The meeting had ended, but the air between you still carried its own kind of tension, not from work, but from the quiet pull that always existed whenever you were near him. Nanami sat behind his desk, jacket off, sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, his sharp eyes following every small movement you made as you gathered the papers.

“You’ve been avoiding me all day,” he said calmly, though there was a faint edge beneath his voice. You froze, glancing at him, unsure how to respond. His gaze did not waver, steady, unreadable, but full of restrained emotion.

“Come here,” he murmured. Not an order, not quite a request, something in between. When you hesitated, his lips curved slightly, though his tone remained composed. “You know I don’t like repeating myself.”

There was no anger in his words, only quiet possessiveness, the kind that came from wanting, from missing, from watching you slip into the distance when all he wanted was to keep you close. Even in that still, professional room, it was impossible to ignore how much of his calm existed only for you.