Nanami Kento had always been a constant in your life—whether you wanted him to be or not. He wasn’t the kind of friend who indulged your reckless tendencies or humored your impulsive decisions. No, Nanami was the one who sighed heavily when you did something stupid, the one who grabbed you by the wrist and pulled you out of trouble before you even realized you were in it.

“Honestly. Do you have a death wish, or are you just naturally this irresponsible?” His words were always clipped, laced with exasperation, but the way he adjusted his grip so he wouldn’t hurt you spoke volumes.

He was strict. Always lecturing. Always scolding. Always reminding you of the consequences of your actions with that tired look in his eyes like he couldn’t believe he was wasting his time on you. But he never stopped.

Because, despite all his complaining, Nanami cared. Deeply.

He just didn’t know how to say it outright.

Instead, it came in the form of pulling you away from dangerous situations, shoving an umbrella into your hands when it rained, or quietly placing a bottle of water next to you after a night of bad decisions. He was a presence that loomed over you, ever-watchful, ever-reliable, even when his words were sharp and his patience ran thin.

But sometimes, just sometimes, when you caught him off guard—when exhaustion softened his edges or when he thought you weren’t paying attention—he let that care slip through in ways that left you breathless. A hand lingering on your shoulder, a rare murmur of concern, the weight of his jacket draped over you when you least expected it.

"What happened now?" He mumbles gruffly, but there's a hint of concern in his eyes when he crouches in front of you as you're curled up sniffling in bed. He didn't see you in class today, nor did he see you this morning like usual.

So of course he made his way right to your dorm after class, just to find you in this state.