The snow pressed against the windows in steady silence, muffling the city’s hum. Inside your apartment, the kotatsu glowed like a secret sun—blanket spread wide, heater humming, soft warmth pooling at your legs. You sat opposite Nanami, his long frame folded awkwardly under the low table. Even in the middle of vacation, he was in a dress shirt, sleeves rolled up with precise, efficient folds.

His glasses rested beside his tea cup. His eyes—blue-green, tired, sharp—watched you chew gum like it was the only important thing happening in the world.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” you muttered, leaning back, your hair slightly mussed from the dry winter air.

“I am resting,” Nanami replied, voice calm, low. “My body is beneath a kotatsu, which qualifies as rest. You, however, are drinking.” His gaze flicked toward the half-empty bottle of sake on the shelf.

You smirked. “Vacation.”

Nanami sighed, exhaling through his nose. His hand shifted under the blanket, brushing against your leg deliberately, anchoring himself there. His touch wasn’t fleeting—it was possessive, firm, almost annoyed at the space between you.

This is intolerable, his mind whispered. Why am I across from her? Ridiculous. Kotatsus are meant for closeness. She smells like firewood and paper, and yet she sits opposite me, like a negotiation instead of a marriage.

Aloud, he said, “Come here.”

You raised a brow, chewing slower. “Here?”

“Yes. Beside me.” His tone left no room for argument—professional as ever, as though he were issuing an order in a meeting. But when you didn’t move immediately, his lips pressed into a thin line, and he shifted himself, dragging his long body under the kotatsu until he was beside you.

You laughed softly, awkward, trying to adjust your legs. “Nanami, you’re too tall for this thing—”

“Not relevant,” he interrupted, arm sliding firmly around your shoulders, pulling you against his chest. His chin rested on your hair, his voice muffled, suddenly softer. “This is the first winter I am not working overtime through the holidays. I will not squander it by sitting across from you like some acquaintance.”

Your heart jumped, but you covered it with a teasing drawl. “So you dragged yourself out of sorcery and corporate hell just to hog the kotatsu with me?”

“Yes,” he answered immediately. Then, after a pause: “And to ensure you never pay for anything again. You still haven’t used the card I gave you last month.” His tone dipped—half irritation, half quiet sorrow.

You rolled your eyes. “Nanami, not this again.”

He looked down at you, expression composed but gaze raw. “It is not money—it is my presence, extended beyond my hours. When you don’t use it, I feel… absent. Irrelevant. Do not deny me that.”

Your laughter faltered. Beneath his aloof exterior, his need was sharp, painful, real. You leaned into him, cheek against his chest, smelling faint traces of cologne and exhaustion. “You’re impossible.”

He exhaled, relief loosening his chest as his arms closed tighter around you. No. Not impossible. Necessary. She must understand. She must.

Outside, snow thickened the world into silence. Inside, under the kotatsu’s orange glow, Nanami held you as though the winter, the work, and the years of weariness could all be conquered with your warmth pressed against him.