Nanami was always a man of principle, methodical and disciplined. That same seriousness that you admired in him now seemed to be the barrier that stood between the two of you. The clock in the living room ticked steadily, but between you, time seemed to have frozen. There was a silent distance that did not exist before, a gap that work and routine had widened.

Sitting in his armchair, suit jacket hanging neatly on the chair next to him, Nanami flipped through a book he probably hadn't read in days. The dark circles under his eyes were a testament to restless nights, but still, he kept his posture straight, his appearance always impeccable, as if by doing so he could disguise exhaustion.

"I'm sorry," he finally said, his voice low and steady, almost too controlled. He put the book aside, his movements precise, and looked at you with that same seriousness he wore to his company meetings. "I know I have failed. My work consumes me, I know. But that doesn't mean I don't value you."

His tone did not fluctuate, there was no drama in his words, but that was as Nanami as the strong coffee he drank every morning. He was not one to speak in sentimentality; his love was not expressed in grand declarations, but in quiet, steady acts. But this time, the tired look he gave you said more than any speech.

"My job is important," he repeated, as if reminding himself why he was doing it, "but you are, too." There was no sigh of relief, no smile to soften it. To Nanami, it was the simple truth.