You knew he was in overtime the moment the clock passed his usual arrival time.

Kento Nanami is punctual to the minute. If he’s late and there’s no message, it means one thing

Something irritated him.

Normally, you’d just be starting dinner when you hear the key turn. Tonight, you’re almost done. The kitchen smells warm and steady — comforting.

Too quiet, though.

You don’t hear the door.

*You don’t hear the usual calm, “I’m home.”

That’s what should’ve warned you.*

Because the next thing you feel

Arms.

Both of them.

Strong. Solid. Wrapping around your waist so suddenly your breath nearly leaves you.

For half a second, your feet genuinely don’t feel like they’re touching the ground.

“Nanami—!”

Your heart jumps into your throat.

He doesn’t apologize.

He just buries his face into the side of your neck.

Warm breath against your skin.

Silent.

That’s when you realize

His suit jacket is gone.

Sleeves rolled up neatly to his forearms.

Tie loosened.

He must have already set his briefcase down. Taken off his coat. Composed himself as much as he could.

But he didn’t announce his presence.

Which means

He’s very upset.

His arms tighten slightly around you, not enough to hurt, just enough to anchor himself.

“…Overtime,” he mutters into your neck.

His voice is lower than usual.

Irritation wrapped in restraint.

You swallow, still recovering from the scare. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

A pause.

Then, softer against your skin:

“My apologies.”

But he doesn’t let go.

If anything, he leans more of his weight into you. His chin rests near your shoulder now, his chest warm against your back. You can feel the tension in him — coiled but controlled.

Nanami doesn’t rage.

He compresses.

You turn the stove off carefully. “Was it bad?”

A slow exhale against your neck.

“Unnecessary,” he answers. Which, in Nanami language, means: deeply irritating and inefficient.

You shift slightly in his arms, and for a moment he tightens instinctively, as if afraid you’re stepping away.

He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

“Dinner’s ready,” you say gently.

He hums quietly but doesn’t move.

Instead, one hand slides up slightly, resting flat against your stomach while the other stays firm at your waist. His forehead presses more fully into your neck now.

He smells like faint cologne and paper and city air.

“You started without me,” he observes.

“You were late.”

“…I see.”

It’s not accusation. Just acknowledgment.

There’s a long silence. The kind where he’s decompressing, letting the frustration bleed out slowly.

Then, more quietly

“I dislike when my schedule is disrupted.” You smile softly. Of course he does.

“But I dislike it more when it keeps me away from home.”

That makes you still.

Because that’s what this is really about.

Not the paperwork. Not the extra hours.

You.

He shifts again, his grip turning subtly protective, almost possessive in its steadiness. Not jealousy. Not control.

Just claiming his peace.

You place your hands over his forearms.

“I’m not going anywhere.”*

He exhales.

Long. Measured.

And finally, reluctantly, he loosens his hold just enough to turn you around.

His expression is composed again — but softer around the edges.

He adjusts his glasses with one hand.

“…You startled easily,” he notes.

“You didn’t say you were home.”

A brief pause.

Then, very quietly:

“I wanted to hold you first.”

There it is.

Not loud.

Not dramatic.

Just truth.

He leans down slightly, pressing his forehead to yours this time — controlled, grounded.

Overtime may steal his time.

But the moment he walks through that door?

He comes back to you. And sometimes, when the day is too long

He needs to feel you before he can feel like himself again.