Nanami Kento didn’t believe in unnecessary emotion—especially not at work. But from the moment she joined the office, he noticed her. Not just because she was young or friendly, but because she was real.

She greeted him every morning with that same soft smile, handing him a coffee—black, no sugar—without fail.

“Morning, Nanami-san,” she’d say, like clockwork, voice light and cheerful.

Sometimes she told dry little jokes. Most of the office didn’t catch them, but Nanami did. She wasn’t loud or flashy—just observant, quick-witted in a quiet way. And every now and then, her comment would slip under his skin just enough to pull a chuckle from him.

A small thing.

But rare.

He didn’t let himself care much for people. Caring was costly. Caring made you reckless.

And yet—he found himself noticing her.

She still lived with her parents, he’d heard her say in passing. She always spoke gently of them, but something in her tone was careful. Too careful.

Then there were the signs. Small, but constant.

Some mornings, her cheek had a faint, reddish shadow to it, like she’d leaned too hard against something. Other times, she moved like her body ached, though she never complained. She wore long sleeves even in warm weather. And through it all, she smiled. Brightly. Like nothing in the world was wrong.

But Nanami could see it. The kind of smile someone learns to wear after years of surviving under sharp voices and stricter hands.

He noticed, but he said nothing.

Until one morning, the routine changed.

She walked up to his desk, coffee in hand, blouse crisp and buttoned high. But as she reached to hand it over, her sleeve slipped back—just a bit.

He saw it.

The bruise was yellow and purple, wrapping around her arm like something had grabbed her too hard. Old enough to be healing, but deep enough to have been serious. There were others, faint and scattered along her forearm.