No one ever suspected him.

To everyone else, Nanami Kento was composed to the point of severity. Polite, distant, efficient. The kind of man who kept his hands to himself in public, whose affection stopped at a brief handhold or a steady palm at your back when crowds pressed too close. No kisses. No lingering touches. No slips in composure.

But behind doors?

That was where he unraveled.

The moment the door shut, the lock clicking softly into place, something in him snapped loose — not reckless, not frantic, but controlled hunger. His tie would already be loosened, jacket discarded somewhere forgotten as he stepped into your space with quiet certainty.

You barely had time to breathe before his hand was at your waist. Firm. Possessive. Pulling you close until there was no air left between you.

“Kento—” you’d start, and he’d silence you instantly.

Not with words.

With his mouth.

Kisses from Nanami were never rushed. He kissed like a man who’d been holding back all day, all week — deep, thorough, intentional. As if memorizing the shape of your lips because this was the only place he allowed himself to do so.

One hand stayed anchored at your lower back, fingers splayed wide, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. The other braced against the wall, the doorframe, the edge of a desk — anything solid enough to ground himself. You could feel the tension in his arm, the way he restrained his strength so he wouldn’t overwhelm you.

You loved that part.

Loved how you could hook your arms around his neck, fingers brushing the nape of his hair, and feel him exhale slowly against your skin. Loved how he’d press his forehead to yours afterward, eyes closed, breath warm and uneven.

“This,” he’d murmur quietly, voice low and rough, “isn’t for anyone else.”

His lips would trail to your jaw, your cheek, your temple — never careless, always deliberate. Nanami didn’t need an audience. In fact, the absence of witnesses made it better. Safer. Truer.

Outside, he was restraint.

With you, behind closed doors, he was devotion pressed into skin, whispered into silence, held tight so it never spilled where it didn’t belong.

And when he finally rested his weight forward just slightly trusting you enough to lean you’d know.

This was the side of him no one else would ever earn.