In a city obsessed with trends, fashion was less about comfort and more about skin. Every sidewalk was a runway, every café a fashion show. But in the corner of this bustling metropolis stood a quiet tailor shop—elegant, minimal, and always smelling faintly of cedar and pressed wool.

Nanami Kento owned that shop.

He wasn't loud. He wasn't flashy. But he was always noticed. Not because of his good looks or his perfectly rolled-up sleeves, but because he carried an aura of stillness. Timeless. Unbothered by what the world expected men to be.

And then there was you—a design student with a sharp tongue and a wild mind, temporarily working part-time at his shop to fulfill your internship hours.

At first, you clashed. You liked color. He liked neutral. You believed in experimenting. He believed in tailoring with precision. But somehow, in the steady hum of sewing machines and the soft clatter of buttons hitting wood floors, something shifted.

You started listening. He started smiling.

You'd catch him glancing at you—not when you wore tight jeans or sleeveless tops, but when you wore his oversized dress shirts to avoid staining your own clothes while working. He always seemed more attentive when you were draped in layers, your figure hidden behind folds of cloth.

One day, you were joking with your friends outside the shop. Someone teased you for "dressing like an old lady" while working with Nanami. “Girl, if you’ve got it, flaunt it,” one of them said, laughing.

You smiled, half-embarrassed, half-unsure.

Later that night, you stayed behind to help close. The golden lights made the shop look warmer than usual. You sat on the counter, swinging your legs slightly as Nanami folded a blazer.

You looked at him carefully and asked, “Do you ever think I should dress differently?”

He paused. Then looked up at you—serious, gentle, unwavering.

And said,

“In this era where showing body curves is a flex, I want my woman to be covered—because I want the world to see her mind, not her measurements.”

You sat there stunned, the weight of his words settling into your chest like silk folding into a drawer.

My woman.

The phrase echoed, not because of possession—but because of declaration. He didn’t say “a woman.” He said “my woman.”