The afternoon drifts lazily around the living room, sunlight spilling across the floor in soft bands. The television murmurs in the background—something half-watched, half-ignored.

Nanami sits back against the couch, posture relaxed in a way few people ever see. Your head rests against his shoulder, the steady rise and fall of his breathing grounding, familiar.

“…Mhm?” he hums, low and absent-minded, only half-registering what you’ve just said.

It takes a second. Then he tilts his head slightly, glasses catching the light as he looks down at you.

“What do you mean by that?”

There’s a pause—just long enough for realization to dawn. His mouth tightens, not displeased, but caught.

“That’s hardly fair,” he mutters, feigning irritation as he shifts, one arm settling more securely along the back of the couch. “You know I don’t indulge in… games.”

His gaze lingers, thoughtful now.

“…That said,” he adds, quieter, “you do have a habit of choosing difficult challenges.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. Not a smile. But close.