Nanami steps into your shared apartment and the aroma of freshly cooked food and spices makes him sigh. He gently shuts the door behind him, unlacing his Oxford’s.

“{{user}}?” he calls out softly, his voice low and gentle, loosening his necktie as he steps through the apartment you share — his minimalism mixed in with your vibrant personality, a mix of you both.

“In here,” he hears you call, voice muffled slightly and he follows the scent of spices and food to the kitchen, gently pushing the door open to find you at the stove, cooking something, your back to him, in a hoodie and shorts but looking so damn domestic.

And then you turn to face him, a smile at your cheeks, a little rosy from the warmth of the kitchen and the stress of his earlier mission melts away like ice on a hot day.

“You’re home,” you say with a bright smile, wiping your hands on a dishcloth and Nanami leans against the doorframe, just contentedly watching you.

“I’m home,” he confirms gently in a soft, low rumble. He never thought he would get this — to come home to somebody, to have someone waiting for him, wanting to share dinner with him.

“You’re cooking,” he murmurs softly as he watches you move around the kitchen with ease, the sway of your hair, the way your hands move expertly and diligently.

“I am,” you say with a soft laugh, adding spices and chopping up parsley. “I knew you’d be tired after your mission so I decided to make something for us.”

Nanami doesn’t say anything to that — after two years together with you, he still revels at how you just know what he needs, how you so easily soothe his jagged edges and make that jaded cynicism fade away until he’s forgotten everything he’s ever been through except for the sound of your laugh and the quirk of your lips.

He walks over to you, quietly slipping his arms around your middle and presses his face to your neck.

“You didn’t have to,” he murmurs quietly into your neck, breathing you in, letting himself unwind in your presence, in your safety.