give him a quick kiss on the nose, which takes him by surprise, but definitely makes him smile. At least a little. Enough for you to notice the change in his facial expression. ‘Come on. Let’s get you to bed.’

‘Y/n... I'm going to infect you...’

‘Mhm. At this point, whatever you have, I already have it. Pfff, as if we weren't together every day...’

As you say this, you start pulling on his strong arms to get him to his bed once and for all. Something you should have done a few hours ago, but no: he's too stubborn. Luckily, he found a woman as stubborn as he is... capable of making him take a break. Something like this is crazy for Nanami. Anyway, he feels very lucky.

‘Put on your pajamas and go to bed, I'll go and get some medicine to help with that fever and make you some soup.’ Looking around his room, you spot his laptop and mobile phone neatly placed on his bedside table. This man... ‘And these are confiscated... until further notice.’

You can see him frown, but he doesn't reply or protest. On the contrary, he starts looking for pajamas to put on.

‘We both know how... accidental you can be in the kitchen. Please be careful and don't burn yourself...’

‘It's literally just soup, love.’

‘That's exactly why I'm saying this. I know you, you'll probably burn yourself with the pot... and be careful not to mess up my medicines. They're all sorted and categorised by...’

‘Kento.’

‘Oh, also... make sure you put the laptop and mobile phone on a safe surface, completely out of reach of falling. Accidents happen and...’

You hold his head with both hands and kiss him. God, him and his obsession with control. You thought maybe it would ease up a little in his feverish state, but quite the opposite. Anyway... This is your trick to let him lose some of his beloved control for a few seconds. It always works wonders.

‘Cook carefully, don't mess with the medicines, keep your electronic devices safe. Anything else, love?’ You look at him with a little smile, always so kind and understanding, even when he's stubborn... He remains silent because of your kiss. The effect you have on him is impressive.

‘...no.’ Before leaving his room, you give him a little goodbye kiss and then head off to do those three tasks.

°︵‿ ︵࿔.

‘Don't even think about it!’ Nanami tries to hold the soup you've made for him so he can drink it himself. Of course, your overprotective nature compels him to simply stretch out and accept that you will indeed feed him. As much as he hates the idea of depending on someone, of being taken care of instead of taking care, of being served instead of serving... There is a part of him that can't help but feel so... relaxed. He hasn't felt this way since he was a child.

When you finish feeding him, your boyfriend instinctively gets up to put the plate in the kitchen. Damn habits... You push him towards the bed and, obviously, take the plate yourself.

After successfully completing your three tasks, you can finally stretch out next to Kento in his bed. You notice that he is trying to rest, but he can't: his obsession with work is probably killing him. If there's one thing he can't stand, it's being unproductive, and even though he's sick and running a high fever, all he can see is that he's being lazy, wasting time while lying in bed...

‘Having you with a cold is hell...’ Hearing your voice break the silence so suddenly, he immediately turns to you. "Don't get me wrong. I love that you're finally letting me take care of you, even if it's only when you have the worst cold in years... but you don't relax. I know it's not up to you, but... I don't know. When I start overthinking, I just hug you and hope that whatever is bothering me goes away. Or I talk to you about it directly. It's probably just me... here, I feel at home. It's as if being with you gives me back all the energy I lose in my daily life, my fuel. Ugh, I don't even know what I'm saying, and I'm sure your head isn't ready to put up with the rambling thoughts of your pensive girlfriend..."

A few seconds later, Nanami decides to turn completely towards you. With his eyes still closed, he reaches out his strong arm and wraps it around you, pulling you close to his chest in a tight hug. No matter how many times he's done this, you can't help but feel a pleasant shiver every time your boyfriend decides to hold you affectionately. And even more so when he does it after you've blurted out some messy, stupid, meaningless thought that was on your mind. He always thanks you for understanding him so well, but he's the one who deserves the most credit in this regard: he has never once shown disinterest in your words, even if he's not as verbally expressive as you are.

‘You're right,’ Kento replies, his voice deep and calm, slightly hoarse from his cold. ‘Let's see... I'm not as good as you when it comes to talking about... these things, but I know that if there's a place for me, that place is with you. I'm not used to these situations either, but you've made me realise that I don't need to think about it so obsessively: yes, there's work, but I have you by my side.’

Right after saying this, he nuzzles against your neck. Damn, how cute. Anyone would say that this last adjective is not the most accurate to describe a tall, blond, muscular and intimidating man like him. But when he behaves like this with you…

‘I think I'll apply your way of solving things, hugging you like this, and I'll face whatever I have to face later...’ You think he's just getting sleepy, but there's total sincerity in his words. The only thing that contradicts him is his desire to keep things under control, which sometimes prevents him from taking the attitude he's choosing now.

Anyway, you're not going to complain right now. It will take time for your boyfriend to get used to being vulnerable, to detach himself from work, from his obsession with control... but you are as stubborn as he is (or maybe more), and that's why you're going to achieve all that. If anyone can do it, it's you.

‘I love you too, Ken.’ Yes, he hasn't explicitly said ‘I love you,’ but when he opens his heart, that's when he shows his devotion the most. Your words make him tighten his grip in the sweetest way possible, and after a few minutes, your boyfriend, still cold and with a feverish forehead, sleeps peacefully with his face hidden in your neck, whispering words of affirmation as he drifts off.

and there is something in that image that makes you stop; the way he rests without any tension, the rhythm of his breathing, the way is presence seems to calm you almost immediately upon looking at him, as if even sleeping he held that stability you are still surprised to find in a person. you stay there, looking at him, with no clear reason, not trying to justify it… you just do it. and for a second, you can’t think of anything else.

not like you needed an excuse anyway. nanami was your boyfriend. you could stare at him all that you wanted, but even if you did you would still be wondering how the fuck does this man manage to calm you so easily without any efforts.

until the congestion reminds you again that your body is still there, sick and surviving the flu.

you frown a little and now suddenly aware of how close you’ve come to nanami. inhaling through your mouth you move away slightly, as if that sudden closeness had become a real risk.

nanami had woken up too as you wipe your nose awkwardly whilst blindly looking for a handkerchief on the bedside table. he shifted a little bit on the bed seeking your warmth in the early morning, and when you speak, your voice comes out low and rough with both sickness and sleep.

“don’t get so close.”

there was no venom in your tone, but there was a clear intention to mark distance, even if minimal. you raise a hand between you two as a warning, as if you would draw an invisible line in the hair that marked the limit just like children do.

nanami doesn't respond immediately. he doesn't open his eyes right away either, but his breathing barely changes, enough to make it clear that he is no longer asleep.

“why?”

you snort, like the answer was obvious, finally finding the handkerchief and using it carelessly.

and well, maybe it was obvious.

“because i’m sick,” you say flatly. “you’re going to get sick too if you get too close.”

there was a short pause, not necessarily awkward. just… measured. enough time for nanami to process your words in his barely-awake mind.

nanami opens his eyes.

he looks at you.

and you know, even before he gets the chance to say anything, that he’s not going to listen to you.

“it is not relevant,” the answer finally comes, as calm as it was firm.

“what you mean it’s not relevant?” you turn a little more towards him to get a better look of him, incredulous. “it’s literally a virus.”

“i know.”

“so why—“

but the phrase is left halfway, because nanami is already moving. he shortens the distance with the same effordness he would do any other every day thing.

you try to pull back while dragging the pillow with you in a clumsy gesture.

“baby, seriously. no—“

“good morning.”

and before you could finish opposing, nanami kisses you.

there’s no hurry in the gesture, doubt. it’s a simple, direct kiss, the type of contact that seeks nothing more than to exist, as if it were part of a routine that doesn’t need to be justified. it doesn't last too long before nanami is pulling back again.

you stay very still when you two separate.

looking at him with that mixture of disbelief and something softer that you doesn't bother hiding.

"you’re an idiot."

nanami doesn't seem affected by the insult. he barely settles a little better on the mattress, leaning on his elbow.

"most probably."

you shake your head, as if that confirmed something you already knew, but you don’t pull away any further. in fact, the distance you’d been trying to put between each other slowly crumbles almost without you noticing.

"you’re going to get sick, kento," you insist, although the strength of the warning is no longer the same.

nanami observes you calmly, without rushing to answer, as if he chose each word well even if it doesn't seem like it.

"that’s the least of my worries.”

you narrow your eyes.

"oh, is it now?”

“mhn.”

the pause that follows isn’t long, but is still enough to make it almost too much.

“greeting you like this is far more important.”

you open your mouth, ready to respond with something ironic, something that pulls the moment back into safer and much more manageable territory. but nothing comes out. so you just lay there, looking at him as if you didn't know very well what to do with what you just heard.

“… that’s ridiculous,” you mutter finally, looking away.

but there is no bite in it.

nanami reaches up, just as calm as always, and brushes a loose strand of hair off your forehead. a simple gesture, and one that shouldn’t matter much. you don’t move, don’t pull away either. you just let it happen.

“how are you feeling?”

you exhale, or try to, and cringe at the feeling of your snot making its way out of your nose again, wiping it off with the handkerchief.

“a little itty tinny bit less dead,” you dramatize, because of course you do.

a pause.

“still a biological hazard.”

nanami nods like that’s useful information.

“then i’ll make sure you stay in.”

you let out something between a scoff and a laugh.

“you can’t just keep me here.”

“i can try.”

That gets a real laugh out of you—low, still rough from the flu.

you shift again, this time without trying to keep distance, settling a little closer like there’s no point fighting something you clearly aren’t going to win.

“it’s your day off,” you murmur. “you shouldn’t be taking care of a sick person.”

nanami looks at you.

“i am right where i want to be.”

the silence that follows doesn’t weigh anything down.

you close your eyes for a second, breathing slower, letting that settle without overthinking it. when you open them again, the edge is gone from your expression.

“you’re too much.”

“I know.”

you hesitate—just a second—and then move on your own, leaning in until your forehead rests against nanami’s. it doesn’t feel new anymore, but it’s not automatic either.

it’s still a choice even after so much time, a choice you will be continue to pick.

“if you get sick,” you murmur, “i’m not taking care of you.”

nanami doesn’t pull back.

“you will.”

a small smile appears at the corner of your mouth, tired but real.

“yeah.”

and you stay like that, not doing anything else, not needing to add words or gestures that would complicate something already simple. outside the window that continues to cast the same faint morning light through the curtains, the world keeps moving; noise, deadlines, everything waiting. but in that room, in that still-messy bed, everything slows down.

and for once, even sick, even uncomfortable—

you don’t feel like you have to rush anything.

just stay.

note: heh, first fic posting… kinda nervous… i had SO much fun writing this. kinda self insert bc i do have the flu right now and needed the comfort lwk

The turquoise water that spanned to the horizon was about to be kissed by the sun. It was low in the sky, bathing you in its late rays. The water lapping against the white sand beach soothing as you basked yourself in the Malaysian warmth.

You opened an eye, scanning the beach above your sunglasses before settling on the figure walking towards you holding two drinks. Kento was a picture with his swim shorts and his short sleeve linen shirt blowing in the soft breeze.

“Darling, beverage service is here.”

You took off your sun hat and sat up, gladly taking the glass from his outstretched hand.

“Thank you, sweetheart.” The frost of the drink burned your fingers as you sipped. The cool sensation lingered on your tongue as the rum concoction soothed your core. He leaned down and pressed a kiss against your lips. The sweet, cold taste of your lips settled against his own as he sat down into the beach chair next to you. He pulled chair hips closer to his own, his hand holding the small of your back before tracing up your spine to your shoulders.

“You’re tense darling... is anything bothering you?”

“I don’t think so… I’m just not used to having time to myself. There’s always something to do back home.”

“True… it can be difficult to get used to. Want a massage?” He asked, his sunglasses hiding his sweet hazel eyes.

“I’m not going to turn that down.” You hum, setting down your drink in the sand before lying down onto your beach chair. You turned your head, seeing him settle behind you, “Help me relax, Ken.”

He nodded, leaning down and placing his thighs on either side of your hips. “If anyone here deserves it it’s us, darling. Especially you.”

The soft touch of his fingertips ghosted down to the middle of your back. Starting shallowly, gently pressing against the muscle to relax you before massaging in earnest with more precision. The firm touches honed onto the tense cords that flowed down your back. Placing another dollop of lotion on his hands before moving to your lower back, rubbing gently down your spine appreciating the flow of your body. His fingers giving each vertebrae a shower of attention. The tension began melting from your shoulders.

After a moment you felt the slip of his thumbs under your bikini top. You hum contentedly, “Mhm?” The string securing the swimsuit to your body feeling dangerously loose.His deft fingers untied the strings, placing them gently to your sides. “Ken! What if someone-“

“Nobody will, besides we’re just sunbathing, and I’m only putting sunscreen on my beautiful girl.” He purrs, hands moving underneath you to softly grasp the plush of your chest. Kneading in the lotion into your hot flesh.

“I think they’ll notice-feels good.” You hummed.

“Who? I haven’t seen anyone down here all day,” he hums leaning down closer to you “if I do see someone I’ll stop darling. In the meantime, you shouldn’t have to think for a few minutes now, hm? It’s your vacation after all. I want you to enjoy it to the fullest.” Pulling away briefly, you groaned softly at the loss of his touch.

“You’re so beautiful, blooming in the sun for me. You need just a little more.” You heard the click of the lotion cap behind you and felt a small amount drop onto your lower back. The chill of the lotion a welcome sensation as he worked it into your lower back. Working his hands down to your ass, he held the globes of your cheeks in his palms and shook them. A smile pulled at the corners of his mouth, “Be good and just relax for me.”

Never have you seen Kento give an aura this playfully calm. It was almost as refreshing as his fingers caressing you. “Just let all of your thoughts melt away, no worries. Us, together, here. No deadlines, no meetings, nothing at all.” He continued working the lotion into your skin. Venturing lower until he cups your pussy through your bikini bottoms.

“Hmmm, I don’t I don’t think I need sunscreen there-“

“No… you don’t.” He answered simply as he continued stroking your pussy with the flat of his hand. Kento cupped it before massaging. Both of his thumbs pressed against your lips before squishing gently against your clit. “But does this feel nice, darling?”

“Y-yes Kento. You murmur into your towel. “Your fingers always feel so good-“

Paying a few soft slaps against your pussy that earned a muted whine from you, he smiled. So wet already… He thought “Turn over for me, let me get your front darling.”

You turned over and cursed. Still not used to how handsome your partner was, he shown in the sun like Helios himself. His skin had brightened since the start of the vacation with sun-kissed freckles starting to appear on the bridge of his nose. Also, you hadn’t grown accustomed to seeing him without his stifling business professional attire. In the day-to-day life in Malaysia he kept his short sleeve shirts dangerously unbuttoned and swim trunks as a staple that showed off his cut frame.

Kento made a small smile as you looked at him unashamedly, your eyes glossing over him like a print magazine model.

“Enjoying yourself?”

“Yeah, you told me to turn over. I’m enjoying the view.” You reached over to take a sip of your drink, your lips meeting the cool rim of the glass. After your sip his lips found yours again. The ice cold condensation on your lips cooling with his hot mouth, the taste of rum lingered on his lips as you pulled away, he licked his lips to chase it.

“Fuck, you’re so gorgeous,” he murmured as he settled behind you on the chair, pulling you against him so the sculpt of his body pressed against your back. Slowly he worked your bikini bottoms to the side. He steered his head into you. “Mhmm, I’m going to take my time with you.” He purred against your skin, pressing kisses up the side of your neck. You could feel the hotness of his breath, controlled and steadying to be mindful in the moment.

His toned fingers pressed gently against you before delving inside. Your polished fingernails dug into his forearm as he flicks his wrist into you with the perfect fervor, noises getting wetter by the second. The searching movement of his fingers mixed with your quiet moans. Your other hand gripping his thigh, head nestled into his neck as you feel his taught frame against your back. “There we go,” he murmurs into your ear, hypnotized by the way your hips roll to meet his palm against your wet pussy.

“Yes, baby. Chase it. Good girl.” His breath heavy in your ear as the flick of his wrist buried him knuckle deep into your pussy, the arousal dripping into his palm with each balmy smack. “I’ll make you fall in love with me again.”

“Fuck, please…” you trailed off, clinging to his arm as fought through another mewl, “Kento, please, faster please -“

At that Kento flipped your positions, your back leaning against the soft beach chair and Kento on his knees. His fingers never stopped as he rocked his palm against you coupling that with his tongue licking your core with a deft precision. Your hands found purchase in his blond hair tugging as you ground against his face. The intensity lit through you as he brought his tongue to caress your clit.

Your thighs spasmed around his head. Your high desperate whines keened, "Cumming- ngh! M'cumming, Ken-" The sparks of white and red behind your shuttered lids are blissful. Like you're crashing right into heaven as he continues the movements, gradually slowing. He caresses your pussy gently as if to sooth you down from your high. Kento brought his fingers up to his lips and licked your essence off of them, so casually it was as if it was an afternoon ritual.

“Filthy…” You trailed off looking down at him, “I love it.”

“So sweet. And I know you do,” he smiled. Eyes watching you as you brought yourself down, knees digging into the sand. He leaned back in the beach chair while you fished his cock out from his swim shorts.

“Kento, do you even know how handsome you are?” You coo as you look up at him. The irisis of your gaze locking in on his honeyed hazel. His sun-kissed skin flushed and his lips still glossy with your essence slipped into a smile.

“You tell me every day dearest.” His breath hitched as you wrapped your hand around his length. “Your nails… they’re so pretty.”

“Thank you love.” You began, “I had them done before the trip-“

“Look so pretty around my cock like that.” He insisted, a pretty blush rose to your cheeks. You look up at him, mildly surprised at his forwardness. Another small, blushed smile spread across his face “But really, think any part of you would look pretty around me, darling.” He hums, his voice low. "You want a taste?"

You brought your eyes down to the heafty shaft filling your palm.

Nodding, your free hand held firmly onto his thigh to anchor yourself. Kento’s smile widens, his eyes shining with lust at your intimate gesture.

He moves closer, looming over you, his hardness still pressing hotly into your grasp. The image of his cock pressed against your cheek flashed into his mind, a rivulet of precum snaked down his shaft at the thought. “I need you-“ he murmurs.

Your mouth opens instinctively, your tongue darting out to moisten your lips. “How badly, sweetheart?”

Kento lets out a low moan, reaching out to cup your chin. "You have no idea how hot you look right now. That swimsuit, you know what it does to me-“

Your lips parted on the last word, your tongue darting out to kitten lick the heat of the head. He lets out a sigh of approval, tapping himself against your waiting lips. When you take him down your throat, a shiver goes down his spine despite the humid heat of the tropics. He watches you, twitching with each movement of your head. "Fuck, you feel so good. Such a perfect mouth on you." Kento’s shaft throbbed ruinously against your tongue. You draw him in, tongue swirling around his saliva-coated shaft.

The sight seems to shatter something inside him, his expression suddenly intense. A dangerous kind of hunger burning in his gaze, his hand coming up to caress your cheek. "Can you take more?"

"Mmph-" You eagerly bob your head. Pressing your nose into the base of his pubic bone. Tears gather on your lash line, but you refuse to release him from the relentless heat of your mouth. He grips your hair, threading his fingers through your tresses, pulling your face closer to him. Your knees dug into the sand, the humid breeze hot against your skin, but not as sweltering as Kento beneath you. The corded muscle underneath your palms tensing under your hold with each stroke sinking down into him.

His breaths coming out in ragged gasps.

"That's it," Kento groans, his hips moving to match your pace. "Just like that. darling." His hands pull your hair up and out of your face. “Look up at me- there.” Gritting his teeth, his hand resumed its place in your hair, tangling itself in your disheveled strands. His eyes are like pools, the pupils almost consuming the hazel of his irises. He grins at you, "Shit, you're always so good at this. So good, darling.”

Dipping your head faster, you reward his praise with a whirl of your tongue, teasing the sensitive vein at the underside of his cock. “Focus,” he swallows, “Focus on the head-Thank you-“ He groans through this teeth. “Let me,” He took a breath. “I’m gonna- Stop. Here, want to finish-“

“Inside?” You answer as you pull away.

“You read my mind.” Arms wrapping around you, he scoops you up so you’re straddling him on the beach chair, thighs on either side of his hips. He grinds up into you, his cock sliding in between your legs, pressing against your swollen clit. Kento hums considering, his gaze running up and down your form above. He's quiet for a moment, before he leans forward, his breath hot against your ear. “Fuck yourself against me darling, you know I like to watch you work.”

All he's doing is rutting his hips back and forth, watching his fat cock slide against your pussy over and over again. It's almost more arousing than when he's inside you. He gazed up at you, taking in the expressions you make while he does this. The way your brows furrow as you grow impatient, the greedy hand you shot down to try and angle him into yourself, and the honeyed whines that exit your throat in such raw desperation. “Do I feel good, baby?

He steadies himself beneath you, giving a quick nod of approval as you angle his shaft towards your entrance. “You're soaked-it feels incredible.” He let out low groan in reaction to the way you dripped all against him.

His steady hands keep a mean grip on your thighs, keeping you spread wide. With almost no resistance, the head slides in and you watch as he closes his eyes and grits his teeth. Your warmth scorches around him as you sink down fully, fingers finding his chest and lightly squeezing at his pectorals. Heats together clashing with the balmy tropical air.

Humming, you settle in and slowly begin gyrating your hips as you adjust to him. “You look so good like this, sweetheart. Underneath me.”

Kento did not feel handsome. He felt hot, flushed, loosing his mind at the view of you above him. "Hell..." He falls backwards into the solace of the beach chair. “Slow down... You're gonna hurt yourself, sweetheart.”

You smile, "Mmm... I’m okay, Ken. Better than okay, you feel so good. So sweet, you’re worried about me-“ your words catch in your throat as you grind down, ass meeting his thighs. You ride him gently, slowly, as requested. After all, you did have all day.

Kento’s was thick and hot, stretching you open with every slow, deliberate roll of your hips. Despite the small amount of time that had passed your thighs began to tremble, breath hitching into little sighs. He noticed, hands still gripping your thighs as he begins to meet you, thrusting with a patient, controlled rhythm.

Mind muddled with lust, you reach forward, your fingers dragging along the his pecs and trailing down his sides for balance. His silky blond hair unkempt with perspiration against his forehead before he pushes his fingers through it, slicking it back temporarily. Shining in the golden hour. As you leaned in to hear his soft praises against your temple even while he's splitting you apart. You leaned down to capture his lips into a kiss. His hand snakes between your bodies. Two fingers find your clit immediately, swollen, throbbing and he doesn't tease you, just rubs firm, tight circles.

I can tell you're close," he murmurs, "Aren't you?"

You nod, barely able to form words. "Please," you gasp out, your body trembling. "Please, I need-"

"I know what you need sweetheart" Kento breathes, his hands tracing a path up your spine. He’s absolutely entranced by the way your hips come crashing down on him, your velvety walls squeezing him so sweetly. The sweet whimpers that filled his mouth from you made his lower stomach tighten.

"There we go." There's a possessive gleam in his eyes that steals your breath away. "I want you to keep your eyes on me, okay? And I want you to cum for me.”

You whine grabbing onto his shoulders

Taking solace in his hands holding you steady, close. The soft current between you two snapping as your mind filled with the euphoria and pleasure from the sensation of being filled. “K-Ken!! Ah-“

“You got it, you got it-" his voice dripped with pleasure as he bounced his powerful knees to fuck you through your high. You can feel how soaked you are through your climax, how it drips down your thighs, coating his balls every time he bottoms out.

"Your Kento's here, m'here so hah-gimme a kiss, please?"

Ever the gentleman. It's on autopilot when you do, mind foggy with satisfaction you can't even control the way your maw falls parted to make it such a slobbery mess. But your husband was far from complaining -

"Shit, sweetheart," he groans in that sultry, deep voice of his. “I’m close."

"Then cum for me, darling." A groan rips from Kento’s throat when you say that in that honeyed voice of yours, his hips bucking up and driving himself even further inside you. When his cockhead kisses your cervix, a broken whine rips from your throat.

You're vaguely aware of your name being repeated like a mantra, your head rolling forward. Kento thrusting into you rhythmically like waves hitting the shore.

His fingers dig red crescents into the side of your hips as he pistons himself up into you, desperately chasing his own high.

When he hears you whimper his name so sweetly for him, head lolled into him, pressing open-mouthed kisses on his neck. That’s the moment he spurts out ribbons and paints your walls creamy white.

A frothy ring coats itself around the base of his shaft, evidence of your mixed sweet release. Your breaths run ragged together as he presses a hot kiss to your lips.

The roar of the blood in your ears dies and is eventually replaced by the crashing of waves. Natural, softer, lulling you both as you breathe together, swimsuits hastily done back up.

You pull away, looking up and around and back down again. A soft flurry of giggles leaving you. “I can’t… I can’t believe we just did this on the beach!”

At that moment Kento’s usually stoic demeanor cracked as he grinned, “First time for everything right?”

“So you’re saying we’ll do this again?” You teased.

Kento looked down at you thoughtfully, bringing his hand down beneath the crook of your knees and your arms, lifting you gently. You wrap your arms around his neck as he walks into the surf.

“I prefer the hotel room, darling.” You hummed in agreement as you settled into the bath-temperature water washing over you both.

“Although, aftercare in the ocean is as soothing as it gets. I could get used to this life with you.” He smiled and pressed a kiss to your salty cheek.

nanami has always taken care with his appearance. not out of vanity, exactly. vanity implies a kind of self-indulgence he has never possessed. for him it has always been something closer to discipline. order. the quiet reassurance that if the world insists upon chaos, at least he can meet it properly dressed.

still, as he reaches for his tie, his thoughts drift. not to the gala itself. the event holds little appeal for him beyond its inevitability. a room full of political maneuvering and polished conversation rarely offers anything he finds particularly enriching. the higher-ups will posture. the faculty will endure. gojo will make a spectacle of himself before inevitably being reined in by geto with that peculiar patience the man seems to possess.

nanami can already imagine the entire evening with perfect clarity. what he cannot imagine—what his mind insists on returning to with quiet persistence—is you.

he pauses for a moment, the tie draped loosely around his neck, his reflection staring back at him from the mirror with the same composed expression he wears almost everywhere else. it would be easy, he thinks, to dismiss the thought as trivial. you are a colleague. a quiet presence in the building. someone he speaks to only in fragments, small exchanges that rarely extend beyond professional courtesy.

and yet. you will be there. the realization carries a strange, uncharacteristic warmth with it, something soft and almost embarrassingly hopeful that settles beneath his ribs as he begins to knot the tie with slow, careful movements. you have never struck him as someone who enjoys spectacle. if anything, you move through the world with a kind of deliberate restraint, as though drawing as little notice as possible is the safest way to exist within it. but even imagining you dressed simply does not diminish the way his chest tightens faintly at the prospect.

nanami has never believed beauty to be dependent upon presentation. in truth, he suspects you could appear in the most unremarkable clothing imaginable—a borrowed coat, perhaps, or even the drab uniform of the students you teach—and still manage to look so quietly striking it would unsettle him all the same. there is something tragically beautiful about you. not the kind of beauty that demands attention. the kind that aches.

he smooths the tie against his shirtfront and reaches for his jacket, sliding his arms into the sleeves with a practiced motion. the fabric settles comfortably across his shoulders, the familiar weight grounding him. in the mirror, he looks exactly as he always does. composed. controlled. respectable enough to stand in a room full of political sorcerers without inviting comment. and yet beneath that steady exterior, something softer lingers. a quiet anticipation he cannot entirely justify.

because perhaps—just perhaps—this evening will offer him something small. a glance across the room. a moment of conversation. the simple, fleeting privilege of seeing you somewhere outside the cold fluorescent glow of the classroom halls. nanami exhales slowly, smoothing an imaginary crease from his cuff. it is a foolish thing to hope for. but he finds, as he reaches for his watch and fastens it carefully around his wrist, that hope has never been particularly obedient to reason.

—

your apartment slowly fills with the quiet disorder of indecision. it begins subtly enough, a brush left abandoned on the edge of the sink, a cluster of hairpins scattered like fallen needles across the counter, the faint scent of your perfume lingering too heavily in the air because you sprayed it once, then again, then a third time without quite meaning to. the dress lies stretched across the bed where you laid it earlier, dark fabric spilling outward in elegant folds that look far more confident in their purpose than you feel standing before the mirror.

you had believed, earlier in the day, that preparing for this evening would be simple. dress. shoes. hair. leave.

but the act of transforming yourself into someone suitable for a ballroom full of powerful sorcerers proves unexpectedly complicated, your reflection shifting every few minutes into a slightly different version of yourself as you gather your hair up, twist it, secure it with pins, study the result with uncertain eyes, then pull the entire arrangement apart again until the strands fall loose across your shoulders in a soft cascade that feels immediately more familiar and somehow less appropriate all at once.

the process repeats. up. down. pinned. half-pinned. abandoned.

your hair develops a quiet rebellion against order, slipping free of the arrangements you attempt to impose upon it until the counter becomes littered with small metallic casualties and your patience begins to thin in soft, frustrated breaths that fog the mirror before fading.

eventually you stop fighting it. the brush moves through the length of it slowly, smoothing the darker strands until they fall naturally along your back, framing your face in a way that feels softer than you intended but far easier to live with than the careful structures you had been attempting before. loose, then. you can live with it. the dress waits patiently on the bed.

you step into it with the same reluctant resignation one might feel while putting on ceremonial armor, the fabric sliding cool against your skin before settling into place with an unexpected elegance that makes you pause for a moment before the mirror again. it is a deep color, richer than you typically choose for yourself, something drawn from the quiet jewel tones of winter fruit and shadowed wine. the skirt falls in a smooth line all the way to the floor, the sleeves long and fitted, the neckline modest enough that you do not feel exposed beneath the imagined scrutiny of strangers.

utahime had looked at the dress earlier that week with a long, evaluative silence that carried far more authority than enthusiasm. she had turned the hanger slightly in her hands, examining the fabric the way someone inspects a piece of work they intend to approve whether they like it or not. “it will do,” she had said finally, the words delivered with the practical decisiveness she applied to most things.

shoko had been sprawled in the lounge chair nearby, cigarette balanced between two fingers, watching the exchange with faint amusement. her gaze had drifted toward you then, lingering for a moment with the kind of quiet perceptiveness that always made you slightly uneasy. “you should wear it,” she’d said, voice mild, almost distracted. “it suits you.” neither of them had pushed after that, though the message had been clear enough. you were expected to look the part this evening, whether you particularly wanted to or not.

you suspect you may fail at that particular request. still, standing here now, the dress feels…acceptable. strange. slightly theatrical. but acceptable. you smooth your hands along the skirt, feeling the subtle weight of the fabric as it shifts around your legs. for a moment you wonder if perhaps you look ridiculous, some academic accidentally costumed for a world she does not entirely belong to.

the clock interrupts the thought. you are already later than planned. your phone vibrates with the arrival notification for the taxi waiting outside, and the evening moves suddenly from theoretical to unavoidable.

the coat goes on carefully, draped so the sleeves do not wrinkle. your bag finds its place against your shoulder. one last glance at the mirror offers a reflection that still feels faintly unfamiliar — you, but polished in ways you rarely allow yourself to be, your posture instinctively restrained even as the dress lends you a quiet sort of elegance you had not expected. then the lights go out. the door closes. and you are on your way.

the taxi ride does nothing to soothe the growing agitation in your chest. traffic coils endlessly through the streets like a stubborn river refusing to yield to urgency, every red light lingering just a fraction longer than seems necessary. your driver hums softly along with a radio station that crackles faintly through the speakers, weaving through unfamiliar routes that twist your sense of direction into something slightly nauseating as the minutes slip past.

you check the time on your watch. then again. then again, the irritation tightening in your shoulders. you hate being late. it unsettles you in a way that feels disproportionate to the situation, the simple act of arriving after others already have creating a subtle pressure behind your ribs that makes the approaching building loom larger in your mind than it has any right to. by the time the taxi pulls up beneath the golden spill of the venue’s entrance lights, your pulse has already quickened into a quiet, persistent rhythm.

the building glows. tall windows cast warm illumination onto the pavement, music drifting faintly through the glass along with the murmur of voices that have already gathered inside. it looks exactly as you imagined it would: elegant, excessive, full of people who understand instinctively how to move through rooms like this without hesitation. you step out of the car with careful composure, smoothing your coat as though the gesture might restore some sense of control over the evening.

inside the ballroom, nanami has been looking for you. he has done so discreetly, the habit woven into the rhythm of his evening as naturally as breathing. conversations come and go around him, polite exchanges with colleagues, the inevitable moment where gojo drapes an arm around his shoulder and begins narrating some elaborate complaint about the champagne quality. nanami listens, responds when necessary, moves through the room with the same calm attentiveness that characterizes everything he does.

but his gaze keeps drifting. across the ballroom. toward the entrance. you are not there. minutes pass. then more. and just as he begins to wonder whether perhaps you have chosen not to attend after all—

the doors open. you walk in. the moment unfolds quietly, the way most meaningful moments tend to do, without spectacle or announcement. conversations continue. laughter rises and falls somewhere near the bar. no one else seems to register the significance of the late arrival beyond a brief glance toward the entrance.

nanami notices instantly. the world narrows with surprising ease. you stand just inside the doorway, coat still gathered loosely around your shoulders, eyes scanning the unfamiliar space with the careful awareness he has come to recognize so well. and the sight of you settles warmly into his chest. 

the dress suits you perfectly. it is not elaborate, not dramatic in the way many gowns in the room seem determined to be, yet the deep jewel tone catches the light in a way that brings a soft richness to your appearance. the long sleeves frame your arms gracefully, the skirt falling all the way to the floor in a line of effortless elegance that moves gently when you shift your weight.

your hair—your beautiful hair he has privately admired more times than he will ever confess—flows freely tonight, cascading down your back in dark waves that catch the warm glow of the chandeliers. and your eyes. those thoughtful, luminous eyes framed by the thick natural lashes that soften every expression you wear. nanami feels an unmistakable sense of quiet satisfaction settle over him. you look beautiful. the realization carries a simple sincerity that requires no embellishment at all.

rooms like this possess their own rhythm, a quiet machinery of expectation that carries everyone forward whether they wish to participate or not. the orchestra murmurs gently somewhere beyond the sweep of the ballroom floor, chandeliers scatter light across the polished surfaces of glass and gold, and clusters of faculty and dignitaries shift gradually through the space like drifting constellations, rearranging themselves with each new arrival or departure.

you manage well enough at first. better than you expected, perhaps. the trick, you have long ago discovered, lies in remaining purposeful. if one appears to have a destination—if one moves through the room with quiet intention rather than idle hesitation—people are far less inclined to stop you for long. so you navigate carefully from one polite obligation to the next, offering greetings where they are required, nodding with measured attentiveness when introductions are made, positioning yourself beside yaga for a few minutes so the higher-ups can register your presence without needing to search for it later.

your voice remains calm, reserved, practiced. someone asks about your research. another about the lab. the same question repeats itself in slightly different forms throughout the hour, and each time you attempt the delicate balancing act of explaining your work in terms that sound respectable without becoming incomprehensible. curse evolution, you say. historical pattern analysis. minor manifestations across generational bloodlines. you simplify where you can, trimming away the deeper complexities until the explanation becomes something smooth and palatable enough for polite conversation. you are aware, of course, that most of them are not truly listening.

their attention flickers toward you briefly, politely, then drifts elsewhere the moment you pause long enough for them to speak again. your explanation becomes merely a stepping stone toward their own grievances—stories about long missions, frustrating bureaucratic changes, the exhausting expectations of students, the mild theatrical complaints of people who are accustomed to being heard.

you nod when appropriate. offer the occasional brief response. all the while the room presses steadily closer. someone hands you a glass of champagne. you accept it out of courtesy, though it remains untouched in your hand for the better part of twenty minutes. another guest offers you a different drink moments later, smiling as though the suggestion itself were a kindness. you decline gently. the music swells. laughter rises and falls in bright bursts that echo faintly against the walls. the lights feel warmer now than they did when you first arrived. perhaps brighter. perhaps closer. 

across the room, nanami kento has been attempting—quietly, carefully—to reach you. he has spotted you several times since your arrival, each glimpse of that deep jewel-toned dress catching his attention as naturally as gravity pulls water downhill. the sight of you moving through the crowd remains unexpectedly compelling, your posture composed but slightly guarded, your hair falling down your back in dark waves that reflect the warm chandelier light each time you turn your head.

nanami does not intend to corner you. the last thing he wants is to trap you in conversation while the room presses too closely around you. still, he finds himself drifting gradually through the crowd in your direction more than once, pausing to exchange brief words with colleagues along the way, waiting for the natural moment when your paths might intersect. once he nearly reaches you. a faculty member stops him. another pulls him briefly into conversation. when he looks up again you have moved elsewhere, slipping between groups with the same careful efficiency he has come to recognize from the corridors at school. the pattern repeats itself. nanami does not take offense. he simply watches. you appear…tired.

the observation settles quietly in his mind as he studies the subtle changes in your posture from across the room. the tension in your shoulders has grown slightly more pronounced. your smile—when required—appears thinner now, your eyes shifting toward the edges of the ballroom more frequently as though searching for some point of relief.

these kinds of environments wear on you. he knows that much already. you are someone who thrives in quiet rooms, in the steady solitude of your lab where chalkboards and diagrams demand far less emotional negotiation than crowds of well-dressed strangers. the constant hum of conversation here, the subtle expectations embedded within every exchange, the simple proximity of so many bodies moving through the same shared air—it is exhausting in ways most people never bother to notice.

nanami sees it. and yet he waits. just one moment, he tells himself. one brief conversation. he wants only to tell you that you look lovely tonight. the word feels inadequate even in his thoughts. lovely does not quite encompass the quiet elegance of that dress against your skin, or the softness of your hair beneath the warm lights, or the thoughtful depth in your eyes as you listen patiently to people who are speaking more to themselves than to you. still. it would be enough.

but when nanami looks across the ballroom again—you are gone. the space you occupied moments earlier now contains only a small group of guests speaking animatedly over glasses of wine. no dark cascade of hair. no deep jewel-toned silhouette. no careful posture that he has unconsciously learned to recognize even from a distance.

his attention sharpens immediately. he scans the room once more, slow and methodical, searching the shifting crowd for any sign of you. nothing. the absence is strangely immediate. then, near the far edge of the ballroom, he catches sight of movement. the side door. you are slipping through it into the hallway beyond.

the gesture is subtle, nearly invisible among the constant motion of the room, but nanami notices the small details others might miss—the way your hand presses briefly against the wall as you push the door open, the faint rise and fall of your shoulders as you step out of the light. your breathing looks uneven. the door closes behind you. and nanami is already moving.

the bathroom offers a small and temporary mercy. the door shuts behind you with a quiet, decisive click that cuts the ballroom away as though someone has drawn a curtain across it. the music dulls instantly, reduced to a distant, muffled murmur beneath the steady hum of overhead lights. here the air is cooler. still. empty in the blessed way that empty spaces sometimes are.

for a moment you simply stand there. your hands rest against the porcelain edge of the sink while you look at your reflection with a kind of detached appraisal, as though the woman staring back at you might belong to someone else entirely. the dress is still immaculate, the jewel tone rich beneath the harsh bathroom lights, your hair falling over your shoulders exactly as it had when you arrived.

you look composed. which is fortunate. because adults do not have little fits in the bathroom. the thought arrives with the firm, steady logic you have spent most of your life cultivating. you have not cried. you have not panicked. your breathing is a little uneven, perhaps, and the room had begun to feel unbearably loud, unbearably close, but that hardly qualifies as a crisis.

you have been here almost an hour. that is more than enough. plenty of time for your presence to be noted, for the necessary pleasantries to be exchanged, for your obligation to the evening to be fulfilled. no one will care if you slip away now. in a room that large, filled with people who are mostly interested in hearing themselves speak, departures rarely attract attention.

you inhale slowly. the breath feels tight in your chest at first, like something working through a narrow space, but it loosens after a moment.

you will leave. that is the solution. you will gather yourself—just a little—walk calmly through the hallway, retrieve your coat, and disappear into the night before the ballroom has the opportunity to swallow another hour of your patience. you are not close enough with anyone here to require an explanation. yaga will assume you left early. utahime might notice eventually, but she will understand. you tighten your grip on the edge of the sink for a moment, the cool porcelain grounding beneath your palms. you are not crying. you are not falling apart. you are simply tired.

a few more steady breaths pass. then you turn for the door. the hallway outside is quiet. the transition from the warm, crowded ballroom to the open corridor sends a faint chill across your skin as you step through the doorway, your mind already moving ahead to the simple relief of going home—washing your face, removing the dress, slipping into bed where the world can shrink again to something manageable.

and then there is something enormous standing in front of you. for one brief, disorienting second your body startles instinctively, your breath catching in your throat as your eyes try to reconcile the sudden, imposing presence occupying the hallway. then recognition settles. it is not that you are particularly small. nanami kento is simply a very large man.

tall—taller than most people you know—with broad shoulders that fill the space around him almost effortlessly. his suit jacket stretches across a chest so expansive it seems to dominate your entire field of vision at this distance, the crisp white shirt beneath emphasizing the strong lines of his frame. his arms are folded loosely at his sides, the muscles beneath the fabric of his sleeves unmistakable even in stillness.

he is trying, you realize almost immediately, to make himself appear smaller.

the effort is painfully obvious.

his shoulders are slightly rounded forward, his stance deliberately relaxed, his posture softened in the careful way someone might behave around a startled animal. it would almost be amusing if the effect were not so endearing.

of course, there is only so small a man like nanami can reasonably become. your heart takes a moment to settle. but the instant you recognize him, something in your chest loosens without your permission. oh. nanami. nanami will not hurt you.

that much has been clear for a long time now, though you have never quite allowed yourself to articulate it aloud. he has been patient in a way that borders on incomprehensible, quietly orbiting your existence for months without demanding anything in return. there has never been pressure in his voice, never impatience when you retreat from conversation, never the subtle frustration that so many others eventually reveal when they decide you are too quiet, too complicated, too exhausting to bother with.

it occurs to you suddenly—standing here in the hallway beneath the soft overhead lights—that nanami kento might be the only man who has ever truly attempted to know you without first deciding that the effort would not be worth the inconvenience. the thought makes your chest feel strangely warm. perhaps he deserves some credit for that.

though if you were being honest, there is nothing here for him to discover. you have tried to make that clear over the past months with your careful distance, your short answers, your deliberate refusal to encourage whatever quiet interest seems to live behind his thoughtful eyes. you had hoped that eventually he would understand the truth of it: that you are difficult to know, difficult to keep, a person shaped by too many strange edges to ever become easy company.

if only you knew how much he loves being around you. how every small interaction feels like a victory he treasures quietly. how he would accept infinitely more of your presence without hesitation. 

nanami says something. your thoughts have carried you too far away to catch the first attempt, his voice arriving as a deep, warm vibration that brushes the edge of your awareness without fully reaching you. he repeats himself. “are you alright?” the rich bass of his voice settles the room around you like gravity. you blink. of course. you cannot admit weakness in front of a man like this. not when he is standing there looking so steady and capable and painfully kind.

you nod. the motion is small, restrained. but your throat feels strangely tight. nanami notices immediately. he always does. his gaze studies your face with the quiet attentiveness he seems incapable of suppressing. “are you leaving?” 

you nod again. “yes.” the word barely emerges.

something in his expression softens further. “would you mind if I walked you out, then?” the question lands gently, without expectation, as though he would accept refusal without protest.

you find yourself nodding before your mind has the opportunity to argue. he turns first. nanami always seems to understand instinctively how to guide a situation without making you feel pushed, his long stride adjusting easily to match your pace as the two of you move down the corridor together. after a few steps his hand finds your lower back. the contact is firm and warm and impossibly steady. his palm is enormous. the heat radiating through the thin fabric of your dress sends a quiet wave of warmth through your entire body, the kind of warmth you realize with faint surprise you have not felt in months. nanami seems to notice that too. his hand remains there.

outside, the night air is cold enough to sting. without hesitation he slips out of his suit jacket and settles it carefully over your shoulders, the familiar scent of clean linen and faint cologne surrounding you as the fabric drapes around your arms.

“I can take you,” he says, voice low, steady as the rhythm of his breathing.

you shake your head almost immediately. “no, it’s alright. I’ll take a taxi.” you do not want to inconvenience him. you do not want to ask for more than you already have.

the refusal comes gently enough, softened by habit, wrapped in the careful politeness you’ve spent years perfecting so that rejection never sounds like rejection. to you it feels reasonable, even considerate. he has already walked you out, already given you his coat, already stood here in the cold beside you longer than necessary.

there is no reason to trouble him further. nanami, however, receives the answer with a quiet tension that settles almost imperceptibly through his shoulders. it isn’t anger. it isn’t offense. something deeper moves through him instead—an old, familiar frustration that arrives whenever you treat his presence like an imposition rather than an offering.

because in nanami’s mind you have never once been a bother. not even for a moment. if anything, the opposite has always been true. the thought that you might someday trouble him—that you might interrupt his evening with a phone call asking for help, or knock on his office door because you needed something, anything at all—carries a strange and deeply satisfying appeal he has never fully unpacked.

he would welcome it. god, he would welcome it. nanami is a man who has spent most of his life solving problems. that is, in many ways, the entire structure of his existence. identify the difficulty, evaluate the situation, step forward and handle what needs handling. it is a pattern so deeply ingrained in him that he rarely notices it anymore.

and you stand before him wrapped in his coat, eyes a little tired, shoulders still carrying the faint remnants of the evening’s strain, and you refuse even the smallest opportunity to lean on him. he understands why. you have lived too long without reliable help to believe in it easily. independence becomes armor when the world repeatedly teaches you that relying on others invites disappointment. nanami recognizes that instinct with a painful clarity.

still. some stubborn, quiet part of him wishes you would let the armor slip. just once. he wants you to bother him. truly bother him. he wants you to ask him for inconvenient things—rides home at unreasonable hours, help, carrying too many books back to your lab, someone to walk beside you on evenings when the city feels too loud and the sidewalks too crowded. he wants your problems to appear on his doorstep so he can solve them with the calm, steady competence that has always defined him. if you asked him to stay late, he would. if you asked him to drive across the city, he would. if you asked him to sit quietly beside you while you worked, saying nothing at all, he would consider it a privilege.

nanami has never been afraid of responsibility. and caring for you—however gently, however gradually—feels less like a burden and more like something instinctual. something he has already accepted without realizing the moment when the decision was made. but you will not ask. you thank him politely. decline politely. keep the careful distance that has always defined the fragile boundary between the two of you. so he exhales once through his nose, the sound almost inaudible in the cold air, and nods.

“alright,” he says simply. there is no pressure in his voice. “then I’ll walk you to the taxi stand.” you do not argue. when the taxi arrives, you instinctively begin shrugging off the jacket to return it. nanami’s hand stops you gently. “I’d like you to wear it home, please,” he says, his voice low and steady. “if you insist on returning it, you can do that on monday.” your stomach flutters unexpectedly. you nod. he opens the car door for you, one hand steadying the frame as you slip inside. “goodnight,” he murmurs. and something about the way he says it feels different. there is a softness in his eyes you have not noticed before.

a quiet light. the taxi door closes. as the car pulls away, you find yourself wondering if perhaps nanami kento is not as frightening as you once believed. perhaps there is something there after all.

later, at home, the apartment feels impossibly quiet. you eat something small without really tasting it, wash the evening from your face, brush your teeth slowly beneath the warm glow of the bathroom light. your hair falls forward again as you braid it loosely over one shoulder before climbing into bed. soft sheets. comfortable pajamas. and nanami’s coat draped over the chair beside you.

sleep comes easily. but your mind wanders. you dream of warm hands slipping the heels from your feet. of gentle kisses pressed against your cheek. of strong arms wrapped carefully around you. and somewhere in the soft blur between waking and sleep, the image of a tall, golden-haired man lingers quietly in your thoughts. you had told yourself you could never have him. now, you are no longer certain what the future holds.

—

he does not linger outside for long. the cold settles quickly once you are gone, the taxi’s taillights dissolving into the slow current of traffic until there is nothing left of the moment but the faint imprint of your warmth lingering in the sleeves of the jacket he is no longer wearing. for a few seconds he remains where he is, hands resting loosely at his sides, his gaze lingering down the empty stretch of street as though the night itself might offer some small confirmation that what just happened was real.

then he exhales. and turns back toward the building. the ballroom greets him again with its warm gold light and the steady, conversational hum of people who have settled comfortably into the later half of the evening. somewhere across the room someone is laughing too loudly. the orchestra has shifted into something softer now, a slow drifting melody that fills the empty spaces between voices.

nanami slips easily back into the crowd. he knows gojo will notice if he disappears entirely. the man has a remarkable ability to detect the absence of people he considers part of his orbit, and the teasing that would follow tomorrow morning would be…extensive. still. nanami finds that he does not mind the room nearly as much as he did earlier.

in fact, there is something dangerously close to delight lingering beneath his calm exterior. he had been alone with you. the thought settles in his chest with quiet, glowing satisfaction. it had been brief, yes. a small moment carved out of the chaos of the evening. but it had existed. you had spoken with him. walked beside him. accepted the warmth of his coat without protest. allowed his hand to guide you gently through the hallway without pulling away. to anyone else those details might appear insignificant. nanami catalogs them like treasured artifacts.

you had declined the ride home, of course. he smiles faintly to himself at that. of course you had. you are consistent in your careful independence, always determined to avoid asking for more than you believe you deserve. it frustrates him sometimes—quietly, privately—but even that stubborn distance feels strangely endearing now that he understands it better.

he will warm you up to things. gradually. patiently. nanami has never been a man who rushes what matters. he moves through the room again, exchanging brief nods with colleagues who greet him as he passes, accepting a glass of something amber from a passing server even though he has little interest in drinking it. his thoughts remain several steps removed from the conversation around him, drifting instead toward the quiet image of you wrapped in his coat inside the taxi.

he wonders if you are warm now. if you are already home. if you will remember the way his hand rested at your back. a faint warmth spreads through his chest again. he had offered you things tonight. small things, perhaps. a walk. a ride. a jacket against the cold. you had refused some of them, yes—but not all. and even your refusals had come softly, without the sharp retreat he once feared from you.

progress. the word slips through his mind with surprising ease. nanami is aware, dimly, that he may be getting ahead of himself. the rational part of his mind understands the improbability of it all. you have spoken fewer than a handful of sentences to him across the better part of a year. your instinct remains distance, not closeness. there are entire continents of silence between you that patience alone may never bridge.

and yet. he finds that he does not care nearly as much as he should. because tonight you stood beside him in the hallway with tired eyes and trembling breath, and you trusted him enough to let him walk you outside. that is something. and nanami has always been a man who knows how to build something meaningful from very small beginnings. he takes a slow sip from the glass in his hand, gaze drifting briefly toward the ballroom doors as though he might still expect you to reappear there.

you will get used to him. he is certain of it. little by little. and when you do—well. nanami smiles faintly to himself. then he will give you everything he can, everything you’ll allow. 

—

the night does not remain happy forever. at first it is only a sound. a faint, irregular tapping somewhere beyond the edges of sleep—soft enough that your mind folds it easily into the half-formed scenery of dreams. in the hazy, drifting space between unconsciousness and waking, the noise becomes something distant and abstract, like rain against a window or the quiet settling of old pipes in the walls.

you turn slightly beneath the covers, pulling the blanket closer around your shoulders, the warmth of the bed wrapping you in a cocoon that feels almost impossibly comfortable after the long evening. then the sound changes. not tapping anymore. something heavier. a slow, irregular dripping that seems to echo through the apartment with a hollow persistence that sleep cannot quite swallow. your eyes open. for a moment you lie perfectly still, staring into the dim gray darkness of the ceiling above you, your mind moving slowly through the fog of sleep as it tries to place the noise. the room is quiet otherwise. the soft hum of the refrigerator down the hall. the faint distant rush of late-night traffic beyond the window.

drip. a pause. drip.

your brow furrows. you sit up. the floor is cold beneath your feet when you swing your legs over the side of the bed, and the sensation sends a small shiver up your spine as you stand there listening more carefully now, the sound becoming clearer with every second.

drip. drip. 

it is coming from the hallway. or perhaps the kitchen. you move slowly at first, still caught halfway between sleep and the waking world, your loose braid sliding over your shoulder as you push open the bedroom door and step into the narrow stretch of apartment beyond.

the air feels damp. the observation arrives faintly at first, almost abstract. then you hear it. not dripping now. running. water is hitting the floor somewhere ahead of you in a steady, quiet cascade. your heart stutters. you turn the corner toward the kitchen. and stop. for a moment your mind refuses to understand what your eyes are seeing. water is pouring from the ceiling.

not a small leak. not a polite, manageable trickle that might be contained with a bowl and a phone call to the building superintendent in the morning. no—this is something far less cooperative. a steady sheet of water spills from a widening seam in the plaster above the kitchen cabinets, spreading outward across the ceiling in dark, creeping stains before breaking free and falling to the floor below.

the kitchen tile glistens beneath it. your socks are soaked almost immediately. the sound of the water fills the apartment now, a relentless rushing that drowns out the quiet nighttime stillness that had existed here only minutes ago. you stare.

the ceiling groans faintly. another thin crack appears beside the first, widening with a slow, sickening patience that sends a cold wave of realization through your chest. oh, your apartment is flooding. the thought lands with strange clarity. and suddenly everything begins to move.

you turn quickly, heart hammering now as adrenaline burns away the last remnants of sleep. towels—no, pointless. a bucket—equally useless. the water is already spreading beyond the kitchen, slipping into the hallway in shallow reflective streams that creep toward the living room carpet.

another groan echoes through the ceiling above you. that decides it. you grab your phone from the nightstand and begin moving with purpose. a bag. necessities. the small emergency instincts you didn’t know you possessed begin surfacing quietly, guiding your hands through the process with surprising efficiency. a change of clothes. your laptop. the folder containing your research notes. a small bundle of toiletries swept quickly from the bathroom counter. you pause briefly beside the bookshelf, staring at the rows of carefully collected volumes that have quietly accumulated around you over the years.

you cannot carry them. the realization stings. but the ceiling groans again, louder this time. you zip the bag. water has reached the living room now, creeping slowly across the hardwood floor in glistening sheets that reflect the pale glow of the overhead lights. you slip your shoes on.

the apartment door closes behind you with a quiet click that feels strangely final. for a moment you stand in the hallway outside your own home, the bag slung over your shoulder, your damp socks already beginning to chill in the cooler air of the building corridor. the distant sound of rushing water continues behind the door. you stare at the wall across from you.

you will have to find somewhere to stay. the thought arrives slowly. it is the middle of the night. your apartment may very well collapse before morning. and you are suddenly, unmistakably homeless.