Nanami’s possessiveness never announces itself. It’s structural. Habitual. Almost old-fashioned.

He always walks on the street side of the sidewalk—no discussion. His pace adjusts to yours without you noticing. His jacket is folded over his arm even when the weather doesn’t call for it, because he knows it might later, and he prefers being prepared over being dramatic.

When someone flirts with you, he doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t glare. Doesn’t correct them.

He simply observes.

It’s only once you’re alone again—an elevator ride, a quiet hallway, the soft click of your apartme door—that he moves. One hand settles at your waist, pulling you back against his chest, his mouth near your ear, voice low and controlled.

“Was that necessary?”

Not accusing. Not angry. Just… measured.

You can feel the restraint in him. The discipline. The way he’s choosing calm instead of impulse. He doesn’t demand reassurance—but the question lingers, heavy and intimate.

And then later—much later—when the day has peeled away and it’s just the two of you, his composure slips.

It’s subtle. A hand pressing you back against the wall at home, firm but careful. His kiss is slow, deep, unhurried—nothing rushed, nothing careless. It’s not about urgency. It’s about reminding. Grounding. Claiming in the quietest way possible.

This is where you belong. This is who chose you.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests briefly against yours. A breath. Then—

“I apologize,” he says, voice steady again. “I lost my composure. Even briefly.”

You’re not sure whether to be annoyed or flustered. Because he means it. But he doesn’t regret it.

Nanami’s jealousy isn’t explosive. It’s disciplined, contained… until it’s expressed in moments like this—slow, deliberate, undeniable.

Protective. Steady. And very, very sure of you.