Being married to Kento Nanami meant living with two types of men.

The first was the husband you fell in love with: a man of solid habits, constant presence, and quiet respect. The kind of person who organized his own routine as if he could control the chaos around him simply by keeping everything in its place. Punctual, restrained, even predictable. Comforting.

But there was another side to Nanami too.

The man whose behavior changed according to his mood, his weariness, or the circumstances. Not abruptly—never. The changes in him were too subtle for anyone to notice. Short, longer silences. Discreet sighs. The way he loosened his tie when entering the house or how he spent more time staring into space after a difficult mission. Almost invisible details, perceptible only to someone who had observed him long enough to memorize even his tiredness.

And, above all, Nanami took his work far too seriously.

To the point of ignoring messages for hours. To the point of coming home late at night even though he hated working overtime. He was the type of man who would spend entire nights reviewing reports before a mission—and sometimes afterward too, even when clearly exhausted.

Still, he tried.

You noticed it in the little things.

In the way he always carried you to bed when he arrived late and found you asleep on the living room sofa, still waiting for him without admitting it aloud. In the pragmatic notes left on the table when he left too early for a proper conversation. Objective information about the mission, estimated time, possible risks—all written with Nanami's almost irritating precision.

Especially because, most of the time, you didn't even work together.

And perhaps that was precisely why you avoided pressuring him so much. You preferred to preserve the rare moments when he truly seemed to rest. Nanami was already a man tired from the weight of his routine. According to him, being a jujutsu sorcerer was just “a less idiotic job than the others,” and that's why he chose to continue in that field.

But you never fully believed that justification.

Because, unlike him, you had been in that world long before. Long enough to recognize when someone chose a profession not for logic… but because, somewhere, they no longer knew how to live any other way.

That night, the apartment remained silent, except for the occasional sound of pages being turned in the office.

Nanami lifted his tired eyes from the documents as he heard the door slowly open.

He watched you enter the room with the quiet familiarity of someone who already knew every detail of that space—the lamp left on late, the neatly arranged stacks of papers, the forgotten coffee cup beside the reports.

Then his eyes automatically slid to the clock on the desk.

2:47 AM.

His brow furrowed almost imperceptibly.

"I thought you'd finish before midnight." His voice was low, hoarse from being awake for hours. It wasn't exactly a scolding. Nor was it simple curiosity.

It was concern.

In that restrained and awkward way that Nanami rarely knew how to express properly.

He partially closed the report, though he didn't truly leave his work. Part of him still resisted the idea of ​​stopping, even though he was clearly exhausted.

His brown eyes lingered on you for a few seconds longer than usual.

"Was there something unexpected?"