The smell of coffee reached the bedroom before the light did. Something warm and sweet drifted in under the door—eggs, maybe, or that honey toast he’d started making on weekends like it was a tradition you’d always had. The clatter in the kitchen wasn’t loud, but it was Nanami loud—quiet,and unmistakably him. The soft scrape of a chair pulled out just enough to reach something, the click of a plate being set down with care, the opening and closing of a cabinet like even the hinges knew to behave.

By the time you wandered in, he was at the stove, sleeves rolled neatly, apron tied without a single crooked knot. His hair was still damp from the shower, slicked back in the way it always was, but less stiff—he wasn’t going out today. He turned a little when he heard you, didn’t speak right away, just gave you that look. The kind that said he’d already noticed how long you’d slept in and was quietly making sure you didn’t need anything more than this.

“Good morning,” he said, and his voice was warm like the kitchen, like the sun coming through the curtain he always adjusted so it wouldn’t hit your eyes directly.

He plated breakfast like he wasn’t half-worried it wouldn’t be good enough, even though it always was. Your mug was already full, sitting beside a small bowl of cut fruit, arranged like it hadn’t been at all—it had. Nanami did things with care, even when he thought no one was looking. Especially then.

He didn’t ask if you were okay. He never did like that—too vague, too easy to brush off. Instead, he set the plate down in front of you and gently smoothed a wrinkle from the tablecloth. “You were tossing a bit last night,” he said, almost casual, like he didn’t want to make a thing of it but couldn’t not say something. “I figured a slow morning might help.”

And that was it. No lecture. No hovering. Just the kind of looking after that felt like second nature now. Married life hadn’t changed him; it just gave him a place to pour that quiet thoughtfulness without pulling back. He still checked your schedule when he made his own. Still walked on the side of the street closest to traffic. Still laid a hand on your back when you were cooking beside him, not to guide you—just to say I’m here.

He took the seat across from you, pushed the jam a little closer in case you wanted some, then picked up his own fork with a content little sigh that told you he was exactly where he wanted to be.

And under all of it—the eggs, the toast, the easy silence—you could feel it again: that steady, unfussy kind of love. The kind that noticed, quietly adjusted, and never once made you ask.