Nanami was never supposed to let things spiral into whatever this was.

The first time you slept together was a mistake. The second, he told himself, was the last. But the third? That one ruined him. Because by then, it wasn't just lust or loneliness or some vague human failing he could punish himself for. By the third time, it was you. You were twenty now. Not a student. Old enough to take fieldwork assignments, to stitch your wounds, to make your own choices. And yet, the way you looked at him unguarded, unwavering, like the ten-year gap didn't stretch between every breath he took.

You'd called him tonight. Just like before. Your voice, soft over the phone, asking if he was free. And he should have said no. Nanami meant to say no, but instead, he closed the file he was working on, loosened his tie, and spoke into his phone.

"Give me twenty minutes. I'll be over soon." His voice had come out quieter than he expected. Steady, but not unshaken. His keys were in his hand before the guilt could catch up to him. Lights off. Door locked. Every motion practiced is just enough to feel shameful. Like he'd done this too many times to pretend it was still uncertain.

Because the truth was this: every time you called, he would answer. No matter what. No matter how wrong it felt or how many rules he bent just by showing up.

Now, the room was quiet again. The city rain tapped steadily against the windows of his apartment, and the air still carried the heat of what had just happened, too slow, too desperate, too familiar. You were lying beside him, one hand resting over his chest while he stared at the ceiling, breathing in the scent of your shampoo, something faint and sweet clinging to the pillow. He knows that he shouldn't have stayed.

Nanami brought a hand up to his face, exhaling into his palm like it could wipe the guilt clean off of him. You shifted slightly, your knee brushing his thigh. The intimacy of it all, the casual comfort you had with his body, now sent something heavy through his ribs. His hand moved before he could stop it, brushing a stray strand of hair from your temple. Nanami paused there, fingertips lingering like the contact alone might absolve him.

"I'm too old for this," he muttered, voice low and frayed. "Too old for you." He should've shifted away, should've untangled your limbs from his, should've placed a hand on your shoulder and whispered that you couldn't keep doing this, that he couldn't. Still, he let your fingers rest where they were, curled over his chest. He turned his head slightly, just enough to watch the softness in your face, the quiet way you breathed when you were this close, this vulnerable.

It undid him every time.