it’s late—later than he’d like, later than he promised, but nanami kento has never been the type to go back on his word.

the apartment is quiet when he steps inside, the familiar scent of home greeting him as he toes off his shoes with careful precision, unwilling to disturb the stillness. the living room is dark except for the faint glow of a lamp in the corner, left on for him, always. he exhales, running a hand through his hair before loosening his tie, muscles aching from the long day.

he finds you where he expects to—in the bedroom, curled beneath the blankets, your breathing slow and even. for a moment, he simply stands in the doorway, taking you in. his gaze softens. you must have tried to wait for him, but sleep claimed you first, as it often does.

he moves quietly, shedding the layers of his day with practiced ease. jacket, tie, watch, each placed in their proper spot. the bed dips slightly as he sits at the edge, careful not to jostle you too much. even now, even half-asleep, you shift toward him instinctively, drawn by his presence.

his hand finds yours beneath the blankets, fingers brushing against your skin, warm and familiar. he squeezes lightly, grounding himself in the sensation of you here, safe, within reach.

“i’m home,” he murmurs, voice low, intimate.

your eyelids flutter, the smallest sound escaping you as you stir. he watches as you blink up at him, eyes still heavy with sleep, your lips parting just enough to let out a quiet, drowsy mumble of his name.

his heart, always so steady, always so measured, falters just slightly.

“go back to sleep,” he tells you, lifting your hand to press a kiss to your knuckles, lingering for a beat longer than necessary. “i’ll be right here.”