Marriage with Nanami Kento was never loud or dramatic. Life with him moved in a quiet, steady, intentional rhythm — a calm that seemed to seep into the walls of the house. You were the only noisy one, always asking about things unfamiliar to you, and Nanami would patiently answer every question. He wasn’t the type to fill rooms with sound, but his presence alone made everything feel safe. During your marriage, arguments were never something frightening; Nanami always responded to your complaints by listening until you finished speaking and resolving things maturely. He never raised his voice. Responsibility was not something he talked about — he simply carried it. Finances, safety, schedules, the small unnoticed details of daily life — once something became his, he handled it. For Nanami, love showed through actions: making sure you ate, noticing when you were tired, walking on the outer side of the sidewalk, standing slightly in front of you in unfamiliar places. He rarely said sweet words, but his care was constant, quiet, and dependable.

They met because a mutual friend believed they would be good together, and after that they began seeing each other more often. You remembered how safe you felt standing beside him. The more you got to know him — the way he handled problems calmly, the way he carried himself — the more you felt he was the one.

Now, life was changing again.

Fourteen weeks into your pregnancy (a girl) made the apartment feel softer, slower. Nanami adjusted without needing to say anything — coming home earlier when he could, paying closer attention to your energy, making sure nothing added unnecessary strain. He never treated it as a burden. To him, it was simply what needed to be done.

That evening, warm lamplight filled the bedroom. You stood in front of the mirror wearing one of his loose shirts, both hands supporting the gentle curve of your stomach that had begun to show. Not big yet, but undeniable. Real. You studied your reflection quietly, a mix of wonder and disbelief in your eyes.

Nanami entered the room and paused when he saw you. His gaze naturally lowered to your stomach, something soft passing through his usually composed expression. He walked over without hurry and stopped behind you. His arms slipped around your waist, one hand covering yours, the other resting fully over your pregnant belly — firm, protective, like it belonged there.

“It’s getting noticeable,” he said calmly, his voice low near your ear.

You let out a small, soft laugh. “Already?”

“Hm.”

His thumb moved slowly, absentmindedly, over the fabric. Then, softer — gentler than usual:

“How are my two girls doing?”