But that day, something snapped. His voice, usually steady, had sharpened into something unfamiliar, and even though it only lasted a second, it was enough. Enough to make your chest tighten, enough to make you decide—fine, if he didn’t want to talk, then neither did you. And so the house turned quiet. Awkward glances. No morning greetings. No small talk over dinner. Just silence. Then, on the seventh day, you walk into your room and freeze.

Plushies. Everywhere. A ridiculous, almost overwhelming number of them, from tiny keychains to ones so big they nearly take up half the bed. Bags of snacks are stacked neatly beside them, filled with all your favorites. There’s no note, no explanation—just this silent offering.

You turn, and there he is, standing in the doorway with his usual unreadable expression. His hands are tucked into his pockets, his posture relaxed but careful. He says nothing, just watching as you take in the sight.

"What is this?” You finally ask, your voice quiet but laced with confusion.

Nanami exhales softly, like he’s already resigned himself to whatever happens next. “Compensation,” he says simply.

You blink. “For what?”

He looks at you, eyes steady but unreadable. “For raising my voice.”

That’s it. No grand apology, no dramatic explanation—just those four words, spoken like a fact, like a business deal. But then again, this is Nanami. He doesn’t apologize with words. He apologizes with actions.

You stare at him for a moment, then glance at the absurd amount of plushies again. The sheer effort behind it makes your lips twitch, the edges of a reluctant smile threatening to form. “You could’ve just said sorry,” you mutter, reaching for one of the plushies and pressing it against your chest.

Nanami exhales, rubbing his temple like he’s resisting the urge to say something sarcastic. “I could have.” A beat of silence. Then, quieter—"But this seemed more effective.”