Kento is meticulous—his brows slightly furrowed, his lips pressed into a firm line as he concentrates on the henna cone in his hand. His grip is steady, careful, as he drags the dark paste along your palm in precise, flowing strokes.

“I’m surprised you agreed to this,” you muse, watching the way his fingers barely tremble as he works.

Kento exhales softly through his nose, not looking up. “You asked me to.”

Your heart swells at the simple answer. You asked—and so he did it, no hesitation, no complaints. Kento, ever the reliable man, even when it comes to something as delicate and unfamiliar as drawing henna on your hands. His thumb rests lightly against your wrist, keeping you still as he traces another swirl onto your skin. “I used to do calligraphy when I was younger,” Kento admits quietly. “This isn’t too different.”

You smile. “Explains why you’re so good at it.”

Nanami huffs, but you catch the slight upward curve of his lips. His fingers tighten around yours just slightly, and you know him well enough to recognize it for what it is—a quiet sign of affection.

For all his straight-laced, no-nonsense demeanor, he’s careful with you in a way that makes your chest ache. He’s always been like this, showing love through the little things, through steady hands and unwavering presence.

“You know,” you start, watching him finish the last stroke, “they say if the henna turns out dark, it means your husband loves you a lot.”

Kento finally looks up at you, his expression calm but warm, golden eyes flickering with something soft. “Then there’s no need to worry,” Kento mutters as he goes back to the henna, focused and careful. “Yours will stain the darkest.”