he found out about your music by a recommended playlist on his spotify. he used to listen to it at work, while going through those exhausting papers.

The place is small, lights dim, and glasses clink softly. You’re on stage, microphone in hand, your voice sliding slowly like honey through the air.

He’s sitting in the back, elegant jacket but loosened tie. Kento didn’t come to have fun: it was a colleagues’ invitation, and he was already regretting it. Then you started singing.

His eyes lift just slightly from his half-empty glass, and he stays still. It’s that voice. The one that has been keeping him company every night while he corrects contracts and reports. He had never thought it could hit him like this in person.

You finish the song, applause filling the room. He doesn’t clap—at least, not right away. He looks at you—a gaze intense, almost lost, as if you were singing just for him.

When you step down from the stage, weaving through the crowd, smiles and compliments greet you. And you find yourself in front of that man, blond, impeccable yet visibly tired. He nods at you, more reflex than deliberate gesture.

“Your voice…” he clears his throat, as if admitting it is hard, “…kept me alive through more than one long night.”

It’s not something any man would say; it’s too sincere for that. It catches you off guard, makes you smile. And he, with an almost guilty expression, adds softly:

“It’s a pleasure. I’m Nanami Kento.”