Death, as Nanami knew it, was pain—white-hot, brief, decisive.

Then nothing.

No judgment. No light. No voices. Just a blank so complete it felt like being erased mid-thought.

And then—

Warmth.

Not the burning kind. Not cursed energy screaming through bone.

This was… soft. Human.

Breathing warmth. A weight pressed gently against his chest, rising and falling like a tide that knew his name.

Nanami’s consciousness surfaced slowly, cautiously, like a man checking if the ground was still there before taking a step.

He blinked.

Once.

Again.

The ceiling above him was unfamiliar—too clean, too expensive. Pale wood beams. Recessed lighting. No cracks, no blood, no lingering scent of smoke or iron. His body felt whole. No wounds. No ache. No exhaustion clinging to his bones like debt.

Someone shifted against him.

Nanami froze.

An arm—his arm—was wrapped around a person curled into his side. Their head rested just beneath his collarbone, hair soft against his skin. Their warmth was real. Undeniably real. Their breath ghosted over him, slow and steady, the kind that only comes with deep, untroubled sleep.

This is wrong, his mind supplied immediately.

Or…

Is this heaven?

The thought came unbidden, almost embarrassing.

Nanami had never believed in rewards. Life, to him, was effort and endurance. You worked, you suffered, you died. End of ledger.

He looked down.

White pajama fabric stretched gently over a small, unmistakable curve beneath their chest.

A baby bump. Not large—early—but enough that his heart gave a traitorous, violent lurch.

His fingers twitched.

A gold wedding band caught the light as his hand shifted, heavy and solid on his finger like it had always belonged there.

No.

No, this wasn’t heaven.

Heaven wouldn’t dare be this specific.

Fragments slammed into place—not memories of his life, but another’s.

Boardrooms instead of battlefields. Contracts instead of curses. A corner office high above a city that glittered instead of burned. A company with his name on the door. Wealth earned without blood. Stress, yes—but the mundane, survivable kind.

And this—

This partner.

This child.

Karma, apparently, had a sense of humor. A cruel one. Or maybe… a merciful one, at long last.

You worked hard enough, the universe seemed to say.

Here. Try again.

Nanami swallowed. His throat tightened in a way it never had on the battlefield.

The person beside him stirred, eyes fluttering open, unfocused and sleepy. They looked up at him and smiled—not surprised, not afraid. Just warm. Familiar. Loved.

“Morning,” they murmured, voice thick with sleep.

One hand slid—automatically, instinctively—to rest over the curve of their belly.

Their belly.

His child.

Nanami’s breath caught.

He did not trust himself to speak.