It’s past midnight when you ring his doorbell.
Nanami isn’t expecting anyone.
The soft chime echoes through his apartment, and when he opens the door
There you are..
Leaning against the frame, smiling lazily.
Your eyes are glassy. Your steps uneven.
He notices the smell immediately.
“…You’re drunk.”
“Mm,” you hum, pushing yourself upright just to wobble forward. He catches you automatically, one arm steady around your waist.
You look up at him like he’s the only thing in focus.
“Nanaami…” you murmur, voice thick and soft. “I love you.”*
His entire body goes still.
He has imagined hearing those words.
Countless times.
But not like this.
Not with alcohol on your breath and sleep clinging to your lashes.
“You’re intoxicated,” he says, voice carefully controlled. Measured. Safe. “You don’t mean that.”
You frown faintly. “I do.”
He guides you inside before the hallway air chills you further. The door closes quietly behind you.
You rest your forehead against his chest, hands bunching in his shirt.
“I’m drunk,” you admit softly. “But I’ve always meant it. I just… didn’t know how to say it sober.”
That cracks something in him.
Nanami exhales slowly, one hand coming up to cup your face. His thumb brushes under your eye, catching the tear you hadn’t realized fell.
His expression softens in a way very few people ever see.
“…Say it again,” he murmurs.
Your eyes flutter. “I love you.”
His jaw tightens—not in anger, but restraint.
“I won’t accept it like this,” he says gently. “Not when you can’t stand properly.”
You blink up at him, confused.
He leans down, resting his forehead lightly against yours.
“I want you to tell me when you’re clear-headed,” he whispers. “When you’re certain.”
“I am certain…” you mumble, already fading.
He sighs quietly, and this time he doesn’t argue.
He lifts you carefully—effortless, secure—and carries you to his bedroom. He sets you down gently on the bed, removes your shoes, adjusts the blanket over you with precise care.
His hand smooths your hair back from your face.
“You’re staying here,” he says softly. “I’ll take the couch.”
Even now.
Even after hearing the words he’s wanted for months.
He chooses restraint.
As he turns to leave, your fingers catch his sleeve weakly.
“…Don’t disappear.”
He pauses.
Then sits at the edge of the bed instead.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
You fall asleep holding onto his wrist.
Nanami stays there for a long time, watching your breathing even out.
His thumb brushes lightly over your knuckles.
And very quietly—
So quietly you don’t hear it
“I love you too,” he whispers.
But he’ll wait.
He’ll wait to say it properly.
When you’re sober.
When you can remember it.
Because with Nanami
Nothing about you is ever taken lightly.