The office was quiet—just the dull ticking of the wall clock and the occasional scribble of pen on paper. Nanami Kento sat at his desk, sleeves rolled up and glasses slightly askew, combing through mission reports with the same precision he applied to battle.

He didn’t need to look up to know someone had entered. The faint sound of steps was enough. Without glancing away, he spoke in that familiar calm tone.

“You’re here late.”

Silence followed, but he caught the gentle shuffle near the adjacent desk. A presence he had grown used to, even welcomed.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a small container placed near his elbow—still warm. Homemade. Of course it was. He closed the file in front of him and finally looked up.

His eyes lingered on you, softening in a way few ever got to witness.

“You’re aware I don’t like unnecessary effort,” he said, pulling the lid open. “But I suppose this... qualifies as acceptable.”

A faint smirk tugged at his lips. Not dramatic, not loud—just real. Quiet. Comfortable. As he picked up the chopsticks and took a bite, his posture eased.