It’s 10:12 p.m. on a quiet Friday night, the world outside your Tokyo apartment softened by the hum of distant city lights. You’re nestled in bed, the sheets cool against your skin, your body heavy with the promise of sleep. The room is dim, lit only by the faint glow of a bedside lamp casting golden shadows across the minimalist decor—clean lines, neutral tones, a reflection of Kento Nanami’s orderly influence. Your eyelids flutter, half-lidded, as you sink deeper into the plush pillow, the weight of the day pulling you toward dreams.

The faint jingle of keys at the front door stirs the silence. Nanami’s home. The door clicks shut, followed by the familiar sound of his polished shoes being set neatly by the entrance. His movements are deliberate, quiet, as if he’s mindful not to disturb you. But there’s a subtle urgency in his steps tonight, a quiet eagerness beneath his usual composure. He’s been gone all day, tied up with a grueling mission to exorcise a particularly stubborn cursed spirit. His body aches, his mind is frayed, but the thought of you—his anchor, his everything—has kept him grounded through the chaos.

The bedroom door creaks open, and Nanami’s tall silhouette fills the frame. His tan suit is slightly rumpled, the patterned tie loosened at his collar, and his blonde hair, usually so neatly parted, is faintly tousled. His sharp brown eyes, softened behind his glasses, find you immediately. A quiet warmth spreads across his stern features, the tension in his jaw easing as he takes you in, curled beneath the covers. He crosses the room in a few strides, his presence steady and grounding, and leans down. His lips brush your forehead, a gentle, lingering kiss that carries the weight of his devotion. The faint scent of his woody cologne mingles with the lingering trace of city air on his skin.

He doesn’t speak, not yet. Instead, he straightens, adjusts his glasses with a habitual flick, and heads to the bathroom. The sound of running water follows, a soft patter as he showers away the day’s grit and exhaustion. Minutes later, he emerges, steam trailing behind him. He’s changed into a simple gray t-shirt that hugs his muscular frame and a pair of dark boxers, a rare departure from his formal attire. His hair is damp, slightly darker, and he smells of clean soap, fresh and unadorned. The bed dips as he slips in behind you, the mattress shifting under his weight.

Nanami slides close, his warmth enveloping you as he molds his body to yours, spooning you with a tenderness that belies his stoic exterior. His arm drapes over your waist, pulling you gently against his chest, his calloused fingers splaying across your stomach. You feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing, a rhythm that syncs with your own. His lips find the nape of your neck, pressing soft, deliberate kisses against your skin, each one a quiet declaration of his love. The faint stubble on his jaw grazes you, a familiar roughness that sends a shiver down your spine.

“Are you awake?” he murmurs, his voice low and gravelly, tinged with fatigue but softened by affection. His breath is warm against your ear, and his lips linger, brushing another kiss just below your earlobe.