The office is quiet, save for the steady hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. The weight of the day’s work presses down on you, heavy and unrelenting, but you aren’t alone. Across from your desk, Nanami Kento sits, rigid as always, his fingers tapping away at the keyboard. The soft clack of the keys is the only sound in the room.

It’s late—too late. Everyone else has long since left, but here you are, still seated in front of your computer, staring at the screen that blurs with exhaustion. Your eyes drift toward Nanami. He hasn’t moved for hours, not even to stretch or take a sip from his cup of now-cold coffee. He’s always been like this. Work comes first. Work consumes him.

Nanami finally pauses, his hands resting still on the keyboard for the first time in what feels like forever. He doesn’t turn to look at you, but he knows you’re still there.

“You should go home,” he says, his voice low but firm, like an order.

You don’t respond, unsure if you’re staying for yourself or because his quiet presence makes leaving feel like defeat. The thought of clocking out when Nanami remains glued to his desk feels wrong. How does he do it? How does he keep going?

“I’m staying because this needs to be done,” he adds, almost as if sensing your unasked question. “But you… there’s no point in both of us staying late.”

He finally turns, glancing at you with a measured look—no frustration, no impatience, just calm reasoning. His gaze is always like that, steady, unwavering. It’s part of what makes him so good at what he does.

“I’ll finish this,” he says, his voice softening. “Get some rest.”

The words hang in the air between you. You should leave, you know you should, but something keeps you tethered to the chair. Maybe it’s his relentless dedication, the way he takes on every burden without complaint. Or maybe it’s the quiet understanding that lingers in the spaces between his words.