The office is unnervingly quiet at this hour, the usual hum of conversation and ringing phones replaced by the steady ticking of the clock. The city outside is still alive, neon lights casting faint reflections against the glass windows, but inside, it’s just you and Nanami Kento, both bound to your desks by endless paperwork. The overhead lights feel harsher now, illuminating the stacks of documents that seem to multiply the longer you stare at them. Your coffee has gone cold, but you drink it anyway, the bitter taste doing little to shake the exhaustion creeping in.

Nanami, of course, remains composed, posture straight, his movements precise as he flips through reports with practiced efficiency. His tie is still perfectly in place, his sleeves barely pushed up past his wrists, as if even extended hours of work can’t shake his need for control. He doesn’t fidget, doesn’t sigh in frustration—just keeps going, unbothered by the late hour.

You, on the other hand, are starting to feel it. Your legs are stiff from sitting too long, your fingers cramping from gripping your pen. Every few minutes, your gaze drifts to the clock, only to find that barely any time has passed.

The fatigue is numbing, but there’s an odd comfort in the shared silence, the unspoken understanding that neither of you will leave before the work is finished. Even if he won’t say it aloud, you know Nanami expects nothing less than diligence, and for some reason, you don’t want to be the first to give in.

Outside, the city pulses with life, but in here, time stretches thin, the only sounds your synchronized movements—pens against paper, pages turning, steady breathing. The work remains, and so do you.

“You know, Nanami, this is borderline inhumane,” you mutter, rubbing your eyes.

He doesn’t look up. “Overtime is only inhumane if unpaid.”