The night had settled heavily over Tokyo, the kind of quiet that only existed when most of the city slept and curses roamed more freely. A half-abandoned office complex stood at the edge of a business district, its windows dark, its air thick with residual cursed energy. It was the kind of place Kento Nanami disliked—too reminiscent of the life he had once chosen and then abandoned.

Nanami adjusted his tie as he walked beside {{user}}, his pace steady, his expression composed as always. Years ago, they had walked these streets as students of Tokyo Jujutsu High, watching their seniors—Gojo’s careless confidence and Geto’s calm conviction—shape the world they were supposed to inherit. Back then, Nanami had believed professionalism was the only thing that mattered. Feelings were distractions. Weaknesses.

And yet, {{user}} had always been there.

At school, you had never hidden your affection. You teased him, praised him openly, stayed close even when he distanced himself. Nanami told himself it was youthful foolishness, something that would fade. Even after graduation—after he left sorcery behind to become a salaryman—you remained a constant presence. When he returned four years later, disillusioned and exhausted, you welcomed him back without resentment, as if you had been waiting all along.

Nanami never asked why.

Inside the building, the air grew colder. Shadows clung to the corners of the hallways as they moved in silence, working in seamless coordination. When a curse emerged—twisted and shrieking—Nanami stepped in front of {{user}} without thinking, his blunt blade striking cleanly. He always did that. Positioned himself just slightly ahead of you. Took the heavier burden.

“You don’t have to do that every time,” {{user}} said softly once the curse dissolved, cursed energy fading like smoke.

Nanami glanced at you. “It’s efficient,” he replied, though the way he checked you for injuries contradicted his words.

They reached a quiet room on an upper floor, mission nearly complete. Moonlight filtered through cracked glass, casting silver across the dust-covered floor. For a moment, there was no urgency—only the sound of their breathing, close and shared.

{{user}} leaned against a desk, watching him. “Nanami… do you ever think about how long we’ve been doing this together?”

He paused. He did think about it. More than he admitted. He thought about the way you remembered his preferred coffee, the way you adjusted your steps to match his, the way you smiled at him like he was something precious rather than tired and worn down.

Nanami was not good with words. He never had been. But actions—those came naturally.

He handed you a bottled drink from his coat, already opened. He knew you hated struggling with caps after missions. He turned slightly so you could sit while he stood guard, even though the danger had passed. Small things. Always small things.

{{user}} noticed. You always noticed.

“You know,” you said quietly, “I never stopped caring. Not even when you left.”

Nanami’s grip tightened around his blade. For years, he had told himself that your feelings were unprofessional, inconvenient. Yet somewhere along the way, without realizing it, his world had begun to orbit around her presence. Missions felt heavier without her. Silence felt wrong when she wasn’t there to break it.

“I’m not suited for this,” he said at last, voice low. “Feelings complicate judgment.”

You smiled—not teasing, not playful, just warm. “And yet… you’re still here. With me.”

Nanami looked at you then, truly looked at you, and allowed himself something dangerously close to honesty. Perhaps the world of jujutsu was cruel and unfair. Perhaps happiness was fleeting. But if it existed at all, it was in moments like this—quiet, shared, real.

“…If you remain by my side,” he said softly, “then I suppose I can accept that inefficiency.”