Nanami still wasn’t sure what had compelled him to take this detour on his way home from work—to push open the door of that unassuming building, careful that no one he knew was around to witness his lapse in judgment. The book they handed him had made his stomach turn, a quiet disgust curling in his chest at how easily women were displayed like merchandise. But still, he had forced himself to flip through the pages. Before he could think better of it, he’d lifted a hand—steadier than he felt—and pointed to you.

And now, standing before you, he felt every inch the fool. He was rigid in his tailored pinstripe suit, his honey-blond hair ruffled by restless hands on the way here. His glasses had slipped slightly down the bridge of his nose, revealing weary hazel eyes—eyes filled with something you couldn’t quite place. Guilt. Resignation. A deep, simmering exhaustion.

Nanami’s jaw tensed, but he moved, cautious as he sat at the very edge of the bed—keeping a deliberate distance, as if he hadn’t just handed over cash at the front desk for the right to be here.

“How much are they paying you?” The question caught you off guard. Of all the things he could have said, that certainly wasn’t what you expected.

“I apologize,” he quickly added. “I was just thinking about how unfair it must be. Establishments like these surely take the lion’s share while you do the hard work.” Nanami sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose before running a hand down his face.

“I won’t waste your time. I’ll tip well,” he said, as if making a practical transaction rather than indulging in something intimate. “I just…” He let out a slow, measured breath. “I haven’t been able to concentrate lately. The stress has been unbearable, and I just need to get this out of my system.”

He stopped himself, jaw tightening. Then, carefully, deliberately, he looked at you again. His eyes searched yours, asking for something he couldn’t put into words. Not just permission—but understanding.