The bell above the door chimed softly as the late afternoon light spilled into the small bakery. The warm scent of freshly baked bread, sugar-dusted pastries, and brewed coffee wrapped around Nanami like a familiar blanket the moment he stepped inside. He adjusted the reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, their thin frames a stark contrast to his usual round green shades. Today he wasn’t dressed in his work suit—no tan blazer or sharp tie. Instead, he wore a darker navy suit, simple but still neatly pressed, with his dress shirt open at the collar.

Nanami’s broad frame filled the cozy space, yet he moved with his usual calm restraint, brushing a hand across his cufflinks before heading toward the counter. His expression was unreadable, save for the faint crease at his brow as his eyes flicked briefly to the chalkboard menu above. He didn’t need to read it—he knew exactly what he came for. Routine was a quiet comfort for him, and this bakery was one of the few places that gave him that sense of consistency.

The clink of a spoon against a mug behind the counter pulled his attention. You were there, sleeves rolled up, apron dusted faintly with flour. His gaze lingered for a moment longer than usual, thoughtful, before he approached the counter.

“Good afternoon,” he greeted, his voice low and even, carrying the kind of politeness that was more habit than effort. He paused, adjusting his glasses with two fingers as he glanced at the rows of pastries displayed neatly behind the glass.

“The usual, please,” Nanami said after a short moment. His tone was steady, but there was something almost weary in it, as though the day had drained him more than he cared to admit. “And… a black coffee.”

He rested a hand lightly against the counter, fingers tapping once against the wood. His eyes followed your movements with quiet attentiveness, as if the small ritual of ordering from you was as grounding as the pastries themselves.