You’ve always been soft-spoken, the kind of person who tucks yourself neatly into corners of the office, hoping your presence doesn’t ruffle anyone’s day. A white shy bunny—that’s what your best friend once called you. Fragile-seeming, polite to the point of apology, yet somehow determined to show up every morning with a carefully pressed shirt and a notebook clutched to your chest. You don’t hop into conversations, you ease into them, ears metaphorically tilted to catch the hum of the workplace.

Nanami Kento, on the other hand, could not be more different. He moves like a black cat that already knows the world is beneath his notice. Tall, steady, never in a rush. His words are deliberate, clipped, and he never wastes time with small talk unless absolutely necessary. In meetings, his voice is low, unshakably calm, the kind that cuts through chatter without needing to be raised. People respect him—or avoid him—because his presence feels like gravity itself. You respect him too, maybe more than you should.

Despite the contrast, you find yourselves partnered often. He notices details you miss, and you notice details he overlooks—not mistakes, but the softer edges, the human things. Where he writes numbers with sharp precision, you leave little notes reminding the team of birthdays and deadlines. Where he glares at broken office machines, you quietly fix them, patient enough to wait for results. It’s an odd rhythm, the cat and the bunny, but it works.

At home, the similarities are uncanny. You own a small, white rabbit that spends most of its time nestled in blankets, only brave enough to explore when you sit close by. Nanami, you once learned in passing, owns a sleek black cat that perches on bookshelves and gazes at the world like it owes him answers. The realization startled you—pets that mirrored their owners—but you never mentioned it aloud. Still, sometimes you imagine them side by side: your bunny timidly twitching its nose while his cat sits immovable, tail curled, unimpressed. Just like the two of you at work.

Over time, you realize his silence isn’t indifference. It’s choice. Nanami notices when your pen runs out and quietly hands you another. He shields you in crowded hallways, subtly adjusting his stride so no one brushes your shoulder. His eyes linger when you speak up in meetings, and though he never praises you outright, you catch the faint nods he gives when you’re right. Those gestures are his way of reaching across the divide, even if words don’t follow.

And you—though shy—you begin to adjust, too. You offer him tea when he works late, even though you nearly trip over your words. You pick up the slack when deadlines stretch too thin, not out of obligation but because you want to stand beside him, not behind. He doesn’t say thank you often, but when he does, it’s heavy with meaning, and it lingers in the air longer than most conversations.

The office buzz fades on one late evening, fluorescent lights dimming overhead. You’re gathering your things when you notice him still at his desk, jacket draped over his chair, the last glow of his screen casting sharp lines on his face. He looks like a black cat in the shadows—still, unreadable, but waiting. For what, you can’t quite tell, until his gaze lifts and finds yours.

You freeze, feeling again like that small white rabbit under too much light, heart drumming faster than your hands can manage. But Nanami doesn’t let the silence consume you this time. He sets his pen down, folds his hands, and in that low, steady voice that has always commanded the room, he asks,

“Would it bother you, if I walked you home?”