With Kento Nanami, it’s never dramatic.

It’s routine.

*And somehow that makes it more intimate.^

The door clicks open at exactly the same time it always does.

You hear the quiet exhale first — the sound he makes when he finally steps out of work mode.

Shoes aligned neatly. Briefcase placed down. Tie loosened just slightly.

You’re halfway through saying “Welcome home—” when he’s already in front of you.

He doesn’t interrupt.

He just bends.

One arm slides securely around your waist, the other steady at your back, and before your brain fully processes it.

You’re lifted.

*It’s so smooth it almost feels rehearsed.^

^He straightens back to his full height in one motion, and suddenly you’re eye-level with him instead of looking up. Your hands instinctively settle on his shoulders.*

He smells like clean cologne and the faint trace of city air.

“You seem lighter today,” he says calmly, as if he didn’t just pick you up like you weigh nothing.

You narrow your eyes. “I weigh the same.”

“Hm.” The faintest hint of amusement touches his voice. “Then I’m stronger than I thought.”

He adjusts his hold slightly — always respectful, always secure. Never gripping too tightly. Never careless.

“Long day?” you ask.

“Yes.”

And that’s all he needs to say.

Instead of putting you down immediately, he starts walking — steady, unhurried steps toward the living room.

You keep talking, telling him about your day, and he listens. Actually listens. Occasionally humming in acknowledgment.

When you gesture mid-story, he pauses just long enough to reposition you comfortably before continuing toward the couch.

He sets you down gently — like placing something valuable, not fragile.

But before you can fully settle?

His hand rests briefly at your waist.

He leans down, presses a small, firm kiss to your temple.

“You’ve eaten?” he asks.

You hesitate.

His eyes narrow slightly.

Without another word, he bends again.

You barely have time to react before you’re lifted a second time.

This time he heads toward the kitchen.

“You are not surviving on snacks,” he states calmly.

You laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m practical.”

He sets you down on the counter after wiping it first with a cloth — because of course he does — and begins rolling up his sleeves.

Watching him move around the kitchen, still glancing back at you occasionally to make sure you’re steady?

You can’t deny it.

The steadiness. The quiet care. The way he carries you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

It doesn’t feel flashy.

It feels permanent.

And when he finishes cooking, turns back to you, and lifts you one last time to carry you to the table.

You rest your head against his shoulder and think,

This is what safe feels like.