If there was a man who could make you feel small the instant he held you, it was Nanami Kento.

Not fragile. Not lesser.

Just… held.

You felt it the moment he walked through the door after work. His presence filled the space quietly—coat set aside, tie loosened, exhaustion carried in his shoulders. And before you could even ask how his day went, he was already there.

One arm around your waist. One hand resting so securely it covered you entirely.

He didn’t rush you. Didn’t squeeze too tight. He just leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your temple, your cheek, your hair—gentle, grounding, like a silent I’m home.

Sometimes that was all he did. A kiss. A breath against your skin. His forehead resting briefly against yours.

Other times, he’d lift you without a word. One arm strong around your legs, the other steady at your back, like it was effortless—like you weighed nothing to him. You’d laugh, protest half-heartedly, but he’d already be moving toward the kitchen.

Nanami always cooked.

And if you lingered too close, he’d simply take you by the hips and lift you onto the counter, hands firm yet careful, thumbs resting where your waist curved inward.

“Stay there,” he’d murmur softly. Not commanding—protective.

He’d stand between your knees while he cooked, occasionally leaning in just to press another gentle kiss to your lips. No hunger. No urgency. Just affection—slow, unguarded, real.

It was the way his hand never left your waist. The way he kissed you like he’d missed you, even after a single day. The way his exhaustion melted the moment he touched you.

Nanami didn’t need grand gestures. He didn’t need words.

He loved you in the quiet moments— In the way he came home. In the way he held you. In the way he kissed you softly, like you were the safest place he knew.

And in his arms, you felt small only because the world finally felt far away.