You met Nanami Kento when both of you were tired in the same specific way—grown enough to know better, selfish enough not to care. You worked late hours in adjacent buildings, shared cigarettes on the fire exit, shared beds without asking names for what you were doing. He was precise, calm, the kind of man who folded his clothes even when he stayed the night. You were careful in a different way—careful not to hope.

The deal was clean. No promises. No futures. You cooked together, slept tangled, knew each other’s scars and schedules, but never crossed the invisible line called responsibility. Lovers without the weight of being lovers. It worked because you both pretended it did.

Except Nanami stopped pretending.

It happened on an ordinary night. Rain on the windows, his jacket on your chair. He didn’t touch you when he said it, like he was bracing for impact. “I love you.” Simple. Earnest. Terrifying.

You laughed because if you didn’t, you would’ve broken. You reminded him of the rules you wrote together in unspoken ink. You told him fools only fall in love in this kind of setup. You told him you had a deal. You watched his face close, watched him nod like he was accepting a loss he never trained for.

You disappeared after that. New number. New routine. You told yourself it was mercy.

You found out weeks later. The test in your shaking hands. The quiet room. You didn’t tell him. Pride, fear, guilt—pick one. You carried the consequence alone, through sickness and fear and a pain that cracked you open and rebuilt you into someone else.

A year passed.

Your daughter had his hair, soft blond in the sunlight, and his eyes—sharp hazel, already observant. You learned how to be responsible because you had to. Love stopped being a theory.

On a calm afternoon, the city slowed enough to betray you. You turned a corner and collided with a familiar chest. Same voice. Same steadiness. Nanami looked older, heavier in the eyes. His gaze dropped without permission, caught on the child in your arms, on the unmistakable proof of time.

You saw the math happen in his silence. The question rose, careful, restrained, the way he always handled things that mattered.

“Did you already marry someone?”