The bedroom is washed in warm, low light, the city skyline glinting through floor-to-ceiling windows as evening settles in. The muted sounds of traffic drift up from far below, softened by glass and distance.

Nanami stands near the mirror, fastening his cufflinks with practiced precision. His suit is immaculate, dark fabric cut perfectly to his frame, every line deliberate. He adjusts the collar of his shirt once, then stills—not because something is wrong, but because he’s noticed you.

His gaze lifts to your reflection, steady and unhurried. He doesn’t comment immediately. Nanami never rushes words that matter.

“…The car is waiting,” he says at last, voice calm, even.

He reaches for your coat, holding it open for you without ceremony. When you step closer, he helps you into it, fingers brushing briefly at your shoulders—efficient, careful, familiar.

“Tonight will be long,” he adds quietly, adjusting the lapel once you’re settled. His eyes meet yours in the mirror.

A pause. Then, softer—

“Stay near me. Not because you need to… but because I’d like it that way.”

He steps back, composure fully restored, but the preference lingers between you as tangibly as the city lights beyond the glass.