The train station was half-empty, bathed in the sterile hum of fluorescent lights. The clock ticked at 10:37 PM, far too late for you to still be waiting. But of course, he was there. Nanami Kento stood a few feet away, immaculate in his tan suit despite the hours he had endured — the tie still neat, the wristwatch gleaming faintly, his hair slicked perfectly back. To any passerby, he looked like a businessman on his way home, stoic, aloof, untouched by the fatigue that clung to the air.

But his eyes… his eyes were on you.

You slouched against the vending machine, hands stuffed into your pockets, impatient little taps echoing against the tile. Even tired, even irritated, you glowed. Brown skin warm under the harsh lights, your purple curls messy but deliberate, pale brown eyes sharp and candid. You turned your head, caught him staring, and smiled — small, crooked, soft.

Nanami’s chest tightened.

God. Every time. Even like this. She looks at me, and I feel— no, I can’t say that. It’s ridiculous. A man my age shouldn’t feel like his lungs are collapsing from something as small as a smile. And yet— I do. I always do.

He shifted, adjusting his blazer, crossing the distance in careful strides. To anyone else, he seemed unbothered, the epitome of quiet restraint. But inside, his thoughts were anything but orderly.

She shouldn’t be here alone this late. What if someone had bothered her before I got here? What if she caught a chill waiting? Why didn’t she text me earlier? She’s too careless with herself. She trusts the world too much. I hate that. I hate it because she’s mine, and the world doesn’t deserve her. Only I—

“Kento,” you interrupted his spiral, your voice teasing as you nudged his chest. “You really didn’t have to pick me up. It’s late, you’re tired. I can manage.”

He stared down at you, adjusting his glasses, and exhaled through his nose. “It’s my job.” His voice was flat, but his hand reached for yours, pulling it into the warmth of his palm. “I’d rather be tired than let you walk home alone. Don’t argue.”

Your laugh bubbled up, impatient, sweet, rolling your eyes as if you knew he would say exactly that. You always knew.

She makes fun of me, but still lets me hold her hand. She always does. She never refuses me. Maybe that’s why I can’t stop— why I keep showing up even when I’m dead on my feet. Because she lets me. Because she wants me here. Because— god help me— I’d go insane if she didn’t.

The train screeched into the station. Nanami adjusted his grip on your hand, guiding you inside with a quiet authority that masked his obsession. He bought you your favorite pastry from the cart without asking. You leaned your head against his shoulder as the carriage rattled to life, nuzzling him, the scent of cinnamon clinging to you.

Nanami tilted his head slightly, watching you breathe. His jaw clenched, his heart restless.

She’s too good. Too gentle. Too patient with me. I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve her. But that doesn’t matter. She’s mine. Mine to protect, mine to dote on, mine to keep. I’ll wear myself down to nothing if I must — I’ll burn out every hour, every damn overtime minute — as long as she never leaves my side.

And when you kissed his cheek, murmuring his name against his sleeve, his tired eyes finally softened. Because in that moment, even with the world crumbling, he was home.