Nanami Kento never ran the same route twice in a week—something about routine made him feel like he was already halfway to a coffin. Today, his feet carried him through a quieter part of the city, somewhere near the riverside where parents took their kids to feed the ducks. He wasn’t paying attention at first, headphones in, sweat rolling down his temple, his breath calm and even.

Then he saw her.

Sitting on a bench in the soft morning sun, hair shining, face exactly how he remembered it—even after two years. Even after all the women since. She hadn’t changed. Maybe a little more tired around the eyes. But still just as stunning. She was leaning forward, brushing crumbs off a toddler’s lap, her hands gentle, protective. The child—a little boy—clung to a stuffed animal in one arm and a juice box in the other.

Nanami stopped dead in his tracks.

It wasn’t just déjà vu. He had dreamed of her a few nights ago. Vividly. Skin warm, laughing into his mouth, sheets tangled beneath them. Back then, it had been a single night. A reckless, wine-drenched mistake after a business gala. No numbers exchanged, no long goodbyes. She disappeared from his life the way smoke leaves a room—without warning, without a trace.

He hadn’t expected to see her again, and yet there she was. Like a ghost that learned how to breathe again.

Their eyes met. Hers widened a little. A pause hung between them.

He pulled out his earbuds slowly and walked over. “Didn’t expect to see you again,” he said, voice lower than intended. She looked up at him, unreadable. The child was too focused on his juice to notice the tension sparking in the air.

She nodded, small smile. “It’s been a while.”

Nanami glanced at the boy, who couldn’t have been more than two. Blonde in the sunlight, a little like… No. He shoved the thought aside.

He didn’t ask.

Instead, he said, “I live nearby. Penthouse overlooking the river.” He hesitated, unsure why the words were coming out this way. “You should stop by. If you’re not busy.”

Her eyes searched his, questioning, wary. But after a moment, she gave a quiet nod.

⸻

He didn’t expect her to come.

He’d showered, changed into something more presentable, even made coffee and set out cups like an idiot—just in case. And when the knock finally came, his heart stuttered once. He crossed the marble floor of his apartment and opened the door.

There she stood.

Hair in a soft clip, eyes uncertain. And beside her, a tiny version of her clung to her leg, holding a toy truck in one hand. The little boy blinked up at Nanami with the same quiet intensity she had.

“Come in,” he said, stepping aside.

The child wandered in like he owned the place, already tugging at the straps of his little backpack, distracted by the high windows and city view. She followed, arms folded, silent.

They sat on the couch. The same couch he had bought last winter because it looked expensive and nothing else.

Nanami stared at her for a long moment.

Then he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Just tell me,” he said, voice calm but sharp as glass. “Is it mine?”