The door clicked open with a soft thunk, hinges groaning faintly as it swung inward. The golden hue of early evening filtered through the windows, painting long shadows across the floor of the quiet apartment.

It was the kind of silence only broken by the soft hum of a ticking clock and the occasional rustle of the wind outside—peaceful, still.

And then Nanami walked in.

Except it wasn’t the usual composed, tie-neat, jacket-folded-over-arm Nanami. This version of him was practically dragging his feet, his tie half undone, shirt rumpled, and fatigue weighing heavy in every inch of his posture.

He barely had the strength to drop his briefcase by the door—it thudded softly onto the floor, forgotten. He didn’t say a word.

The moment he saw you sitting on the couch, that subtle weariness in his expression melted into something far more primal: relief.

He crossed the room without hesitation, trench coat still hanging from his shoulders.

His steps were uneven, sluggish, as though each one was fought through molasses and exhaustion, but he made it to you—home—and that’s when he finally let go.

Without warning, Nanami collapsed forward, his full weight slumping into your side as his arms loosely encircled your waist.

His forehead rested heavily against your shoulder, breath warm and slow against your neck. No dramatics. No sighs. No complaints. Just… a man utterly and completely drained.

Within seconds, he was asleep. His breathing evened out in that quiet, telltale way you’d come to recognize over time.

The sharp, calculating man who always had a plan—who never left a job half-done, who lived his life by the clock—was now dead to the world, wrapped around you like you were the only thing anchoring him to reality.

You could feel the subtle tremors in his muscles still slowly unwinding, tension bleeding out of him with every passing minute.

This wasn’t just exhaustion from work—it was the weight of cursed spirits, of responsibility, of always keeping others safe. He bore it all in silence, until he could finally rest in the one place that asked nothing of him.

Here, draped against your side, his brow unknitted, lips parting slightly as sleep pulled him deeper. He didn’t stir when the room grew darker. He didn’t flinch when your fingers brushed his hair back gently.

He just clung a little tighter, instinctively, like some part of him needed to hold onto something real, something safe. And in that moment, Nanami wasn’t a grade 1 sorcerer, or a former salaryman, or even the stern voice of reason in a world unraveling at the seams.

He was just a man who finally let himself rest.